Authors: Joseph Pittman
A Christmas Wish (3 page)
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We would be eight people for a four o'clock dinner, my mother informed us when we woke, and I didn't relish the idea of just hanging around the house all day, watching her cook and my father read. Eight-year-old girls need far more stimulation. So did I. We were also asked by my mother in her not-so-unsubtle way to “not be underfoot.” Bundling up for the unseasonably cold November day, Janey and I escaped the house and spent a good portion of the morning touring the nearby historic district of Philadelphia, including the Liberty Bell and Constitution Hall, though most of the sites were understandably closed down for the holiday. Still, it gave us an opportunity to escape while preparations were made.
“Who's coming to dinner?” Janey asked me at one point.
It was a good question. I hadn't asked and my mother hadn't offered.
“Guess we'll have to wait and find out.”
Janey gave me a querulous look. Wondering, no doubt, why I didn't want to know.
We returned at just after two to see the table had been set with my grandmother's fine china and flatware, crystal water tumblers and wineglasses, too, another Duncan family tradition. As kids, we were warned, “You break it . . . you'll regret it.” My mother meant it. Even back then she was not known for her warm and fuzzy moments. Also, we realized upon our return that we were not alone, the party of four had now expanded to six. The first guests had arrived, my parents' best friends and my father's business partner, Harry Henderson, and his (third) wife, Katrina, both of whom sat in the living room with glasses of wine and nibbling on cheese and crackers, both of them impeccably dressed. Both Janey and I changed into more suitable clothes for my mother's formal Thanksgiving, returning downstairs for proper introductions. I had met the Hendersons on numerous occasions, so this time it was Janey in the spotlight, and as she politely smiled at them, I wondered how much they'd been briefed on Janey's situationâand found out sooner than I had wanted.
“Why, you're very pretty,” Harry said.
“Yes, it's very nice to meet you, Janey,” Katrina Henderson said. “I bet Brian's just the best dad. You're very lucky.”
A silence descended on the room, the crackling of the fire the only audible sound. My father looked at me with apology in his eyes and my mother put a hand to her mouth, trying in vain to keep the sharp “eek” from coming out. It was Janey, though, who took simple control of the awkward situation when she simply, innocently, and without judgment, said, “Oh, Brian's not my dad. He's . . . he's Brian, and he takes very good care of me.”
“Of course he does, dear,” my mother said, coming up behind Janey, nearly forcing her from the room with the promise of a sweet treat waiting for her in the kitchen. As though such an obvious action could remove the uncomfortable silence that settled over the room. I stared after Janey, wondering if I should go after her. Finally someone found their voice and I remained.
“I'm so sorry, Brian, I didn't know how to refer to you,” Katrina said, “and, well, you must admit, it's a disagreeable situation to be placed in.”
“If you think so, imagine how Janey feels. Excuse me,” I said, glad to escape their company. I went to check on Janey.
I found her sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of soda while my mother basted the turkey; and here I thought she was comforting Janey. I asked my mother if I could have a moment alone with Janey, and thankfully the ringing of the doorbell saved me from having to ask twice. Guess our other guests had arrived. Gee, I could hardly wait to see who else my mother had lured into her Thanksgiving trap. She tossed down a dish towel and asked that I attend the turkey; “it needs attention.”
Well, so did Janey. “You okay?” I asked.
She nodded while taking a prolonged sip from the glass.
“You say the word, we can go home, probably be home in time to . . .”
“To sleep,” she said with exasperation. “It's a long drive, remember?”
“We'll leave first thing tomorrow morning, okay?”
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart,” I said, and made the motion to mirror my promise.
She set the glass down, scrunching her nose at me. “Brian, what's a tradition?”
“It's . . . well, it's when you do the same thing all the time,” I said, knowing that wasn't the best definition I could come up with. “Okay, here's an example. You know how I explained that I have always had Thanksgiving dinner with my parents? That's a tradition. And at Christmastime, we always decorate the tree the night before the big day, just in time for Santa to come and deliver all those great presents. It's the way we've done it year after year, from even before my parents had any children. I think that's how it worked when they were kids, too. How their parents celebrated.”
“Wow, Christmas Eve? That's really late for putting up the tree. Mom and I, we always chop down our own tree over at Green's Farms and then set it up long before Christmas, like two weeks ahead.”
“See, that's a tradition, Janey. It's your tradition.”
“Oh,” she said, which made her smile, knowing that even she, at the tender age of eight, had a tradition. Probably had many more she was unaware of.
Her mood brightened and the awkwardness from before dissipated, and we rejoined the party in the living room. The last two guests had arrived, and you could have knocked me over with a feather at who it was. My wayward, difficult, ever-so-challenging, not to mention well-divorced sister, Rebecca Louise Duncan Samson Herbert. At her side was her latest boyfriend, whom I learned was named Rex, probably the first Rex I'd ever met, probably the last. Rebecca was ten years my senior and Rex was ten years her junior, making us the same age, yet he seemed even younger, aided by the presence of tattoos on his exposed arms. The two of them seemed a perfect match, because neither had yet to grow up. My sister kissed my cheek, Rex shook my hand, called me “Dude,” and they both waved unenthusiastically when introduced to Janey.
“Where's Junior?” I asked my sister.
“With his father, the bastard,” she said, though it wasn't clear to anyone listeningâwhich was all of usâwhom she was calling the bastard, the ex or her son. With my sister, you never know. Then, when she noticed Janey still clinging to my side, she apologized for her language. “Oops, sorry, not used to kids being around.”
Great. Should be a fun afternoon.
Junior was her son by her first husband, he was ten years old, and frankly he would have been a nice playmate today (I had expected my sister to bring her son, not some dim boy toy), because I realized Janey was lost amidst this sea of adults. What did she have in common with this group of people? Four grown-ups who would talk money and business and gossip, my sister and her boy toy, and . . . me. Heck, maybe I could sit at the kiddie table with Janey, the two of us adrift in this rough sea. Rebecca went off in search of a drink, Rex followed her like a dutiful puppy, and when no one else was looking, Janey turned back to me and said, “Could we go and look at the Liberty Bell again?”
“It wasn't open the first time, Janey.”
“I know,” she replied, which had me stifling a laugh.
No one heard the exchange, busy were they with their own small talk.
We were a far cry from the gentle comfort of Linden Corners, and we found our homey farmhouse calling to us with desperation. I imagined Greta sitting down to a table filled with love, her four daughters and sons-in-law, their sweet children, the kind of Thanksgiving you saw perfected in television movies. What gave the Duncan family the illusion of perfection was the lushly decorated table, which now overflowed with food, a huge turkey that my father delighted in carving, “like a takeover, removing it piece by piece,” he said, getting a hearty laugh out of a jovial Harry Henderson. There were also three kinds of potatoes and roasted chestnut stuffing and cranberries and rolls and warm crusty breads, vegetables, too, a feast to satisfy ourselves on. Good thing, too, as the conversation might have starved us.
My father and Harry talked businessâstocks and the ups and downs of the volatile marketâwhile my mother and Katrina talked about society gossip.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Rebecca jumped in, deciding then and there was the right time to tell us how she had met Rex. She then related the story of a society function for a local hospital that was “dull, dull, dull, really, I could have died, except for the fact that I met good ol' Rexy.”
“Yeah, that's what she calls me. Rexy. Getting me a leash for Christmas,” said Rex. “Woof.”
I thought my mother might keel over.
Janey giggled aloud. “Finally, someone else whose name sounds good when you add a ây' at the end. That's how Brian and I metâat the base of our windmill, where I called him Brian-y and then said yuck. Brian-y. That doesn't sound good, does it?”
“Not in the least,” said my mother quickly.
“What's all this about a windmill?” Katrina asked. “Sounds lovely.”
“It was my mom's,” Janey said. “It's really big, and it's beautiful, and Brian likes it, too, don't you, Brian? It has giant sails that turn in the wind and sometimes I imagine it spins stories, and I go there to hear them, because it's really my mom telling them to me. She always told me wonderful stories.”
Janey's flurry of words suddenly quieted the table, adults looking around the table as though silenced by the profound. It was my father who broke the silence when he looked over at Janey and said, “Well, young lady, you must have inherited your mother's trait for telling stories, because I liked that one very much. Thank you, Janey, for gracing my Thanksgiving table with your very sweet presence.”
“You're welcome,” she said. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Anytime, Jane,” my mother said. “You are just delightful. Sunshine in a storm.”
Both of my parents caught my eye, and I mouthed a quick “thank you,” even forgiving my mother her petty quirk of calling Janey “Jane.”
“Oh, Brian, I forgot I have a hello to send to you,” Rebecca said, taking command of the table again as though nothing of meaning had occurred. “I meant to tell you the moment I saw you, but I ran into Lucy Watkins at that same charity event where I met Rexy. She wanted to make sure I said hello.”
“Who's Lucy?” Janey asked.
“No one,” I said, and then with sarcasm added, “Thanks, Becs.”
She shrugged, and for a moment it seemed the conversation had shifted.
Not so lucky.
“Lucy Watkins was Brian's first loveâthey dated all through high school and college, and it seemed like one day they would get married and I'd have a passel of grandchildren,” my mother said. “I hear she has two children of her own now and that her husband is a doctor. She's done quite well for herself, Lucy has. I think her name now is Lucy Abrams.”
Janey tossed me an odd expression that I couldn't decipher, and then whatever she was thinking, she dropped. And I let it go, too, and at last the conversation went down another path. The remainder of dinner passed uneventfully. All of us had our fill of food and drink, all of us were thankful for what we had, this feast and the company that enveloped us and the prosperity that surrounded us.
As the empty plates were cleared and dessert dishes were set at each place, my mother announced that this was the time for us all to announce what we were most thankful for. My heart sank. I had been hoping to spare Janey this annual ritual, thinking it might be a struggle for this girl who had lost so much this year to find anything to be thankful for.
“I thought we were beyond doing this kind of thing,” I said.
“Brian, dear, it's a tradition, you know that, albeit slightly altered over the years.” And she proceeded to tell the gathered crowd how this particular event had once upon a time preceded the meal, “until Kevin's repeated complaints about the turkey getting cold made us move it to dessert time. We used to have such large dinners, so many people were with us during a time when there was so much to be thankful for.” My mother lost her train of thought and I sensed she was remembering Philip, which always left her flustered. She managed to recover by saying, “Rebecca always had so much to be thankful for, didn't you, dear?”
“I'll be short and sweet tonight,” Rebecca offered.
“I'm always thankful for dessert,” Janey said.
“Good,” my mother said, “Jane got us off to a marvelous start. Anyone else?”
As we went around the table, I kept a careful eye on Janey, wondering if she had said all she wished to. After my father got his turn, stating how glad he was that his fortunes had prevailed this year, my mother went, saying how thrilled she was with her new house. Rebecca and Rex were thankful for finding each other, the Hendersons each following through with their own shallow thanks. Then all eyes turned to me.
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