A Carol Christmas (27 page)

“I can’t believe you did this.” She plunged her spoon into the turkey with so much force, I was surprised it didn’t come out the other end.

“He didn’t have anyplace to go.”

“I’ll tell him where to go,” Mom growled.

“Mom, please,” I begged.

“You’re ruining our Christmas bringing him here.”

“He’s only here for dinner. How can that ruin our Christmas?”

“Your father will find a way, believe me.”

“Come on, Mom. Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.”

“Any man but your father.”

“Please. Can’t you do it for my sake? For your kids’ sake?”

“What about your mother’s sake, or doesn’t that matter?” She was near tears now, and it was my fault.

But I was doing this for all of us. I put an arm around her and hugged her. “Of course, it matters, but it’s Christmas.”

She gave a snort of disgust. “He’s been with another woman.”

“Not until after you kicked him out.”

“1 don’t care,” she said stubbornly.

I had a flashback. Mom and me talking in this very same kitchen. It was my senior year, and Gabe had asked someone else to the prom.

“You dumped him,” Mom had said.

“I don’t care,” I’d cried. “He shouldn’t. . .”

“Have a life?” My mother had supplied.

I guess that’s how we expect it to work for our men. We dump on them, we kick them out, and they are supposed to live out the rest of their days in limbo, waiting for the moment we deign to take them back.

I returned to the present. “Mom, for all our sakes, can’t you two try to get along?” I pleaded. “We love both of you. This shouldn’t be a war. We shouldn’t have to choose.”

Her lip began to tremble. “I always knew you loved your father more.”

I tightened my hug. “I don’t. I just want us all to be together, if not as a family at least as friends, as people who share a history. Can’t we do that? Just this year, for old times’ sake?”

Another snort. “Auld Lange Syne?”

“Something like that. He doesn’t have anyone now, Mom. And you do,” I added. There. If she wouldn’t let him stay out of pity, petty revenge would motivate her.

She took a deep breath. “All right. He can stay if it means that much to you.”

“It does. Thanks,” I said and kissed her.

She shook her head. “But mark my words, we’ll all be sorry.”

Mom had barely finished her prediction when Dad came into the kitchen, frowning. He nodded back toward the living room. “What’s he doing here?”

Oh, boy
. I suddenly felt like Dr. Frankenstein. What had I created?

“He who?” Mom said.

“You know who. Winkler.”

“I invited him. What are you doing here?”

“Andie invited me. I’m her father. What’s his excuse?”

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s in my chair.”

“It’s not your chair anymore.”

“It should be.”

Well, if you two will excuse me, I, your invisible child, will just go on out to the dining room to avoid flying shrapnel
. I grabbed the bowl of stuffing and scrammed. But once in the dining room I kept shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Doesn’t that guy have some other place to go?” Dad complained.

“No. Like you, he’s alone. And he’s a nice man.”

“What, and I’m not?”

“You want an honest answer? Look how you’re behaving.”

“Can you blame me? Here I am in what used to be my house, with my family, and you’ve brought in another guy.”

“You’re a fine one to talk. You with that. . . child for a girlfriend.”

No need to strain to hear what they were saying now. Their voices were rising, and I was sure everyone in the living room could tune in to them.

Gram confirmed that when she said to Keira, “I’m very fond of this version of ’Silent Night,’ dear. Can you turn it up?”

“Gladly,” said Keira.

So “Silent Night” blasted through the house along with Gram’s obligato while in the kitchen my parents argued on.

“You’re lucky to be here at all, Michael. You don’t live here anymore.”

“Yeah, well, whose idea was that?”

Suddenly there was silence. Well, from the kitchen at least. Oh, dear. Had Dad just strangled Mom… or vice versa? I sneaked closer to the doorway and peeked in.

Dad was standing kissing close to her now. “I never wanted us to break up, babe.”

He said it so softly I could barely hear him. I leaned in closer.

“We could have worked things out.”

“No, we couldn’t,” Mom snapped.

“We still could.”

Whoa. He had her trapped against the stove now. I almost giggled. Dad was making a move on Mom. Any second I’d be humming, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”

That had been overly optimistic. Mom gave Dad a shove. “Back off, Michael. You’re making me sweat.” Good old Mom. Such a romantic.

I sighed and went back in the kitchen. Forget Mommy kissing Santa Claus. I’d have to settle for her not killing him. “What else can I take out?”

Mom glared at me. “Yourself. Both of you, beat it. I’ll call you if I need you.”

Okay
. We scrammed before the wrath of Mom could scorch either of us further.

Dad was looking like a little kid who’d just gotten sent to his room. I understood how he felt. I felt the same way.

But at least he was here. We were together as a family again. Sort of. “I’m glad you came,” I told him and squeezed his hand.

“Thanks, Princess.” He looked to where Mr. Winkler sat in his chair. “I don’t even have a place to sit.”

Dad sounded so forlorn. I wished I could think of something to say to comfort him, but I couldn’t. And that made me feel even worse.

The forlorn attitude didn’t last long. Dad hiked up his pants with his good arm and went to stand by where Mr. Winkler sat, drinking eggnog. “How’s it going, Winkler?”

His question sounded innocent. If he’d asked it of any other person in the room, I’d have heaved a sigh of relief. I felt dread start swirling in my stomach. This was not going to turn into anything pretty. I backed away and took refuge by the dining room table, adding another place setting for Dad. Mom had been right. This had been a bad, bad idea.

“Going fine,” said Mr. Winkler. “How do you like your new place?”

“I don’t.”

Mr. Winkler just nodded. “Too bad.”

“Got no place to go today?” Dad asked.

“Well, look at that,” Aunt Chloe said. “It’s beginning to snow. Looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas. I can't remember the last time it snowed on Christmas Day.”

The two people she was most hoping to distract ignored her. Mr. Winkler stood up slowly. Now he and Dad were facing each other like gunslingers playing double-dog-dare. “I had someplace to go. Here. I was invited.”

“Yeah? Well, so was I. Nice of you to get out of my chair,” Dad said, and sat down in it.

“We still have some presents under the tree,” Gram said quickly. “This might be a good time to open them.”

“Good idea,” said Keira. “Here, Daddy. Here’s one for you from Andie.”

“Bring it to me,” Dad said, unwilling to risk losing his chair to Winkler the claim-jumper.

I let out my breath. Things would settle down now that Dad had been distracted.

“Andie, come help me,” Mom commanded from the kitchen.

I went into the kitchen where she was violently hurling mashed potatoes into a bowl.

“This is what comes of asking your father over. I told you nothing good would come of it. You need to find a way to get him out of here.”

“They’re okay now,” I assured her. “They’re opening presents.”

“They’re not going to be okay. I’ve got a present under there for Bill.”

“Oh.” Now I really felt sick. We might as well have put a lit stick of dynamite under the tree. “Maybe it will be all right,” I said hopefully. “After all, Dad wouldn’t be expecting a present from you.”

“That doesn’t matter. He won’t want to see me giving one to Bill. Andie, when I invited you home for the holidays, this was not what I had in mind.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I was just trying to help.”

Male voices started to rise in the living room.

“I didn’t ask you home to help. All this meddling—if you weren’t grown up I’d send you to your room, you ungrateful child.” She slammed the last spoonful of potatoes into the bowl. “Here. Take these to the table.”

I did. Anything to escape. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had spoken to me so harshly. What happened to “It’s a treat to have you home”?

I supposed she couldn’t realistically say that, not with the way she was feeling about Dad’s unexpected presence in the house. I had been out of line to invite him without asking her. And there in the living room was living proof of how dumb I’d been.

From the dining room table, where I stood blinking back tears of hurt and anger, I got a bird’s-eye view of the whole disaster. A can of cashews lay discarded on the floor. Mr. Winkler's gift? Probably, judging from Dad's wrathful expression. My brother was in the process of removing the tulip plates I gave Mom from harm’s way. Spencer was out of his chair and hovering, unsure of what to do, while Dad and Mr. Winkler stood in the middle of the room, engaged in a shoving match.

“Why don’t you just get out,” Mr. Winkler said, laying his hands on Dad’s chest and trying to bulldoze him toward the door.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Dad shoved him back hard with his good arm, and Mr. Winkler tottered dangerously near the tree.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” warned Winkler.

“I’d like to see you try.” Dad moved in on him and gave him another shove. Now they were practically on top of the tree.

Ben tried to step between them. “Hey, guys. This is not the time.”

“Stand back, son,” Dad commanded and took a swing at Mr. Winkler. Winkler danced out of range and crushed the box that held my pink jacket.

Ben tried again, pulling on Dad’s good arm. “Knock it off, Dad, before someone gets hurt.”

“Someone needs to get hurt,” Dad said and bore down on Mr. Winkler.

At this point Mom rushed past me, muttering, “I’m going to kill him.” She stormed up to Dad. “Michael, if you don’t stop right now I’m calling the police.”

Both men ignored her. She whirled around and headed for the kitchen wearing her stone scowl.

Oh, no. Surely she wouldn’t. I looked into the kitchen. She had the phone receiver in her hand.

Meanwhile, back in the living room Aunt Chloe had joined the combatants. “Stop!” she cried, jumping up. “You’re going to trample the painting.”

Gabe stepped in, trying to help Ben haul the two men apart, but they were going at it in earnest, and Aunt Chloe’s presence didn’t make the task easier.

It looked like a mini mosh pit with all of them wrestling in front of our oversized tree, bumping elbows, and in Aunt Chloe’s case, hips against the boughs. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” started blasting through the room.

“Look out,” warned Gram. “You’re going to knock over the tree.”

The noise level had risen so high I was sure Mom wasn’t the only one who had called the cops. Mr. Harris was probably on the line with Carol’s finest right now. We were going to make the police blotter again. Even worse, someone was going to end up in the hospital. Dad would probably break his other arm.

“Dinner’s ready,” I called desperately. Of course, no one even heard me.

Too late, anyway. Before you could say “God bless us, everyone,” Aunt Chloe lost her balance. She crashed into Dad and Mr. Winkler like a bowling ball taking down pins, and the three of them toppled into the tree.

Down it went, right into the window. It looked like a Three Stooges movie. Riding the tree, they pushed through the glass and shattered the window. Or maybe it was Aunt Chloe’s scream that did it as she landed on top of Dad, who landed on top of Mr. Winkler.

I stood there in the dining room, staring in horror at the Christmas monster I’d created, a many-legged, moaning mess. I hoped Mr. Winkler wouldn’t sue us. All I could see of him was an arm and a couple of feet.

“Chloe, get off me,” Dad moaned. “You’re suffocating me.”

“This is what comes of inviting your father over for Christmas,” Mom said at my elbow. Then she left me and went to scold Dad for getting territorial over territory he no longer owned.

Blue lights began to flash over the scene, announcing the arrival of the police. Another memorable Hartwell Christmas. Okay, so I’d been wrong to invite Dad over, but surely any civilized family could have managed to get through a couple of hours without trying to kill each other, certainly without putting their Christmas tree through the window.

And to think I’d almost convinced myself I was glad to be back. Well, I wasn’t glad anymore. I’d put up with ridiculous scenes, insults from my sister, and a blistering scold from my mom. And now this. Enough was enough.

I looked in disgust at the pandemonium taking place around the Christmas tree. It looked like a scene from some stupid holiday movie. Aunt Chloe staggered up with the help of Ben and put her foot through the painting. That brought such loud wails out of her that if the cops hadn’t already arrived they’d have come, sirens blaring. Dad came up holding his broken arm with his good one and swearing, and Mr. Winkler was sitting among the squashed presents and broken tree boughs like a fighter who couldn’t rise to finish the round. Gram was hovering and tut-tutting, and Mom was yelling at Dad. Spencer was moving presents out of the way so we could heave-ho the tree back into the house, while Gabe just stood next to Ben, looking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

I was mortified. This was by far the worst Hartwell Christmas ever. And Gabe had been here to witness it firsthand. Any second now he’d be asking for his coat back. And his heart. And who could blame him? Not me.

Ben gave me a shrug as he went to to the door to let in the cops. “Good to be home, huh?” he teased.

But I didn’t think it was funny.

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Keira offered. She rushed by me. “Don’t just stand there. Do something.”

Good suggestion. I’d started my visit with a broken window. That was where I was going to end it. If I stayed even a minute longer, my head would explode. I hurried to my room to pack. I’d catch a red-eye, go stand-by, camp out at the airport, anything but stay in this madhouse a minute longer.