Stay (33 page)

“I will.”

“Looks like Santa came early,” she said, when we pulled into the driveway.

A Christmas tree bound up like an umbrella leaned in the doorway next to two big brown cardboard boxes. For a minute I thought it was some kind of elaborate present from Alex, and my heart jumped. Then I remembered where it came from. “It’s just my order from L.L.Bean,” I said.

“Well, phooey,” Agnes said, “I was hoping it was from Alex.”

“You and me both.”

Agnes beeped three times as she drove off. Joe had his nose pressed against the living room window. When I opened the door, he darted outside and ran circles around the front yard. He peed on Gail and Mitch’s side of the yard before I could stop him, bounding back at me, lifting his legs high like he’d done something to be proud of. He sniffed the tree. It must have looked like a big stick to him. Joe bit at the trunk and tried to lift it up, but it was too heavy. I picked it up from the middle and started to drag it in.

I put the tree down in the middle of the living room, dropping needles everywhere, and went back for the boxes. Then I sat down on the floor and unpacked all of it, the stand, the glass globe ornaments, aluminum icicles, white twinkle lights, the headband with reindeer antlers for Joe, the green plaid shirt for Alex, and the red wool blanket. I wrapped the blanket around me and slid the antlers over Joe’s head. I put Alex’s shirt in the coat closet so I wouldn’t have to look at it. Joe ran around like a drunk, shaking his head, trying to get the antlers off.

I resisted the urge to hit up Agnes’s bottle of Maker’s Mark and put the water on for tea instead. I ran out to my car and dug out the Chipmunks’ Christmas CD my mom got me as a joke one year. I blasted it on the stereo and sang along. Joe chewed on his antlers while I set up the tree.

I missed our old ornaments-the pinecones with glitter glue, the Smurfs figurines we hung on the branches by tying silver string to the ends of their little white hats. They were probably still in the green cardboard box in the crawl space at the carriage house.

Diane had a decorator come to “style” the tree in the main house with silver ribbon and Limoges ornaments all in the same color scheme, but I always liked our tree better. Every year we added to our ornament collection, sitting at the kitchen counter with mugs of hot chocolate, jars of library paste, and tempera paint. One year we made a superlong paper chain out of strips of newspaper and magazines, another year we stuffed plain glass balls with mementos from the year: movie ticket stubs, my mother’s very last car payment bill run through a paper shredder, a broken necklace, blue and green pebbles from the bottom of our unsuccessful fish tank, complete with a tiny plastic fish. We’d stay up all night eating candy canes, making a mess of the kitchen, while Christmas movies played in the background. The carriage house smelled like pine needles and cinnamon. Janie was never invited. She was probably off doing the holiday party circuit with her parents anyway. So, it was just my mom and me. It was our family.

The last year, I think she was hiding how sick she was. We made origami penguins. They were simple and subdued. No glue. No mess to clean up. Less than an hour in, she kissed my cheek and said, “Well, kiddo, I think I’d better hit the hay.” It was only nine thirty. I guess I should have suspected something.

When I was done putting all my L.L.Bean ornaments on the tree, I sat down at the kitchen table and made two penguins out of newsprint. I hung them on the tree with dental floss, facing each other, like they were having a conversation.

T
he next day, I went to see Louis. I couldn’t remember exactly how to get to his house and had to drive around a few of the neighborhoods off of the main road before I found the right one. I almost lost my nerve. Maybe it was a sign that I couldn’t find Louis’s house; it was a stupid idea. But just as I was about to give up and go home, I realized I was finally on the right street.

When I found Louis’s house, I parked in the driveway and walked up to the front door. Halfway up the path, I thought about leaving. I stood there for a moment, debating if I should stay or go. Before I could come to a decision, Louis tapped on the window and waved at me. He opened the door.

“What a lovely surprise, Vannah!” he said, grabbing my arm as soon as I got close enough. “Come in! Come in!”

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” I said.

“Bother?” Louis shook his head. “No, no!” He closed the door behind me. “Sit. I’ll put coffee on.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, trying to work up my nerve to ask him about the house. Or say something about Alex.

Louis poured water in the percolator and said, “Sfogliatelle? You like?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never-”

“Eh, what’s not to like?” Louis said, putting a plate of flaky pastries on the table.

“Really,” I said, “you don’t have to go to any trouble.”

“What trouble?” Louis said, waving his hand in front of his face. “It’s not trouble to have friends. It is a gift.”

“I worried maybe you’d be upset with me,” I said. I looked down at the kitchen table. It was old and nicked. Mug marks and water rings, scratches and indents. It had history.

“That’s between you and Alex,” Louis said, handing me a cup of coffee and sitting down. “I don’t get involved. You and me. We good. You and Alex, you work it out.”

“I don’t know if we will,” I said.

He smiled and pushed the plate of pastries closer to me. “Eat! It fixes everything, no?”

Even though it didn’t fix everything, the sfogliatelle was amazing. It had a flaky shell and the filling was creamy with a hint of orange.

“You’re an amazing cook,” I said.

“My mother,” Louis said, crossing himself, “God rest her soul, was an amazing cook. Me, I try. My father say a man doesn’t belong in the kitchen, but my mother-she was a saint, that woman- she say a man belongs where his heart is. I love to bake. So I bake.”

Louis took a bite of his sfogliatelle, and watched me as he chewed, like he was considering something. He washed it down with a sip of coffee and said, “That boy, he got hurt. Very hurt.” Louis held his hand up in front of his mouth. “Ah, I say too much. Too much. It is not my place.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I said.

“No, not you. Her,” Louis said. He sighed. “Here I go. Not my place. This is not my place.” He leaned his elbow on the table. “So, you tell me, Vannah. Do you like this house? To be a home for you and Joe?”

“I would really like that,” I said, “if the offer still stands.”

“Of course. Of course it stands! What is it going to do, sit?” Louis laughed.

I laughed too, because it was funny how funny Louis found his own jokes.

We talked about the details. Louis said he would put his furniture in storage and stay with a friend so I could move in before I got into more trouble with the homeowners’ association.

“It’s better to move to Florida in the summer,” he said, “when the snowbirds fly home.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” I said.

“It’s fine! Fine! I have some more time with my friends before I move. I have to take the time I have, right? Some of them might not be here the next time I come back for a visit.”

Louis got quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You know, that boy, his wife, Sarah.” Louis said her name and mock-spit after he said it. “He was a good husband. She was not a good wife. Maybe I shouldn’t talk, because I was not always a prince to my wives, but that man, he was a prince. He trusted her and she bent that trust.” He picked up another piece of sfogliatelle and was about to take a bite, but then he kept talking instead. “The day they sign the divorce papers, she’s out with another man.” He grabbed my arm. “Already. Poor Alex. He’s still in Tennessee. I fly down to be with him. We go get a nice meal. I say, ‘Your life starts again. We celebrate!’ But then we see her, with this fancy man, in a suit and a shiny watch.” Louis shook his head. “You could tell it was not their first date.” He sighed. “She always worked late. Alex says he’s a fool.” Louis held his finger up. “I tell him it is never foolish to fall in love. But I see him change. He moves back here. He works and works and takes care of old Louis. He’s not living.” Louis looked into his empty coffee cup. “Then he meets you, and I see the old Alex. The prince.” Louis looked me right in the eyes and smiled. “You, don’t give up on him.” He patted my hand.

He finally took a bite of his pastry. “Plus, her, I never like,” he said, with his mouth full. “You, I like.”

He got up to pour us more coffee. “Oh,” he said, shaking his head, “I said too much. I always say too much!”

When I got home, I called Alex. “Just thought I’d say hi,” I said to his voice mail. I stayed up, lying on the couch with Joe, reading a book from the library on how the canine mind works, hoping that my phone would ring.

Maybe he’s in surgery, I thought. I’ll just read until nine and then I’ll do something else. Maybe he’s pulling a late shift. I’ll just read one more chapter.

I thought of every excuse to stay up later, way past the point when any reasonable person would return a phone call, because I didn’t want to give up the hope that he would call. But at three AM, when I finished the book and he still hadn’t called, I shuffled upstairs to brush my teeth and go to bed, tucking the phone next to my pillow, just in case.

O
n Christmas Eve, Agnes took me to dinner at this fancy place I’d never heard of, out by Lake Ontario. The walls were draped with evergreen boughs and white lights, and we had a view of the lake from our table. Agnes ordered king crab legs and a bottle of pinot grigio for us. I was careful to leave my wineglass alone, and went through three glasses of water before the waiter came to our table with the mountain of crab.

I tried to say no when she asked me to dinner. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of going out on Christmas Eve with someone else’s aunt. I’d come to terms with my role in family holidays since I didn’t have a family. I made a practice of staying out of sight and acting busy so no one felt compelled to offer any invitations they didn’t really want to offer. But it seemed like Agnes actually wanted to invite me to dinner. When I offered up my usual vague plans, she said, “Please, Van. I already have to spend Christmas Day with my pompous ass of a brother and his anorexic Stepford wife. Give me an excuse to bail on Christmas Eve.” After we made plans and hung up, I realized that the anorexic Stepford wife and pompous ass were Peter’s parents.

Since my mom died, most of the conversations I had with people felt like a race to put my foot in my mouth. My voice always sounded fake and my mouth dried out. When I was done talking, I’d play what I said in my head over and over again like a videotape with tracking problems, replaying every dumb thing I said. But Agnes and I sat at the table wearing plastic bibs with melted butter running up to our elbows, and I didn’t care how I looked or if I said the wrong thing.

“Oh, you’re a mess, lady,” Agnes said, leaning on her elbow and waving her tiny crab pick at me.

“Oh, you are too, lady,” I said, waving my crab pick back at her.

We laughed hard, and the glasses on the table clinked together like they were laughing with us.

“Would you and your mother care for dessert?” the waiter said when he took my plate full of salt water and crab shells away from me.

Agnes winked at me. “Oh, I’m not her mother,” she said. “I’m her younger sister.”

The waiter looked back and forth between us until we burst into giggles.

“You had me going there,” he said, playing along for the sake of his tip.

“We’re friends,” Agnes said, patting his arm. “And we care for dessert.”

J
oe and I spent Christmas Day on the couch watching Ralphie, the Griswolds, and the Cary Grant version of
The Bishop’s Wife
.