The Christmas Sweater (3 page)

Without warning, my mind flashed to an image of the last time I saw that watch. It
was about four years ago, right after a morning snowstorm had delayed the start of
school. It was a Monday, and the bakery was closed. Dad was home, hunched over in
front of me as he secured clear plastic bread bags over my shoes. My friends had real
winter boots, but my father said they were a waste of money since we had so many free
bread bags around the house that could do the job just as well. That should have been
a clue that we weren’t exactly the Rockefellers—but it made sense to me at the time.

As he worked a rubber band over my shoes to fasten the bag tightly onto my skinny
calves, his shirtsleeve pulled up, revealing the shiny Hamilton watch. I stared at
the time, realizing that I was now seriously late for school and dreading the prospect
of hurrying over slushy snow with slippery plastic bags on my feet. They might have
kept the water out, but they weren’t known for their traction.

“Dad, I’ve really got to go. I’m gonna be late,” I’d insisted, hoping that he’d give
up on the homemade waterproofing and drive me instead.

“Sorry, Eddie, I’d rather you be late than have to sit through school with cold, wet
feet. I just need another second.”

I’d stared at the Hamilton, watching the small second hand go round and round, each
revolution marking how much faster I would have to run to make it on time.

I’d also thought about how ironic it was that my dad was a baker and though we had
plenty of bread bags, we never had any bread in the house.

“Eddie,” he would say to me, “if I bring all my bread home for us to eat, then what
am I supposed to sell?”

It was a funny line, but I knew it was an excuse. The truth was that after a long
day at work, my parents would rush to close up and simply forget to bring home the
bread they had been staring at all day. My mother thought it was hilarious. She used
to joke that the cobbler’s son never had any shoes to wear and the butcher’s son never
had any steak to eat, so we were even, but I never found it that funny.

I had gotten so accustomed to not having bread at home that I once dumped an entire
jar of peanut butter into a bowl and started eating it with a spoon. My mother came
into the kitchen and did a double take.

“What the heck are you doing?” she asked, genuinely shocked to see the heaping spoonfuls
I was shoveling into my mouth.

“What do you mean?” I answered as best I could, considering the fact that I was unable
to fully open my mouth. “We have no bread.”

“That’s no excuse for you to eat like an animal. Now put that away.”

I snuck a couple more spoonfuls after she left, then scooped the rest of it back into
the jar. Fortunately Mom had only chastised me about peanut-butter eating, so other
condiments were still fair game. For the next few weeks I enjoyed bowls full of Marshmallow
Fluff, strawberry jam, and even whipped cream. Then I tried mayonnaise; with that,
my breadless-condiment-sampling experiment officially came to a disgusting end.

Dad finally finished tying on my bread-bag boots, and I rushed through the front door
into the cold. Being late for school gave me a great excuse to run, but my real intention
was to get out of sight as fast as possible so I could rip the stupid bags off my
feet. I once made the mistake of
showing up at school with them on, and it took months before my friends stopped making
fun of me. “Bread Bag Ed” was my first nickname, but that quickly turned into the
far more memorable “Breaddie Eddie.” It was spring before everyone forgot the incident.
I wasn’t eager to help them remember.

The Hamilton’s second hand, which had once symbolized how badly I’d wanted to flee
from my father that snowy winter’s day, now sat there idly, mocking me. I wished I
hadn’t run so quickly to school that day. Time didn’t seem to matter anymore.

I carefully put the watch back into its box, replaced the tissue paper, then returned
it to its original resting place. I wondered how such a powerful memory of my father
could be stored in a dark and lonely closet, but it seemed fitting.

Before moving on to more inventive hiding spots, I decided to check under the obvious
one: my mother’s bed. It
was a long shot, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if my gift was that close
and I missed it.

I got down on my stomach and squirmed under the bed skirt and into the darkness. My
eyes took a few seconds to adjust, but once they did, everything looked familiar.
A few shoe boxes, leaves to extend the dining room table, a sewing kit, and…wait,
what was that? There was a box I’d never seen before. It was good sized and shiny.
I marked its exact position before pulling it out into the light.

The box was wider than a shoe box and much deeper. A label on the top, written in
my mom’s handwriting, said simply, “Christmas Receipts.” Could this really be it?
Could it be this easy? My hands shook in anticipation.

I gently pulled the top off and peered inside. There was only one receipt.
Don’t be disappointed,
I thought to myself.
One bike, one receipt.
I unfolded the receipt quickly, hoping to read “Richmond’s” printed across the top,
but there was no store name. In fact, there wasn’t an item description, a price, or
even a date. Instead, there was a handwritten note:

This couldn’t be happening. Mom had not only used reverse psychology on me but she’d
also beaten me with it. Grandpa would be so disappointed.
Grandpa.
A vision of him teaching me proper Scotch tape removal suddenly filled my mind. He
would never have been defeated this easily. I felt a renewed energy. I might have
lost this battle, but I wouldn’t lose the war.

I refolded Mom’s note along its original crease lines, placed it back into the box,
and slid it under the bed and into its original position. If my mother didn’t know
I found her note, then I hadn’t technically lost. With just a little luck, my dignity
and my grandpa’s honor could still be saved.

I
t’s funny how life changes so fast. A few years earlier, money had been the last thing
on my mind. Now it was all I thought about. A few years earlier, I’d had a father.
Now he was gone. A few years earlier, I’d loved going caroling with my mom every Christmas
Eve. Now I couldn’t think of anything worse.

It’s hard being a twelve-year-old kid. It’s even harder being a twelve-year-old kid
whose mother seems to be on a mission from God to embarrass you. At least that’s how
I felt that Christmas Eve.

“Mom, please don’t make me go. I’m really too old for this.” I already knew arguing
was a lost cause.

“Come on, Eddie, you always have fun. The ladies love to see you. Besides, how will
they update your height on their door frame if you don’t show up?”

Mom was smiling, but I felt like I was walking a tightrope. Too much protesting and
she might make me wait past Christmas for my bike.

“Fine. But can we at least keep it short? I want to have enough energy to say all
my prayers tonight.” I hadn’t used the “prayers excuse” in years, but I hoped she
cared more about my prayers than she did about caroling.

Her smile vanished. Uh-oh. “Eddie, your sudden devotion to God is inspiring, but believe
me, God will be more than happy to hear your prayers no matter how much energy you
have. Now go get the Wonder Bread bags and get yourself ready to go.”

This was quickly going from bad to worse. I never thought that my father’s bread-bag
boots could somehow be made
more
embarrassing, but after he died my mother found a way: Wonder Bread bag boots. I
now not only got
to wear cheap plastic bags over my shoes but I got to wear cheap plastic bags
with multicolored polka dots
over my shoes. It was a complete and total nightmare.

“I don’t need those tonight,” I said firmly. “We’re getting right into the car.”

“It’s not negotiable, Eddie. It’s slushy out there and I can’t have you wearing wet
shoes all night. You might get sick for Christmas.”

Someone needed to give my mom a serious lesson on viruses. Even I knew that you couldn’t
catch a cold from the cold, but somehow a health lesson didn’t seem like the smartest
reply. I made the right decision and held my tongue.

“Okay, I’ll put them on.”

I was looking for the bags under the kitchen sink when I heard the doorbell ring.
Our front door swung open and the unintelligible noise that only occurs when two grown
women get together reverberated through the house. Aunt Cathryn had arrived.

I was nine before I understood that “Aunt” Cathryn wasn’t really my aunt—she was actually
just our next-
door neighbor. Her kids were grown and had left home, so she had adopted us as her
family. But family or not, she was without a doubt the nicest person I knew, and my
mother always seemed happy when she was with her.

I reluctantly carried my Wonder Bread bags into the family room and sat on the couch,
awaiting the inevitable sequence of events that was about to transpire.

“Eddddddddie, how are you?” Aunt Cathryn violently pinched my cheeks. I hated that.
“Merry Christmas!” No one had ever accused her of being shy.

“I’m great, Aunt Cathryn, how are you?”

“I’m always great, Eddie, but thanks for asking. I just can’t believe it’s time for
Christmas caroling again. I feel like we just did it!”

That’s the understatement of the century,
I thought to myself. For the second time that evening I held my tongue.

“Oh, and look at your tree. It’s beautiful!”

Aunt Cathryn had more energy than anyone else I’d ever met. If you measured the importance
of a sentence by how enthusiastically it was said, Aunt Cathryn might as
well have been president. But her voice suddenly became uncharacteristically soft.
“But where’s the star?”

While there were decorations everywhere else on the tree, the top was bare. The star
that usually resided there was missing because no one was tall enough to put it in
place—a constant reminder that something, or rather
someone,
was also missing.

“I’ll take care of it,” I offered, not wanting to get into a discussion about my dad
on Christmas Eve. I removed our stepladder from the hall closet and unfolded it next
to the tree. Then I went back to the closet and retrieved a simple white star from
its box. I returned to the ladder, climbed to the top step, steadied myself, and clipped
the star into place. Aunt Cathryn smiled.

“Well, Eddie,” my mother said, “I guess that officially makes you the man of the house.”

It was obvious that she regretted the words before they’d even escaped her mouth.
Aunt Cathryn and I both stared at the floor in awkward silence, but we were thinking
the same thing: There was nothing we wanted less.

After I put on my Wonder Bread bags and looked sufficiently ridiculous, the three
of us piled into our car for the drive to the nursing home. We had caroled there every
Christmas Eve for the last five or six years.

The one saving grace was that we caroled inside, out of view. It would have been bad
enough to be seen by my friends singing Christmas carols with my mother, but throw
in Wonder Bread bags and Aunt Cathryn, and “Breaddie Eddie” would have seemed like
a dream compared to the torment that would’ve come my way.

My mother drove mind-numbingly slowly as Aunt Cathryn wore out the tuner knob on the
car radio. After five straight minutes of static intermingled with ten-second song
clips, I finally had enough.

“Any chance we could stick to one station?” I asked. When it came to keeping my mouth
shut, the third time wasn’t the charm.

“Sure. Sorry, Eddie,” Aunt Cathryn replied. “I was just
looking for a Christmas song so that we could all practice our harmony.”

I let out an involuntary laugh. “Harmony? If you think we have any harmony, then you
must be as deaf as our audience.”

Strike two.

I looked up and locked eyes with my mother, who was now glaring at me in the rearview
mirror. She could give a full lecture by just using her eyes, that’s how intense they
were. And right now they were telling me to sit back and keep quiet.

“MOM!” Traffic up ahead was at a dead stop. She turned her attention back to the road
and slammed on the brakes. We screeched to a stop just inches from the rear bumper
of the car in front of us. Mom’s eyes once again met mine in the mirror, but this
time there was no anger, only concern.

“Eddie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mom.” I felt responsible. My stupid joke had distracted her.

“It looks like there’s an accident up ahead. I’m really glad we’re not part of it.”

We were at a near standstill, just barely creeping along. A cacophony of car horns
blared intermittently, drowning out the Christmas song that was playing on the radio.

About twenty minutes later we finally saw police flares and flashing lights pass.
The cars had been cleared from the scene, but broken glass still littered the road.
I looked into the mirror and saw my mother’s head bow as she quietly whispered a prayer.

Once we got past the crash site, traffic flowed freely, but by then we were in danger
of missing the caroling.

“What do you think, Eddie, should we just head home?” Mom asked.

I liked the fact that she thought I was old enough to have a vote. My first instinct
was to say, “Yeah, let’s just go home.” But then I realized this was an opportunity
to help my mom forget about my two-strike count.

“Nah, let’s keep going,” I replied confidently. “Even if we miss caroling, we can
still say hello to everyone.”

Impressed, my mother glanced back at me. Her eyes once again said it all: I’d answered
correctly.

A few minutes later we pulled into the parking lot at the nursing home. Though I knew
no one would see me during the forty-second walk to the front door, I still felt uneasy.

The nursing home was uncomfortably warm, and there was a rather “distinctive” smell.
As we walked down the hallway to the lounge, I could hear the other carolers singing.
At first it was just muted tones, but as we got closer I began to make out the words
to “God Be with You Till We Meet Again.”

It was about as far from a Christmas song as you could get, but my dad had always
insisted that it be the last song we sang each year. He said that mentions of Santa
Claus and snow were great, but leaving people with the spirit of Christmas was what
really mattered—and that song never failed to do it. I tried to protest the first
year, but when I looked up and saw the tears in the eyes of our audience as we sang,
I knew Dad was right.

We stopped singing that song after Dad died—everyone knew it would be too hard for
Mom and me to hear it. But our late arrival this year had given the others a window
of opportunity to sing it without us there. Now, as the familiar words took on a new
and unfamiliar meaning, a series of uninvited memories rushed into my mind.

I was six. Dad lifted me up so I could put the star on top of our Christmas tree.

I was seven. Dad set up my new train set and played with me all day—and he never complained
when I asked him to say “choo choo.”

I was eight. Dad bought me my first Nerf football. We played in our snow-covered backyard
until he got too tired to run. He was getting tired a lot lately.

I was nine. We opened presents in Dad’s hospital
room. Mom said the chemo made him too weak to come home. He squeezed my hand and told
me that we would play catch again soon. I didn’t let him see me cry.

Months flashed by in an instant and I was at my father’s funeral. He looked peaceful
and healthier than he had been in over a year. It didn’t seem fair. The choir sang
his favorite song.

“Eddie? Are you coming in?”

I was standing in the hallway by myself.

“Everyone wants to see you.”

The carolers were still singing inside.

The lounge looked and smelled exactly like it did every year. Snowflakes cut out of
construction paper hung on
the walls, and an overly decorated and undersized Christmas tree inhabited the far
left corner. On a folding card table, a full bowl of red punch sat untouched.

“Eddie!”

I’d barely gotten through the doorway. “Hi, Mrs. Benson.”

Mrs. Benson was charging toward me, the wheels on her walker spinning over the linoleum,
with several other familiar faces not far behind. I knew that more cheek pinching
was inevitable. I wondered at what age a boy outgrew this humiliation.

A few minutes later the hugs, handshakes, and “Look how big Eddie has gotten!” comments
had finally subsided. My cheeks were sore, but it felt good to be around so many people
who wanted to be around me.

“So, Eddie, what do you want for Christmas this year?” Mrs. Benson seemed to pride
herself on being the first to ask me that question every year. Usually I told her
I wasn’t sure, but with Mom sitting just a few feet away, I took it as my final opportunity
to make sure my message had been heard loud and clear.

“A red Huffy bike with a black banana seat,” I answered, a little louder than necessary.

“What a nice idea,” Mrs. Benson replied, clearly surprised that after so many years
I finally had a specific answer. “It’s about time you got a bike. You deserve one
after all you’ve been through.”

She has no idea,
I thought to myself.
Not only do I deserve a bike, I’ve earned it.

After about two hours of warm smiles and off-key singing, we pulled out of the nursing
home’s parking lot and drove home. I could lie and say that the night had seemed to
last an eternity, but the truth is that it had actually gone by too fast. I had forgotten
how much I liked being with the people there. They helped me feel the Christmas spirit
and forget how much I missed my father, not to mention our struggle with money and
my bread-bag boots. It’s funny how it felt best to be a kid around a group of really
old people.

My mother had a sixth sense about “I told you so” stuff, and she wasted no time confirming
her suspicions. “Not as bad as you thought, right, honey?”

“I guess not.” I wasn’t about to cave.

“Life is what you make of it. There’s always fun and laughs right under your nose
if you’re willing to open your eyes to see it.”

Mom and I locked eyes again. I had a hard time reading her this time. I didn’t know
if she was simply trying to reinforce her life lesson or if she was trying to bait
me into admitting that I’d seen her note under the bed. I stayed silent and looked
away.

“Most times we’re so focused on what we think we want that we can’t appreciate how
happy we already are,” she continued. “It’s only when we forget about our problems
and help others forget theirs that we realize how good we really have it.”

I knew she was right, but I was far more interested in getting ready for bed than
I was in having a deep conversation. It was Christmas Eve, and I was just hours away
from getting the bike that would change my life.

I slipped upstairs, brushed my teeth as quickly as possible, and put on my homemade
Christmas pajamas. They were periwrinkle. Even though I wouldn’t want anyone to
see me in them, it made me a little sad to think that this would probably be the last
time I would get to wear them. Every Christmas my grandmother gave me a new set, and
while pajamas couldn’t compete with a bike, they were the one present that I could
count on loving every year. Better still, whenever I put my pajamas on, I thought
of her. She was like a redwood tree—strong and quiet, and I always felt safe in the
shade of her love.