Two of a Kind (21 page)

“What about that shrimp?” Andy called down. “Can you hand one up to me?”

The girl climbed the ladder while Christina steadied it; Andy reached down to take the shrimp. This time when he approached the cat, he dangled the shrimp where she would be able to smell it. She leaned forward and her pink tongue emerged, giving the shrimp an experimental lick. Andy waited until she had started chewing on it to reach over and free her paw. Then she allowed herself to be picked up as Andy shimmied down the trunk one-handed; the other gripped the cat.

How calm he was, thought Christina. How steady. This was what he must be like in his role as a physician; no wonder his patients worshipped him. When he reached the ladder, the girl scrambled up again and took the cat from his arms. Then Andy climbed the rest of the way down.

“Thank you so much!” the girl cried. “You saved her!” She kissed the cat on the top of her snow-white head; the cat, now freed and sated from the shrimp, just blinked, seemingly no worse from her exploit.

“Let me see that scratch,” Christina said, reaching for his wrist.

“God, I feel terrible about that,” said the girl. “I'll go inside and get something to put on it.” When she returned—without the cat—she handed Christina a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, Band-Aids, and antiseptic ointment. “You're, like, totally my hero,” she said to Andy. Andy just smiled. Christina opened the bottle as she stepped closer to him. “Mine too,” she said softly. “You're my hero too.”

C
hristmas Eve was cold and sparkly; tiny ice crystals glittered on the sidewalk under Jordan's feet and she stepped carefully so she wouldn't slip. An injury at any time would be bad; right now, with rehearsals under way for the Winter Ball, an injury would be a catastrophe. She and her mom had just come from a service at the Old First Church and then a party at the house of Tabitha Baylor. Jordan liked the Baylors, though Tabitha did go overboard in the cookie department. She made about a dozen different varieties and set them out in platters all over the house; it took major willpower to avoid them.

“Are you warm enough?” Christina asked as they walked along Eighth Avenue.

“Yes, Mom, I'm warm enough.” Jordan was familiar with this routine.

“But you're not wearing a hat.”

“I never wear a hat,” said Jordan.

“I just don't want you to get sick.”

“I won't get sick,” Jordan said, slipping her arm into the crook of her mother's elbow. “Don't
worry
so much.”

The snow was falling again, in wet, lacy flakes. Snow landed on Jordan's hair and shoulders, and on the tip of her nose. She didn't mind; it made her think of the snow scene in
The Nutcracker
, when the fake snowflakes—iridescent bits of plastic that shimmered when they were caught in the lights and which would be found, for months afterward, everywhere backstage—came whirling down around the dancers as the music lifted and swelled. Jordan had danced in
The
Nutcracker
six years running, first as one of Mother Ginger's children, then as a candy cane, and one memorable season as Clara. The long, fluttering nightgown, the hot white lights, the eyes of everyone in the theater fixed on her, and her alone—she remembered it all, and she wanted it all again.

“You're getting wet!” her mother said, anxious voice breaking into her reverie. “Why didn't you wear a hat?”

“We went through this already,” Jordan said. “I'm
fine
.” Christina did not look convinced, so she added, “Besides, we're almost home.” She noticed the large, foil-wrapped package Christina carried. “What's that?”

“Cookies,” her mother said. “Come on, let's hurry.”

“Do we, like, need to have cookies around?” Jordan said.

“They're not for us. I'm bringing them to Miss Kinney next door.”

“Is Miss Kinney even alive?” Jordan asked. “I haven't seen her in ages.”

“I haven't either,” Christina said. “Though I think I would have heard if she'd died. You know she's been living here since before I was born?”

“That long?” Jordan asked. “Is she, like, a hundred?”

“Not that old.” Christina smiled. “But I'll bet she's in her nineties—I hope I'm in such good shape when I'm her age.” She went up the stoop of Miss Kinney's house and left the cookies by the door. “She always comes out to get a
breath of night air
,” said Christina. “She'll find them when she does.”

The next morning, Jordan woke early but remained in bed. She no longer tore down the stairs eager to see what “Santa” had brought. A slight scuffling from Quin's cage caught her attention, and she went over to investigate. The rabbit was way in the back, partially obscured by hay and cedar shavings. His eye, bright and steady, peered out at her. She reached for the outsized carrot she had been saving for Christmas morning and opened the cage to slip it in. But Quin did not seem interested in the offering, and remained huddled where he was. Maybe he just wasn't hungry. Jordan pulled on a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt—she'd change later—and slid her feet into her shearling slippers. Downstairs, she found her mother curled up in her favorite, paisley-covered armchair with a cup of coffee and the newspaper on her lap. “I was waiting for you,” she said. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.” She leaned over to give her mother a hug. Jordan could not remember Christmas with her father; she had tried and tried, but nothing came to her. So it had always been just the two of them. But that had not been bad. Sitting in front of the tree—she and her mom had repositioned the ballet ornaments—Jordan felt happy. The room had what she called the Christmas look: soft throws her mom took out during the winter, the bowls she filled with ornaments, the vases filled with tall, piney things.

Christina urged her to open her presents. There was a lavishly illustrated book about Karinska, the famous costume maker who had worked with George Balanchine; a hand-tinted print of the nineteenth-century Italian ballerina Maria Taglioni in a thin gold frame; and a gift certificate to Capezio. Jordan leafed through the book. “Look at this.” She pointed to an elaborate scarlet tutu worn by the Firebird; the bodice was encrusted with red crystals.

Christina came over to see. “Maybe you'll dance that role someday,” she said.

“I will,” Jordan said. She put the book aside and picked up the print. Taglioni looked so dainty and demure, with one hand touching her elbow and the other a spot just under her chin. She had so little in common with today's breed of dancer: fierce, lean, and fast. She looked up at her mother. “These are great presents, Mom. The best. Here.” She pushed a wrapped box in Christina's direction. “Open yours.”

Christina carefully undid the paper—Jordan knew she would save and reuse it—and pulled out a nubby, oatmeal-colored sweater and matching scarf. “You made these?” Christina said, immediately wrapping the scarf around her throat. Jordan nodded happily; she had taken up knitting, and been working on these gifts for the last two months. “Gorgeous!” Christina proclaimed. “Just my color. And so soft too.”

After the ritual of the gifts, they had a quick breakfast before Christina started preparing for the Christmas buffet she held every year. Stephen and Misha would be there—of course—along with Mimi Farnsworth and her boys. There would be friends from church, a few of Christina's distant cousins, a neighbor or two—the regulars, as Jordan thought of them. And then there were the newcomers: the detestable Andy Stern and his son, Oliver.

“I didn't even ask what you were making this year,” Jordan said as her mother bustled around the kitchen.

“The menu's on the fridge,” Christina said. Jordan walked over to see. Maple-glazed ham, leeks au gratin, carrot ginger salad, green beans amandine, buttermilk biscuits . . . So far, the only thing she would eat would be the green beans, provided they were not slathered in butter, and the carrots. “While you're right there, would you take out the ham, the eggs, and the buttermilk? I'll get the ham into the oven and then start the biscuits while it's roasting.”

Jordan did as her mother asked, averting her eyes from the sight of the ham, a gross, pinkish blob. Better to focus on the buttermilk, whose nutritional information revealed that it was surprisingly low in calories and contained very little fat. Maybe she would permit herself one of the biscuits—maybe. She put everything on the counter and then turned, abruptly, when she heard the crash.

“Damn!” Christina was on her knees, gathering the larger of the shattered pieces of the big yellow mixing bowl.

“I'll get the broom and clean it up,” Jordan said. “You can start the biscuits.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Christina said gratefully. “I guess I'm in too much of a hurry.”

Jordan began to sweep. She didn't mind Oliver; she even kind of liked him. Andy was another story. Ever since that day she'd caught him hiding in her mother's bedroom—the mere thought of what he and her mom might have been doing a hundred, no, a
thousand
times more gross than the sight of the naked, pink ham—her dislike of him had morphed into full-blown hatred. Christina had had boyfriends before. Why couldn't she have stuck with one of them instead? Andy's appeal was totally lost on her. Even his own son thought he was a jerk. Jordan took the dustpan filled with broken crockery outside, to dump in the trash can. The foil-wrapped cookies her mom had left last night were still sitting there by Miss Kinney's door. She went back inside; she should tell her.

“I hope you don't mind too much about Andy's joining us today.” Christina was kneading the dough for the biscuits and her arms were dusty with flour.

Jordan stared. She had great respect for her mom's powers of intuition, but this was really weird—like she was a mind reader or something. “Actually, I
do
mind.” She put the dustpan back under the sink; Miss Kinney's cookies were forgotten.

“You're not being very supportive,” said her mother. “There hasn't been anyone in my life that way for a long time and I really care for Andy. I hope you'll be grown-up enough to set aside your feelings and be cordial.” Jordan didn't say anything. “Jordan,” Christina said. “Do I have your word?”

“No!” Jordan exploded. “I
won't
promise. I hate him and I want him to know!”

“Are you really that selfish?” Christina burst out. “I work
so
hard to make the holiday festive and nice and you don't care at all; you're just ruining everything.” Abandoning the dough, she began to cry. Jordan was shocked. Her mother
never
cried. But it was her own fault for inviting that Andy Stern; he was the one ruining the holiday, not Jordan. Why couldn't Christina see that?

Before Jordan could say this, her mother's phone, which was on the counter, sounded. She made no move to pick it up. “Aren't you going to answer that?” Christina just buried her face in her flour-covered hands and continued to cry. Jordan was scared; what had she done? She reached for the phone and was relieved to hear Stephen's voice.

“My mom's a little busy,” said Jordan.

“I have those pecan pies she wanted; do you want to come and get them?”

“Sure, I'll be right there.” Jordan was relieved to escape.

“How's my princess?” Stephen said when they met in the hallway that separated the two apartments.

“Okay. I guess.” She took the pies, encased in two white boxes, from his outstretched arms. Even through the cardboard, she could smell them.

“Why just okay? Santa wasn't good to you?”

“Santa's always good to me,” she said. “It's just that Mom's gone and invited Andy Stern to have Christmas with us.” She didn't mention the fight.

“Well, he's her—what shall I call it?—
beau
, isn't he?”

Jordan snorted. “I guess. Did she tell you I surprised them one day? She made him hide in the
closet
. It would have been funny if it wasn't so . . . gross.”

“What's gross?” Stephen said gently. “The fact that your mother has a boyfriend?”

“Why does it have to be
him
?”

“I didn't like him at first either,” said Stephen.

“Really?” Jordan asked. If Stephen was on her side, maybe he could get her mom to dump this guy.

“I invited your mother to a cocktail party one of my clients was hosting at her showroom. It was in the Meatpacking District, near Tenth Avenue. Andy came along. He complained about the cobblestones in the street—dangerous—and the cheese puffs—unhealthy. My client had hired a few models to wear her clothes while they circulated. Andy said—loud enough for everyone to hear—that one of the dresses looked like it was inside out. Your poor mother.”

“I'll bet she wanted to gag him,” Jordan muttered.

“Then the crowd began to thin out. Andy and your mom stayed. He started talking to Evangeline—that's my client. When your mom and Andy finally left, Evangeline hugged him and he gave her a card.”

“So?” Jordan said.

“She'd been telling him about her miscarriages, and how desperate she was to have a baby. I'd had no idea; she'd never talked about it to me before. She knew of him—he has this incredible reputation—but she couldn't afford to see him. He agreed to see her pro bono—for free.”

“I don't get it,” Jordan said.

“He said he was doing it as a courtesy to me,” Stephen explained. “And ultimately to your mother.”

Jordan said nothing. She still didn't like Andy and nothing was going to change her mind. She took the pies and went back to the kitchen. Christina, who had washed her hands and flour-streaked face, seemed to have pulled herself together. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's not like me to lose my temper like that.”

“No, it isn't.” Jordan set the pies down and stepped back, away from the enticing aroma.

“Anyway, I hope you'll forgive me and we can have a nice holiday.” She came over to hug Jordan; up close, Jordan could see that there were still tears in her eyes, but Christina quickly wiped them away.

“I don't want to ruin Christmas,” Jordan said in a small voice.

“Then don't.” Christina went back to the dough.

Up in her room, Jordan checked on Quin. He was still huddled at the far end of the cage. His food and the big carrot were untouched, though the water feeder was almost empty. He must have been thirsty, because when she refilled the feeder, he hopped over and began drinking greedily. Watching him reassured her; he seemed all right now. Then she changed into a navy blue jersey dress with a draped front and swirl-worthy skirt. Looking in the mirror, she thought she looked very grown-up—
even
if her mom had just implied that she wasn't.

Downstairs, the kitchen was sending forth the most fantastic smells; Jordan's stomach rumbled in anticipation. The house had been decorated with swags of pine draped over the tops of the windows, bowls of pinecones, and an army of tall white tapers. As the winter light faded, the twinkling bulbs and gleaming ornaments of the Christmas tree pushed back the encroaching dark. Christina had changed into a long black taffeta skirt with a single ruffle at the hem and a black sweater whose neckline was lined by tiny black sequins. Her silver bracelet slid up and down her arm as she set out the food, straightened a slightly crooked picture frame or grouping of glasses. Her hair was in its usual twist, though she'd secured a small silk flower on one side. Her mom's Christmas was always special.