Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances
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our word. Also, when on a campaign to convince a stranger that you aren’t a few fries short of a Happy
Meal, throwing around phrases like “tangentially Swedish” is not the best way to go. “Everyone loves a Smorgasbord,” he said graciously. It was time for a change of topic. “Target,” I said, pointing at his shirt. Except I said, “Tar-shay,” in that French way that really isn’t very funny. “Absolutely,” he said. “Now you can see why I had to risk my life getting to work. When your job is important as mine, you have to take some chances; otherwise, society doesn’t function. That guy must really want to make a call.” Stuart pointed out the window, and I turned. Jeb was at the phone booth, which was surrounded by about a foot of snow. He was trying to force the door open. “Poor Jeb,” I said. “I should lend him my phone . . . now that I have a signal.” “Is that Jeb? You’re right . . . Wait . . . how do you know Jeb?” “He was on my train. He said he was coming to Gracetown. I guess he plans on walking the rest of the way or something.” “It looks like he really, really wants to make a call,” Stuart said, pulling aside the slippery candy cane on the window to get a better look. “Why doesn’t he just use his phone?” “His phone broke when we crashed.” “Crashed?” Stuart repeated. “Your train . . . crashed?” “Just into snow.” Stuart was about to press a bit further on the train-crashing subject when the door opened, and in they poured. All fourteen of them, yelping and squealing and trailing snowflakes. “Oh my God,” I said. Chapter Four T here is nothing about a bad situation that fourteen hyper cheerleaders can’t worsen. It took about three minutes for the unassuming Waffle House to become the new offices of the law firm of Amber, Amber, Amber, and Madison. They set up camp in a clump of booths in the corner opposite from us. A few of them gave me an “oh, good, you are still alive” nod, but for the most part, they had no interest in anyone else. This did not mean that no one had an interest in them, however. Don-Keun was a new man. The moment they arrived, he vanished for a second. We heard muffled ecstatic screaming coming from somewhere in the back of the Waffle House kitchen, then he reappeared, his face shining with the kind of radiance usually associated with religious epiphany. Looking at him made me tired. Behind him were two more guys, awed acolytes following in his wake. “What do you need, ladies?” Don-Keun called happily. “Can we practice handstands in here?” Amber One said. I guess her basket-toss wrist was feeling better. Tough types, these cheerleaders. Tough and crazy. Who treks through a blizzard to practice handstands in a Waffle House? I only went there to get away from them. “Ladies,” he said, “you can do whatever you want.” Amber One liked this answer. “Could you, maybe, like mop the floor? Just this bit right here? Just so we don’t get stuff on our hands? And could you spot us?” He almost broke his own ankles trying to get to the mop closet. Stuart had been watching all of this wordlessly. He didn’t have that same glorious look as Don-Keun or his friends, but the matter had clearly made his radar. He cocked his head to the side, like he was trying to figure out a really hard math problem. “Things around here have deviated from the usual,” he said. “Yeah,” I said. “You could say that. Is there anywhere else to go? A Starbucks or something?” He almost flinched when I mentioned Starbucks. I guessed he was one of those antichain types, which seemed odd for someone who worked at Target. “It’s closed,” he said. “Pretty much everything is. There’s the Duke and Duchess. That might still be open, but that’s just a convenience store. It’s Christmas Eve, and with this storm . . . ” Stuart must have sensed my despair from the way I began lightly banging my forehead on the table. “I’m going to get back to my house,” he said, slipping his hand across the table as cushioning and preventing me from doing myself any more damage. “Why don’t you come with me? At least it’s out of the snow. My mom would never forgive me if I didn’t ask you if you needed somewhere to go.” I thought this over. My cold, dead train was on the other side of the road. My current option was a Waffle House full of cheerleaders and a guy dressed in Reynolds Wrap. My parents were guests of the state, hundreds of miles away. And the biggest snowstorm in fifty years was right on top of us. Yeah, I needed somewhere to go. Still, it was hard to unwire the “stranger danger” message that ran through my head . . . even though the stranger was really the one taking the chance. I had all the crazy cards tonight. I wouldn’t have taken me home. “Here,” he said. “A little proof of identity. This is my official Target employee card. They don’t let just anyone work at Target. And here’s a driver’s license. . . . Ignore the haircut, please. . . . Name, address, social, it’s all on there.” He pulled the cards out of his wallet to finish the joke. I noticed that there was a picture of him with a girl in the picture flap, obviously from a prom. That reassured me. He was a normal guy with a girlfriend. He even had a last name—Weintraub. “How far is it?” I asked. “About a half mile that way,” he said, pointing at what appeared to be nothing at all—formless white lumps that could have been houses, could have been trees, could have been life-size models of Godzilla. “A half mile?” “Well, it’s a half mile if we take the short way. The long way is a little over a mile. It won’t be bad. I could have kept going, but this was open, so I just stopped for a warmth break.” “Are you sure your family won’t mind?” “My mom would literally beat me down with a hose if I didn’t offer someone help on Christmas Eve.” Don-Keun vaulted the counter with a mop, almost impaling himself in the process. He started cleaning the floor around Amber One’s feet. Outside, Jeb had gotten into the booth. He was deeply entrenched in a drama of his own. I was alone. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll come.” I don’t think anyone noticed our getting up and leaving except for Tinfoil Guy. He had his back turned to the cheerleaders in complete disinterest, and he saluted us as we headed for the door. “You’re going to need a hat,” Stuart said, as we stepped into the frigid vestibule. “I don’t have a hat. I was going to Florida.” “I don’t have a hat, either. But I have these . . . ” He held up the plastic bags and demonstrated by putting the bag on his head, wrapping it once around, and tucking it in so that it made a snug but strange-looking turban, puffed up at the top. Wearing a bag on your head seemed like something that Amber and Amber and Amber would have refused to do . . . and I felt like making a point that I wasn’t like that. I gamely wound it around my head. “You should really put them around your hands, too,” he said, passing me a few more. “I don’t know what to do about your legs. They have to be cold.” They were, but for some reason I didn’t want him to think that I couldn’t handle that. “No,” I lied. “These tights are really thick. And these boots . . . they’re solid. I’ll take them for my hands, though.” He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” “Positive.” I had no idea why I was saying this. It just seemed like telling the truth would mean admitting some weakness. Stuart had to push hard to fully open the door against the wind and accumulated snow. I didn’t know snow could pour. I’ve seen flurries and even steady snow that left an inch or two, but this was sticky and heavy and the flakes were the size of quarters. Within seconds, I was drenched. I hesitated at the bottom of the steps, and Stuart turned around to check on me. “Sure?” he asked again. I knew that I was either going to turn right there and then, or I was going to have to go all the way. I gave a quick look back and saw the three Madisons doing a handstand pyramid in the middle of the restaurant. “Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.” Chapter Five W e took a small back road away from the Waffle House, guided only by the traffic warning lights that blinked on and off every other second, cutting a strobing yellow path through the dark. We walked right down the middle of the street, again in that postapocalyptic style. Silence reigned for at least fifteen minutes. Talking took energy we needed just to keep going, and opening our mouths meant that cold air could get in. Every step was a tiny trial. The snow was so deep and sticky that it took a lot of force to withdraw my foot from my own footprint. My legs, of course, were frozen to the point where they started to feel warm again. The bags on my head and hands were somewhat effective. When we had set our pace, Stuart cracked open the conversation. “Where is your family really?” he asked. “In jail.” “Yeah. You said that inside. But when I said really—” “They’re in jail,” I said for the third time. I tried to make this one stick. He got the point enough not to ask the question again, but he had to wrestle with my answer for a moment. “For what?” he finally said. “Uh, they were part of a . . . riot.” “What, are they protesters?” “They’re shoppers,” I said. “They were in a shopping riot.” He stopped dead in his spot. “Don’t even tell me that they were in the Flobie riot in Charlotte.” “That’s the one,” I said. “Oh my God! Your parents are in the Flobie Five!” “The Flobie Five?” I repeated weakly. “The Flobie Five were the topic of the day at work. I think every other customer brought them up. They had footage of the riot playing all day on the news. . . . ” News? Footage? All day? Oh, good. Good, good, good. Famous parents—just what every girl dreams of. “Everyone loves the Flobie Five,” he said. “Well, a lot of people do. Or, at least, people think it’s funny.” But then he must have realized it wasn’t so funny for me, and that that was the reason I was wandering through a strange town on Christmas Eve with bags on my head. “It makes you very cool,” he said, taking big, jumping steps to get in front of me. “CNN would interview you, for sure. Daughter of Flobie! But don’t worry. I’ll keep them back!” He made a big display of pretending to hold back reporters and punching photographers, which was tricky choreography. It did cheer me up a little. I started playing the part a little myself, throwing my hands up over my face as if flashbulbs were going off. We did this for a while. It was a good distraction from our reality. “It’s ridiculous,” I finally said, after I almost fell over as I tried to dodge an imaginary paparazzo. “My parents are in jail. Over a ceramic Santa house.” “Better than for dealing crack,” he said, falling back in line beside me. “Right? Must be.” “Are you always this chipper?” “Always. It’s a requirement for working at Target. I’m like Captain Smiley.” “Your girlfriend must love that!” I only said it to make myself seem clever and observant, expecting him to say, “How did you know that I . . . ?” And I would say, “I saw the photo in your wallet.” And he would think I was very Sherlock Holmes and I would seem a little less deranged than I first appeared back at the Waffle House. (Sometimes, you have to wait a little bit for this kind of gratification, but it’s still worth it.) Instead, he just whipped his head around quickly in my direction, blinked, and then turned back down the road with a very determined stride. The playfulness was gone, and he was all business. “It’s not too much farther. But this is where we have to decide. There are two ways we can go from here. The down-this-road way, which will probably take us another forty-five minutes at the rate we’re going. Or the shortcut.” “The shortcut,” I answered immediately. “Obviously.” “It is way, way shorter, because this road bends around and the shortcut goes straight through. I’d definitely take it if it was just me, which it was up until a half an hour ago. . . . ” “Shortcut,” I said again. Standing in that storm, with the snow and wind burning the skin off my face and my head and hands wrapped in plastic bags—I felt I really didn’t need any more information. Whatever this shortcut was, it couldn’t be much worse than what we were already doing. And if Stuart had been planning on taking it before, there was no reason why he couldn’t take it with me. “Okay,” Stuart said. “Basically, the shortcut takes us behind these houses. My house is just behind there, about two hundred yards. I think. Something like that.” We left the blinking yellow path and cut down a completely shadowy path between some houses. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check it as we walked. There was no call from Noah. I tried to be stealthy about this, but Stuart saw me. “No call?” he asked. “Not yet. He must still be busy.” “Does he know about your parents?” “He knows,” I said. “I tell him everything.” “Does that go both ways?” he asked. “Does what go both ways?” “You said you tell him everything,” he replied. “You didn’t say we tell each other everything.” What kind of question was that? “Of course,” I said quickly. “What’s he like, aside from being tangentially Swedish?” “He’s smart,” I said. “But he’s not obnoxious smart, like one of those people who always have to tell you their GPA, or give you subtle hints about their SAT score or class rank or whatever. It’s just natural to him. He doesn’t work that hard for grades, and he doesn’t care that much. But they’re good. Really good. Plays soccer. He’s in Mathletes. He’s really popular.” Yes, I actually said that. Yes, it sounded like some kind of sales pitch. Yes, Stuart got that smirky I’m- trying-not-to-laugh-at-you look again. But how was I supposed to answer that question? Everyone I knew knew Noah. They knew what he was, what he represented. I didn’t usually have to explain. “Good résumé,” he said, not sounding all that impressed. “But what’s he like?” Oh, God. This conversation was going to go on. “He’s . . . like what I just said.” “Personality-wise. Is he secretly a poet or something? Does he dance around his room when he thinks no one is looking? Is he funny, like you? What’s his essence?” Stuart had to have been playing with my head with this essence stuff. Although, there was something about how he had asked if Noah was funny, like me. That was kind of nice. And the answer was no. Noah was many things, but funny was not one of them. He usually seemed relatively amused by me, but as you may have noticed by now, sometimes I can’t shut up. On those occasions, he just looked tired. “Intense,” I said. “His essence is intense.” “Good intense?” “Would I date him otherwise? Is it much farther?” Stuart got the message this time and shut up. We walked on in silence until it was just empty space with a few trees. I could see that far off, at the top of an incline, there were more houses. I could just make out the distant glow of holiday lights. The snow was so thick in the air that everything was blurry. It would have been beautiful, if it didn’t sting so much. I realized my hands had gotten so cold that they’d rounded the corner and now almost felt hot. My legs wouldn’t last much longer. Stuart put his arm out and stopped me. “Okay,” he said. “I have to explain something. We’re going over a little creek. It’s frozen. I saw people sliding on it earlier.” “How deep a creek?” “Not that deep. Maybe five feet.” “Where is it?” “It’s somewhere right in front of us,” he said. I looked out over the blank horizon. Somewhere under there was a small body of water, hidden under the snow. “We can go back,” he said. “You were going to go this way, no matter what?” I asked. “Yeah, but you don’t have to prove anything to me.” “It’s fine,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt. “So, we just keep walking?” “That’s the plan.” So that’s what we did. We knew we’d hit the creek when the snow got a little less deep, and there was a slight slipperiness underneath us instead of the thick, crunching, solid feeling. This is when Stuart decided to speak again. “Those guys back at the Waffle House are so lucky. They’re about to have the best night of their lives,” he said. There was something in his tone that sounded like a challenge, like he wanted me to take the bait. Which means I shouldn’t have. But I did, of course. “God,” I said. “Why are all guys so easy like that?” “Like what?” he said, giving me a sideways glance, slipping in the process. “Saying that they’re lucky.” “Because . . . they’re trapped in a Waffle House with a dozen cheerleaders?” “Where does this arrogant fantasy come from?” I said, maybe a little more sharply than I intended. “Do guys really believe that if they are the only male in the area, that girls will suddenly crawl on top of them? Like we scavenge for lone survivors and reward them with group make-out sessions?” “That isn’t what happens?” he asked. I didn’t even dignify that remark with a comeback. “But what’s wrong with cheerleaders?” he asked, sounding very pleased that he’d gotten such a rise out of me. “I’m not saying I only like cheerleaders. I’m just not prejudiced against them.” “It’s not prejudice,” I said firmly. “It’s not? What is it then?” “It’s the idea of cheerleaders,” I said. “Girls, on the sidelines, in short skirts, telling guys that they’re great. Chosen for their looks.” “I don’t know,” he said tauntingly. “Judging groups of people you don’t know, making assumptions, talking about their looks . . . it sounds like prejudice, but—” “I am not prejudiced!” I shot back, unable to control my reaction now. There was so much darkness around us at that moment. Above us, there was a hazy pewter-pink sky. Around us, there were only the outlines of the skinny bare trees, like thin hands bursting out of the earth. Endless white ground below, and swirling flakes, and a lonely whistle of wind, and the shadows of houses. “Look,” Stuart said, refusing to quit this annoying game, “how do you know that in their spare time, they aren’t EMTs or something? Maybe they save kittens, or run food banks, or—” “Because they don’t,” I said, stepping ahead of him. I slipped a little but jerked myself upright. “In their spare time, they get waxings.” “You don’t know that,” he called from behind me. “I wouldn’t have to explain this to Noah,” I said. “He would just get it.” “You know,” Stuart said evenly, “as wonderful as you think this Noah is—I’m not all that impressed with him right now.” I’d had it. I turned around and started walking the way we had come, taking hard, firm steps. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Oh, come on . . . ” He tried to make it sound like it was no big deal, but I had simply had it. I stamped down hard to keep my gait steady. “It’s a long way back!” he said, hurrying to catch up with me. “Don’t. Seriously.” “I’m sorry,” I said, like I didn’t really care very much. “I just think it would be better if I . . . ” There was a noise. A new noise under the whistle and the squeak and shift of ice and snow. It was a snapping noise that sounded kind of like a log on a fire, which was unpleasantly ironic. We both stopped exactly where we stood. Stuart flashed me a look of alarm. “Don’t mov—” And then the surface beneath us just went away. Chapter Six M aybe you’ve never fallen into a frozen stream. Here’s what happens. 1. It is cold. So cold that the Department of Temperature Acknowledgment and Regulation in your brain gets the readings and says, “I can’t deal with this. I’m out of here.” It puts up the OUT TO LUNCH sign and passes all responsibility to the . . . 2. Department of Pain and the Processing Thereof, which gets all this gobbledygook from the temperature department that it can’t understand. “This is so not our job,” it says. So it just starts hitting random buttons, filling you with strange and unpleasant sensations, and calls the . . . 3. Office of Confusion and Panic, where there is always someone ready to hop on the phone the moment it rings. This office is at least willing to take some action. The Office of Confusion and Panic loves hitting buttons. So, for a split second, Stuart and I were unable to do anything because of this bureaucratic mess going on in our heads. When we recovered a little, I was able to take some stock of what was happening to me. The good news was, we were only in up to our chests. Well, I was. The water came exactly breast-high. Stuart was in up to his mid-abdomen. The bad news was, we were in a hole in the ice, and it’s hard to get out of a hole in the ice when you are pretty much paralyzed with cold. We both tried to climb out, but the ice just kept breaking every time we put pressure on it. As an automatic reaction, we grabbed each other. “Okay,” Stuart said, shivering hard. “This is c-cold. And kind of bad.” “No? Really?” I screamed. Except there wasn’t enough air in my lungs to allow me to scream, so it came out like a spooky little hiss. “We . . . s-should . . . b-break it.” This idea had occurred to me, too, but it was reassuring to hear it said out loud. We both started smashing at the ice with stiff, robotlike arms, until we reached the thick crust. The water was a bit shallower, but not by much. “I’ll boost you up with my hand,” Stuart said. “Step up.” When I tried to move my leg, it refused to cooperate right away. My legs were so numb that they didn’t really work anymore. Once I got them going, Stuart’s hands were too cold to support me. It took some tries, but I eventually got a foothold. Of course, once I got up, I made the important discovery that ice is slippery, and therefore very hard to hold on to, especially when your hands are also covered in wet bags. I reached back and helped pull Stuart, who landed flat on the ice. We were out. And being out felt a lot worse than being in, weirdly enough. “Iss . . . not . . . tha . . . far,” he said. It was hard to understand him. My lungs felt like they were wobbling. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a house just at the top of the rise. If he hadn’t dragged me, I would never have made it up the hill. I have never, ever been so happy to see a house. It was entirely outlined by a faint greenish glow, interspersed with tiny dots of red. The back door was unlocked, and we stepped into a paradise. It wasn’t that it was the most amazing house I had ever been in—it was simply a house, with warmth, and a residual smell of cooked turkey and cookies and tree. Stuart didn’t stop pulling me until we reached a door, which turned out to lead to a bathroom with a glass shower stall. “Here,” he said, pressing me in. “Shower. Now. Warm water.” The door slammed and I heard him run off. I stripped off what I was wearing immediately, stumbling as I reached for the shower knob. My clothes were frighteningly heavy, full of water and snow and mud. I stayed in there a long time, slumped against the wall, filling the little room with steam. The water changed temperature once or twice, probably because Stuart was also taking a shower somewhere else in the house. I turned off the water only when it started to go cold. When I emerged into the thick steam, I saw that my clothes were gone. Someone had extracted them from the bathroom without my noticing. In their place were two large towels, a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, socks, and slippers. The clothes were for a guy, except for the socks and slippers. The socks were thick and pink, and the slippers were white fluffy booties, very worn. I grabbed for the nearest item, which was a sweatshirt, and held it up to my naked self, even though I was clearly alone in the bathroom now. Someone had come in. Someone had been lurking around, removing my clothes and replacing them with new, dry ones. Had Stuart let himself in while I was showering? Had he seen me in my natural state? Did I even care at this point? I dressed quickly, putting on every single item that had been left for me. I opened the door a crack and peered out. The kitchen appeared empty. I opened the door wider, and suddenly a woman popped out of nowhere. She was mom-aged, with curly blonde hair that looked like it had been fried by using a home coloring kit. She was wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of two hugging koalas in Santa hats. The only thing I really cared about, though, was the fact that she was holding out a steaming mug. “You poor thing!” she said. She was really loud, one of those people you can easily hear across entire parking lots. “Stuart’s upstairs. I’m his mom.” I accepted the mug. It could have been a cup of hot poison, but I would have drunk it anyway. “Poor thing,” she said again. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get you warm again. Sorry I couldn’t find anything to fit you better. Those are Stuart’s, and the only clean ones I could find in the laundry. I put your clothes in the washer, and your shoes and coat are drying on the heater. If you need to call anyone, you just go right ahead. Don’t worry if it’s long distance.” This was my introduction to Stuart’s mom (“Call me Debbie”). I’d known her for all of twenty seconds, and already she had seen my underwear and was offering me her son’s clothes. She immediately planted me at the kitchen table and started pulling out endless Saran-wrapped plates from the refrigerator. “We had Christmas Eve dinner while Stuart was at work, but I made plenty! Plenty! Eat up!” There was a lot of food: turkey and mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, the works. She brought all of it out and insisted on making me a big plateful, with a hot cup of chicken-dumpling soup on the side. By this point, I was hungry—maybe hungrier than I’d ever been in my life. Stuart reappeared in the doorway. Like me, he was dressed for warmth. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a stretched-out cable sweater. I don’t know . . . maybe it was the sense of gratitude, my general happiness at being alive, the absence of a bag on his head . . . but he was kind of good- looking. And any of my former annoyance with him was gone. “You’ll set Julie up for the night?” she asked. “Make sure to turn off the tree so it doesn’t keep her awake.” “I’m sorry . . . ” I said. It was only now that I realized that I had just crashed into their lives on Christmas. “Don’t you apologize! I’m glad you had the sense to come here! We’ll take care of you. Make sure she has enough blankets, Stuart.” “There will be blankets,” he assured her. “She needs one now. Look. She’s freezing. So do you. Sit here.” She hustled into the living room. Stuart raised his eyebrows as if to say, This may go on for a while. She returned with two fleece throws. I was wrapped in a deep blue one. She swaddled me in it, like I was a baby, to the point where it was kind of hard to move my arms. “You need more hot chocolate,” she said. “Or tea? We have all kinds.” “I’ve got it, Mom,” Stuart said. “More soup? Eat the soup. That’s homemade, and chicken soup is like natural penicillin. After the chill you’ve both had—” “I’ve got it, Mom.” Debbie took my half-empty soup cup, refilled it to the top, and put it in the microwave. “Make sure she knows where everything is, Stuart. If you want anything during the night, you just get it. You make yourself at home. You’re one of ours now, Julie.” I appreciated the sentiment, but I thought that was a strange way of putting it. Chapter Seven S tuart and I spent several quiet moments contentedly stuffing our faces once Debbie was gone. Except, I got the feeling that she wasn’t really gone—I never heard her walk away. I think Stuart felt this, too, because he kept turning around. “This soup really is amazing,” I said, because that sounded like a good remark to have overheard. “I’ve never had anything like it. It’s the dumplings . . . ” “You’re probably not Jewish, that’s why,” he said, getting up and shutting the accordion kitchen door. “Those are matzo balls.” “You’re Jewish?” Stuart held up a finger, indicating I should wait. He rattled the door a little, and there was a series of rapid, creaking steps, like someone trying to hurry quietly up the stairs. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought we had company. Must have been mice. Yeah, my mom is, so technically, yes. But she has this thing about Christmas. I think she does it to fit in. She goes kind of overboard, though.” The kitchen had been completely converted for the season. The hand towels, the toaster cover, the fridge magnets, the curtains, the tablecloth, the centerpiece . . . the more I looked, the more Christmasy it got. “Did you note the fake electric holly on the way in?” Stuart asked. “Our house is never going to be on the cover of Southern Jew at this rate.” “So, why . . . ” He shrugged. “Because it’s what people do,” he said, picking up another piece of turkey, folding it, and shoving it in his mouth. “Especially around here. There isn’t exactly what you would call a thriving Jewish community. My Hebrew-school class was just me and one other girl.” “Your girlfriend?” Something passed over his face, a rapid wave of forehead wrinkling and mouth twitching that I suspected was a suppressed laugh. “Just because there’s only two of us doesn’t mean we have to pair-bond,” he said. “It’s not like someone says, ‘Okay—you two Jews! Dance!’ No, she’s not my girlfriend.” “Sorry,” I said quickly. This was the second time I had mentioned his girlfriend—trying to show off my observational skill—and again, he just deflected. That was it. No more mentioning it. He obviously didn’t want to talk about her. Which was a little odd . . . he seemed like the type who would happily rattle on about his girlfriend for about seven hours. He just gave that vibe. “It’s okay.” He reached for more turkey, looking like he had already forgotten how dumb I could be sometimes. “I tend to think that people like having us around. Like we add something to the neighborhood. We have a playground, an efficient recycling setup, and two Jewish families.” “But isn’t it weird?” I asked, picking up the snowman salt shaker. “All these Christmas decorations?” “Maybe. But it’s just a big holiday, you know? It all feels so fake that it seems okay. My mom just likes to celebrate anything, really. Our relatives in other places think it’s strange that we have a tree, but trees are nice. It’s not like a tree is religious.” “True,” I said. “What does your dad think?” “No idea. He doesn’t live here.” Stuart didn’t seem very troubled by this fact. He beat another little rhythm on the table to brush the subject away, and stood. “I’ll get you set up for the night,” he said. “Be right back.” I got up to have a look around. There were two Christmas trees: a tiny one in the picture window, and a massive one—easily eight feet high—in the corner. It was practically bent over from the weight of all the handmade ornaments, the multiple strings of lights, and what must have been ten boxes of silver tinsel. There was a piano in the living room that was loaded down with opened pages of music, some with comments written on the pages in pen. I don’t play any instruments, so all music looks complicated to me —but this looked even more complicated than normal. Someone here knew what they were doing. This wasn’t just “piano as furniture.” What really caught my eye, though, was what was sitting on top of the piano. It was much smaller, much less technically complex than ours, but it was a Flobie Santa Village nonetheless, framed with a little barrier of garland. “You must know what these are,” Stuart said, coming down the stairs with a massive load of blankets and pillows, which he dumped on the sofa. I did, of course. They had five pieces—the Merry Men Café, the gumdrop shop, Festive Frank’s Supply Store, the Elfateria, and the ice-cream parlor. “I guess you guys have more of these than we do,” he said. “We have fifty-six pieces.” He whistled in appreciation, and reached over to switch on the power. Unlike us, they didn’t have a fancy system for switching all the houses on at once. He had to turn the dimmer dial on each one, clicking it to life. “My mom thinks they’re worth something,” he said. “She treats them like they’re the precious.” “They all think that,” I said sympathetically. I looked the pieces over with an expert eye. I don’t usually advertise the fact, but I actually know a lot about the Flobie Santa Village, for obvious reasons. I could hold my own at any dealer’s show. “Well,” I said, pointing at the Merry Men Café, “this one is kind of worth something. See how it’s brick, with green around the windows? This is a first-generation piece. In the second year, they made the windowsills black.” I picked it up carefully and checked the bottom. “It’s not a numbered piece,” I said, examining the base. “But still . . . any first-generation piece with a noticeable difference is good. And they retired the Merry Men Café five years ago, so that makes it worth a bit more. This would go for about four hundred dollars, except that it looks like your chimney was broken off and glued back on.” “Oh, yeah. My sister did that.” “You have a sister?” “Rachel,” Stuart said. “She’s five. Don’t worry. You’ll meet her. And that was kind of amazing.” “I don’t think amazing is the right word for that. Maybe sad.” He switched all the houses back off. “Who plays the piano?” I asked. “Me. It’s my talent. I guess we all have one.” Stuart made a kind of ridiculous face, which made me laugh. “You shouldn’t dismiss it,” I said. “Schools love people who have musical skills.” God, I sounded so . . . well, so like one of those people who do things only because they think it will make colleges like them. I was shocked when I realized that was a Noah quote. I had never thought of it as being so obnoxious before. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just tired.” He waved this away, as if it required no explanation or apology. “So do mothers,” he said. “And neighbors. I’m sort of the performing monkey of the subdivision. Luckily, I also like to play, so it works out. So . . . the sheets and pillows are for you, and . . . ” “I’m fine,” I said. “This is great. It’s really nice of you to let me stay.” “Like I said, it’s no problem.” He turned to go but stopped halfway up the stairs. “Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry if I was kind of a dick earlier, when we were walking. It was just . . . ” “Walking in the storm,” I said. “I know. It was cold; we were grouchy. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry, too. And thanks.” He looked like he was about to say something else but simply nodded and started back up the stairs. I heard him reach the top, then back down a few. He peered through the top rails. “Merry Christmas,” he added, before disappearing. This is when it really hit me. My eyes filled up. I missed my family. I missed Noah. I missed home. These people had done all they could, but they weren’t my family. Stuart wasn’t my boyfriend. I lay there for a long time, twisting on the sofa, listening to a dog snoring somewhere upstairs (I think it was the dog), watching two hours burn away on the very loud ticky-ticky clock. I simply couldn’t stand it. My phone was in my coat pocket, so I went searching for where my clothes had been stashed. I found them in the laundry room. The coat had been hung up over a heating vent. Apparently, my phone hadn’t liked being completely submerged in cold water. The screen was blank. No wonder I hadn’t heard from him. There was a phone on the kitchen counter. I quietly crept out and took it from the cradle and dialed Noah’s number. It rang four times before he answered. He sounded very confused when he answered. His voice was tired and deep. “It’s me,” I whispered. “Lee?” he croaked. “What time is it?” “Three in the morning,” I said. “You never called back.” Assorted snuffling noises, as he tried to clear his thoughts. “Sorry. It was busy all night. You know my mom and the Smorgasbord. Can we talk tomorrow? I’ll call you as soon as we finish opening gifts.” I fell silent. I had braved the biggest storm of the year—many years—I had fallen into a frozen creek, and my parents were imprisoned . . . and he still couldn’t talk to me? But . . . he had had a long night, and it seemed a waste to force my story on him when he was half asleep. People can’t really sympathize with you properly when you’ve woken them up, and I needed him at 100 percent for this. “Sure,” I said. “Tomorrow.” I climbed back into my cave of blankets and pillows. They had a strong, unfamiliar smell. Not bad— just a very strong detergent that I’d never smelled before. Sometimes, I just didn’t get Noah. Sometimes I even felt like he dated me as part of his plan, like they were going to have a checklist on the application, and one of the things to tick off was going to be, “Do you have a reasonably intelligent girlfriend who shares your aspirations, and who is fully prepared to accept your limited availability? One who likes to listen to you talk about your own accomplishments for hours at a time?” No. This was fear and cold talking. This was being in a strange place away from my family. This was stress over the fact that my parents had been arrested in a riot for ceramic houses. And if I just slept, my brain would go back to normal. I closed my eyes and felt the world swirling with snow. I was dizzy for a moment, and slightly nauseous, and then I was fast, fast asleep, dreaming of waffle sandwiches and cheerleaders doing splits on the tables. Chapter Eight M orning came in the form of a five-year-old leaping onto my stomach. My eyes popped open from the force. “Who are you?” she said excitedly. “I’m Rachel!” “Rachel! Stop jumping on her! She’s sleeping!” This was Stuart’s mom’s voice. Rachel was a highly freckled mini-Stuart with incredibly bed-messy hair and a huge smile. She smelled vaguely of Cheerios, and she needed a bath. Debbie was right there as well, nursing a cup of coffee while she switched on the Flobie Santa Village. Stuart stepped out from the direction of the kitchen. I hate it when I wake up to find that people have been creeping around me and have seen me asleep. Unfortunately, it happens to me a lot. I can sleep like a champion. I once slept through a smoke alarm going off. For three hours. In my bedroom. “We’re going to put off opening our presents,” Debbie said. “So this morning, we can all just have something to eat and have a nice talk!” This was clearly for my benefit, as there were no gifts for me. Rachel’s face looked like it was going to split in two, like a piece of overripe fruit. Stuart looked to his mother, as if asking if this was really a good idea. “Except for Rachel,” she said quickly. It’s amazing how quickly little kids’ moods can shift. She went from total despair to elation in the time it normally takes to sneeze. “No,” I said. “No, you guys should, too.” Debbie was shaking her head firmly and smiling. “Stuart and I can wait. Why don’t you go and get yourself ready for some breakfast?” I slunk off to the bathroom, head down, to try to do some basic morning repair. My hair looked like it was trying out for the comedy circuit, and my skin was raw and chapped. I did my best with cold water and decorative hand soaps, which is to say, I didn’t make a lot of progress. “Do you want to call your family?” Debbie asked when I emerged. “Wish them a happy holiday?” I found myself looking to Stuart for help with this one. “That may be hard,” he said. “They’re in the Flobie Five.” So much for hiding that fact. Debbie didn’t seem put out by it, though. Instead, she got a gleam in her eye like she’d just met a celebrity. “Your parents were in that?” she asked. “Oh, why didn’t you say? I love the Flobie Santa Village. And it was so silly to put them in jail. The Flobie Five! Oh, I’m sure they’ll let them talk on the phone to their daughter! At Christmas! It’s not like they killed somebody.” Stuart looked up at me knowingly, as if to say, Told you. “I don’t even know what jail they’re in,” I said. I felt guilty as soon as I said it. My parents were wasting away in a cell somewhere, and I didn’t even know where. “Well, that’s easy enough to find out. Stuart, go online and find out what jail they’re in. It has to be on the news.” Stuart was already on his way out of the room, saying he was on it. “Stuart’s a wizard with those kinds of things,” she said. “What kinds of things?” “Oh, he can find anything online.” Debbie was one of those parents who still hadn’t quite grasped that using the Internet was not exactly wizardry, and that we could all find anything online. I didn’t say this, because you don’t want people to feel that they’ve missed something really obvious, even when they have. Stuart came back in with the information, and Debbie made the call. “I will get them to let you talk to your parents,” she said, holding her hand over the receiver. “They have no idea how persist— Oh, hello?” It sounded like they were giving her a bit of trouble, but Debbie beat them down. Sam would have been impressed. She handed me the phone and retreated from the kitchen, all smiles. Stuart picked up a wriggling Rachel and carried her out, as well. “Jubilee?” my mom said. “Honey! Are you okay? Did you just get to Florida? How are Grandma and Grandpa? Oh, honey . . . ” “I’m not in Florida. The train never made it. I’m in Gracetown.” “Gracetown?” she repeated. “You only made it that far? Oh, Jubilee . . . where are you? Are you all right? Are you still on the train?” I didn’t quite feel up to telling the whole story of the last twenty-four hours, so I made it nice and short. “The train got stuck,” I said. “We had to get off. I met some people. I’m staying at their house.” “People?” Her voice hit a high pitch of concern, the kind that said that she suspected drug dealers and molesters. “What kind of people?” “Nice people, Mom. A mom and two kids. They have a Flobie Santa Village. Not as big as ours, but some of the same pieces. They have the gumdrop shop, with the full display. And the gingerbread bakery. They even have a first-generation Merry Men Café.” “Oh,” she said, somewhat relieved. I think my parents think you have to have some kind of moral character to be in the Flobie crew. Social deviants don’t take the time to lovingly set the tiny gingerbread men displays in the window of the bakery. And yet, lots of people would take that as a sign that someone was unhinged. One person’s crazy is another person’s sane, I guess. Plus, I thought I was being pretty crafty by describing Stuart as one of “two kids” instead of “some guy I met at a Waffle House with plastic bags on his head.” “Are you still there?” she asked. “What about your train?” “I think it’s still stuck. It got caught in a snowbank last night, and they had to turn down the power and the heat. That’s why we got off.” Again, pretty clever to say “we” as opposed to “just me, wandering across a six-lane interstate during a blizzard.” It wasn’t a lie, either. Jeb and the Ambers and Madisons had made the trek themselves, just after I blazed the trail. Being sixteen means you have to be a genius conversational editor. “How’s . . . ” How do you ask your mom how jail is? “We’re fine,” she said bravely. “We’re . . . Oh, Julie. Oh, honey. I am so sorry about this. So, so sorry. We didn’t mean . . . ” I could hear that she was about to completely lose it, and that meant that I would soon lose it if I didn’t stop her. “I’m fine,” I said. “The people here are taking really good care of me.” “Can I speak to them?” Them meant Debbie, so I called to her. She got on the phone and had one of those mother-to-mother talks where they express concern for children as a whole and make a lot of scrunched-up faces. Debbie was well up to the task of reassuring my mother, and in listening to her talk, I discovered that she wasn’t going to let me go anywhere for at least a day. I heard her shoot down the idea that my train was going anywhere, that there was any chance at all I was going to make it to Florida. “Don’t you worry,” she said to my mom. “We’re going to take good care of your girl here. We have lots of good food, and we’ll keep her nice and snug and warm until things clear up. She’ll have a good holiday, I promise you. And we’ll send her right back up to you.” A pause while my mother made high-pitched sisterly devotions of gratitude. “It is no trouble at all!” Debbie went on. “She’s an absolute pleasure. And isn’t this what the holidays are all about? You just take care of yourselves in there. We Flobie fans are rooting for you.” When she hung up, Debbie was wiping at her eyes and writing a number on her “Elf List” magnetized refrigerator notepad. “I should call about my train,” I said. “If that’s okay.” I couldn’t get anyone on the phone, probably because it was Christmas, but a recorded voice said that there were “substantial delays.” I looked out the window as I listened to it cycle through menu choices. It was still snowing. It wasn’t as end-of-the-worldly as last night, but it was pretty steady. Debbie lingered for a bit but then drifted off. I dialed Noah’s number. He picked it up on the seventh ring. “Noah!” I said, keeping my voice low. “It’s me! I’m—” “Hey!” he said. “Listen, we’re all about to sit down and have breakfast.” “I’ve kind of had a rough night,” I said. “Oh, no. Sorry, Lee. Listen, I’ll call you back in a little while, okay? I have the number. Merry Christmas!” No “I love you.” No “My holiday is ruined without you.” Now, I felt myself losing it. I got all choked up, but I didn’t want to be one of those girlfriends who sob when their boyfriends can’t talk . . . even if my circumstances were a little beyond normal. “Sure,” I said, holding my voice steady. “Later. Merry Christmas.” And then I ran for the bathroom. Chapter Nine Y ou can only spend so long in a bathroom without arousing suspicion. Over a half an hour, and people are staring at the door, wondering about you. I was in there at least that long, sitting in the shower stall with the door closed, sobbing into a hand towel that read LET IT SNOW! Yeah, let it snow. Let it snow and snow and bury me. Very funny, Life. I was kind of terrified to come out, but when I did, I found that the kitchen was empty. It had been cheered up a bit, though. There was a Christmas candle burning on the middle bit of the stove, the Bing Crosby tunes were rocking out, and a steaming pot of fresh coffee and a cake were waiting on the counter. Debbie appeared from the laundry room next to the stove. “I had Stuart go next door to borrow a snowsuit for Rachel,” she said. “She outgrew her last one, and the people next door have one just her size. He’ll be back soon.” She gave me a knowing nod that said, I know you needed some private time. I have your back. “Thanks,” I said, sitting down at the table. “And I spoke to your grandparents,” Debbie added. “Your mother gave me their number. They were concerned, but I set their minds at rest. Don’t worry, Jubilee. I know holidays can be hard, but we’ll try to make this one special for you.” Obviously, my mom had told her my real name. She pronounced it carefully, as if she wanted me to know that she had taken note of it. That she was being sincere. “They’re usually great,” I said. “I’ve never had a bad holiday before.” Debbie got up and poured me some of the coffee, setting the cup down in front of me, along with a gallon of milk and a massive sugar bowl. “I know that this must be a very rough experience for you,” she said, “but I believe in miracles. I know it sounds corny, but I do. And I feel like you coming here has been a little one for us.” I glanced up at her as I poured milk into my coffee and almost flooded the cup. I had noticed a sign in the bathroom that said FREE HUGS GIVEN HERE! There’s nothing wrong with that—Debbie was clearly a nice person—but she maybe veered toward the goofy side of soppy. “Thanks?” I said. “What I mean is . . . Stuart looks happier today than he has in . . . Well, I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but . . . Well, he may already have told you. He tells everyone, and you two already seem to have hit it off, so . . . ” “Told me what?” “About Chloe,” she said, wide-eyed. “Didn’t he tell you?” “Who’s Chloe?” Debbie had to get up and slice me a thick piece of cake before she could answer. And I do mean thick. Harry Potter volume seven thick. I could have knocked out a burglar with this piece of cake. Once I tasted it, though, it seemed just the right size. Debbie didn’t fool around when it came to the butter and sugar. “Chloe,” she said, lowering her voice, “was Stuart’s girlfriend. They broke up three months ago, and he . . . well, he’s such a sweet guy . . . he took it so hard. She was terrible to him. Terrible. Last night was the first night in a long time that I saw a spark of the old Stuart, when you were sitting there with him.” “I . . . what?” “Stuart has such a good heart,” she went on, oblivious to the fact that I had frozen, a bite of cake halfway to my mouth. “When his father, and Rachel’s father, my ex-husband, left, he was just twelve. But you should have seen how he helped me and how he was with Rachel. He’s such a good guy.” I didn’t know where to begin. There was something shockingly awkward about discussing Stuart’s breakup with his mom. The expression is: a boy’s best friend is his mother. It’s not: a boy’s best pimp is his mother. It’s that way for a reason. Even worse, if it could get any worse, which it apparently could . . . I was the balm that had healed her son’s wounds. Her Christmas miracle. She was going to keep me here forever, stuffing me with cake and dressing me in oversize sweatshirts. I would be Bride of Flobie. “You live in Richmond, right?” she chattered on. “That’s, what, a two- or three-hour drive. . . . ” I was thinking about locking myself in the bathroom again, when Rachel came bounding in the doorway and skidding up to me in her slippers. She climbed halfway up onto my lap and studied my eyes up close. She still needed a bath. “What’s the matter?” she said. “Why are you crying?” “She misses her family,” Debbie said. “It’s Christmas, and she can’t see them because of the snow.” “We’ll take care of you,” Rachel said, taking my hand and doing that adorable “let me tell you a secret” voice that little kids can get away with. In the light of her mother’s recent comments, though, it seemed kind of threatening. “That’s nice, Rachel,” Debbie said. “Why don’t you go and brush your teeth like a big girl? Jubilee here can brush her teeth.” Can, but hadn’t. No toothbrush in my backpack. I was really not at my best when I packed. I heard the front door open, and a moment later, Stuart arrived in the kitchen with the snowsuit. “I just had to look at two hundred photos on a digital picture frame,” he said. “Two hundred. Mrs. Henderson really wanted me to know just how amazing it was that it could hold two hundred photos. Did I mention that there were two hundred of them? Anyway.” He set the snowsuit down, then excused himself to go change his jeans, which were soaked from the snow. “Don’t you worry,” Debbie said, as he left. “I’m going to take the little miss to go play outside so you can relax. You and Stuart both got terrible chills last night. You’re staying in here and keeping warm at least until we can find out about your train. I promised your mom I would look after you. So you and Stuart stay in here and hang out. Have some nice hot chocolate, something to eat, cuddle up under a blanket . . . ” Under any other circumstances, I would have assumed that that last sentence meant, “Cuddle up under Yüklə 0,74 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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