CHRISTMAS EVE, THREE 3 page

HENRY: As we walk out of the cold night air into the warmth and light of the church my guts are churning. I’ve never been to a Catholic Mass. The last time I attended any sort of religious service was my mom’s funeral. I am holding on to Clare’s arm like a blind man as she leads us up the central aisle, and we file into an empty pew. Clare and her family kneel on the cushioned kneelers and I sit, as Clare has told me to. We are early. Alicia has disappeared, and Nell is sitting behind us with her husband and their son, who is on leave from the Navy. Dulcie sits with a contemporary of hers. Clare, Mark, Sharon, and Philip kneel side by side in varying attitudes: Clare is self-conscious, Mark perfunctory, Sharon calm and absorbed, Philip exhausted. The church is full of poinsettias. It smells like wax and wet coats. There’s an elaborate stable scene with Mary and Joseph and their entourage to the right of the altar. People are filing in, choosing seats, greeting each other. Clare slides onto the seat next to me, and Mark and Philip follow suit; Sharon remains on her knees for a few more minutes and then we are all sitting quietly in a row, waiting. A man in a suit walks onto the stage—altar, whatever—and tests the microphones that are attached to the little reading stands, then disappears into the back again. There are many more people now, it’s crowded. Alicia and two other women and a man appear stage left, carrying their instruments. The blond woman is a violinist and the mousy brown-haired woman is the viola player; the man, who is so elderly that he stoops and shuffles, is another violinist. They are all wearing black. They sit in their folding chairs, turn on the lights over their music stands, rattle their sheet music, plink at various strings, and look at each other, for consensus. People are suddenly quiet and into this quiet comes a long, slow, low note that fills the space, that connects to no known piece of music but simply exists, sustains. Alicia is bowing as slowly as it is possible for a human to bow, and the sound she is producing seems to emerge from nowhere, seems to originate between my ears, resonates through my skull like fingers stroking my brain. Then she stops. The silence that follows is brief but absolute. Then all four musicians surge into action. After the simplicity of that single note their music is dissonant, modern and jarring and I think Bartok? but then I resolve what I am hearing and realize that they are playing Silent Night. I can’t figure out why it sounds so weird until I see the blond violinist

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kick Alicia’s chair and after a beat the piece comes into focus. Clare glances over at me and smiles. Everyone in the church relaxes. Silent Night gives way to a hymn I don’t recognize. Everyone stands. They turn toward the back of the church, and the priest walks up the central aisle with a large retinue of small boys and a few men in suits. They solemnly march to the front of the church and take up their positions. The music abruptly stops. Oh, no, I think, what now? Clare takes my hand, and we stand together, in the crowd, and if there is a God, then God, let me just stand here quietly and inconspicuously, here and now, here and now.

CLARE: Henry looks as though he’s about to pass out. Dear God, please don’t let him disappear now. Father Compton is welcoming us in his radio announcer voice. I reach into Henry’s coat pocket, push my fingers through the hole at the bottom, find his cock, and squeeze. He jumps as though I’ve administered an electric shock. “The Lord be with you,” says Father Compton. “And also with you,” we all reply serenely. The same, everything the same. And yet, here we are, at last, for anyone to see. I can feel Helen’s eyes boring into my back. Ruth is sitting five rows behind us, with her brother and parents. Nancy, Laura, Mary Christina, Patty, Dave, and Chris, and even Jason Everleigh; it seems like everyone I went to school with is here tonight. I look over at Henry, who is oblivious to all this. He is sweating. He glances at me, raises one eyebrow. The Mass proceeds. The readings, the Kyrie, Peace be with you: and also with you. We all stand for the gospel, Luke, Chapter 2. Everyone in theRoman Empire, traveling to their home towns, to be taxed, Joseph and Mary, great with child, the birth, miraculous, humble. The swaddling clothes, the manger. The logic of it hasalways escaped me, but the beauty of the thing is undeniable. The shepherds, abiding in the field. The angel: Fear not: for, behold,

I bring you good tidings of great joy...Henry is jiggling his leg in a very distracting way.He has his eyes closed and he is biting his lip. Multitudes of angels. Father Compton intones, “ But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart” “Amen,” we say, and sit down for the sermon. Henry leans over and whispers, “Where is the restroom?”

“Through that door,” I tell him, pointing at the door Alicia and Frank and the others came in through. “How do I get there?”

“Walk to the back of the church and then down the side aisle.” “If I don’t come back—”

“You have to come back.” As Father Compton says, “On this most joyous of nights...” Henry stands and walks quickly away. Father’s eyes follow him as he walks back and over and up to the door. I watch as he slips out the door and it swings shut behind him.

HENRY: I’m standing in what appears to be the hallway of an elementary school. Don’t panic, I repeat to myself. No one can see you. Hide somewhere. I look around, wildly, and

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there’s a door: BOYS. I open it, and I’m in a miniature men’s room, brown tile, all the fixtures tiny and low to the ground, radiator blasting, intensifying the smell of institutional soap. I open the window a few inches and stick my face above the crack. There are evergreen trees blocking any view there might have been, and so the cold air I am sucking in tastes of pine. After a few minutes I feel less tenuous. I lie down on the tile, curled up, knees to chin. Here I am. Solid.

Now. Here on this brown tile floor. It seems like such a small thing to ask. Continuity. Surely, if there is a God, he wants us to be good, and it would be unreasonable to expect anyone to be good without incentives, and Clare is very, very good, and she even believes in God, and why would he decide to embarrass her in front of all those people—I open my eyes. All the tiny porcelain fixtures have iridescent auras, sky blue and green and purple, and I resign myself to going, there’s no stopping now, and I am shaking, “No!” but I’m gone.

CLARE: Father finishes his sermon, which is about world peace, and Daddy leans across Sharon and Mark and whispers, “Is your friend sick?”

“Yes,” I whisper back, “he has a headache, and sometimes they make him nauseous.” “Should I go see if I can help?”

“No! He’ll be okay.” Daddy doesn’t seem convinced, but he stays in his seat. Father is blessing the host. I try to suppress my urge to run out and find Henry myself. The first pews stand for communion. Alicia is playing Bach’s cello suite no. 2. It is sad and lovely. Come back, Henry. Come back.

HENRY: I’m in my apartment in Chicago. It’s dark, and I’m on my knees in the living room. I stagger up, and whack my elbow on the bookshelves. “Fuck!” I can’t believe this. I can’t even get through one day with Clare’s family and I’ve been sucked up and spit out into my own fucking apartment like a fucking pinball—

“Hey.” I turn and there I am, sleepily sitting up, on the sofa bed. “What’s the date?” I demand.

“December 28, 1991.” Four days from now. I sit down on the bed. “I can’t stand it.”

“Relax. You’ll be back in a few minutes. Nobody will notice. You’ll be perfectly okay for the rest of the visit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Stop whining,” my self says, imitating Dad perfectly. I want to deck him, but what would be the point? There’s music playing softly in the background.

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“Is that Bach?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s in your head. It’s Alicia.”

“That’s odd. Oh!” I run for the bathroom, and almost make it.

CLARE: The last few people are receiving communion when Henry walks in the door, a little pale, but walking. He walks back and up the aisle and squeezes in next to me. “The Mass is ended, go in peace,” says Father Compton. “Amen,” we respond. The altar boys assemble together like a school of fish around Father, and they proceed jauntily up the aisle and we all file out after them. I hear Sharon ask Henry if he’s okay, but I don’t catch his reply because Helen and Ruth have intercepted us and I am introducing Henry.

Helen simpers. “But we’ve met before!”

Henry looks at me, alarmed. I shake my head at Helen, who smirks. “Well, maybe not,” she says. “Nice to meet you—Henry.” Ruth shyly offers Henry her hand. To my surprise he holds it for a moment and then says, “Hello, Ruth,” before I have introduced her, but as far as I can tell she doesn’t recognize him. Laura joins us just as Alicia comes up bumping her cello case through the crowd. “Come to my house tomorrow,” Laura invites. “My parents are leaving for the Bahamas at four.” We all agree enthusiastically; every year Laura’s parents go someplace tropical the minute all the presents have been opened, and every year we flock over there as soon as their car disappears around the driveway. We part with a chorus of “Merry Christmas!” and as we emerge through the side door of the church into the parking lot Alicia says, “Ugh, I knew it!” There’s deep new snow everywhere, the world has been remade white. I stand still and look at the trees and cars and across the street toward the lake, which is crashing, invisible, on the beach far below the church on the bluff. Henry stands with me, waiting. Mark says, “Come on, Clare,” and I do.

HENRY: It’s about 1:30 in the morning when we walk in the door of Meadowlark House. All the way home Philip scolded Alicia for her ‘mistake’ at the beginning of Silent Night, and she sat quietly, looking out the window at the dark houses and trees. Now everyone goes upstairs to their rooms after saying ‘Merry Christmas’ about fifty more times except Alicia and Clare, who disappear into a room at the end of the first floor hall. I wonder what to do with myself, and on an impulse I follow them.

“—a total prick,” Alicia is saying as I stick my head in the door. The room is dominated by an enormous pool table which is bathed in the brilliant glare of the lamp suspended over it. Clare is racking up the balls as Alicia paces back and forth in the shadows at the edge of the pool of light.

“Well, if you deliberately try to piss him off and he gets pissed off, I don’t see why you’re upset,” Clare says.

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“He’s just so smug,” Alicia says, punching the air with her fists. I cough. They both jump and then Clare says, “Oh, Henry, thank God, I thought you were Daddy.”

“Wanna play?” Alicia asks me.

“No, I’ll just watch.” There is a tall stool by the table, and I sit on it.

Clare hands Alicia a cue. Alicia chalks it and then breaks, sharply. Two stripes fall into corner pockets. Alicia sinks two more before missing, just barely, a combo bank shot. “Uh-oh,” says Clare. “I’m in trouble.” Clare drops an easy solid, the 2 ball, which was poised on the edge of a corner pocket. On her next shot she sends the cue ball into the hole after the 3, and Alicia fishes out both balls and lines up her shot. She runs the stripes without further ado. “Eight ball, side pocket,” Alicia calls, and that is that. “Ouch,” sighs Clare. “Sure you don’t want to play?” She offers me her cue.

“Come on, Henry,” say Alicia. “Hey, do either of you want anything to drink?” “No,” Clare says.

“What have you got?” I ask. Alicia snaps on a light and a beautiful old bar appears at the far end of the room. Alicia and I huddle behind it and lo, there is just about everything I can imagine in the way of alcohol. Alicia mixes herself a rum and Coke. I hesitate before such riches, but finally pour myself a stiff whiskey. Clare decides to have something after all, and as she’s cracking the miniature tray of ice cubes into a glass for her Kahlua the door opens and we all freeze.

It’s Mark. “Where’s Sharon?” Clare asks him. “Lock that,” commands Alicia.

He turns the lock and walks behind the bar. “Sharon is sleeping,” he says, pulling a Heineken out of the tiny fridge. He uncaps it and saunters over to the table. “Who’s playing?”

“Alicia and Henry,” says Clare. “Hmm. Has he been warned?” “Shut up, Mark,” Alicia says.

“She’s Jackie Gleason in disguise,” Mark assures me.

I turn to Alicia. “Let the games begin.” Clare racks again. Alicia gets the break. The whiskey has coated all my synapses, and everything is sharp and clear. The balls explode like fireworks and blossom into a new pattern. The 13 teeters on the edge of a corner pocket and then falls. “Stripes again,” Alicia says. She sinks the 15, the 12, and the 9 before a bad leave forces her to try an unmakable two-rail shot.

Clare is standing just at the edge of the light, so that her face is in shadow but her body floats out of the blackness, her arms folded across her chest. I turn my attention to the table. It’s been a while. I sink the 2, 3, and 6 easily, and then look for something else to work with. The 1 is smack in front of the corner pocket at the opposite end of the table, and I send the

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cue ball into the 7 which drops the 1.1 send the 4 into a side pocket with a bank shot and get the 5 in the back corner with a lucky carom. It’s just slop, but Alicia whistles anyway. The 7 goes down without mishap. “Eight in the corner” I indicate with my cue, and in it goes. A sigh escapes around the table.

“Oh, that was beautiful,” says Alicia. “Do it again.” Clare is smiling in the dark. “Not your usual,” Mark says to Alicia.

“I’m too tired to concentrate. And too pissed off.” “Because of Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you poke him, he’s going to poke back.” Alicia pouts. “Anybody can make an honest mistake.”

“It sounded like Terry Riley for a minute there,” I tell Alicia.

She smiles. “It was Terry Riley. It was from Salome Dances for Peace!” Clare laughs. “How did Salome get into Silent Night?”

“Well, you know, John the Baptist, I figured that was enough of a connection, and if you transpose that first violin part down an octave, it sounds pretty good, you know, la la la, LA...”

“But you can’t blame him for getting mad,” says Mark. “I mean, he knows that you wouldn’t play something that sounded like that by accident.”

I pour myself a second drink. “What did Frank say?” Clare asks.

“Oh, he dug it. He was, like, trying to figure out how to make a whole new piece out of it, you know, like Silent Night meets Stravinsky. I mean, Frank is eighty-seven, he doesn’t care if I fuck around as long as he’s amused. Arabella and Ashley were pretty snitty about it, though.”

“Well, it isn’t very professional,” says Mark.

“Who cares? This is just St. Basil’s, you know?” Alicia looks at me. “What do you think?”

I hesitate. “I don’t really care,” I say finally. “But if my dad heard you do that, he’d be very angry.”

“Really? Why?”

“He has this idea that every piece of music should be treated with respect, even if it isn’t something he likes much. I mean, he doesn’t like Tchaikovsky, or Strauss, but he will play

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them very seriously. That’s why he’s great; he plays everything as though he’s in love with it.”

“Oh.” Alicia walks behind the bar, mixes herself another drink, thinks this over. “Well, you’re lucky to have a great dad who loves something besides money.”

I’m standing behind Clare, running my fingers up her spine in the dark. She puts her hand behind her back and I clasp it. “I don’t think you would say that if you knew my family at all. Besides, your dad seems to care about you very much.”

“No ” she shakes her head. “He just wants me to be perfect in front of his friends. He doesn’t care at all.” Alicia racks the balls and swivels them into position. “Who wants to play?”

“I’ll play,” Mark says. “Henry?”

“Sure.” Mark and I chalk our cues and face each other across the table.

I break. The 4 and the 15 go down. “Solids,” I call, seeing the 2 near the corner. I sink it, and then miss the 3 altogether. I’m getting tired, and my coordination is softening from the whiskies. Mark plays with determination but no flair, and sinks the 10 and the 11. We soldier on, and soon I have sunk all the solids. Mark’s 13 is parked on the lip of a corner pocket. “8 ball,” I say pointing at it. “You know, you can’t drop Mark’s ball or you’ll lose,” says Alicia. “‘S okay,” I tell her. I launch the cue ball gently across the table, and it kisses the 8 ball lovingly and sends it smooth and easy toward the 13, and it seems to almost detour around the 13 as though on rails, and plops decorously into the hole, and Clare laughs, but then the 13 teeters, and falls.

“Oh, well,” I say. “Easy come, easy go.” “Good game,” says Mark.

“God, where’d you learn to play like that?” Alicia asks.

“It was one of the things I learned in college.” Along with drinking, English and German poetry, and drugs. We put away the cues and pick up the glasses and bottles.

“What was your major?” Mark unlocks the door and we all walk together down the hall toward the kitchen.

“English lit.”

“How come not music?” Alicia balances her glass and Clare’s in one hand as she pushes open the dining room door.

I laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how unmusical I am. My parents were sure they’d brought home the wrong kid from the hospital.”

“That must have been a drag,” says Mark. “At least Dad’s not pushing you to be a lawyer” he says to Alicia. We enter the kitchen and Clare flips on the light.

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“He’s not pushing you either” she retorts. “You love it.”

“Well, that’s what I mean. He’s not making any of us do something we don’t want to do.” “Was it a drag?” Alicia asks me. “I would have been lapping it up.”

“Well, before my mom died, everything was great. After that, everything was terrible. If I had been a violin prodigy, maybe.. .I dunno.” I look at Clare, and shrug. “Anyway, Dad and I don’t get along. At all.”

“How come?”

Clare says, “Bedtime.” She means, Enough already. Alicia is waiting for an answer.

I turn my face to her. “Have you ever seen a picture of my mom?” She nods. “I look like her.”

“So?” Alicia washes the glasses under the tap. Clare dries.

“So, he can’t stand to look at me. I mean, that’s just one reason among many.” But—

“Alicia—” Clare is trying, but Alicia is unstoppable. “But he’s your dad.”

I smile. “The things you do to annoy your dad are small beer compared with the things my dad and I have done to each other.”

“Like what?”

“Like the numerous times he has locked me out of our apartment, in all kinds of weather. Like the time I threw his car keys into the river. That kind of thing.”

“Why’dja do that?”

“I didn’t want him to smash up the car, and he was drunk.”

Alicia, Mark, and Clare all look at me and nod. They understand perfectly.

“Bedtime,” says Alicia, and we all leave the kitchen and go to our rooms without another word, except, “Good night.”

CLARE: It’s 3:14 a.m. according to my alarm clock and I am just getting warm in my cold bed when the door opens and Henry comes in very quietly. I pull back the covers and he hops in. The bed squeaks as we arrange ourselves.

“Hi” I whisper.

“Hi” Henry whispers back. “This isn’t a good idea.”

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“It was very cold in my room.”

“Oh.” Henry touches my cheek, and I have to stifle a shriek. His fingers are icy. I rub them between my palms. Henry burrows deeper into the covers. I press against him, trying to get warm again. “Are you wearing socks?” he asks softly.

“Yes.” He reaches down and pulls them off my feet. After a few minutes and a lot of squeaking and Shhh! we are both naked.

“Where did you go, when you left church?”

“My apartment. For about five minutes, four days from now.” “Why?”

“Tired. Tense, I guess” “No, why there?”

“Dunno. Sort of a default mechanism. The time travel air traffic controllers thought I would look good there, maybe.” Henry buries his hand in my hair.

It’s getting lighter outside. “Merry Christmas,” I whisper. Henry doesn’t answer, and I lie awake in his arms thinking about multitudes of angels, listening to his measured breath, and pondering in my heart.

HENRY: In the early hours of the morning I get up to take a leak and as I stand in Clare’s bathroom sleepily urinating by the illumination of the Tinkerbell nightlight I hear a girl’s voice say “Clare?” and before I can figure out where this voice is coming from a door that I thought was a closet opens and I find myself standing stark naked in front of Alicia. “Oh,” she whispers as I belatedly grab a towel and cover myself. “Oh, hi, Alicia,” I whisper, and we both grin. She disappears back into her room as abruptly as she came in.

CLARE: I’m dozing, listening to the house waking up. Nell is down in the kitchen singing and rattling the pans. Someone walks down the hall, past my door. I look over and Henry is still deep in sleep, and I suddenly realize that I have got to get him out of here without anyone seeing. I extricate myself from Henry and the blankets and climb out of bed carefully. I pick my nightgown up off the floor and I’m just pulling it on over my head when Etta says, “Clare! Rise and shine, it’s Christmas!” and sticks her head in the door. I hear Alicia calling Etta and as I poke my head out of the nightgown I see Etta turn away to answer Alicia and I turn to the bed and Henry is not there. His pajama bottoms are lying on the rug and I kick them under the bed. Etta walks into my room in her yellow bathrobe with her braids trailing over her shoulders. I say “Merry Christmas!” and she is telling me something about Mama, but I’m having trouble listening because I’m imagining Henry materializing in front of Etta. “Clare?” Etta is peering at me with concern.

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“Huh? Oh, sorry. I’m still asleep, I guess.”

“There’s coffee downstairs.” Etta is making the bed. She looks puzzled.

“I’ll do that, Etta. You go on down.” Etta walks to the other side of the bed. Mama sticks her head in the door. She looks beautiful, serene after last night’s storm. “Merry Christmas, honey.”

I walk to her, kiss her cheek lightly. “Merry Christmas, Mama.” It’s so hard to stay mad at her when she is my familiar, lovely Mama.

“Etta, will you come down with me?” Mama asks. Etta thwaps the pillows with her hands and the twin impressions of our heads vanish. She glances at me, raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

“Etta?”

“Coming...” Etta bustles out after Mama. I shut the door after them and lean against it, just in time to see Henry roll out from under the bed. He gets up and starts to put his pajamas on. I lock the door.

“Where were you?” I whisper.

“Under the bed,” Henry whispers back, as though this should be obvious. “All the time?”

“Yeah.” For some reason this strikes me as hilarious, and I start to giggle. Henry puts his hand over my mouth, and soon we are both shaking with laughter, silently.

HENRY: Christmas Day is strangely calm after the high seas of yesterday. We gather around the tree, self-conscious in our bathrobes and slippers, and presents are opened, and exclaimed over. After effusive thanks on all sides, we eat breakfast. There is a lull and then we eat Christmas dinner, with great praise for Nell and the lobsters. Everyone is smiling, well-mannered, and good-looking. We are a model happy family, an advertisement for the bourgeoisie. We are everything I always longed for when I sat in the Lucky Wok restaurant with Dad and Mrs. and Mr. Kim every Christmas Day and tried to pretend I was enjoying myself while the adults all watched anxiously. But even as we lounge, well-fed, in the living room after dinner, watching football on television and reading the books we have given each other and attempting to operate the presents which require batteries and/or assembly, there is a noticeable strain. It is as though somewhere, in one of the more remote rooms of the house, a cease-fire has been signed, and now all the parties are endeavoring to honor it, at least until tomorrow, at least until a new consignment of ammunition comes in. We are all acting, pretending to be relaxed, impersonating the ideal mother, father, sisters, brother, boyfriend, fiancée. And so it is a relief when Clare looks at her watch, gets up off the couch, and says, “Come on, it’s time to go over to Laura’s.”

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CLARE: Laura’s party is in full swing by the time we arrive. Henry is tense and pale and heads for the liquor as soon as we get our coats off. I still feel sleepy from the wine we drank at dinner, so I shake my head when he asks me what I want, and he brings me a Coke. He’s holding on to his beer as though it’s ballast. “Do not, under any circumstances, leave me to fend for myself,” Henry demands, looking over my shoulder, and before I can even turn my head Helen is upon us. There is a momentary, embarrassed silence.

“So, Henry” Helen says, “we hear that you are a librarian. But you don’t look like a librarian.”

“Actually, I am a Calvin Klein underwear model. The librarian thing is just a front.”

I’ve never seen Helen nonplussed before. I wish I had a camera. She recovers quickly, though, looks Henry up and down, and smiles. “Okay, Clare, you can keep him,” she says.

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 467