Family - The Ties That Bind...And Gag! (12 page)

The boys returned in no time at all in a sheriffs cruiser. They did not have a permit to cut down a tree. The good news was that they were armed with a serrated bread knife so the ranger had not taken them seriously.

The smells were beginning to permeate the kitchen. Smells of wet paint and paste from unfinished gifts.

I sent the boys into town to buy a tree and set about decorating the cabin the old-fashioned way ... the mantle with pinecones, and, on the tree outside the window, I hung some little birds I had bought in the dime store. I poured wax into milk cartons and popped corn to string for the tree.

The boys returned with a tree that looked quite ill. There was no “good side.” We tried to simulate snow with paste and water and ended up throwing globs of it on the branches. It looked like a relief station for gulls. They ate the popcorn before it got to the thread.

I lit the homemade candles, which melted before I got the casserole to the table. My husband couldn't get the fire started. He was passing the hat begging for drivers' licenses and blank checks.

The dog ate a pinecone and was throwing up.

It started to rain, and the little birds I had put on the tree outside started to unravel. It looked like their intestines spilling out, and was not a festive sight.

Somehow I didn't remember the Walton kids sitting out in the car with the motor running with rock music on until midnight running down the battery.

This had to be the worst Christmas Eve of our lives.

And all I had wanted was to hear the chimes ... like the little boy in the classic story who followed in the footsteps of kings and rich men who put gifts on the altar to hear the chimes ring out. The chimes were silent until he took off his coat and put it on the altar because it was all he had to give. It had been so long since I had heard them.

Early Christmas morning, I tiptoed out into the living room. The fireplace was dark and cold. The tree was slipping away from us fast. The gifts were a ragtag collection of clumsily wrapped packages ... some in newspapers, some in plastic bags.

The family drifted out and took their places on the sofa and the floor.

The first gift to be opened was from my husband to one of his sons, who was thinking of becoming a teacher. It was the only copy of his doctoral dissertation. It had taken him a year to write it.

My mother had painted a picture of the cabin on a piece of wood. She had just begun to paint during the past year.

There was a home-crafted bird feeder, wall plaques decorated with macaroni, crocheted bedroom slippers, and recording of our family around the table at Thanksgiving that someone had made. There were shelled nuts, pillows, and dolls with yarn hair. And who will ever forget that dramatic moment when my son emerged from the bathroom with a macrame planter holder and hands that went with it because he didn't know how to end it?

Then, each of the kids produced an ornament they had made for the tree. A Christmas bulb out of cookie dough ... a Styrofoam apple with a rubber worm coming out of it ... and a small pie pan decorated with ribbon and a picture of the Blessed Mother and the Christ Child pasted on it.

As they hung them on the tree, the branches somehow became fuller and, from nowhere, a hundred lights seemed to sparkle. The fire in the fireplace took hold and suddenly burnt brighter, and the candles got a second life and glowed. For a second ... and only a second ... we not only found something we thought we had lost... but I heard chimes.

The clock in the living room brought me back to reality. It was noon.

“Can you believe Mom still has those crummy little ornaments we made?” said my daughter.

“And guess who gets their ornament on first?” said my son. “The one who created the pie tin with a picture of the Blessed Virgin pasted inside, that's who. Every year, the best is first.”

“Listen to him,” said his brother. “You weren't first a couple of years ago. Those who don't come home for Christmas don't get a place on the tree.”

“That's right,” said his brother, “I was in the Peace Corps that year. How long ago was it?”

It was two years ago ... and that was the worst Christmas we ever had. We were all together and yet we weren't all together.

My feelings were ambivalent and they confused me. Didn't we do everything right? Got his teeth straightened, his hernia repaired, his body packed with vitamins. Didn't we teach him how to parallel park, wipe his feet, put down lids, flush, feed himself, and make his own bed?

We gave him room to breathe, smiled in all the right places, swallowed advice that lodged in our throats like a lump, and resisted spreading guilt.

When he left us at the airport, he could have been saying good-bye to a wrong number. “Don't worry, Mom. Worry makes you retain water.”

We did all the right things. We encouraged them to take responsibility for their own successes and their own failures, develop their independence, and live their own lives. So, why at Christmas when they were gone did we feel so rotten?

And why did I fall apart when I hung on the Christmas tree that crummy little pie tin with a picture of the Blessed Virgin pasted inside dangling from a soiled ribbon?

"DON'T WORRY ... I'LL MANAGE”

“So, how's your life?” I asked my daughter as I started to make lunch.

She grabbed the phone. “We've lost a roommate and if we don't get one to share the rent, we may have to sell our bodies, but don't worry, I'll manage.”

As she dialed, I sat there stunned.

She listened more than she spoke. Finally, just before she hung up, she said, “I'm sorry, but it wouldn't work out. Good luck to you too.”

“What's the problem? Was the rent too much?” I asked.

“No. On the surface she seemed perfect. A good job, loved to cook, considerate of people, no bad habits, her own car, and she can pierce ears.”

“So, why didn't you ask her to move in?”

“We're looking for a size 10 with a steam iron.”

“You're kidding,” I laughed.

“Mom, getting roommates who are nice people just isn't enough. Last week I turned down a girl with her own VCR and downhill skis.”

“Because...?”

“She didn't own a steam iron. We thought we were onto one yesterday, but we were too late. They're picked off right away. Stereos are a dime a dozen. Everyone has her own system. But a steam iron. I cannot believe the bad luck we've had. First, our 'Mr. Coffee' lost her job and went back home. When we replaced her, our electric typewriter got married and split and we got stuck with a girl who said she was getting a suede jacket, but she just said that to get the room. Excuse me, just let me try to phone this one.” I poured us both a cup of coffee as she talked.

“We'll get back to you,” she said into the phone. “I'm not saying no. I just have to check it out with the others.”

“A live one?”

“She's tempting. She doesn't have a steam iron, but she does have a cappuccino maker. Do you know how rare they are?”

“Aren't you being picky?”

"Look, we have our rules about the last roommate to join the group. She has to cook. Not just your ordinary cook, but a cook who can make a feast out of popcorn, two eggs, and three-day-old spareribs in a doggy bag.

"She must be rich, yet eccentric enough to love to do laundry.

"She must use the bathroom only in emergencies.

"She must be able to read lips over the din of a thousand decibels (equal to the noise of a jet hovering above the breakfast table).

"She must never sweat in borrowed clothes. That rule is not negotiable.

"She must never tie up the phone with trivia: making doctors' appointments, talking to Mother, etc.

“Any mature visitors to the apartment must give three weeks' notice.”

“I'm curious,” I said. “What did you bring to this better living through materialism arrangement?”

“Are you serious?” she laughed. “Two unmarried brothers. I could write my own ticket. No one has to know they're Neanderthals.”

“So, how's your car? You mentioned something about the transmission.”

“The car is dying. It gets two blocks to the gallon and I think the tailpipe is backing up noxious fumes into the car because I find I get very sleepy when I drive, but don't worry, I'll manage.”

The cup shook in my hand. “That's terrible. Why don't you trade it in?”

“It's not that easy,” she said. “Cars know when you're ready to trade them in and they fall apart on you for revenge.”

“C'mon,” I said, “you're not serious.”

“Remember a couple of years ago, I drove into a used car lot just to look ... and the battery went dead? I bought a new one and wanted to get my money out of it, so I hung on. Then last year I put an ad in the paper and when this couple came over to look at the car, the tires turned bald in front of our eyes. I bought new tires and the car bought another year. Every time I even talk about new models, a knob falls off in my hand or the radiator boils over. I tell you it's weird. It knows.”

“What are you going to do?”

“There's a car dealer on the east side where they Se Habia Espanol. Pray the car isn't bilingual.”

“So, how much have you saved for a new car?”

“Who knows? My checkbook's screwed up. I wrote the bank a check to cover an overdraft and one of the managers wants me to come in. I think I'm going to prison, but don't worry, I'll manage. I think I'll approach it from the angle that bankers are people just like us who were young themselves once and can laugh at screw-ups.”

“You want an aspirin?” I said as I opened the bottle.

“No. I hope I don't get the one who called me in before. He was terrible. He said he was entering me in the Guinness Book of World Records for writing 208 checks.”

“That is a lot.”

“In one week.”

“My God.”

“Under $2.”

“Do I have to hear this?” I said.

“Without recording one of them.”

“Well, at least you have a job,” I said smiling thinly.

“I don't know how long. They said if I was late one more time, they'd terminate me and they wouldn't recommend I be hired again and I'd be doomed to the life of a recluse sitting around watching soaps and developing thunder-thighs, and I was late again yesterday, but don't worry, I'll manage.”

“Why .. .why were you late?” I asked hesitantly.

“The doctor says I'm basically unhappy and I don't sleep. Once I get up late, my whole day falls apart. The buttons fall off my blouse, the hem on my skirt unravels, the soap falls in the drain and disappears, and the aerosol cans have a field day with me. Yesterday I shaved my legs with tub and shower cleaner, sprayed my hair with a deodorant that protected it for eighteen hours, and spritzed my pits with breath-freshener. I put my panty hose on backward, the elevator stopped on every floor, I forgot my billfold, and when I drove to the drive-in window, I got a flat tire.”

“I'm sure everything will turn out ...”

“You're not going to give me your struggle-builds-character speech, are you?”

“No, I was just trying to think of ... ”

“I've always known what the problem is. Genetics and placement in the family.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

"From Dad's side of the family I got hair that wouldn't curl, frequent cold sores, and shoes that wear out on one side. You passed on to me limited motor skills and hopeless dependency. I didn't have a chance.

“I'm not blaming you, Mom, but I wish you wouldn't have led off with me in the family. Being the firstborn is a curse. You have no idea the pressure I have for setting standards, being disciplined beyond belief, and eventually having the responsibility for those who came after. Being perfect is awesome!”

“How soon you forget how we stood around applauding your b.m.s,” I said. “We didn't do that for your brothers.”

“That's the kind of pressure I'm talking about. Hey, what's done is done. Don't worry. I'll manage.”

I sat there after she left wondering how I gave birth to a soap opera. If I had known thirty years ago what I knew now, maybe we'd have raised tomatoes. At least you could eat them.

You'd have thought someone would have told us that putting together a family is not for sissies. If it was adventure we were looking for, we could have flown a lawn chair over the Pacific propelled by balloons. If it was a desire to dedicate ourselves to service, we could have planted rice for the Peace Corps. If it was a “learning experience,” we could have dropped in on a bunch of orangutans with a tape recorder.

Don't worry! I had done nothing else since we signed on for their education, health, entertainment, and moral and spiritual upbringing. Not a day went by that we weren't involved in some traumatic moment of their lives. At one time I even thought when they left home, I'd no longer have to worry about their problems. Hah!

I remember a couple of weeks ago. It was a Saturday and I could sleep until I got a headache. Nothing in the house leaked oil, dropped water, smoked when you plugged it in, made a funny sound, or had a light burnt out. The dog didn't look fat, and the big insurance premium was paid. The odds of all these things happening on the same day were the same as those of a middle-aged man admitting to hot flashes.

Then the phone rang.

One of my kids told me she was driving to Las Vegas and not to worry. Not to worry! Now I had to devote at least five hours to wondering if the car would break down and someone would rip off her money and a police officer would call and say, “I have someone here who wants to talk to you. Speak up. She's in traction.”

Five hours of unrelenting fear that she would drop into a remote roadside tavern for a hamburger and be dragged out on the road by a motorcycle gang who did wheelies around her.

When the phone rang again, it was another child, who informed me he was going fishing in a rubber raft in the ocean. Why did they enjoy torturing their mother? I was going to wash my hair, but I canceled that in case a Soviet submarine surfaced just under their boat and dumped them into the Pacific. Or what if they caught a fish so gigantic it pulled their boat out into the open sea? Or what if Jaws III came to the beach or a tidal wave was on its way?