The Big Shuffle (35 page)

The new playroom is an explosion of Hello Kitty, from the wall coverings, beanbag chairs, and throw pillows, right down to the toilet seat and tissue holder in the bathroom. Bernard's plan for a more Chinese feel of “pastels and peonies” was heavily vetoed, though he claims that Hello Kitty still counts as Asian culture because it's originally a Japanese design. Yeah, and Euro-Disney is French.

Once all the kids are gathered in the basement it's a madhouse

My little brothers and sisters are faced with a whole new array of toys, while Rose and little Gigi have a fresh set of rambunctious playmates.

“Don't worry, it's all childproof,” Bernard reassures me.

“Oh really.” I point to where Francie is climbing the side of the hot water tank. “Including that?”

“Whoa!” Bernard races over and gently brings her back down to the floor.

Bernard has set a nice table for the kids with ceramic turkeys as centerpieces, and we serve from warming trays plugged in underneath the stairs.

The kids dive into their turkey, as they can't wait to get back to Bernard's indoor jungle gym complete with a slide. Just as they're finishing up, Gil calls down the stairs, “Pastor Costello will be there to say grace in just a minute.”

Bernard and I look at each other as if to say, Oops!

I run up the stairs and fetch the baby walkie-talkies. Placing one on the dining room table I tell Pastor Costello that he can just say one grace and we'll listen from downstairs. That way his food won't get cold.

“Ah, like we put the speakers in the narthex on Christmas Eve.” He nods approvingly. Anything to help spread the word more efficiently is viewed as a welcome innovation.

When I arrive back downstairs, Pastor Costello launches into how thankful we should be. There are two pauses when I think he's finally finished, but it turns out he's just catching his breath. If this were an award show, the band would have started playing him off a while ago.

Finally Pastor Costello concludes by saying, “We make a living by what we earn, but we make a life by what we give. Amen.”

Through the intercom I'm pretty sure that I hear Olivia conclude with, “Ah-women.”

Bernard says, “I'm impressed—Winston Churchill.”

“What?” I say.

“We make a living by what we earn but we make a life by what we give.”

“I just assumed it was Jesus.”

Now that the kids are done, we fill our plates. Bernard's food is a real treat. He's made pumpkin dip with pita toast, mushroom bisque, arugula and goat cheese salad, sausage and sage stuffing, maple-glazed butternut squash, baked leeks in mustard cream, mashed potatoes with roasted garlic and fresh horseradish, and, there's no escaping it, Chinese eggplant purée on daikon rounds. There's also a vegetarian dressing of apple and walnut for Olivia and any other vegetarians, though I don't know what she's supposed to dress since she doesn't eat turkey. We're just lucky she hasn't started in with her description of how faster assembly lines cause more fecal material to get on the carcasses and so thirty-six percent of turkeys are infected with salmonella.

When Olivia attempted to feel out Pastor Costello for his views on the unnecessary slaughter of animals, he happily replied, “I love all of God's creatures, especially with mashed potatoes.”

I wouldn't have thought that Pastor Costello would be such a hit as a dinner guest, but when I go upstairs to the kitchen, more often than not he's telling a story and everybody around the table is laughing like crazy. At one point Bernard and I happen to be listening in on the baby walkie-talkie while Pastor Costello is speaking, obviously after enjoying more than a communion portion of wine. This story is about how he did a funeral where the deceased fancied himself quite the woodworker and made his own coffin, only to have the bottom fall out as the pallbearers carried it out of the church. Everyone upstairs
erupts into gales of laughter. Bernard is splitting his sides as well, though I think it's more from Pastor Costello's use of the word
folderol
and describing the body and casket as “the whole shebang.”

Bernard tells me about a funeral he recently attended for one of his customers, an avid collector of Art Nouveau ashtrays, who died at age ninety-nine and was a chain smoker since the age of fifteen. “Guess what music her children had played after the service?” he asks.

“‘Memories’?” I guess.

“No,” says Bernard. “ ‘When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes!’ ” He pounds the table as he laughs at the thought of it.

Finally we bundle the kids up against the cold and head for home. Thanksgiving worked out okay, and I wasn't constantly imagining Dad standing at the head of the table carving the turkey. It's Christmas that I'm really dreading.

T
O THE KIDS, THANKSGIVING BEING OVER MEANS ONE THING AND
one thing only—Santa will be here soon.

“How long until Santa comes?” Lillian asks first thing the following morning.

“A month,” I say.

“What's a month?”

I sit down with the younger kids and we write letters to Santa. Lillian draws a picture of herself surrounded by dolls. According to the rest of the letters, this past year I've had the pleasure of living with model children, i.e.,
Santa, I have been very very good!

“Since Santa knows everything, don't you think an honest appraisal would be better rewarded?” I ask them. “What if Santa calls and asks me if you've been good
all
the time? I just don't think I could lie to him.”

They all take back their letters and add a postscript in tiny letters saying that they've been bad sometimes.

“But there's a middle category,” announces Francie. “Right, Hallie? It's not
just
naughty or nice.”

“Let me say that I have known children to be very far down
on the nice list at the beginning of December and by Christmas Eve they were at the top. So yes, there's still plenty of time to be good, if that's what you're wondering.”

“What are you asking Santa for?” Francie peers over at Darlene's letter.

Darlene covers her letter with her arm. “You're not fupposed to tell, other than when you whithper it into Fanta's ear.”

“Just remember what I said about the twins,” I remind them all.

“There were lotth of twinth born thif year and tho we can only athk for one thing a piece,” recites Darlene.

“That's right. If you ask for more than one thing, Santa won't have enough gifts and somewhere a child won't get a present.”

Davy says, “I don't believe in Santa anymore.”

“Don't be stupid,” says Francie. “Uncle Lenny is Santa. That's why he left—to go back to the North Pole and make toys for Christmas.”

“Once there was a boy in my class who didn't believe in Santa,” I say. “But I'd rather not tell you about him since the story has a very sad ending.”

“What happened?” Darlene and Francie both demand to know.

“Well … he woke up in the morning and there were lots of presents for his brothers and sisters but none for him.”

“I was just kidding,” says Davy.

“You were not!” says Francie. “Santa is going to
know.”

Davy frowns and appears worried.

“No, he won't, because he'll get Davy's letter.” I scoop up the correspondence addressed to the North Pole for “mailing.”

Together we choose a tree from the lot at the edge of town and set it up in the usual place in the living room. Then on Sunday
after church the kids string colored popcorn and cranberries to decorate it and add the various handmade ornaments that have accumulated over the years. There's a tendency to eat more popcorn than we string, and most of the cranberries are used for wars. Meanwhile, the cat becomes infatuated with a snowball made out of tinfoil and knocks the entire tree over while attempting to play with it. The kids scream and I hoist the pine tree back into place.

I decide against the outdoor lights this year. They'll only make the electric bill go sky high. And the neighbors appear to have us covered. It's like the arms race out there—the Lochlans installed a sleigh with reindeer on the roof while the Kozlowskis have what must be the entire North Pole on their front lawn, complete with a sound track of toys being hammered and elves (actually the Seven Dwarfs) singing “Whistle While You Work.” A pilot would be hard pressed to tell the difference between the Kozlowskis’ yard and the municipal airport a few miles away.

G
IL WAS CERTAINLY RIGHT ABOUT EVERYBODY COMING TO SEE
Our Town.
On opening night I'm backstage adjusting the scenery as the house fills up.

While Louise worries about her makeup, I worry that since the Catholic Youth Organization has started rehearsing their Christmas pageant here, the little town of Bethlehem is going to suddenly drop down onstage, rather than Grover's Corners.

I'm straightening the map for the opening scene when I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. Bernard is in his tuxedo.

“You look like a groom!” I say.

“Bride or stable?” he asks.

I'm in my denim stagehand overalls, and Gil is wearing his director's outfit of a black turtleneck with black wool slacks. The stage manager shouts for everyone to take their places and the houselights dim.

“There isn't one empty seat,” I tell him excitedly.

That doesn't change the fact that its
Our Town
, says Bernard. “The theater is supposed to help us
escape
!”

“But practically the whole town is here,” I say.

“Of course they are,” Bernard says grimly, “it's about the horrible pointless lives of people in a small town.”

Bernard wishes us all luck and heads out to his place in the audience. He likes to sit in the last row so that he can see how the costumes work from far back.

The orchestra strikes up and the audience falls silent. The curtain rises and the Narrator begins his speech about the predictable rhythms of the town. That's when I spot Mr. Phillips fumbling around near the props. Mr. Phillips plays the drunk choir director Simon Stimson, and he's been getting more convincing with every rehearsal, to the point that tonight I could actually smell whiskey on his breath. Suddenly he trips and sends the baby Jesus, which has a skateboard as its base, flying out onto the stage.

Fortunately the Narrator is on his toes, literally, and stops the skidding baby Jesus by extending his boot and, without missing a beat, continues, “Right here's a big butternut tree, and over here is the baby Jesus from the annual Christmas pageant put on by the CYO.” Then he goes right back to the script, talking about how no one remarkable has ever come out of the town. It's such a masterful transition that at least a few audience members must think it was part of the play.

Peeking out into the audience during intermission I spy Craig along with some local guys. Great, we've both become townies. Only, damn he looks good. His wavy butterscotch hair is down past his ears, and he's laughing good-naturedly at something one of the guys must have just said. Well, at least he's not with that tart Megan.

I don't get many compliments on the scenery because it's pretty minimal, but Bernard and Gil insist that the sets work perfectly. Louise, on the other hand, receives a standing ovation, and guys in the audience release ear-piercing whistles when she walks out onstage to take a bow.

T
HE SANTA FRENZY AT MY HOUSE IS APPROACHING ITS ZENITH
, with the consumption of sugar adding to the tumult. Traditionally the Christmas Eve festivities include smearing cookies with red and green icing, most of which goes directly from the bowls to the kids’ mouths.

It takes ten stories to get them into bed, forget about falling asleep. Teddy finally comes to the rescue by announcing: “Santa cannot come if you're awake. It's the law. He'll fly right over this house.”

Pastor Costello and I clean up the baking mess and remove Santa's snack from the mantelpiece so the cat doesn't get it. After Mom double-checks to make sure the kids are finally asleep, or at least faking it really well, we sneak the presents out from the garbage cans behind the furnace and arrange them around the tree. It's not as big a pile as in previous years, but there are two things for everyone. Pastor Costello brought a few dolls and matchbox cars over yesterday, and whether they were left over from the church toy drive or he went out and bought them, I'd rather not know.

Louise goes downstairs to watch all the holiday specials we
were deprived of as children without cable TV. She gives her usual nighttime sign-off, “May the force be with you.”

“And also with you,” Pastor Costello answers reflexively, as if it's part of the Christian liturgy.

“Don't stay up too late,” Mom cautions Louise. “There's no going back to sleep once they're awake!”

It's a quarter past ten and I say good night as well. If history teaches us anything, it's that tomorrow is going to be a
very
early morning. Once in bed I can't help but replay Christmases past, and the excitement of being a little kid, having the hiccups eight times in one night. I'm half asleep when I remember the fire in the fireplace. We hardly use it since more heat is siphoned out of the house than put into it, but Mom always loves a fire on Christmas Eve. Certainly she'll make sure it's out. But what if when Pastor Costello leaves for midnight mass she walks him to the door and forgets? I imagine the entire house going up in flames, kids trapped upstairs, presents burning, cat forever lost in the woods.

I traipse back downstairs to make sure the fire is out. Mom and Pastor Costello are sitting on the couch in the soft glow of the tree and watching the dying embers.

“I was just checking to make sure—”

And that's when I see it. They're holding hands.

“Oh my God! What are you doing?” I practically shout.

Pastor Costello leaps up, and Mom also appears startled.

“You worked yourself into this family by acting all helpful just so you could hit on my mother!”

“Of course not, Hallie,” shoots back Pastor Costello. “My intentions were pure. And … and nothing has happened, I mean we—”