here and she nods. Just as I'm about to ask her another question Philip asks
me what my mother does and I blink; I give Clare a look that says Didn't you tell
them anything?
"My mother was a singer. She's dead."
Clare says, quietly, "Henry's mother was Annette Lyn Robinson." She might
as well have told them my mom was the Virgin Mary; Philip's face lights up.
Lucille makes a little fluttering motion with her hands.
"Unbelievable-fantastic! We have all her recordings-" und so wiete. But then
Lucille says, "I met her when I was young. My father took me to hear Madama
Butterfly, and he knew someone who took us backstage afterward, and we went to
her dressing room, and she was there, and all these flowers! and she had her little
boy-why, that was you!"
I nod, trying to find my voice. Clare says, "What did she look like?"
Mark says, "Are we going skiing this afternoon?" Philip nods. Lucille smiles,
lost in memory. "She was so beautiful-she still had the wig on, that long black
hair, and she was teasing the little boy with it, tickling him, and he was dancing
around. She had such lovely hands, and she was just my height, so slender, and
she was Jewish, you know, but I thought she looked more Italian-" Lucille
breaks off and her hand flies to her mouth, and her eyes dart to my plate, which
is clean except for a few peas.
"Are you Jewish?" Mark asks, pleasantly.
"I suppose I could be, if I wanted, but nobody ever made a point of it. She
died when I was six, and my dad's a lapsed Episcopalian."
"You look just like her" Lucille volunteers, and I thank her. Our plates are
removed by Etta, who asks Sharon and me if we drink coffee. We both say Yes at
the same time, so emphatically that Clare's whole family laughs. Etta gives us a
motherly smile and minutes later she sets steaming cups of coffee in front of us
and I think That wasn't so bad after all. Everyone talks about skiing, and the
weather, and we all stand up and Philip and Mark walk into the hall together; I
ask Clare if she's going skiing and she shrugs and asks me if I want to and I
explain that I don't ski and have no interest in learning. She decides to go anyway
after Lucille says that she needs someone to help with her bindings. As we walk
up the stairs I hear Mark say,"- incredible resemblance-" and I smile to myself.
Later, after everyone has left and the house is quiet, I venture down from my
chilly room in search of warmth and more coffee. I walk through the dining room
and into the kitchen and am confronted by an amazing array of glassware, silver,
cakes, peeled vegetables, and roasting pans in a kitchen that looks like
something you'd see in a four-star restaurant. In the midst of it all stands Nell
with her back to me, singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and waggling her
large hips, waving a baster at a young black girl who points at me mutely. Nell
turns around and smiles a huge gap-toothed smile and then says, "What are you
doin' in my kitchen, Mister Boyfriend?"
"I was wondering if you have any coffee left?"
"Left? What do you think, I let coffee sit around all day gettin' vile? Shoo, son,
get out of here and go sit in the living room and pull on the bell and I will make
you some fresh coffee. Didn't your mama teach you about coffee?"
"Actually, my mother wasn't much of a cook" I tell her, venturing closer to the
center of the vortex. Something smells wonderful. "What are you making?"
"What you're smellin' is a Thompson's Turkey," Nell says. She opens the oven
to show me a monstrous turkey that looks like something that's been in the Great
Chicago Fire. It's completely black. "Don't look so dubious, boy. Underneath that
crust is the best eatin' turkey on Planet Earth."
I am willing to believe her; the smell is perfect. "What is a Thompson's
Turkey?" I ask, and Nell discourses on the miraculous properties of the
Thompson's Turkey, invented by Morton Thompson, a newspaperman, in the
1930s. Apparently the production of this marvelous beast involves a great deal of
stuffing, basting, and turning. Nell allows me to stay in her kitchen while she
makes me coffee and wrangles the turkey out of the oven and wrestles it onto its
back and then artfully drools cider gravy all over it before shoving it back into
the chamber. There are twelve lobsters crawling around in a large plastic tub of
water by the sink. "Pets?" I tease her, and she replies, "That's your Christmas
dinner, son; you want to pick one out? You're not a vegetarian, are you?" I assure
her that I am not, that I am a good boy who eats whatever is put in front of him.
"You'd never know it, you so thin," Nell says. "I'm gonna feed you up."
"That's why Clare brought me."
"Hmm," Nell says, pleased. "Awright, then. Now scat so I can get on, here." I
take my large mug of fragrant coffee and wend my way to the living room, where
there is a huge Christmas tree and a fire. It looks like an ad for Pottery Barn. I
settle myself in an orange wing chair by the fire and am riffing through the pile of
newspapers when someone says, "Where'd you get the coffee?" and I look up
and see Sharon sitting across from me in a blue armchair that exactly matches her
sweater.
"Hi" I say. "I'm sorry-"
"That's okay," Sharon says.
"I went to the kitchen, but I guess we're supposed to use the bell, wherever
that is." We scan the room and sure enough, there's a bell pull in the corner.
"This is so weird," Sharon says. "We've been here since yesterday and I've
been just kind of creeping around, you know, afraid to use the wrong fork or
something..."
"Where are you from?"
"Florida." She laughs. "I never had a white Christmas 'til I got to Harvard. My
dad owns a gas station in Jacksonville. I figured after school I'd go back there,
you know, 'cause I don't like the cold, but now I guess I'm stuck."
"How come?"
Sharon looks surprised. "Didn't they tell you? Mark and I are getting
married."
I wonder if Clare knows this; it seems like something she would have
mentioned. Then I notice the diamond on Sharon's finger. "Congratulations."
"I guess. I mean, thank you."
"Um, aren't you sure? About getting married?" Sharon actually looks like
she's been crying; she's all puffy around the eyes.
"Well, I'm pregnant. So..."
"Well, it doesn't necessarily follow-"
"Yeah it does. If you're Catholic." Sharon sighs, and slouches into the chair. I
actually know several Catholic girls who have had abortions and weren't struck
down by lightning, but apparently Sharon's is a less accommodating faith.
"Well, congratulations. Uh, when...?"
"January eleventh." She sees my surprise and says, "Oh, the baby? April." She
makes a face. "I hope it's over spring break, because otherwise I don't see how I'll
manage-not that it matters so much now...."
"What's your major?"
"Premed. My parents are furious. They're leaning on me to give it up for
adoption."
"Don't they like Mark?"
"They've never even met Mark, it's not that, they're just afraid I won't go to
medical school and it will all be a big waste." The front door opens and the skiers
have returned. A gust of cold air makes it all the way across the living room and
blows over us. It feels good, and I realize that I am being roasted like Nell's
turkey by the fire here. "What time is dinner?" I ask Sharon.
"Seven, but last night we had drinks in here first. Mark had just told his mom
and dad, and they weren't exactly throwing their arms around me. I mean, they
were nice, you know, how people can be nice but be mean at the same time? I
mean, you'd think I got pregnant all by myself and Mark had nothing to do with
it-"
I'm glad when Clare comes in. She's wearing a funny peaked green cap with a
big tassel hanging off it and an ugly yellow skiing sweater over blue jeans. She's
flushed from the cold and smiling. Her hair is wet and I see as she walks
ebulliently across the enormous Persian carpet in her stocking feet toward me
that she does belong here, she's not an aberration, she has simply chosen another
kind of life, and I'm glad. I stand up and she throws her arms around me and
then just as quickly she turns to Sharon and says, "I just heard! Congratulations!"
and Clare embraces Sharon, who looks at me over Clare's shoulder, startled but
smiling. Later Sharon tells me, "I think you've got the only nice one." I shake my
head but I know what she means.
Clare: There's an hour before dinner and no one will notice if we're gone. "Come
on," I tell Henry. "Let's go outside." He groans.
"Must we?"
"I want to show you something."
We put on our coats and boots and hats and gloves and tromp through the
house and out the back door. The sky is clear ultramarine blue and the snow over
the meadow reflects it back lighter and the two blues meet in the dark line of
trees that is the beginning of the woods. It's too early for stars but there's an
airplane blinking its way across space. I imagine our house as a tiny dot of light
seen from the plane, like a star.
"This way." The path to the clearing is under six inches of snow. I think of all
the times I have stomped over bare footprints so no one would see them running
down the path toward the house. Now there are deer tracks, and the prints of a
large dog.
The stubble of dead plants under snow, wind, the sound of our boots. The
clearing is a smooth bowl of blue snow; the rock is an island with a mushroom
top. "This is it."
Henry stands with his hands in his coat pockets. He swivels around, looking.
"So this is it," he says. I search his face for a trace of recognition. Nothing. "Do
you ever have deja vu?" I ask him.
Henry sighs. "My whole life is one long deja vu."
We turn and walk over our own tracks, back to the house.
Later:
I have warned Henry that we dress for dinner on Christmas Eve and so when I
meet him in the hall he is resplendent in a black suit, white shirt, maroon tie with
a mother-of-pearl tie clasp. "Goodness," I say.