I lie back on a pile of pillows. "What a day," I say.
The young man who drove Ruby home from the writing program had come to visit her. His name is Maxwell, but everyone calls him Chip, apparently because he comes from a long line of Maxwells.
"This is really great," he said over a lunch of open-faced turkey sandwiches layered with gravy and stuffing. "I think the best part of Thanksgiving dinner is leftovers. And football games. There's some great football this weekend."
"Ruby hates football," Max had said with a smirk.
"I don't hate football," Ruby replied. "I just prefer other sports."
"I'm playing club rugby," Chip said.
"Now, that's a tough sport," Glen said, getting up for cranberry sauce. "I had a friend who started a practice in orthopedics in some little college town in Ohio; he told me he spent a third of his time taking care of the rugby players. He said there was a broken nose almost every weekend."
Chip bowed his head modestly over the crusts on his plate. "I've broken my nose twice," he said.
"Dude," said Alex. "How much did it bleed?"
"A lot."
His nose did not look in the least broken. He was handsome in the fashion of Disney princes, with regular features and broad shoulders. He had lovely manners. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Latham," he said as he was leaving after lunch, Sarah and Rachel standing at the curb giddy at the thought of a newcomer in their circle. "You knew if anyone was going to do it, it would be Pearl here," Rachel had said when Ruby announced that Chip would be stopping by on his way to school from the Cape.
"That boy's hair is completely wasted on a man," Alice says now.
"Shh. We're both getting really loud." And we start to laugh, loudly.
Somewhere in the house we hear a door open, and both of us sit up, Alice smoothing out her sweater, me putting down the wineglass. Alice envisions Liam tumbling down the stairs, screaming for Mama, waking my mother and Stan. I envision my mother coming downstairs and telling us that we are keeping her and Stan awake. If Glen comes down, I will mollify him with a slice of pumpkin pie.
But it's Ruby who slips into the den and stares down at the two of us. She's wearing a tiny corduroy skirt with tights and lace-up boots, and as she eyes us she reaches up and lets her hair fall down. "Can I have some wine?" she asks, and I raise my brows as Alice says, "Come on, give the girl a glass. This time next year she'll be going to keg parties."
"Thank you so much. That's so helpful. Would you like me to tell you what Liam will be doing in fifteen years?"
"Didn't you already tell me that he would have thrown me over for some floozy?"
Ruby has returned from the kitchen with a wineglass, using the hem of her sweater to wipe it out just as her father always does. "Did you actually just use the word floozy?" she says, sitting cross-legged next to Alice.
Ruby is too critical to idolize anyone, but she is devoted to Alice. She notes it aloud whenever a book Alice has edited gets a good review or is on the bestseller list, and once a year she takes the train alone to New York City and goes with Alice to art museums, the theater, and restaurants. Judging by the companionable way in which they clink glasses, I suspect that this isn't the first time they've shared a bottle of wine. Ruby believes Alice is who I would have been had I chosen a more interesting life. A more interesting life that would not have included Ruby: There's the problem with her analysis.
"So?" Ruby asks, not even bothering to include me in her gaze.
"So how did your friends like him?" Alice replies, knowing how much that matters.
"Loved him. Loved. Him. Or the girls did. You know the boys. They were territorial. But I think after a while they thought he was okay. He and Eric seemed to get along pretty well. Sarah and Rachel thought he was gorgeous."
"And he likes you," says Alice.
"He made a point of saying that."
"Your grandmother thought he was so polite," I say. "She said she hasn't heard anyone use 'sir' and 'ma'am' for a long time."
"Oh, he brought you something, Mommy. It's on the kitchen table. It's olive oil. Some really good olive oil."
"He didn't need to do that. He didn't even stay over. Although I don't know where we would have put him if he had."
"He could sleep in Ruby's bed," Alice says.
"Stop!" Ruby cries.
"With me," Alice adds.
"Even worse!"
"It's been so long," Alice says.
"Oh please, stop right now--so much too much information," Ruby says.
"I agree," I say.
"He's exactly the kind of guy you would have liked in college," Alice says to me.
"Really?" Ruby says.
"He has great hair," says Alice.
"Doesn't he? Amazing hair." Ruby falls back on the pillows. "Why are you lying on the floor?"
We both laugh. "We always sat on the floor in college," Alice says.
"We had no chairs," I say.
"We had those desk chairs, but they were so uncomfortable."
Ruby rolls over onto her stomach and looks at Alice. A look of chagrin crosses her face, and she puts her head in her hands. Her hands are so pretty, with long fingers and buffed nails. She has stopped wearing polish and jewelry, only a friendship bracelet made of silken string. Rachel and Sarah have them, too, and they're not supposed to remove them until they fall off, although Sarah has to slide hers off during swim meets.
"He's so boring!" Ruby wails.
"Shh. You'll wake the house," I say, but Alice starts to cackle loudly.
"He is really boring," Alice says.
"He's a nice guy," I say indulgently.
"Boring," says Alice.
"Boring!" shouts Ruby.
"There are worse things than boring," I say.
"There's married," Alice says.
"That's enough, Al."
"How did I not realize how boring he was during the summer?" Ruby cries.
"Was every other girl there interested in him?" says Alice.
"Yes."
"Bingo!"
"I'm not that shallow," Ruby says. "I think it was because he was really well-read. He's read Aeschylus and Joseph Conrad and Eudora Welty. He's the one who told me to read John Ashbery."
"Okay, honey, no one understands John Ashbery," says Alice. "And smart is not always interesting. And well-read is not always smart. I can tell you this authoritatively."
We hear footfalls on the stairs. "You see," I say to Ruby. "You're too loud."
She giggles and rolls onto Alice. "It's not my fault," she says in a stage whisper. "It's her fault." The wine seems already to be making Ruby a little silly. "Did you eat tonight?" I whisper back to her.
"Leftovers at Sarah's. Ask Nancy if you don't believe me. God."
"Don't be such a bitch," Alice says, shoving her.
Max is standing in the doorway, blinking, in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt that says GENIUS on the front. "That's my T-shirt," Ruby says.
"Aunt Alice, Liam took his diaper off and peed on the futon."
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," Alice says, struggling to her feet.
"No, it's cool, it's cool. He just got a little corner of it; the rest is on the floor."
"Oh, no."
"Don't get up. I just want to know where his diapers are. I tried to put the old one on, but it won't stick anymore. Like, those tape things."
"I thought he was toilet trained," I say.
"Sometimes he has an accident at night," Alice says.
"Just tell me where the diapers are," Max says.
The two of them go upstairs. Ruby is still lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. "I'm star-crossed," she says.
"Don't be so dramatic," I say.
"Can I sleep here?"
"It's the only place you can sleep. The blankets are folded on the chest in the corner."
"I mean on the floor. I'm comfortable."
"Suit yourself."
I go into the kitchen to turn out the lights. It smells of
turkey. On the table is a large bottle of very, very good olive oil.
The lamps in the windows of the dining room and living room are on, too. There must be a moon; I can see the tree branches in bas relief against the sky, a few hardy leaves holding on as November rattles to a close. On Monday Jose will come and remove the cornstalks and the pumpkins, and next week I will begin to put up the greenery and the garlands.
Across the street I see movement, and I wonder whether a deer is crossing to our backyard, to crop the top from the faded butterfly bushes against the side of the garage. As I turn out the last lamp, I see a man rising from a seated position on the steps to the Jacksons' front door. I step back unconsciously. "Your call," Rickie had said the last time he brought me home, bringing up the idea of outdoor lighting again. There have been two robberies in town in the past few months, although nothing much was taken--some spare cash, a little jewelry. But by the time I go to the window again no one is there. I can tell by a change in the darkness and the shadows that Alice has put out the reading lamp in Ruby's room. The street outside is empty, a long tunnel of trees embracing across the dark strip of the asphalt. The house is quiet, and very full, and Ruby is asleep on the den floor, and I go upstairs to bed.
The four panes of light on the bedroom ceiling have shifted over the course of the fall, moved closer to the edge of the room. Today their color has changed as well, materialized as a faint silver-blue. For a moment, I look through half-open eyes. No alarm, no announcer telling me that the president is at Camp David, the budget still under discussion, a Nobel laureate dead. I have read the eerie light correctly, and the lawn outside the kitchen window is deep in snow. I start the coffee earlier than usual.
It's Christmas morning, and we are becalmed. What could be nicer? Snowfall is one of the best things that can happen to a family. The centrifugal force of daily life that flings us in different directions will be stilled. Glen says Ruby's car is not stable in really bad weather. But in really bad weather the phone always rings just after dawn, the telephone tree sending its tendrils through town to say there will be no school. Then there is no need for Ruby to drive at all.
There have already been two snow days this December, winter hard upon Thanksgiving. Last week I canceled the appointment with the woman who was expecting me to drape her banisters in blue spruce and holly and turn her mantelpieces into the sort of celebration of the holidays that, in years past, were done by families instead of landscapers. "Don't you have four-wheel drive?" she asked peevishly when I called. Most of Glen's patients canceled. Alex did not have basketball practice. The literary magazine sat fallow for a day as the school building, empty and echoing, lay beneath the drifts in a whistling wind. The girls came over to bake Christmas cookies. The boys hovered, picking at dough as Sarah slapped their grubby hands. Even Max joined in that day, putting the eyes and smiles on gingerbread men, relieved not to go to school. His spirits have lifted as the winter break approaches: two whole weeks at home. Or perhaps it is that his sessions with Dr. Vagelos are having an effect.
He and Alex and Ruby are still asleep. Once they would tumble downstairs on Christmas morning even before dawn broke; now they are content to amble into the living room for presents after nine. I let Ginger out of her kennel and she stands at the back door, calculating: How short a distance can she go in order to keep her paws warm and dry? She whines slightly and then goes to a wet space on the driveway asphalt where the snow never sticks. She sniffs at the garage door and whines, then scratches at it.
"Come on, Ging," I call quietly, the sound lost in the soft hillocks of snow.
Max had an appointment with Dr. Vagelos on the snowy day last week, and he insisted on trudging through the streets to get there. "He's a good guy," Max said when he got home, and, more important, he sat at the kitchen table with me for twenty minutes, sipping at hot chocolate, listening to me fill the silence with chatter, occasionally smiling. But I've noticed that he runs down after a therapy session, is good for a day or two, and then slowly sinks beneath the weight of his torpor and sadness. A half-dozen times this term he has missed school, claiming a sore throat or an upset stomach and sleeping the day away. Thanksgiving cheered him, because he never needed to leave the house. In years past, I would have been delighted to see any of the children devote themselves to their grandparents, to hear Max's laugh as he wrestled with Liam on the floor. "Feel free to invite any of your friends over," I had said brightly to all three, but Ruby knew what I meant. "Mom, he doesn't have any friends right now," she said, and I held up my hand to ward off the blow. "It'll get better," she said, and she put her arms around me.
Just before the Christmas break, we had teacher conferences. Because Max had forgotten to sign us up, and Alex had signed us up late, we started with Ruby. Her homeroom teacher had a sheaf of notes from her colleagues, but they all amounted to the same thing: exemplary student, participates in class, has her work done.
"I do find her a little abstracted these days," she said, "but I find most of the seniors abstracted. I've learned to make allowances."
"So nothing we should worry about?" Glen had said.
"Ruby is the least of my worries," the teacher said with a smile.
And the least of ours. Alex, too, is abstracted. "If it doesn't include a ball, he's not interested," said the homeroom teacher, who also teaches both boys math. "I'm trying to create word problems for Alex and Ben that incorporate sports."
"Batting averages?" asks Glen.
"That's a little elementary for what we're working on."
For Max, we met with the school counselor. His teachers, she said, were still worried, although they appreciated that he was seeing a psychologist. "He just doesn't seem engaged," she added kindly. Max the Mute has become Nowhere Man. Once he came close to a fistfight with one of Alex's soccer teammates who called him that.
"You guys need to just tell him to get right," Alex said one night at dinner when he thought his brother was out of earshot, and Max came barreling back down the stairs, his face fierce, and shouted, "How do you know what right is, you jerk-off?" and then barreled back up before we could even spit out our objections.
I plug in the Christmas tree and watch the white lights send sparks across the surface of the silver balls. I have a half-dozen clients now who hire me to decorate their trees; I have one who has three trees, one in the two-story living room, one in the wood-paneled den, one in the cavernous kitchen. I went into this business because I loved the slow and gradual nature of it, the undeniable logic of the natural world. Now much of what I do is simply show, an attempt to present a gaudy mask to others. There is nothing more joyless than decorating the Christmas tree of someone you barely know.
Two Swedish coffee cakes have risen overnight atop the refrigerator. Along with meat loaf, this is the only recipe my mother has bequeathed to me. Her people were Scandinavian, although she is vague about exactly where they came from. "Ancestor worship," she called it when Ruby did a genealogy project.
We use the living room for Christmas morning. Once it was littered with boxes--dolls, games, bicycles. There was a feeding frenzy at sunup. Now I sit at the kitchen table, the dog at my feet, trying to figure out when to put the coffee cakes into the oven so they will be warm when the kids finally rise. I hear a noise from outside, a bump, a thump, and Ginger raises her head, sniffs the air, growls unconvincingly, and lies flat again. In the living room there is a very expensive drum set for Max, with a card saying it will be accompanied by the renovation of the room above the garage. Ruby has two round-trip tickets to London in her stocking. Alex has a soccer ball in a Lucite case signed by the Olympic team, and the best lacrosse stick available. I miss the toys.
"You could have slept in," says Glen when he comes down at seven-thirty in old khakis, a sweatshirt, and bare feet.
"I got up as soon as it was light for old times' sake."
He gets himself a cup of coffee and puts his cold feet on my insteps. "That's mean," I say drowsily, but I don't pu
ll away. He kisses me. Because of the weather his father has decided not to come for Christmas dinner. I think we're both relieved. Glen's father makes Ruby and Max uneasy. "Nobody ever got rich from writing," he will say to her, and "You playing any sports?" he will ask Max. Only Alex suits. "Sit down and tell the old man your stats," he will say, and Alex will obediently recite goals, assists, free throws. Glen played high school sports, but I've gotten the impression that he was somehow never good enough. His brother Doug was quarterback but broke his arm halfway through his senior season. "That's when he put on the pounds," his father likes to say, although Doug has always looked fine to me.
The baking smell fills the house, and the blue light from outside, the silence of streets becalmed by both the holiday and the weather, makes it feel like a warm, safe cave. Sometimes I feel as Max does: Why would I ever want to leave? As I'm glazing the coffee cakes the children drift down together, Ruby dwarfed by an enormous flannel nightgown, the boys in sweatpants and T-shirts. Ruby screams, then cries at her European trip and says I must join her, which is exactly what I had hoped, although I ask if she doesn't want Sarah instead. Alex turns the soccer ball around and around and reads off the names and repeats, "Where did you guys get this?"
"Santa Claus found it," Glen says.
Only Max is silent as he circles the drum set. But as I put breakfast on the kitchen table I suddenly hear a long roll, a clash of cymbals, and then a riff that seems to go on for several minutes. I'm afraid to look, afraid to hope, afraid to see that his hands are going but his face remains lifeless.
"He's going to wake the whole block," Glen says.
"I don't give a damn," I say. I peek around the corner and he is not smiling, exactly, but his body is alive. The drums were expensive, and I would have paid double just for that.
"Snow!" Alex says when they all sit down, in that delayed reaction that seems to reflect the ability of the young to concentrate on only one thing at a time.
Ruby goes to the door and bends forward to peer out of its panes. She meshes her fingers together behind her back and rocks back and forth. I can tell she wants to put everything right before she flies away, Ruby does. She wants to feel at peace with Kiernan again, to make certain Rachel will not follow her worst impulses, to heal the rift between her brothers. She has given each of the boys a poem for Christmas, and the one for Max begins, "I miss you, mousie. Come back home." Mousie and Bear--that's what she called her brothers when she was very young. When I'd asked why, years ago, she made that exasperated click of the tongue, the one most girls don't learn until adolescence, and said, "Mommy you know."