The popcorn recipe says you have to boil this sugar water until it's really sticky, which Dale did, and then everyone works really fast to make the balls before the syrup cools too much. Only something went wrong somewhere, good old Schwenk luck, because we all ended up covered—I mean covered —in popcorn. It was stuck to Curtis's shirt, my hair, all over Smut, which she of course loved; it was like Christmas had come early for her. Oh, we were laughing. I don't think I've ever heard Dad laugh like that. We ended up with a couple of popcorn blobs with bits of lint and dirt, and some of Smut's fur, that Dad wrapped for Mom. Only he was laughing so hard that little tears were squeezing out of his eyes all over the wax paper, and the rest of us were laughing too hard to help. Every once in a while someone would act out opening one of those hairy blobs and we'd collapse all over again.
Sunday morning Dad took off finally, and Curtis and I immediately went back to sleep. Only just as I fell into bed there was a big pounding at the door, and before I could get there to open it all these ladies wearing Santa hats piled in.
"Ho ho ho!" called Kathy Ott. "Ho ho ho!"
"Merry Christmas!" other ladies hollered, marching in with boxes and cookie tins and a real live Christmas tree. Curtis took one peek and bolted back to his room. That guy would be a lot happier in the long run if he learned to sleep in sweatpants.
"It seemed like you needed a little help," Kathy explained. "I hope you don't mind."
"Oh no, this is great—"
Another lady stopped in front of me, a box on her hip: "Hello, D.J. I'm Betsy Nelson." She put out her hand. "Brian's mother." She was really pretty, which I guess I should have expected, and not heavy in the way a lot of moms around here get, which I should have expected just as much. "I baked some decorations for the tree," she said with a smile.
"Oh. That's nice." Then my brain started working a little, finally. "For the tree?"
She laughed, a really nice laugh. "That was the idea."
I eyeballed Smut, who at the moment was pretty spooked, but still sniffing for food because that's her natural condition. Checking the air just in case. "I don't think they'll last too long there."
"Ah. Excellent point," she said. "Why don't I just leave this somewhere and you can do it later?"
And that's how the afternoon went, the ladies all so helpful and flexible, with all these spruce branches and paper snowflakes, things we wouldn't even have to pack up when Christmas was over, which was just so amazingly thoughtful of them.
At one point I ended up next to Mrs. Nelson, after I'd made coffee, which everyone said they didn't need but took a cup of anyway, and a couple ladies unpacked food just in case anyone was on the brink of starvation right at that moment, which might explain why some ladies around here end up looking the way they do. "I'm so glad to finally meet you," she said, sounding just like the Oprah-talk-therapy lady she is.
I nodded. It was pretty weird to think about this lady being Brian's mother—even weirder than Mr. Nelson as his dad. I knew a lot about her, really: How she and Mr. Nelson didn't get along. How they were even talking about splitting up once Brian was gone. My ears turned red, remembering that stuff in front of her.
She came a bit closer. "I want to thank you for everything you've done for Brian."
"Oh. Sure." I wondered what he'd told her. Especially about our last fantastic conversation, right here in this very kitchen. Did he tell her he thought he'd been a jerk? That I'd cried, or almost cried, right in front of him? That—
"He had some maturing to do, you know..." She gave my arm a squeeze. "If you need anything, just give me a shout. Anything at all."
I need your son, I wanted to say. But that was just stupid. Besides, he'd walked away from me—walked away three times, when I thought about it. Last fall, and then in the kitchen, and then again Friday night at Taco Bell. So I didn't need Brian at all, thank you. I didn't need that suffering. Instead I poured everyone more coffee and ate some walnut bars Dad was going to have to get the recipe for, and took a call from Beaner asking me out.
Which was pretty cool, actually, talking to Beaner with Mrs. Nelson in the room possibly listening. Which I should not be thinking, darn it. I tried to focus on what Beaner was saying, although it was hard because he was talking so fast, something about Christmas and singing and his sister—Abby wanted me to come over, which was sweet, that I had a date with both of them. He even offered to pick me up. And then the ladies finished up, so thrilled to help out...
I swear, every person I know gets far more satisfaction from doing good deeds than receiving them. Maybe that's the whole point in the end, all of us putting up with good deeds, tolerating them as best we can, counting the minutes until we have the opportunity to reciprocate.
Curtis wasn't around for all this excitement because he'd gone off Christmas shopping with Sarah, which all the decorating ladies had found adorable, and I'd saved some of their "Isn't he cute" lines for later. So it was just me in the barn for evening milking. It was okay, though. I still had plenty of time to get ready for Beaner. The barn was nice and toasty from all those warm cow bodies, the windows covered in frost, and I was actually singing Christmas carols. Then I heard Sarah's mother pulling in to drop off Curtis, which was nice too, because now he and I could kid around and sing carols together.
I was on "The Twelve Days of Christmas," which is my favorite, and bungling the order which I always do, although just my singing would bungle it because carrying a tune isn't what we Schwenks do best, when Curtis walked in.
Only it wasn't Curtis.
For the second time in two weeks, I'd been blindsided by Brian Nelson.
Only this was even worse than in the kitchen, because I was so surprised to see him that I fell off my milking stool. And then Bennie Cunningham flicked her tail in my face, hard, to let me know how she felt about my behavior.
Brian tried really hard, you could tell, but he couldn't help cracking up, especially because Bennie wouldn't let up and I had to grab her tail before she flicked out my eyeball.
"You're supposed to warn people before you walk up on them singing," I said, doing my best to sound both angry and laid back.
"Yeah, I can see why." He grinned at me.
I started hooking up Pat O'Dea. What the heck was Brian Nelson doing in our barn?
He nodded at Pat. "He's on a plaque at the University of Wisconsin, their Wall of Fame. You know he punted a hundred and ten yards once?"
"They said he did. But it was in a snowstorm so I'm not sure how much anyone could see."
"Yeah ... It was pretty cool, though, knowing his name. Being able to say I'd heard of him."
"Did you mention you'd learned it from a cow?" Because of course Dad names all his cows after football players—some pretty obscure ones sometimes. I mean, obscure now. I'm sure Pat O'Dea was famous back in 1899.
"Oh, yeah, absolutely. I was like, 'I milk cows all the time'...So, want me to start prepping?"
All of a sudden I remembered Mr. Nelson, his conversation with Dad about sending Brian over. "Is that why you're here? To help out?"
"Yeah. My old man really likes the idea of me going to the aid of a lady."
Which was so rich that I had to throw a rag at him.
"Thank you," he said, like I'd given him candy. "By the way, I hear you played a smoking game Friday night."
"Oh. Yeah. Hey, who's number twenty-three, anyway? Friend of yours?"
"Who? Oh, I know who you're talking about." He snorted. "She pushed me off the monkey bars once."
Which led to a discussion of that, Brian making me laugh over all the ways girls used to beat him up—because they liked him, which even I knew. That's how grade school girls show they like you, and middle school girls too sometimes, which I had to tease him about. And he filled me in on colleges, how he was seriously looking at UW–Milwaukee and how cool Milwaukee was, as cool as Madison even. I told him about my calls to coaches, Brian laughing so hard that he spooked the cows.
"Come on! It was
n't that bad!"
I shook my head. "You have no idea. I thought I was going to hyperventilate."
"You know, every school that sends you a letter should include a paper bag, like they do on planes. 'In case D.J. has to talk.'" Then he ducked to avoid any rags headed his way.
We were just finishing, shoveling out the last of the muck, when another car pulled in, finally. Typical Curtis, missing all the work. Only once the engine stopped, I could hear "Oh-ooo, darling!" and my heart stopped. Because only one person I know sings like that, and it ain't my little brother.
"Whoa," Brian said. "I never thought of Curtis as a Beatles fan."
"It's not—" I started, and then Beaner came bounding in.
"Please belieeeve—" He saw Brian.
"Hey, Beaner," I said. "This is Brian Nelson. A friend of mine—um, ours..."
"Yo." Beaner nodded with that too-cool-to-smile thing guys do when they're too cool to smile.
Brian nodded back, just as cool. "Heard you guys played a good game Friday."
"Not good enough," Beaner said coldly. Because the Red Bend boys had lost.
This could not be happening to me. This is the kind of thing that happens on TV, on bad TV where the girl's old boyfriend and her new boyfriend meet and say awkward things to each other while the girl flutters around and pretends nothing happened. Which, by the way, nothing had. Brian was here because his dad made him. It's not like we were fooling around or anything, like it's so naughty to throw rags at each other. But what was I supposed to say? I'd only make it worse, because trying to make something sound innocent always backfires—I know that just from being a kid. And—and this is totally getting to the heart of the matter—if it was so innocent, then why did I feel so darn guilty?
So the silence lasted about ten years, and then Brian asked, because he's obviously much better at this sort of thing than I am, "You need any more help?"
"I think I've got it," I said. "But, um, thanks."
"You worked here over the summer," Beaner said to Brian. Didn't ask: said.
"Feels like old times, only colder." Which should have made us laugh but didn't.
I remembered one thing at least as Brian headed for the door. "Hey, could you thank your mom for this afternoon? That was really nice of her. Of all of them."
"Sure." Brian grinned. "But I wouldn't eat those cookies if I were you." Then he nodded at Beaner and he was gone.
Another itchy silence.
"Does he help out a lot?" Beaner asked, finally.
"Nah. My dad's picking up Win, so his father sent him over. You know, to 'help a lady.'" Which we also should have laughed at. But we didn't.
It was all back to normal, though, by the time I came down after a fifteen-second shower to find Beaner shooting the breeze with Kathy Ott, who was staying with us while Dad was gone. Curtis and I had said over and over that she didn't need to, that we didn't need babysitters for crying out loud, but Mom had seen this TV program about teenagers and the house-wrecking parties they threw and she wouldn't budge. I even pointed out that we don't know enough kids to throw a party and also that our house is already wrecked, but strangely enough that didn't help.
Beaner was cracking Kathy up as he finished off the walnut bars, telling her how we had to go back to his house to test out Abby's Christmas present. Which Abby was so excited about that she'd talked her folks into letting her open it early. And Beaner was so excited—well, half excited and half joking-excited—that he'd invited me and the Jorgensen twins and their boyfriend and girlfriend over so we all could test it out together. Because what Abby had wanted more than anything in the world was a karaoke machine.
Okay. If you had to guess my twenty-five favorite things in life, you probably wouldn't include karaoke. If you had to guess the top twenty-five hundred. But it was okay, once we got to Beaner's and he and Abby started, and were acting so goofy that no one could possibly be self-conscious about their own performance. Abby's friend Gabby was there too, of course, and the two of them did this song about feeling like a natural woman, with Abby singing and Gabby doing backup. They'd been practicing for weeks apparently. Then the three of them, Abby and Gabby and Beaner, acted out a song about twisting and shouting that apparently the three of them had been working on—that's how great a brother Beaner is—and it was so funny that Kyle Jorgensen's girlfriend had to scuttle to the bathroom like a crab so she wouldn't wet her pants.
We all performed, even me, though I made them pick out a Christmas carol because those are the only songs I know, and for once in my life I sang "The Twelve Days of Christmas" the right way because I could follow along with the words. Everyone joined in on the "five golden rings" bit, really drawing it out so we had to rush through all the little birds before the verse ended. And Beaner's mom made popcorn that wasn't sticky-furry, and we drank tons of pop, and we ended up having a huge snowball fight in their yard with their dog going crazy trying to dig up every snowball, so confused about why the ball had landed but now there wasn't anything there but snow. I could have spent a couple hours tossing snowballs to that screwy dog, it was so hilarious.
Beaner drove me home, singing about how it was the end of the world but he felt fine, drumming on my leg. We kissed good night, a long kiss, and I didn't even have to slow him down or anything seeing as Kathy was right there in the kitchen.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
I tweaked his Santa hat. He looked so cute in a Santa hat. "Merry Christmas to you too."
When I got inside Kathy wanted to hear all about the karaoke machine, laughing and laughing as I described it. I even acted out some of the dance moves myself, I was so loosened up. She said it sounded like a ton of fun.
It had been a ton of fun, I decided as I lay in bed that night. But if it was so fun, why all of a sudden did I feel so sad?
Because, I realized, figuring it out at last, as great as the singing and goofing off and popcorn and snowballs had been, and the kissing, I would have traded it all, without a single speck of regret, for five more minutes of mucking out the barn with Brian.
10. Same Old New Year
BILL DIDN'T MAKE IT HOME until Monday morning. He and Aaron pulled in around eleven while Kathy and I were sitting at the kitchen table, Kathy writing Christmas cards because I guess Schwenks aren't the only ones who leave things until the last minute, and me making presents. As soon as we caught sight of them, though, I was out the door—barefoot, so you can imagine—to give Bill an enormous hug, and almost as enormous a hug to Aaron, who's so big that he really needs two hugs just to get around him all the way.
Right away they took me out Christmas shopping. Which meant I got to ride shotgun next to Aaron as the two of them busted each other and listed all the reasons I should go to the U of M.
"Plus you'd be an itty-bitty freshman when we're seniors," Aaron pointed out. Which, you know, had already occurred to me. It gave me a pang, I have to say, the thought of how great it'd be to have these big handsome guys on campus showing me the ropes. Or how great it would have been, seeing as now I wasn't going there. I didn't say anything, though, because then they would have gone off on how I actually am D-I material, and besides, what do they even know about disappointing people? They deal with pressure like that all the time. So I just kept my mouth shut and nodded, and giggled whenever they called each other Milkshake and Tink. Although I didn't have the guts to call Aaron Tink because I'm not, you know, on the University of Minnesota football team. And I didn't call Bill Milkshake because I don't want to die.
We went to the local mall—which Aaron couldn't help pointing out was teeny compared to the malls he knew—and because Bill and I have about eighteen cents between us, we bought socks and potholders and pencils, things everyone always needs (well, Dad needs potholders) that don't cost very much. Aaron kept finding stuff like cheesehead hats that I guess you only see in Wisconsin, and he was having a blast. By the time we finished it was already time for afternoon milking, which Aaron quote-unquote helped with, whi
ch meant making Bill and me laugh our guts out while we did the actual work. The cows just flicked their ears like they'd heard all his jokes before. Once I couldn't help myself and squirted Aaron with milk, and Mark Donahue kicked me to teach me a lesson about fooling around with her own personal mammary glands.
Aaron spent the night in the little office before driving home to Detroit, making me promise to wake him when I got up for morning milking, which I did even though his bellyaching makes Brian Nelson sound positively saintly. But we still got him off before dawn, with a couple huge thermoses of coffee because he had one long drive ahead of him, all the way past Chicago. Then we ran around like crazy getting ready—you always think everything's ready and it always turns out not to be so—for Win's arrival, including shoveling the parking space again and sweeping off Mr. Nelson's nice new ramp and decorating it with a couple big bows.
Win's arrival—oh, boy. He could wheel himself out of the van, and up the ramp, and get from his chair to his bed without barely any help at all, and use a fork and everything. He was a lot thinner, but that's probably better for anyone who has to lift him. He was really psyched about the ramp too, and told Dad he'd done a really fantastic job, which cracked everyone up and made Dad a bit huffy. Mom of course said that Dad could have built the ramp if he'd wanted, which is a stretch coming from her seeing as she's lived with his carpentry skills for twenty-five years. And she was thrilled to bits about the decorating.
Guess what we did Christmas Eve? Not caroling or opening gifts or giving food to folks poorer than us. We watched Mr. Jorgensen's tape of the Hawley game. Seriously. Win insisted, and he parked himself in front of our TV with the remote because he said it was therapy, when really holding the remote is just his old controlling self. Mom wanted to watch too, and Bill since they hadn't seen it, so we all ended up in the living room, me sitting in the back wincing. Win kept pausing to point stuff out, letting me know how far I was from perfect. And he hit the roof about that bad call on Kari, so it's good he hadn't been at the game or Ashley would have had two guys to baby-sit. But afterward he said that he needed a couple copies of the tape, so I guess I wasn't so far from perfect. And I made a mental note to get copies to St. Margaret's and Ibsen most of all.