Moving Day

Jim stepped a boot-clad foot up into the cab of his yellow Peterbuilt, grabbed the wheel and swung into the seat. He banged the door closed. Through the open doorway of my house I could see him in the rattling cab, fiddling with his tunes before he took off down the 10 to LA. His moving crew, some local guys from the street corner in downtown Las Cruces, had already headed to the bar for a beer and a burrito. As I turned to go back into the house, he blasted his horn, and caught me with a wink and a smile. I waved one arm, and with the other, I pulled the collar of my blouse close around my neck.

The house inside was dark and considerably cooler than the desert heat in the front yard. I liked it that way. The sun had always seemed too bright, the sky too blue, the landscape too bare and brown. A puff of air stirred the dust on the tile floor as I closed the door. I walked over to the patio doors, my flip-flops snapping and echoing in the empty room. A band of smudges at dog nose height and a handprint on the glass door were all that was left to remind me of what I was leaving behind. I glanced out and saw that I’d forgotten to pack the pottery planter I’d bought on some day trip to Juarez. Damn. To beat the deadly boredom of my life here, I’d taken to driving my little station wagon across the border illegally without insurance. It seemed a real adventure, with the thrilling possibility of getting kidnapped or robbed and stabbed.

I walked into the kitchen to check the cupboards one last time. Black marks against the wall marked the positions of our chair backs, and the scratch on the counter brought back with startling clarity images of the broken glass and spilled tequila. The space the refrigerator occupied was empty, its snake of a icemaker hose dangling from the wall, a water drop waiting to fall from its mouth the minute I turned away. One by one I pulled open the drawers and doors. The only thing I found, aside from the usual crumbs in the corners, was a stray Corona bottle cap that I stuck in my pocket.

I put the house keys and garage door opener on the counter, locked the door from the inside and slid out into the heat. My car had been sitting on the street for hours, boxes stacked and crammed so high I’d probably get a ticket. Heat waves radiated upward from the metal: I was always shocked that the tires didn’t just melt into the asphalt. It was too hot to touch the door handle so I wrapped a towel around my hand, opened both doors and gingerly sat on the front seat. A chug and a shudder and the old station wagon started up. The air conditioning was shot, but the fan worked. I rolled the windows down and drove away. I didn’t look back.

Holiday Decorations

This year I hoped we would have a tall Christmas tree, one that when we put the star and angel on the top, we’d need to climb a ladder. Long branches drooping under the weight of ornaments, skimming the piles of wrapped gifts. A tree that I could sit under and hide from Santa – next Christmas I’d probably be too big. Instead my father went to his Greek friend at the vegetable stand on the highway crossroads and got the smallest tree they had. My little sister and I didn’t get to go with him to get the tree. He just showed up with the little thing.

I had never thought of our family as too poor to have a proper-sized tree. We seemed to have everything we needed: two kids, a mom and dad, a car, a house that was the same as the others on the block. The same, except for this year. This year our rooftop wasn’t outlined with colorful lights. Plywood Santa and his reindeer staked out their territory on the lawn next door.

With resourcefulness and resignation, Mother draped the coffee table with a cloth so the tree was at least as tall as we were. She hauled out the old cardboard boxes, dusty and dented and taped together at the corners. Inside, each ornament was wrapped carefully in worn tissue that we saved to rewrap them after the holiday. I worried about the tree lights. They were old, with cloth instead of plastic sheathing the wires and an old fashioned plug. Paint had cracked off the lights in some places. It was my dad’s job to put up the lights. Then he disappeared into his study while we draped the tree with tinsel and colored balls. Even though it was small, our tree sparkled while we admired it and listened to carols that evening. I wanted my father to share our excitement, but he said he was busy through the tightly shut door.

On Christmas morning we drove the two hours to my grandmother’s house so we could finally, finally open the presents. Santa had left our stockings to stave off our begging to ”just open one present.” This was the only day of the year that my sister and I could eat candy before breakfast. My mother’s sisters and their families filled our grandparents’ tiny house, but Mimi, my father’s mother was not there. “Where was she?” I wondered. I missed having her lap to sit on and her pillowy chest to lean against. Daddy told us that we’d visit Mimi on our way home. After a long day of playing and eating, we drowsed in the back seat heading for home.

Mimi had moved to a new house, one with a parking lot, a cross on the wall above her bed, nuns, and lots other ladies. At her bedside in the hushed and unfamiliar room I stood by my father as he sat stiffly in a chair. We looked at her, and that she didn’t know me, her favorite grandchild, scared me. We didn’t stay long.

It was dark when we arrived back home, silent and empty. My father went to his bedroom while Mother put us to bed. Usually Daddy tucked me in, first wrapping me in a blanket tightly – the mummy bag – and then drawing the bedcovers up to my chin, but I guessed tonight he wasn’t feeling so well.

10 Snarky Suggestions for Holiday Prezzies

1. The old adage, one must buy a present for oneself for each present one buys for another lends real meaning to the concept that it is better to give and receive.
2. Just so you don’t look cheap when Aunt Alice opens the heated toilet seat you so generously gave her this year, remove the original gift tag that shows Uncle Bob gave it to you last year.
3. Save yourself from the embarrassment of giving the same gift back to the person who gave it to you by removing the original gift tag at the last minute so you don’t accidentally forget.
4. Refer to last year’s gift list to see how much they spent on you so you don’t spend any more money than you need to.
5. Save the receipt for the sweater you bought for Cousin Susan, just in case Cousin Susan didn’t get you anything this year, so you can return it for one in your size.
6. Look through your closet for items you haven’t used, such as the set of wooden hangers, or something you have barely used, such as the size eight blouse, that doesn’t fit anymore. They will make perfect gifts for someone you hardly ever see.
7. Or (see #6 above) return the items to the store and buy a new gift that might be more appropriate.
8. Or (see #7 above) if you see something at the store you like, this might be the gift you get yourself to equal what you have bought for someone else (see #1 above)
9. Perfect gifts that you don’t have to buy include the place settings and overnight kits from your last First Class trip on United, tiny jams and mustard jars you found in the hotel hallway on somebody’s used room service tray, giveaway t-shirts from your company’s marketing department, and pens from your insurance broker or accountant
10. You can thrill your daughter with a hand-bound story about how cute she was and all the excitement it caused when she got her head stuck in the supermarket turnstile and it won’t cost you a dime.

The Cardinal Beret

The Swiss cheese, a baguette, and a container of cole slaw filled the grocery bag I packed for my grandmother. The slaw was from my mother’s famous recipe, and used a tarragon-flavored vinegar. I slipped in a bottle of 2001 Ridge cabernet at the last minute. I knew grandma liked wine with lunch, and hoped it might make her happy. She’d felt so sad this holiday season, her first Christmas since the death of my grandpa who died last December at age 61.

It was the winter break of my freshman year at Stanford. I’d led a sheltered upbringing in our small town of Half Moon Bay, isolated from the world over the hill. Grandma lived in San Francisco, so I had to take the train. My mother didn’t drive or have a car, and because I lived on campus in the dorms I usually walked wherever I needed to go. That was fine with me, because I was happier spending the days in my room reading than partying with the other students on my floor.

My roommate Susan gave me a lift to the train station. I loaded the bag into the back seat and adjusted the cardinal beret over my long blonde hair. Grandma had given me the red cap and a matching poncho when I was accepted at school, she was so proud. She had taken up knitting as a way to keep hands busy during the lonely evenings. I tried to spend time with her but had never gone to her apartment in the City by train before; she’d usually drive down the Peninsula and take me to lunch at Il Fornaio or Carpaccio’s.

Susan pulled up to the curb. “Give me a call when you leave the City. I’ll pick you up.” I took the bag, stepped over an oily spot on the pavement and shut the car door. “Thanks! It should be around 7 o’clock tonight,” I said.

The train was already there, so I rushed to buy a ticket and board. The only seat I could find was next to one taken by a man in a dark jacket and pants. He looked nice enough, so I went ahead and sat down. His jacket was grey Gucci and his dark hair curled around the neck of his cashmere sweater. I noticed a diamond in his ear, probably half a carat at least. When he spoke to me, it was in a rich accent, something I’d never heard before. “I am visiting from Italy,” he told me. He introduced himself to me as Rommy, short for Romulus.

The hour-long ride to the City seemed much shorter as we chatted about everything from music (I like Patti Smith, and he likes any type of jazz) to food (I like dim sum, and he likes barbecued flank steak) to art (I love Robert Arneson’s ceramic sculptures, and he likes photography by Mapplethorpe). By the time we arrived, I felt that I’d known him forever. I had his phone number and he had mine. “How about sharing a cab to your grandmother’s place?” he said. “I’m going that way, anyway.” I took him up on it because it had started to rain, and wasn’t looking forward to walking the seven blocks.

When the cab stopped in front of Grandma’s apartment, Rommy jumped out and ran around to my side of the door to open it for me. I blushed to think that I was really starting to like him. “I’ll give you a call later on tonight, if that’s ok with you,” he said. I nodded and turned to grandma’s door, my key in my hand.

Grandma opened the door before I could turn the key in the lock; she was so lonely that she was listening for every sound, waiting for me. When she opened the door, I rushed by her and ran into the kitchen. I threw the bag on the counter and screamed, “I found the man of my dreams!” Grandma hurried into the kitchen and held my shoulders, “Tell me about him!” We talked for a while and then I realized I was hungry. I opened the bag and took out the cheese and bread and slaw. Grandma opened the wine with her well-used ScrewPull. It was then that I discovered that I’d forgotten to bring any Dijon. “I’ll run down to the corner and get the mustard — we can’t do without — it will only take a minute!” So I ran out to the little French deli to get the mustard.

I didn’t notice that Rommy was sitting across the street in the bus stop. He must have been waiting for me to leave, knowing that I had to have Dijon. He knocked on Grandma’s door and in his charming manner, convinced her to open the door. Once inside, he grabbed her, konked her on the head, and stuffed her into the large freezer in her basement, planning to dismember her body and eat her later (he’d already eaten a large breakfast just outside the women’s locker room at the 24-Hour Fitness in Palo Alto.)

When Rommy removed his trousers, he smoothed the sandal-toe panty hose he always wore up around his hips. He took off his shirt and Gucci jacket and slipped into Granny’s 38D Wacoal bra. Then he opened her drawer and found a black negligee. It fit perfectly, so he wrapped a scarf around his hair, slid into Grandma’s bed, and pulled the covers up to his nose.
I returned, out of breath. The door swung open as I started to put the key into the lock. What’s up here? Grandmas didn’t answer my call, so I walked around her apartment to see if anything was out of the ordinary. I peeked into her bedroom and saw that she was in bed. “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

I walked over to the bed and sat on the DKNY duvet cover. She moved just a little and pulled the covers up tight against her lower eyelashes. “Grandma! I never noticed that you had such large hands before!” “All the better to knit caps and ponchos for my dear granddaughter,” she said.

She kicked at the covers — it was getting warm in the room. I saw a foot under the New Zealand virgin wool blanket. “Grandma! I didn’t know your feet were so big!” And she replied, “All the better to run in the Bay to Breakers, my dear.”

Rommy became warmer and more agitated and the Chanel scarf fell away from his hair. “Grandma! What large ears you have, and I love your diamond stud,” I said, almost petulantly, because Grandma had never bought me a diamond for my birthday, even though it was in April. Everybody knows that April’s birthstone is diamond. Grandma replied, “All the better to hear you beg for more things, even though I am on a fixed income.” I understood, and with tears welling up inside, said, “Oh, Grandma, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me all these years — the tuition at Crystal Springs School, the trips to Paris and China, everything! I love you Grandma!”

Grandma smiled, and reached out to hug me. It was then that I noticed her abnormally large canines, shiny and white. “Grandma, what large teeth you have,” I cried. Rommy sprang from the bed and attacked me, but I had realized at that moment he was not Grandma. “All the better to bite your neck and eat your sweet meat,” said Rommy.

I ran from the bedroom into the kitchen. Rommy caught my Manalho Blaniks ankle strap stiletto; my foot slipped out of it. Swiftly, I unbuckled my other shoe, and with a strong blow, I gouged his eye out with its heel. Rommy groaned, fell to the floor and with his dying breath whispered, “Grandma is in the freezer. If you thaw her, she will have had suspended animation and won’t know that time has passed.”

I ran to the JennAire freezer and lifted the lid. I hauled Grandma out. After about an hour, the pink came back to her cheeks. “Where’s the Ridge?”

“Oh Grandma! I love you so much! I am so grateful for all your help! Without you I would never have been able to go to Stanford!” I hugged her and kissed the red tip of her nose.
The End