Colin
Christmas Eve
This afternoon I returned to town and put in a call to Dan. Everything’s ready to go. He says he’ll meet us on the 26th in Milwaukee. It’s the best he could do. The guy wasn’t about to drive all the fucking way to Grand Marais. He made that clear.
It’s my Christmas present for her, a surprise for tomorrow. We’ll leave by sundown and drive all night. It’s the safest way. I suggest we meet at the zoo. Nice public place. Open Christmas day. I’ve gone through it in my mind a thousand times. We’ll park in the lot. She’ll hide out in the primate house. I’ll meet Dan by the wolves. I’ll find her when he’s gone, when I’m sure we aren’t being trailed. From there, the quickest way to Canada is in Windsor, Ontario. We’ll drive into Windsor, and then as far as we can get on the gas money we have. I have enough cash to get us there. And then it will be gone. We’ll live under pseudonyms. I’ll get a job.
I’ve got Dan working on a fake ID for Ma, too, and when I can, I’ll get it to her, somehow. When I figure that part out.
I know this is my last night in this shitty old cabin. She doesn’t. I’m secretly saying my goodbyes.
Tomorrow is Christmas day. I remember that when I was a kid I’d leave the house early on Christmas day. I’d count out a dollar and two cents from a change jar we kept. I’d walk to the bakery at the corner. They were open until noon on Christmas. We pretended it was a surprise, though it never was. Ma would lie in bed long enough to hear me sneak out the front door.
I never went straight to the bakery. I’d be a Peeping Tom, staring through the open windows of the other kids in the neighborhood, just to see what they got on Christmas. I’d stare for a while at their happy, smiling faces, then think fuck them as I trudged through the snow the rest of the way.
The reindeer bells on the bakery door would announce my arrival to the same old lady who’d worked there a hundred years. She wore a Santa hat on Christmas and would say Ho, ho, ho. I’d ask for two fifty-one-cent chocolate long johns that she’d slip into a white paper lunch sack. I’d return home where Ma would be waiting with two cups of hot chocolate. We’d eat our breakfast and pretend that it wasn’t Christmas day.
This time I’m staring out the window. I’m thinking of Ma, wondering if she’s okay. Tomorrow will be the first time in thirty some years we haven’t shared a long john on Christmas day.
When I can get my hands on paper and a pen I’ll write her a note and drop it in a mailbox in Milwaukee. I’ll tell her that I’m okay. I’ll tell her that Chloe is okay, just to give her useless parents some peace of mind, if they give a shit. By the time the letter makes it to Ma, we’ll be out of the country. And as soon as I can figure out how, I’ll get Ma out of the country as well.
Chloe comes up behind me and wraps her arms around me. She asks if I’m waiting for Santa Claus.
I think of what I’d change if I could, but I wouldn’t change a thing. The only regret is that Ma isn’t here. But I can’t fix that without ruining this. One day it’ll all be right. That’s how I satisfy the guilt. I don’t know how or when. I don’t know how I’ll get the fake ID to Ma without being found, or how to send her enough money for a flight. But someday...
I turn and gather her into me, all hundred-and-some pounds. She’s lost weight. Her pants no longer rest on her hips. She’s always yanking on them to keep them from falling. Her cheeks are hollow. Her eyes have begun to dull. This can’t go on forever.
“You know what I want this year for Christmas?” I ask.
“What?”
“A razor,” I say. I comb the mustache and beard with my fingers. I hate it. It feels disgusting. I think of all the things that will be better when we get out of the country. We won’t be so fucking cold. We can shower with real soap. I can shave this woolly face. We can go out into the world together. We won’t have to hide, though it will take until all eternity for us to feel safe.
“I like it,” she mocks, smiling. When she smiles I see all the pieces fall into place.
“Liar,” I say.
“Then we’ll ask for two,” she says. She lets me feel the soft hair on her legs.
“What would you ask Santa for?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says without thought. “I have everything I want.” She rests her head against my chest.
“Liar,” I repeat.
She pulls back and looks at me. What she wants, she says, is to look pretty. For me. To take a shower. To wear perfume.
“You look beautiful,” I say and she does. But she reiterates in a whisper: Liar. She says she’s never felt so revolting in her life.
I settle my hands on the sides of her face. She’s embarrassed and tries to look away, but I force her to look at me. “You look beautiful,” I say again.
She nods. “Okay, okay,” she says. Then she fingers my beard and says, “And I like the beard.”