My father’s house was brimming with Christmas spirit. We’d come straight from the meeting at the bank, stiff from cold. Handel’s Messiah was piped in from hidden speakers in the walls, and a handsome trimmed tree brightened the living room, the floor beneath blanketed with festively wrapped presents.
“Bah, humbug!” said my father with a big grin as we sat down. “How about some eggnog?”
“Sure,” I said. I needed a drink. At least here I could count on more whiskey than nog.
“Elisa will be back any minute,” said my father cheerfully as he left the room.
“She’s dropping off some presents at her father’s house.”
Bobby, Whitney, and I gave each other meaningful looks. This was the first time we’d all be together as a “family,” and we’d agreed in the car not to let on about the meeting. Bill had told us that my father knew we’d come down and would be calling for the report, and I guessed this was the reason for my father’s uncharacteristic cheerfulness. The meeting, after all, had gone off without a hitch.
Whitney suddenly stood up and stamped the snow off his loafers onto the Berber carpet, as if marking his territory before Elisa returned.
Bobby laughed at his younger brother. “Nice. Now there’s going to be a big puddle in the middle of the goddamn carpet. Dad’s going to love that.”
“Better there than on my shoes,” Whitney said. But a moment later he picked up the chunks of snow and carried them into the kitchen. My father’s benevolent mood, he knew, especially toward him, was as changeable as the wind.
Beautiful objects adorned every surface in the room: an antique partners desk stood in a bay window with a gilt-framed painting by Gari Melchers on the adjacent wall. Tasteful patterned fabrics covered the upholstered furniture. Eighteenth-century walnut side tables held needlepoint coasters for drinks. The tree sparkled with old family ornaments and colored lights, just as it had when we were children.
Back in those days, before the advent of video, my father would draw the curtains, on Christmas Eve Day, to project 35 mm films of all the Christmas classics—A Christmas Carol, It’s a Wonderful Life, White Christmas. The living room would be packed with spectators: my parents’ friends, their kids, and, of course, the four of us. The adults drank Bloody Marys all afternoon, forming a chatty line at the tabletop bar while my father switched reels midmovie.
The next morning, Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” would be playing on the stereo when we came down to investigate our stockings. Charlie and Bobby would get toothpaste, toothbrushes, deodorant, pens, and a jar of macadamia nuts, contents that left me baffled by Santa’s odd sense of practicality. Whitney and I got dime store toys with the price tags still attached, tubes of toothpaste, and packets of pencils. Most years my father slipped into my stocking a Cuban cigar, which I’d smoke with him in the late afternoon, after the guests had gone home.
My father came in with the eggnog and placed the glass next to me on one of the coasters. “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!” He gave me a goofy smile. “How’d you like the tree?”
“Very nice,” said Bobby. “When did you put it up?”
“Last week, before all the snow. I haven’t had a real tree in years.”
For about a decade, after the divorce, my father had pretty much given up on everything, even Christmas, making due with a small tabletop tree. He even gave away his entire 35 mm film collection—hundreds of rare prints. But in spite of everything, he’d managed to stay away from the bottle. Now, though, along with the tree, he had brought the drinking back into his life.
I spotted a small aquamarine Tiffany box under the tree. “Who’s that little blue box for?” I asked pointedly, remembering Christmases past when the Tiffany box had been for me.
“That’s for my sweetie,” my father beamed.
It took me a moment to register that he meant Elisa. I glanced around the room and noticed that the family photos were now mixed in with shots of her. I looked over at Bobby, who was trying to suppress a laugh.
Whitney came into the room downing a Pepsi. “I like that painting of the pheasants in the kitchen,” he said to my father. “Where’d you get it?” He sat down on the sofa, nervously crunching the half-empty Pepsi can.
“Out in Jackson,” said my father, putting another log on the fire. “At a wildlife art gallery.”
Whitney put the Pepsi can down on a coaster. “Outstanding. Maybe we can go there next week, see what else they’ve got . . .”
Rising from the fireplace, my father gave Whitney a disingenuous smile. “Trouble with you, Whit, is you’ve got champagne taste, on a beer budget.” This was his favorite line.
Whitney looked as if he’d just been slapped.