“This will be good for him. Christmas with kids all around—harder to be unhappy. He needs to get out more.” I looked around the room. It was tidy enough. “Okay, everyone! Who wants sticky buns and scrambled eggs?” I asked over my shoulder, heading to the kitchen.
It was a rhetorical question. Sticky buns and scrambled eggs were a tradition for Christmas morning, just like chocolate chip pancakes and sausage for the boys on their birthday. But the boys responded anyway.
“I do! I do!”
The preparation of our Christmas breakfast was under way, and once again the air swirled with the fragrance of butter, sugar, and cinnamon. I also fried a pound of bacon, thinking the salty meat would be a good counterpoint to the sugary pastry. As usual, the smell of bacon sizzling in the skillet inspired Rufus to sit close to me on his hopeful haunches and whimper. I slipped him a strip.
“Merry Christmas, my sweet baby,” I said.
It disappeared in a flash, so I gave him another one.
He’s seventeen, I said to myself. So he’ll only live to be twenty instead of twenty-one.
In truth, Rufus had already far exceeded the expected life span of his breed, and we believed it was because he had it so good. He never imposed himself in an obnoxious way, but he let his feelings be known with a nudge and a glance at the cookie jar or by pointing his nose toward the back door, indicating his need to commune with nature. And he showed his affection for the family in a number of ways. He would amble over to where I was sitting and quietly place his head on my lap, looking at me with those loving eyes of his. Adam was the one who’d brought him home as a puppy, but I was the one who held his heart. And the bacon.
After breakfast the boys wanted to take their remote-control cars out for a spin, so Adam and the boys put on jackets and went out into the yard. Our property had a very long but narrow tarmac road that began at the street and wound its way to our driveway, continued to the barn and then ended at the boat dock. It was a good long run for remote-control cars, which would probably be the favorite toy of the year.
“I’ll check on our animals, then I’ll show them how the cars work,” Adam said and planted a noisy kiss on my cheek.
“I’ll be right here for the foreseeable future,” I said, thinking that maybe Santa should’ve brought three cars.
That was how Christmas morning always was. I would be on my feet in the kitchen for hours. This is what women do all over the world when they celebrate holidays. I had heard rumors about men who could cook, but I had never known one. At least not outside the realm of professionals. Adam didn’t even like to use the grill. I had been made to believe that southern men liked to invent their own dry rubs, smear them all over meat, then stand around the hot coals with a buddy, watching, talking football, basting whatever they were cooking over and over, and drinking beer. Not Adam. He could mix cocktails and pour coffee, but that was about it.
I sighed hard. By the end of the day my lower back would be killing me and my feet would be throbbing, but making wonderful holiday meals was one of the ways I expressed my love for my family. I checked the pork roast that had been resting in a special brine in the cooler overnight. It was time to remove it, rinse it, and pat it dry. I did, then laid it on a bed of paper towels in the roasting pan so it could come to room temperature.
I set the table for five with our holiday china, red water glasses, our best flatware, and a centerpiece of red poinsettias. It looked really beautiful, I thought. Simple but beautiful. My father-in-law, Ted, would love it. Who didn’t love Christmas?
Dinner that day would be served buffet style from the kitchen breakfast bar, as our dining room sideboard was occupied by the Holy Family, angels, and the Magi. Never mind the camels, cows, and sheep. It was too crowded to be of any other use. For me, Christmas Eve seemed to be the more serious occasion anyway, maybe because it involved church and all the anticipation of what surprises were in store for us all. Christmas Day, on the other hand, unfolded as a bighearted family day, a time to have a great meal and enjoy one another’s company, to be with our children, and maybe to stop in on neighbors to deliver cookies or some holiday kitchen gift. While I stood scraping carrots, our isolation crossed my mind. There were so few neighbors with whom I could have a cup of coffee or share a bit of gossip. But there was no point in dwelling on something I could not change. Still, I was lonely most days. Adam would have been disappointed if he knew. Now that the boys were in school all day, I had time for my cookbook, but even that wasn’t exactly an intellectual challenge. But if I hadn’t had that project and Adam’s bookkeeping, I would have completely lost my marbles. It was true that JJ’s wife, Tasha, could get on your nerves, but a short visit with them might be nice. I missed my brother. And I had harbored other dreams, but they seemed impossible to me now. I’d always wanted to return to Greece and study Greek cuisine, including cheeses and oils. But that would never happen. I shelved that idea and concentrated on smaller goals.
I watched Adam and the boys playing with the cars through the window over the sink. The goats were running the field from behind their fence and one peacock was rattling his train like mad. The boys were racing the cars, laughing and chasing each other.
I remembered my own Christmases in Massachusetts then, especially the last one when my mother was still alive. I was just eleven and my mother was dying quickly from some terrible disease no one would discuss. There was snow all over the ground and everyone was profoundly sad but putting on a brave face to hide their feelings from my mother. JJ and I somehow knew that this was the last Christmas we would have together with her.
I thought, kids know things. No one has to tell them. They just know.
It was true. Despite my young age then and the fact that I wasn’t the least bit interested in things that were otherworldly, I could sense death in every corner of the house, most especially in my mother’s bedroom.
My grandmother, my mother’s mother, had come all the way from the island of Corfu in Greece to visit in early December, flying on a plane for the first time in her life, suitcases filled with gifts from every relative and neighbor. We called her Yiayia. Yiayia’s arrival was as spectacular as it was unusual. She was going to stay for as long as she was needed, which in my mind would be forever. My brother and I whispered to each other that the reason for the long visit was because our mother’s end was near. And our grandmother wanted to make the holiday as pleasant as possible for us, given the dire situation. It never occurred to us that Yiayia had come to stay because her own daughter was dying.
Her heart must have been absolutely broken, I thought then.