was trapping something inside. My father got up and left the room. I waited a minute. Then I locked the door and lifted the crown out of the box. Standing in front of the mirror, I placed it on my head. I wore it until I went to bed.
I spend the morning of the twenty-third the same way I've been spending most mornings: staring out the front window of the house.
I watch the ebb and flow of cars: a stoplight stands at each end of our block. There's little pedestrian traffic this time of day, so I try to glimpse into people's cars. I'm surprised by how many people are driving by themselves. I'm surprised by how many red cars there are.
When the mail woman comes to our door, I hear the lip of the mail slot creak open and then slap shut. She's late today. All those last-minute Christmas cards and packages. I peer out the window and see her pushing her mail cart down the block. I get the idea to follow her, see what her route is. I know so little about people I see every day.
Trailing her is tough. I have to walk slowly and pretend to be examining the fronts of houses, their garage doors. The mail woman is wearing uniform shorts and leather gloves. The soles of her shoes are worn down an inch on the outside. She takes a right at the end of my block, on Wawona.
Up the stairs of houses and down again, she goes. She stops to pet an orange cat. "Hey, sugar," she says. She looks like the drawing of the mail woman in the brochure the podiatrist gave me. The brochure showed people who relied on their feet to get back to work after foot surgery. Maybe she was the model.
"Hey, Maria," a woman in a peach-colored bathrobe calls to the mail woman from her doorway. She descends the stairs in her slippers and hands the mail woman a check. "Merry Christmas!"
I follow Maria another block, until she turns around and looks at me with squinting eyes.
I think about posing as a stamp collector and asking when the next blues stamp is coming out, but decide against it. I turn around and run.
On Christmas morning, I wake Freddie up by reaching under her comforter and tickling her toes.
"Go away," she says.
"Come on," I say. "Let's go check our stockings."
The stockings were given to us by Freddie's godfather and are embroidered with our names. Freddies name is spelled wrong.
Christmas in our house is a practical matter: each year I'm given socks with seasonal patterns on them—candy canes and Santas, socks I'd wear only under boots—and thread for darn-ing them. This year my socks have reindeer jumping over the moon.
Also in our stockings are key chains attached to Rubik's Cubes. I can't even imagine what store still sells them. Stuffed into the toes are books: we each get Emily Post's Etiquette .
"Jesus," I say. I turn to a page—Ms. Posts tips for saying thank you to a date—and laugh. I look over at Freddie, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She's holding her book in her lap, crying.
Freddie hasn't told my parents what happened at school, why she came home for Christmas. I call Sarah in Ireland and wish her a merry Christmas. "It's already over, here," she says. "How was it?"
"I wish I had gone home," she says. "This Christmas, especially, I wish I had gone home. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe that by being here it wouldn't seem as strange to not have him around, but it's worse." Since her brother's death, Sarah's voice has become thinner.
"What can I do to make you feel better?" "Tell me a joke," she says.
"I'll keep telling jokes until you feel better." "Okay," she says. "Deal."
I tell her all the jokes she's told me over the years. The one about the ten-inch pianist, the one about the wolverine, the one about Bob Dole and the wolverine. She loves jokes about Bob Dole and wolverines.
In the corner of the hallway, near a plant, my mother has a large pair of yellow decorative clogs. She got them in Holland. They're a foot long, and I stuff my reindeer-socked feet inside. They feel like boats. I spend
I spend the morning of the twenty-third the same way I've been spending most mornings: staring out the front window of the house.
I watch the ebb and flow of cars: a stoplight stands at each end of our block. There's little pedestrian traffic this time of day, so I try to glimpse into people's cars. I'm surprised by how many people are driving by themselves. I'm surprised by how many red cars there are.
When the mail woman comes to our door, I hear the lip of the mail slot creak open and then slap shut. She's late today. All those last-minute Christmas cards and packages. I peer out the window and see her pushing her mail cart down the block. I get the idea to follow her, see what her route is. I know so little about people I see every day.
Trailing her is tough. I have to walk slowly and pretend to be examining the fronts of houses, their garage doors. The mail woman is wearing uniform shorts and leather gloves. The soles of her shoes are worn down an inch on the outside. She takes a right at the end of my block, on Wawona.
Up the stairs of houses and down again, she goes. She stops to pet an orange cat. "Hey, sugar," she says. She looks like the drawing of the mail woman in the brochure the podiatrist gave me. The brochure showed people who relied on their feet to get back to work after foot surgery. Maybe she was the model.
"Hey, Maria," a woman in a peach-colored bathrobe calls to the mail woman from her doorway. She descends the stairs in her slippers and hands the mail woman a check. "Merry Christmas!"
I follow Maria another block, until she turns around and looks at me with squinting eyes.
I think about posing as a stamp collector and asking when the next blues stamp is coming out, but decide against it. I turn around and run.
On Christmas morning, I wake Freddie up by reaching under her comforter and tickling her toes.
"Go away," she says.
"Come on," I say. "Let's go check our stockings."
The stockings were given to us by Freddie's godfather and are embroidered with our names. Freddies name is spelled wrong.
Christmas in our house is a practical matter: each year I'm given socks with seasonal patterns on them—candy canes and Santas, socks I'd wear only under boots—and thread for darn-ing them. This year my socks have reindeer jumping over the moon.
Also in our stockings are key chains attached to Rubik's Cubes. I can't even imagine what store still sells them. Stuffed into the toes are books: we each get Emily Post's Etiquette .
"Jesus," I say. I turn to a page—Ms. Posts tips for saying thank you to a date—and laugh. I look over at Freddie, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She's holding her book in her lap, crying.
Freddie hasn't told my parents what happened at school, why she came home for Christmas. I call Sarah in Ireland and wish her a merry Christmas. "It's already over, here," she says. "How was it?"
"I wish I had gone home," she says. "This Christmas, especially, I wish I had gone home. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe that by being here it wouldn't seem as strange to not have him around, but it's worse." Since her brother's death, Sarah's voice has become thinner.
"What can I do to make you feel better?" "Tell me a joke," she says.
"I'll keep telling jokes until you feel better." "Okay," she says. "Deal."
I tell her all the jokes she's told me over the years. The one about the ten-inch pianist, the one about the wolverine, the one about Bob Dole and the wolverine. She loves jokes about Bob Dole and wolverines.
In the corner of the hallway, near a plant, my mother has a large pair of yellow decorative clogs. She got them in Holland. They're a foot long, and I stuff my reindeer-socked feet inside. They feel like boats. I spend
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