toupee?” Dirk seemedbaffled by his own question.
Ed tapped on his skull. “Are you brain-damaged, man?”
“You guys are stoned,” I said.
Sally banged on the table with an ice cream scoop, like a judge calling for order.
“I just made a tub of Rocky Road. Anybody want some?”
When I got home, Bill Floyd was in the living room with my parents. The TV was going, but no one was watching it. Bill Floyd had the recliner swiveled to face my mother, who was sitting in an easy chair that had been moved almost into the hallway to make room for the tree. My father was out cold on the couch, snoring like a cartoon character.
My mother smiled at me. “Guess what? Mr. Floyd baked us some Christmas cookies.” She had a special tone of voice that she only used when we had company. It made the simplest fact sound like cause for celebration.
“That's right,” he said. “They're in the kitchen.”
I mumbled a few syllables and hurried into the kitchen, relieved to find such an easy way out of small talk. I hadn't expected to see Bill Floyd, and all I could think of was Ed's crack about his toupee looking like a squirrel.
The cookies were green and shaped more orless like wreaths. Each one was studded with a single bright red candy. Bill Floyd appeared in the doorway and asked how I liked them.
“Terrific,” I said. “Still nice and chewy.”
“My mother's recipe,” he told me. “It's not Christmas without them.”
He said good night, and I heard the front door close. My mother came into the kitchen with three empty glasses.
“Whew,” she said. “I thought he'd never leave. Your father fell asleep an hour ago. I was trying to watch the Andy Williams special, but he talked so much I hardly caught a second of it.”
I could see she was annoyed. My mother had a big crush on Andy Williams and often referred to him as her “boyfriend.” I put another cookie in my mouth and spoke through the crumbs. “So what did he talk about?”
She picked up a sponge and started scrubbing at a spot on the Formica countertop.
“He talked about his mother,” she said. “He misses her.”
I had to work at the deli on Christmas Eve. I made a few sandwiches at lunchtime, then killed an hour with chores, cleaning the sheer and straightening the snack cakes. After that there was nothing to do but wait for an occasional customer to drift in for cigarettes or milk. I passed the time warming my hands over the open oven door while old manFreund napped, chin in hand, at his little table in the back.
Near closing time he came back to life and joined me at the oven. We stood close together in our soiled aprons, washing our hands in the hot, rising air. Mr. Freund squinted suspiciously at the Schickhaus clock, which had hot dogs for hands.
“Where did the day go?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It just went.”
At five o'clock I hung up my apron and headed outside to do my Christmas shopping. I had to hurry, because I'd promised my mother that I'd come straight home from work to help her with the luminaria. This was a fancy word for candles anchored in sand at the bottom of hamburger take-out bags. A neighborhood committee had enlisted our entire street to line the sidewalks with them on Christmas Eve.
Medi-Mart was delirious with last-minute shoppers. The shelves looked looted; even the Muzak seemed hectic. I bought my father a carton of cancer sticks, a Pepperoni and Assorted Cheeses Gift Pack, and a paperback about Pearl Harbor. I got my mother a battery-operated minivacuum and a small bottle of perfume. I also picked up a glossy greeting card: “A Christmas Prayer for You, Mother and Dad.”
Only two registers were open, and I got on the slow line. Three people ahead of me, this woman in a kerchief started an argument aboutthe price of a jigsaw puzzle that had two stickers on it. She insisted on speaking to the manager, who seemed mysteriously difficult to locate. By that time, it was too late for me to change lines.
The bag
Ed tapped on his skull. “Are you brain-damaged, man?”
“You guys are stoned,” I said.
Sally banged on the table with an ice cream scoop, like a judge calling for order.
“I just made a tub of Rocky Road. Anybody want some?”
When I got home, Bill Floyd was in the living room with my parents. The TV was going, but no one was watching it. Bill Floyd had the recliner swiveled to face my mother, who was sitting in an easy chair that had been moved almost into the hallway to make room for the tree. My father was out cold on the couch, snoring like a cartoon character.
My mother smiled at me. “Guess what? Mr. Floyd baked us some Christmas cookies.” She had a special tone of voice that she only used when we had company. It made the simplest fact sound like cause for celebration.
“That's right,” he said. “They're in the kitchen.”
I mumbled a few syllables and hurried into the kitchen, relieved to find such an easy way out of small talk. I hadn't expected to see Bill Floyd, and all I could think of was Ed's crack about his toupee looking like a squirrel.
The cookies were green and shaped more orless like wreaths. Each one was studded with a single bright red candy. Bill Floyd appeared in the doorway and asked how I liked them.
“Terrific,” I said. “Still nice and chewy.”
“My mother's recipe,” he told me. “It's not Christmas without them.”
He said good night, and I heard the front door close. My mother came into the kitchen with three empty glasses.
“Whew,” she said. “I thought he'd never leave. Your father fell asleep an hour ago. I was trying to watch the Andy Williams special, but he talked so much I hardly caught a second of it.”
I could see she was annoyed. My mother had a big crush on Andy Williams and often referred to him as her “boyfriend.” I put another cookie in my mouth and spoke through the crumbs. “So what did he talk about?”
She picked up a sponge and started scrubbing at a spot on the Formica countertop.
“He talked about his mother,” she said. “He misses her.”
I had to work at the deli on Christmas Eve. I made a few sandwiches at lunchtime, then killed an hour with chores, cleaning the sheer and straightening the snack cakes. After that there was nothing to do but wait for an occasional customer to drift in for cigarettes or milk. I passed the time warming my hands over the open oven door while old manFreund napped, chin in hand, at his little table in the back.
Near closing time he came back to life and joined me at the oven. We stood close together in our soiled aprons, washing our hands in the hot, rising air. Mr. Freund squinted suspiciously at the Schickhaus clock, which had hot dogs for hands.
“Where did the day go?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It just went.”
At five o'clock I hung up my apron and headed outside to do my Christmas shopping. I had to hurry, because I'd promised my mother that I'd come straight home from work to help her with the luminaria. This was a fancy word for candles anchored in sand at the bottom of hamburger take-out bags. A neighborhood committee had enlisted our entire street to line the sidewalks with them on Christmas Eve.
Medi-Mart was delirious with last-minute shoppers. The shelves looked looted; even the Muzak seemed hectic. I bought my father a carton of cancer sticks, a Pepperoni and Assorted Cheeses Gift Pack, and a paperback about Pearl Harbor. I got my mother a battery-operated minivacuum and a small bottle of perfume. I also picked up a glossy greeting card: “A Christmas Prayer for You, Mother and Dad.”
Only two registers were open, and I got on the slow line. Three people ahead of me, this woman in a kerchief started an argument aboutthe price of a jigsaw puzzle that had two stickers on it. She insisted on speaking to the manager, who seemed mysteriously difficult to locate. By that time, it was too late for me to change lines.
The bag
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