the trash and stood there waiting for her to acknowledge me, and instead she watched those blinking lights that just the night before she had called a fire trap.
“Hello. Hello.” The front door slammed, and my father kept calling out his greetings of hello, good evening, happy holidays, seasons greetings, bon appétit, and peace be with you until he found us in the kitchen. “Why the long faces? Ho, ho, ho.” He grabbed her around the waist and nuzzled her thick neck. It was one of those moments when I couldn’t help but wonder what the Sprats had ever seen in each other. He kissed her cheek, peck peck peck like a starving chicken after some corn, and finally she turned and looked him in the eye, her shoulders dropping as she sighed.
“Where’s your niece?”
“Gone.” He waved his hand. “You know Angela, breeze in and breeze out. Here today and gone tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Mama sat down at the table and just left the spaghettisauce lid jumping and spitting and the sink half full of dishes. He went and readjusted the eye of the stove, then stood behind her chair, his fingers stroking her cheeks. “Anyway, what are we doing tonight?” he asked, his voice light as he playfully shook her shoulders.
“I’m spending the night at Misty’s,” I told him, at the same time showing Mama the bowl of little green peas. “How did Angela leave?”
“A friend picked her up,” he said, while Mama traced her finger up and down the little squares on the oilcloth. I pictured the man from the beach, cap pulled low on his forehead as the two of them loved up in the cab of a truck.
“I bet Misty is waiting on you, honey,” she finally said. I kissed them both, then lingered in the hallway waiting to see what I could hear. They must have known I was waiting, listening, because there was a pause and then my father told her a joke about Round John Virgin. He told her what the weather forecast was for the weekend, who was number one in the NBA, how many people made a C on his exam. She said, My and Isn’t that something and Well.
As I walked out, I heard my father go to his study and within moments Jolson’s voice burst through loud and clear with “Mammy.” I stood on the porch and the cold air felt good as I took a deep breath and tried to reconjure the picture of Angela there in the swing; already her voice was leaving me again.
Misty’s yard was all lit up, little red and green blinking lights in the azalea bushes and up and down the pagoda mailbox. There was a plastic reindeer up on the roof, his nose blinking red; and in the picture window, which was edged in spray-on snow, I could see their tree, a silver tinsel one with pink and blue ornaments, a silver star on top. It was not my taste in decorations either but I loved seeing them; I loved the nerve behind doing something so elaborately. “I don’t believe in killing trees,” Mo had said when she refused Misty’s begs to buy a real one.
We were supposed to get our tree the next day, and I couldn’t wait. My dad didn’t believe in killing a tree either, so we always got one with the roots bound in burlap and then set it out in the backyard down close to the property line. Our Moravian star, simple and white, was my favorite of all decorations, but we had not even gotten it out yet; that night I welcomed the loud and lively lights up and down Misty’s side of the street. I needed something dancing busily in my mind. I stepped into the middle of the road and just stood there, the streetlights stretching in either direction, glowing in the damp chilly air. I could see my breath, could feel my own warmth as it formed there in front of me. Behind me, our house looked dark, faint lingerings of
I’d walk a million miles,
and I wasn’t even sure if it was really playing or if I was imagining the familiar, the same way a bright light will remain when you close your eyelids, the way I imagine the sight of an eclipse would burn its image into your eyes
“Hello. Hello.” The front door slammed, and my father kept calling out his greetings of hello, good evening, happy holidays, seasons greetings, bon appétit, and peace be with you until he found us in the kitchen. “Why the long faces? Ho, ho, ho.” He grabbed her around the waist and nuzzled her thick neck. It was one of those moments when I couldn’t help but wonder what the Sprats had ever seen in each other. He kissed her cheek, peck peck peck like a starving chicken after some corn, and finally she turned and looked him in the eye, her shoulders dropping as she sighed.
“Where’s your niece?”
“Gone.” He waved his hand. “You know Angela, breeze in and breeze out. Here today and gone tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Mama sat down at the table and just left the spaghettisauce lid jumping and spitting and the sink half full of dishes. He went and readjusted the eye of the stove, then stood behind her chair, his fingers stroking her cheeks. “Anyway, what are we doing tonight?” he asked, his voice light as he playfully shook her shoulders.
“I’m spending the night at Misty’s,” I told him, at the same time showing Mama the bowl of little green peas. “How did Angela leave?”
“A friend picked her up,” he said, while Mama traced her finger up and down the little squares on the oilcloth. I pictured the man from the beach, cap pulled low on his forehead as the two of them loved up in the cab of a truck.
“I bet Misty is waiting on you, honey,” she finally said. I kissed them both, then lingered in the hallway waiting to see what I could hear. They must have known I was waiting, listening, because there was a pause and then my father told her a joke about Round John Virgin. He told her what the weather forecast was for the weekend, who was number one in the NBA, how many people made a C on his exam. She said, My and Isn’t that something and Well.
As I walked out, I heard my father go to his study and within moments Jolson’s voice burst through loud and clear with “Mammy.” I stood on the porch and the cold air felt good as I took a deep breath and tried to reconjure the picture of Angela there in the swing; already her voice was leaving me again.
Misty’s yard was all lit up, little red and green blinking lights in the azalea bushes and up and down the pagoda mailbox. There was a plastic reindeer up on the roof, his nose blinking red; and in the picture window, which was edged in spray-on snow, I could see their tree, a silver tinsel one with pink and blue ornaments, a silver star on top. It was not my taste in decorations either but I loved seeing them; I loved the nerve behind doing something so elaborately. “I don’t believe in killing trees,” Mo had said when she refused Misty’s begs to buy a real one.
We were supposed to get our tree the next day, and I couldn’t wait. My dad didn’t believe in killing a tree either, so we always got one with the roots bound in burlap and then set it out in the backyard down close to the property line. Our Moravian star, simple and white, was my favorite of all decorations, but we had not even gotten it out yet; that night I welcomed the loud and lively lights up and down Misty’s side of the street. I needed something dancing busily in my mind. I stepped into the middle of the road and just stood there, the streetlights stretching in either direction, glowing in the damp chilly air. I could see my breath, could feel my own warmth as it formed there in front of me. Behind me, our house looked dark, faint lingerings of
I’d walk a million miles,
and I wasn’t even sure if it was really playing or if I was imagining the familiar, the same way a bright light will remain when you close your eyelids, the way I imagine the sight of an eclipse would burn its image into your eyes
Similar Books
