Ella, who’s weaving drunkenly.
“‘Deck the Halls,’” Ella whispers.
It’s a good choice; loud, easy lyrics, irritating, nothing sappy or meaningful.
Trent spreads his arms wide and roars out, “‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, FALALALALALALALALA!’”
My sister takes a sip and wipes some pink vodka off her chin. “‘’Tis the season to be jolly…’”
We all ‘fa’ and ‘la’ until our voices are hoarse. We scream along the lyrics, Ella dances between the tastefully lit bushes and swings around the antique lamppost.
We sing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Here We Come A Wassailing,” and, Trent’s favorite, “Good King Wenceslas.”
Trent is a caroling purist, and he makes us sing all five versus. By the time we’re done, I’m panting and Ella is slouched against the narrow cylinder of the lamp post. She’s torn the big bow off and is wearing it on top of her head. The bottle of vodka is severely diminished, and Trent and I stopped drinking a while ago.
“I think our work here is done.” Trent takes the bottle, passes it to me, and prepares to lift my very drunk sister into his arms.
She squirms and punches at his chest.
“Stop! Stop! That wasn’t enough! He needs to come out!”
Spit collects at the sides of her mouth and her eyes are shiny and wild. One earmuff rotated to her cheek, the other is sliding back off her pretty hair, light as wheat and puffy with static electricity.
“Ella.” Trent sits her down on the snow despite the clumsy jerks of her limbs. “He never comes out. That’s not the point, alright? He’s in there, aggravated as all hell because happiness makes his ulcers swell. We did what we came to do.”
“He didn’t even c-c-come to her funeral.” Ella presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. I crunch through the snow and put my arm around her. Sooty tears flow out and drip down either side of her face. “He f-fucked up her whole life. He was the worst f-f-father in the world.” She draws the last word out until it’s a low, long wail. “Who couldn’t love Eileen? Who? He really must be S-satan!” She sobs. “Can’t we br-break a window? Just one?”
I shake my head, and Trent walks a few feet away. I’m whispering about how Eileen wanted him to know that she was happy without him. She wanted him to see that his misery didn’t ruin her life, and that’s what this was all about, remember? I’m only midway through my speech when Trent yanks Ella to her feet.
“Look alive, soldier,” he barks, and hands her a rock that barely fits in her fist. “Remember the summer you pitched a perfect season for the Dynamites?”
Ella blinks through her runny makeup and sniffles. “Yeah.”
“Channel that summer. And once you throw, we all run, before we see if it hits or not. Agreed?”
“Trent—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“My mother was a fucking angel, and I know that. She’s a better, kinder person than I’ll ever be. But she’s gone, Sadie. And she deserves this.”
His eyes are bright with tears he’s not about to cry here on the street in front of his grandfather’s house. I nod because he’s right. And because I know this is the last time we’ll ever do random caroling. And because Ella hasn’t cried for Eileen since the day we buried her.
Ella’s arm pulls back, and that rock flies so swift and smooth, even though we promised to run, we have to watch. It smashes the glass, and that crash and tinkle makes us all whoop and shriek like wild things, hugging and jumping up and down.
The door swings open, and we scream, knocking into each other as we try to hightail it as fast as we can. Trent and I are fairly quick, but Ella is slowed down by her drunkenness and the fact that she keeps peeking over her shoulder.
Trent finally picks her up and tosses her over his shoulder.
We don’t stop until we collapse, winded on my front porch.
“Ugh, put me down,” Ella groans.
When Trent flips her over, I can see how
“‘Deck the Halls,’” Ella whispers.
It’s a good choice; loud, easy lyrics, irritating, nothing sappy or meaningful.
Trent spreads his arms wide and roars out, “‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, FALALALALALALALALA!’”
My sister takes a sip and wipes some pink vodka off her chin. “‘’Tis the season to be jolly…’”
We all ‘fa’ and ‘la’ until our voices are hoarse. We scream along the lyrics, Ella dances between the tastefully lit bushes and swings around the antique lamppost.
We sing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Here We Come A Wassailing,” and, Trent’s favorite, “Good King Wenceslas.”
Trent is a caroling purist, and he makes us sing all five versus. By the time we’re done, I’m panting and Ella is slouched against the narrow cylinder of the lamp post. She’s torn the big bow off and is wearing it on top of her head. The bottle of vodka is severely diminished, and Trent and I stopped drinking a while ago.
“I think our work here is done.” Trent takes the bottle, passes it to me, and prepares to lift my very drunk sister into his arms.
She squirms and punches at his chest.
“Stop! Stop! That wasn’t enough! He needs to come out!”
Spit collects at the sides of her mouth and her eyes are shiny and wild. One earmuff rotated to her cheek, the other is sliding back off her pretty hair, light as wheat and puffy with static electricity.
“Ella.” Trent sits her down on the snow despite the clumsy jerks of her limbs. “He never comes out. That’s not the point, alright? He’s in there, aggravated as all hell because happiness makes his ulcers swell. We did what we came to do.”
“He didn’t even c-c-come to her funeral.” Ella presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. I crunch through the snow and put my arm around her. Sooty tears flow out and drip down either side of her face. “He f-fucked up her whole life. He was the worst f-f-father in the world.” She draws the last word out until it’s a low, long wail. “Who couldn’t love Eileen? Who? He really must be S-satan!” She sobs. “Can’t we br-break a window? Just one?”
I shake my head, and Trent walks a few feet away. I’m whispering about how Eileen wanted him to know that she was happy without him. She wanted him to see that his misery didn’t ruin her life, and that’s what this was all about, remember? I’m only midway through my speech when Trent yanks Ella to her feet.
“Look alive, soldier,” he barks, and hands her a rock that barely fits in her fist. “Remember the summer you pitched a perfect season for the Dynamites?”
Ella blinks through her runny makeup and sniffles. “Yeah.”
“Channel that summer. And once you throw, we all run, before we see if it hits or not. Agreed?”
“Trent—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“My mother was a fucking angel, and I know that. She’s a better, kinder person than I’ll ever be. But she’s gone, Sadie. And she deserves this.”
His eyes are bright with tears he’s not about to cry here on the street in front of his grandfather’s house. I nod because he’s right. And because I know this is the last time we’ll ever do random caroling. And because Ella hasn’t cried for Eileen since the day we buried her.
Ella’s arm pulls back, and that rock flies so swift and smooth, even though we promised to run, we have to watch. It smashes the glass, and that crash and tinkle makes us all whoop and shriek like wild things, hugging and jumping up and down.
The door swings open, and we scream, knocking into each other as we try to hightail it as fast as we can. Trent and I are fairly quick, but Ella is slowed down by her drunkenness and the fact that she keeps peeking over her shoulder.
Trent finally picks her up and tosses her over his shoulder.
We don’t stop until we collapse, winded on my front porch.
“Ugh, put me down,” Ella groans.
When Trent flips her over, I can see how
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