Theory XII
Christmas was just around the corner. It was a difficult time for Sara who blamed her mother’s poor planning for bringing her into the world on the 24th, Christmas Eve, and thereby spoiling the magic that was meant to belong to this holiday alone: the heady elixir of Santa’s mysterious, midnight appearance via the chimney, the gigantic velvet goodie-stuffed stockings appearing at the ends of their beds by morning and the final triumph of the orgasmic mountain of brightly colored, beribboned presents waiting under the tree, hot chocolate standing by. It was a pleasure the entire Moresby family ascribed to, including Sara who was well-indoctrinated from an early age.
So it was no surprise that Sara remained considerate and modest about the passing of her birthdays. She was mindful of the wrench it might throw into the frenzied Dickensian-style preparations her mother undertook each year for their family and the surrounding bridge-playing neighborhood: A misletoe and holly-decked reception followed by a full-course dinner with roast goose and Yorkshire pudding, mince and pumpkin tarts, flaming plum pudding, sticky treacle and salt-water taffy, red and green aspic molds.... and while the men smoked cigars, a turn as rosy-cheeked and muffler-draped (or so her mother pictured it) carolers out on the street.
God rest ye merry gentlemen....
And too, Sara's brother found the whole juxtaposition of one celebration over another particularly annoying and said so to anyone who would listen. Gifts were awkward because sibling rivalry inevitably intervened and Sara had to settle for a Christmas cupcake with candles rather than the dinosaur or cowboy and Indian monstrosities produced for her brother’s well-attended summer events. Outsiders felt the need to apologize to her, oh you poor thing! Crushed into Christmas that way… and she always demurred to the contrary.
In her darkest days when her mother was ill and there wasn’t anyone to care for her but Sara, Delys had been overcome by guilt and had begged her daughter to forgive her foolishness and made her promise to buy herself ‘the biggest cream cake in the Belgium Bakery’ when her birthday came around again. “I’ve left you some money in my will,” she whispered to the close and present ear. “Money for cake, and a fur coat if you want one!”
But now Sara had the house to herself and she found she had momentum for neither cake nor tree and as the holidays drew near had gotten no closer to the stacked boxes of tinsel and blown-glass ornaments stored in the attic. But Nate’s declaration of ownership over her bike was rankling and she found herself hovering at the bottom of the pull-down with more intention than she’d felt in years.
Dammit! That bike had been a substitute for her 17th birthday present that year even though she’d gained possession of it fully four months beforehand. Now she wondered if her mother had purchased it at all but had traded it for something valuable, like gossip. It would have been like her to set her cap for something unattainable, like the kid’s bike (much used but still serviceable) and carted it off without a backward glance.
What else could he mean with his snide remark about the questionable sale? She hadn’t stolen it, of this she was certain, for Delys was many things but she was not a thief. No, her methods were much more suburban. She was once very popular and her power gave her access to all kinds of valuable information.
The baby next door.
The girl skating on the river.
Outside the snow had begun again in earnest, heavy and wet with lakewater. Most houses on her street sported appropriate displays of glowing roof trim and festive lawn sculptures. Her's must look like a dark star in the night sky, sucking everything into an uncertain future. The notes of concern would start to appear in her mailbox and she couldn't have that. She turned the cup of tea around and around in her hand.
Night was falling down with the snow, they were coming together.
Delys' daughter stood for a while at the window, lights and heat off, until her tea went cold and scummy. Then she sighed and went up into the attic where she found the silver tinsel tree wrapped in tissue paper and carpenter’s tape.
Not this year.
When the snow had stopped and the silver of moon shed no light on the landscape Sara crept outside with her father’s hacksaw and cut down her mother’s naked plumeria bush. While Bertie watched from his usual place on the sofa, head on paws, she dragged the frozen skeleton inside (its fate long-ago sealed) screwed it into the tree-stand, strung lights on its mummified branches, and then baked herself a cake.
To Granny's house she would go.
So it was no surprise that Sara remained considerate and modest about the passing of her birthdays. She was mindful of the wrench it might throw into the frenzied Dickensian-style preparations her mother undertook each year for their family and the surrounding bridge-playing neighborhood: A misletoe and holly-decked reception followed by a full-course dinner with roast goose and Yorkshire pudding, mince and pumpkin tarts, flaming plum pudding, sticky treacle and salt-water taffy, red and green aspic molds.... and while the men smoked cigars, a turn as rosy-cheeked and muffler-draped (or so her mother pictured it) carolers out on the street.
God rest ye merry gentlemen....
And too, Sara's brother found the whole juxtaposition of one celebration over another particularly annoying and said so to anyone who would listen. Gifts were awkward because sibling rivalry inevitably intervened and Sara had to settle for a Christmas cupcake with candles rather than the dinosaur or cowboy and Indian monstrosities produced for her brother’s well-attended summer events. Outsiders felt the need to apologize to her, oh you poor thing! Crushed into Christmas that way… and she always demurred to the contrary.
In her darkest days when her mother was ill and there wasn’t anyone to care for her but Sara, Delys had been overcome by guilt and had begged her daughter to forgive her foolishness and made her promise to buy herself ‘the biggest cream cake in the Belgium Bakery’ when her birthday came around again. “I’ve left you some money in my will,” she whispered to the close and present ear. “Money for cake, and a fur coat if you want one!”
But now Sara had the house to herself and she found she had momentum for neither cake nor tree and as the holidays drew near had gotten no closer to the stacked boxes of tinsel and blown-glass ornaments stored in the attic. But Nate’s declaration of ownership over her bike was rankling and she found herself hovering at the bottom of the pull-down with more intention than she’d felt in years.
Dammit! That bike had been a substitute for her 17th birthday present that year even though she’d gained possession of it fully four months beforehand. Now she wondered if her mother had purchased it at all but had traded it for something valuable, like gossip. It would have been like her to set her cap for something unattainable, like the kid’s bike (much used but still serviceable) and carted it off without a backward glance.
What else could he mean with his snide remark about the questionable sale? She hadn’t stolen it, of this she was certain, for Delys was many things but she was not a thief. No, her methods were much more suburban. She was once very popular and her power gave her access to all kinds of valuable information.
The baby next door.
The girl skating on the river.
Outside the snow had begun again in earnest, heavy and wet with lakewater. Most houses on her street sported appropriate displays of glowing roof trim and festive lawn sculptures. Her's must look like a dark star in the night sky, sucking everything into an uncertain future. The notes of concern would start to appear in her mailbox and she couldn't have that. She turned the cup of tea around and around in her hand.
Night was falling down with the snow, they were coming together.
Delys' daughter stood for a while at the window, lights and heat off, until her tea went cold and scummy. Then she sighed and went up into the attic where she found the silver tinsel tree wrapped in tissue paper and carpenter’s tape.
Not this year.
When the snow had stopped and the silver of moon shed no light on the landscape Sara crept outside with her father’s hacksaw and cut down her mother’s naked plumeria bush. While Bertie watched from his usual place on the sofa, head on paws, she dragged the frozen skeleton inside (its fate long-ago sealed) screwed it into the tree-stand, strung lights on its mummified branches, and then baked herself a cake.
To Granny's house she would go.
posted by vallie at 2:22 PM
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