My mother came out on the kitchen porch in her apron. She was speaking in a normal voice like we were in the same room and it was so still that I could hear her perfectly, “Oh Sidney isn’t this a spectacular day? Did we ever think we’d see a beautiful scene like this? You look so great! Are the skates okay?”
“Yeah, they’re perfect! This is the best ice rink in the world!”
I got more confident in my skating abilities and started doing my amateur versions of figure eights and twirls. I skated and skated until I hoped it was time to eat. After a while I took off my skates, leaving the chair down on the ice so I could come down after dinner and skate some more.
The three of us sat down together to eat the feast. The turkey was in the center of the table steaming hot and golden brown. My mom said a prayer. She had each of us say things we were thankful for. I said I was thankful for both of them being with me for the holiday, thankful for the beautiful lake, thankful for my new school, and thankful for Brandy. Thanksgiving dinner was as good as I’d ever had and I felt that I was right where I was supposed to be.
Bad news came Monday afternoon when I got home from school. Brandy wasn’t at the kitchen door to greet me. He wasn’t curled up by the wood stove. He wasn’t in his favorite chair. My mom was in her bedroom. I asked where he was. She said he was really sick in the morning when she woke up, long after I’d left for the bus. She said he couldn’t even walk and she and Seymour carried him out to the car. She said he was holding out until she was there for him. They brought him to the vet in Virginia and the vet said he was in some kind of coronary distress and that there was no point in taking him back out to the lake to suffer so they put him to sleep.
They put him to sleep without giving me any warning. I didn’t get to say goodbye or kiss his soft nose or tell him how sorry I was that I had killed him by being too stupid and lazy to keep up with his medication and that I didn’t make the ground beef and rice every day and just gave him dry dog food. I killed him and I didn’t even get to apologize.
Their other news was that they were leaving again. The next morning.
The worst thing about Brandy was that my mom and Seymour had brought his body home to the cabin but the ground was too hard already when they tried to dig a hole. So they wrapped Brandy’s body up in the plastic wrap the vet had given them and again in a big old army blanket of Grandpa’s, and they stuffed his body up in the rafters of the old carport where we parked the truck. Seymour assured me he’d be just fine up there. He promised they’d bury him properly in the spring and I suggested we have a real funeral and my mother and Seymour liked the idea.
CHRISTMAS
The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were just a blur. School was fine during the day and Dale often visited in the evenings. But the cabin was very quiet and scary at night. Aunt Evie’s ghost took up residence at the foot of my bed. She had loved Brandy. She had even more now to hold against me. Sometimes I would wake in the night and cry as she stood unmoving, unsmiling at the foot of my bed. I would say, “I know. I see. I can’t do anything about it now. It’s too late. It’s all too late. Brandy’s gone. Leave me alone. There’s nothing I can do. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry.” Many nights I lay in bed and cried and prayed, and cried and prayed.
Christmas Eve arrived. I was dressed in my flannel calico prairie dress and my Frye boots and my tweed jacket. I was going to wear Mom’s big beautiful shearling coat because it was gorgeous, warm extravagant fur, she wasn’t around to get mad and somebody should get to enjoy it in this cold. I think it ended up at the cabin by accident. She would have wanted it in Chicago if she had her mind together, but it was in the closet so I put it on. It had real animal bone (or maybe they were antler), toggle closures and a huge fur-lined hood. The outside was tanned suede. The coat was amazingly glamorous and at the same time utterly primitive. I couldn’t believe my good fortune to get to wear it for Christmas Eve.
I’d been invited to a distant relative’s home. He was from Chicago—my grandfather’s nephew and was living year-round as a new experiment with his much younger wife and their two adorable towhead toddlers. I was told the children were maybe my third cousins or something like that. This relative made a lot of money at one point, then divorced his first wife and took up with this woman and started a new family. The wife was Southern, very bright and serious. They had built a modern, year-round, log-construction home on a windswept and isolated rocky lookout. I didn’t know them well but somehow they found out about me and the whole family stopped by the cabin unexpectedly the Saturday before and ended up inviting me for Christmas Eve dinner. I said I’d bring cookies. I baked a batch of star-shaped sugar cookies, sprinkled them with sugar, and wrapped them in a red-and-white cloth napkin. I packaged the cookies in a red wooden box that was in the kitchen cupboard. That would be my only gift but they turned out well so I was satisfied.
I went to their house in my red truck, which had real mistletoe that Dale had bought for me, hanging from the rearview mirror. The mistletoe was frozen solid, like everything else by this point in late December, but it was cheery and made me feel good. I made a suitably festive entrance coming down the drive in my bright red, old Ford pickup truck. They heard my truck on the gravel. Every noise was amplified in the crystal silence of the frozen landscape. The whole family was at the open door as I walked from the perfectly shoveled path to the door. I handed the little girl my gift. The couple greeted me warmly. The wife was dressed in a taffeta plaid long skirt and white blouse, the husband in a reindeer sweater. I was glad I got dressed up. The house was lit with candles and decorated with fresh pine boughs on the staircase and the fireplace mantel. The fire was blazing. I was grateful to be with them.
I was offered some dark red wine, which I didn’t like, but was happy to sip to be festive. We exchanged pleasantries about the winter weather, about how different the lake was in winter. Everything was cozy and beautiful. The dinner of a dressed and roasted goose with many lovely side dishes looked delicious.
When we sat down to eat, I was so thrilled with the dinner and the sips of wine and the warmth of the charming family that I didn’t notice the conversation shifting. It was as if they were starting to hone in on their real reason for inviting me. Their polite questions became more pointed. I realized they had serious questions they wanted answered.
They were determined to get to the bottom of how I could have ended up alone at the age of seventeen on Christmas Eve fifty miles from Canada in the middle of nowhere with no parents and no exit strategy. I didn’t blame them honestly, but they couldn’t shut up. They knew nothing of what had transpired with my family in the past year; that was obvious.
When the husband asked, “So Sidney, what did you say your parents are doing tonight?”, I saw the immensity of the chasm between us.
My brain was screaming, “Oh my God, do you not get that your question doesn’t come close to even beginning to capture the situation? Just give up. You are not going to be able to wrap your heads around this. Don’t even try. There’s too much to tell. Don’t make me try to tell you.”
I could hear myself saying, “Yeah, well I mean it’s just a really difficult situation, but you know we’re all handling it pretty well, I think.”
What was I saying? I had no fucking idea how my dad was handling it. I didn’t actually know where Preston was right then. My mom was probably having sex with her new boyfriend as we spoke. What am I supposed to tell you? The truth? You think you really want the truth? Do you want to hear about how guilty I feel? Do you want to hear about how petrified I am? Do you want to hear about how the ghost of my great-aunt who you probably used to know is now haunting me every night? Do you want to hear about how terrible I feel about not taking good enough care of our beloved family dog who’s dead now because of me? Or, how about my biggest concern right now, which is whether to give in to my primal urges and lose what’s left of my virginity to a not very bright but extremely kind you
ng man who works as an unskilled laborer in an iron ore mine?
These thoughts were on the verge of becoming words, but luckily I found a way out of the interrogation. It was my little cousins who saved me. Their Christmas tree was huge in the high-ceilinged living room. The scent of pine from the freshly cut tree and the boughs everywhere plus the smell of the wood from their new construction was wonderful. We had all eaten heartily. The children’s eyes had been bright with anticipation as they ate their dinners and finally they were allowed to leave the table. Just as their parents’ interrogation became too much for me, the two of them came over and took my hands and started trying to pull me up out of my seat.
I laughed and let them pull me to the tree. They pointed out all the many wrapped gifts. The little girl was dressed in a wonderfully voluminous taffeta dark green party dress. The boy was in dark green suede lederhosen style shorts and wool knee socks, with a crisp white collared shirt. They were darling with their chubby cheeks and affectionate gestures and distracted me from the scrutinizing gaze of their intelligent and cultured parents who were never going to get what was going on with me. The parents and I cleared the dishes from the table. A Christmas Yule cake was served. A few gifts were opened. I was given a hand-knitted pair of pretty cream-colored mittens with a matching long scarf and beanie cap. Everyone had one of my cookies. Finally it was time to say goodnight.
I left with a lump in my throat. It was hard to leave their warm safe beautiful home. I cried as I drove on the dark long path to my little cabin that was so desperately empty without Brandy. I went to bed on Christmas Eve with the light of my wood stove twinkling in the main room. Aunt Evie appeared at the foot of my bed way after the stroke of midnight with her same unfeeling countenance, her accusing eyes. I wished her a Merry Christmas and turned over and put the pillow over my head. The gun, now that Brandy was gone, was next to my pillow.
On the afternoon of Christmas Day I went skating down on the lake. As the winter was progressing the snow was not cooperating. I kept my desk chair down there with a red shovel that Dale had brought over for me. I had to shovel the whole thing off every time I skated and the sides were getting very high with snow. The rink was getting smaller too as my conviction faded with the ever-heavier snowfalls. Some mornings I came down to discover that a snowmobiler had run right through the middle of my rink, usually got stuck, usually put some gouges in my perfect ice, and usually made a mess of my rink after trying to escape on the far end. Every time I went down there I put on my skates and shoveled as I skated, pushing the shovel in front of me and making a wider and wider skating area, freeing my skates as I went along, freeing myself to skate a wider swath unencumbered. I was shoveling the rink when I heard a car driving up the point. I stopped to listen. Without Brandy I was keenly aware of every noise, knowing that I no longer had a second pair of ears to be on the alert.
The car pulled up and the engine was turned off. Someone got out and was coming down to the lake toward me. It wasn’t Dale. I recognized that it was Seymour when he finally called out, “Hallooooo down there … ” in his funny vaudevillian delivery.
“Hello Seymour! Merry Christmas! Is my mom here?”
My heart leapt at the thought that maybe they were back for good.
“No, no. I don’t want to get you all excited. No, I’m afraid it’s just me stopping in.”
I unlaced my skates and slipped on my boots. I could take the snowy steps I’d carved out to get up the bank in a few bounds now. I was soon up on the snow-covered lawn with him.
“You’ve still got the skating going. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah. It’s fun. I don’t have that much to do. I don’t have very many hours at work and school is so easy. Except calculus which I’ll probably flunk!”
“I’m only here to stop by and check in on you, Sidney. I promised your mother I would.”
“Oh yeah, well that’s okay. I mean I’m fine. You don’t have to do anything. I mean I’m doing just fine.”
“I know. I knew you would be. You’re a strong person. You have a lot of determination and energy. You will go places in life with that.”
“Well, I hope so. We’ll see I guess. Not really going places right now!”
We talked for a minute about how Mom was doing, what was happening in Chicago, what he was doing driving around on Christmas Day.
“I’m renting a place up here now. I’m not sure what your mother’s plans will be and honestly I’m staying open to several scenarios. But I care about your family and I want to be supportive in any way I can.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that. I didn’t really know what my mom thought of her new relationship with Seymour, so I didn’t want to weigh in.
“Come up to the house. I have something for you. A Christmas present. I talked to your mother about it and she thought you might like this.”
I followed him. I couldn’t imagine what a man like Seymour would ever get somebody like me for a Christmas present.
But there they were on the porch leaning up against the kitchen door. Skis. Cross-country skis. Made of wood with metal bindings, brown leather boots with special toe fittings clipped to the bindings. Red poles with white leather hand grips too.
“Oh my gosh Seymour. These are fantastic!”
“That’s a promising reaction.”
“Oh wow, are you kidding? These are great!”
“Well, do you think you can use them? Try on the boots. Do you think you can figure out the technique? Maybe some of the other kids up here know how.”
“Yeah, for sure. A lot of the kids at school know how to ski cross-country.”
“Well, here’s a book to go with it. Between the book and some practice, you should be up and skiing in no time. You’re a natural athlete, the way you improved in your skating so quickly.”
He handed me a wrapped book from a bookstore in Virginia.
“Haha, well I have plenty of time. School’s out this whole week and part of next.”
“I want to get on the road before nightfall. I’m driving down to be with your mother and hopefully we will celebrate New Year’s Eve together. Here’s some extra cash in case you need anything. Is your new friend still coming around?”
“Dale, yeah he is. We’ll probably be playing a show with his band on New Year’s Eve. I’m really excited about that. I get to sing some of my own songs and harmonies with the brothers.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re on the road to stardom. Good for you.”
I took the money he handed me, didn’t count it, just stuffed it into my coat pocket. The sun fell fast now and the sky was bright pink out over the ice.
Seymour gave me an awkward hug, “Merry Christmas, kid. I have a lot of faith in you. You’re really something.”
“Thanks Seymour. I feel the same way about you … ” I said, not wanting to miss an opportunity for a good joke. He winked and straightened his dark fake-fur hat, the kind that old guys wore in the ‘50s.
“I assume you don’t need me to reload your gun.”
“No. I haven’t touched it, I swear.”
“Well, don’t hesitate if the need arises. At your age, we could probably get you out on self-defense no matter whom you decide to shoot. Take care of yourself Sidney. I know your mother wants to come back up as soon as she gets your great-aunt’s affairs settled.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Okay, good luck.”
“Same to you Seymour.”
I watched him walk up the darkening path. The car engine started right away and he headed back to civilization. I didn’t care that I wasn’t going with him. I had no desire to be back in Chicago. That place was just shame and bad memories for me. At least this life was fresh and new and all mine.
I loaded my arms with wood and went inside to tend the fire. Christmas night. I had the wood stove stoked to the gills. The flames were flickering right up to the little glass window and throwing shadows around the room. I sat cross-legged on the wool carpet,
guitar on my lap, staring at the chimney stones.
I thought about how often I’d heard my mother say, “If you look at the stones you can see the faces of Indian spirits.”
I laughed out loud as I remembered one of the first funny things Seymour did up here. My mother was knitting in the early fall when they first came up together. She had been telling Seymour about seeing faces in the stones.
As she sat knitting, she looked up at the stones and gasped. Seymour, who had his head buried in the local newspaper, lowered his paper and looked at my mother. Then he looked at me. His eyes were smiling. My mother looked shocked.
“Mom, what?” I said, looking at Seymour like I wanted to get in on the joke if there was one, “Mom. Why are you gasping like that?”
“Well, it’s just … well, it’s just that the spirits’ faces are more distinct tonight than I’ve ever seen them. I can see them really clearly. It’s like they’re all laughing. Look! Look at them. Come over to where I’m sitting. Here, do you see that? Look at that stone over there! Oh, oh my goodness!”
I looked at the fireplace. Sure enough, the spirits’ faces were shining forth like never before. It was crazy, really scary-looking, like the masks of Comedy and Tragedy laughing and screaming and crying all at once. Almost every stone had come to life.
“Oh my God! They were never like this before,” I agreed.
Mom and I stared. I looked at Seymour, but he hid again behind his newspaper. My mother got up out of her chair and went to the fireplace. She peered at the stones and then rubbed her finger on one of the faces. She looked at her finger, “Seymour?”
A Girl Called Sidney Page 21
