It was supposed to make him feel better, my story, but for some reason he looked worse. It was too much to rewind so I just let it drop.
He pointed to the closet door. “It’s inside.”
“What is?”
“The shirt.”
I’d forgotten I was looking for it.
I slipped it on and changed from my jeans into the soft, gray sweatpants that Big Eyes had given me. When I climbed into bed, something was hanging over me. Not literally. It was a feeling. Like when I’d start a book at home then lose it in the piles of junk. Something felt missing. It was ’cause he’d walked out earlier. And I didn’t know why.
“I’m sorry I walked out earlier.”
It was like he could read my mind.
“I just don’t like the thought of you being so alone, with no one to talk to, that’s all.”
“There are worse things. Like being Anne Frank.”
“And I am really, really sorry for saying you were frustrating. And that it was no wonder your mother kicked you out. You are not annoying. You are lovely. Never change, Nishim. Not for anyone.”
And just like that the lost book feeling was gone. The missing pieces were filling in and I felt as whole as I’d ever been in my whole life, so I said good night, closed my eyes and waited for the spark to burst.
The next day was Christmas Eve. On the way home from busking we picked up Big Eyes from her shift at the candy store. Busker Boy said I could get something so I filled a bag with mini candy canes. Pop Girl was behind the counter.
Pop! “How may I help you?”
Busker Boy passed her the bag, which she dropped roughly onto the scales.
After he paid he said, “Merry Christmas.”
Pop! “Piss off.”
The three of us walked back to the house. Big Eyes said it would be her first Christmas away from home. Busker Boy said, “You can always go back,” and she said, “To rosary beads and nightly prayers? No thanks.”
Chef and Cher were in the kitchen. Christmas music blared from the ghetto blaster and our paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling. Cher put her arms around Busker Boy and danced him into the room singing “Last Christmas.” Busker Boy played along, twirling and dipping Cher like a ballroom dancer. Big Eyes told him he had the patience of Job. Cher said, “Who’s Job?” and I said, “You know, from the Land of Uz,” and Cher said, “I’ve seen that movie a thousand times and trust me there’s no Job,” and I said, “Not Oz, Uz, from the Bible.” Cher said, “You read the Bible?” and I said, “I tried but I like non-fiction better.”
We played charades in the kitchen so Chef could guess while he cooked. I did the Grinch by swaying back and forth singing, “Fah who for-aze! Dah who dor-aze!” and Cher said, “What the hell, Bun?” but Big Eyes shouted, “Cindy-Lou Who,” and when I said, “Close,” she guessed right.
Sometimes, at home, I’d turn on the TV and radio at the same time, making sure that one was playing music and the other was talking. Real parties were much better.
The table was set with a red-and-green tartan cloth and there were wine glasses at every place, even mine. Chef served tourtière. “A French-Canadian tradition,” he said. “I made mine with moose.”
Cher said the crust was to die for. I said it was really good but I wouldn’t kill myself over it.
Cher lifted her drink. “Compliments to the Chef.”
I clinked my Purity syrup against their wine.
I can’t say for sure, but if I was to take a guess, I’d say we all had the rumbly kitten feeling.
Dragon Man came home. On his head was a Santa hat. “Come sit on my lap and tell Old Saint Nick what you want for Christmas.”
Busker Boy stood up so fast his chair fell over. Cher tugged his arm. “It’s not worth it.”
Chef brought Dragon Man a piece of pie. “Christmas is a time for kindness.”
Big Eyes said, “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” Dragon Man mumbled thanks and went upstairs.
—
When it got late, Busker Boy said I should go to bed or Santa wouldn’t come.
“Go on,” he said. “Go get ready for bed. It’s almost midnight.”
Big Eyes burst out crying.
“What in God’s name is wrong?” asked Cher.
She could barely get the words out. “It’s…” She pointed at her wrist. “It’s…”
Cher examined her hand. “Are you in pain? Did you sprain it?”
“She’s not hurt,” I said. “She’s pointing at a watch that’s not there. ’Cause she’s thinking about midnight mass.”
Chef took a puff of his skinny cigarette. “Holy crap. How the hell did you figure that?”
“Me and her, we’re on the same wavelength.”
Busker Boy stood up. “We’ll be late, but Catholic masses go on forever, right?”
Big Eyes smeared the rainbow across her eyes. “Are you serious?”
Cher pulled on her thigh-high boots. “To the basilica!”
—
We skipped down Water Street singing Christmas songs, even Cher in her high heels, even me, a girl who’d never skipped a day in her life.
Chef suggested “Do They Know It’s Christmas,” and Cher said, “Dibs on the Boy George part!” After Busker Boy sang the Paul Young bit, Cher came in with the line about spreading a smile of joy, and it was so perfect everyone doubled over laughing, and Big Eyes said, “Oh my bleepin’ bleep we’ll never get there at this rate.”
We sang the “feed the world” part together.
Singing, I discovered, was a great way to use your voice.
The basilica was big and grand, like something out of an Italian architecture book. Cher put her arm around Busker Boy and said, “If I’m struck down by lightning, will you revive me?” People turned to look as we slid into the last pew. I sat next to an old woman who was wearing a plastic rain bonnet. She nodded toward Chef and said, “What in the name of God is that on his head?” and I said, “Hair,” and she tutted and said, “I never saw the likes of that in my life.” People tutted at Cher too, but she smiled as if they’d given her a compliment. The priest at the front droned on and on and I must have drifted off ’cause the old woman next to me elbowed me. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a hard candy. I looked at Busker Boy. He nodded so I took it. He mouthed “thank you,” and I mouthed back “why” ’cause I hadn’t done anything, and he shook his head no and pointed at the old lady. It looked like she was praying, so I practiced in my head for next time: thanks, thank you, thanks a lot, wow, thanks.
When everyone formed a line in the center aisle I got up to join them but Chef said, “Stay where you are, little Sally Lunn.” Cher walked it like a runway, one hand on her hip, the other flicking her hair off her shoulder.
A lady came to our pew and talked in angry whispers. Big Eyes covered her ears and ran out. Chef went after her and then Busker Boy told me to get Cher. She was disappointed when I said it was time to go. “This place is a friggin’ riot.”
Big Eyes stood outside under a big arch, crying into Chef’s chest.
Cher put her arms around them and so did me and Busker Boy.
On the walk home someone yelled pansy out a car window. Cher did her runway walk again. “You show them, sister,” said Chef.
The fast walking made me lose my breath so Busker Boy gave me a piggyback. I put my cheek next to his, and he said, “Don’t forget to hang your stocking when we get home,” and I said, “I don’t have one,” and he said, “Yes you do.”
It was red felt with a snowman on it and my hands shook when I held it.
“Don’t go getting all emotional now,” he said.
All emotional. Me.
He told me to hang it on the fireplace in the living room. So I did.
—
Santa stopped coming when my dad left. I figured it was ’cause my mother turned me invisible.
Even Santa wasn’t magic enough to see ghosts.
I still believed in
him though.
In Miracle on 34th Street, Kris Kringle said, “Just because every child can’t get his wish that doesn’t mean there isn’t a Santa Claus.”
I liked that. It made my empty stocking a little less disappointing.
Eventually, I gave up on Christmas.
But when Busker Boy gave me the red felt stocking, I thought, Maybe I’ll start believing in Santa again—he’d definitely find me now.
Busker Boy turned me visible.
—
It felt like something was different when I woke but I wasn’t sure what. By the time I got downstairs I was sure.
They said, “Merry Christmas, Bun!” and I said, “It’s here,” and Chef sang “Christmas Time Is Here” from Charlie Brown, and they all joined in, and I said, “No. I mean, IT came.”
Chef passed me an orange juice. “Santa’s not an ‘it.’ ”
“Not Santa. My period.”
They came at me all at once. My juice went flying. “We did it! Oh my God! We did it!” There were high fives and hoots and hollers and Big Eyes said, “It’s a bleepin’ Christmas miracle,” except she didn’t say bleepin’, and Chris sang “I’m Every Woman,” and Busker Boy thanked Chef for all his good cooking and I said, “I can get pregnant now,” and Chris said, “Jesus Christ, Bun, I hope that’s a fact not a goal,” and I said, “I have no goals.”
—
In my stocking there was a box of Turtles, a small Funshine Care Bear, my own Love’s Baby Soft, a slap bracelet, a neon pink wallet, a candy cane and, in the toe, a clementine.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thanks a lot. Wow, thanks.”
“We all chipped in,” said Big Eyes.
Busker Boy handed me an envelope. “This was Chef’s idea.”
It was sealed with a rainbow sticker. I brought it to my nose. Chef laughed. Inside was a small plastic card. It said A.C. Hunter Library.
“Who’s Cherilyn Sarkisian?” I asked.
“We couldn’t use your real name,” said Big Eyes. “In case they come looking for you.”
“No one’s looking for me.”
“That’s Cher’s birth name,” said Chris. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I said it out loud, “Cherilyn Sarkisian.”
If I hadn’t used my voice in a while, it’d be a name I’d definitely repeat.
“You can borrow books for twenty-one days,” said Chef. “And there’s no limit.”
I slipped the card into my new wallet. “I’m going to borrow a book for each of you,” I said. “That’ll be my Christmas gift to you.”
I asked if I could say grace before we ate. They looked at me funny but said yes anyway. I recited Reverend Bill McCarthy’s words to the men at the Old Brewery Mission.
“Bow your heads and silently utter a prayer of thanksgiving and thanks to God for his blessings. Good luck, have a good meal and enjoy yourself. No seconds, okay?”
We ate turkey and potatoes and carrots and turnips. The savory dressing was the best and I washed it all down with Purity syrup. I tried to share my Turtles for dessert but they wouldn’t take one. “They’re all yours, my ducky.”
The coffee table was covered in bottles. Everyone drank from them, except me and Busker Boy. We had eggnog instead.
We sat on the floor around the coffee table and played Trivial Pursuit. We ate Pot of Gold and Terry’s Chocolate Orange. For the first time, I knew it was Christmas not just by the carols and snowmen and sales that I saw on TV.
Chef leaned back and shared a skinny cigarette with Big Eyes. I sat on the couch behind him and played with his Mohawk. I brushed my hand along the top of it. It was like a broom.
“Christmas is bleepin’ awesome,” said Big Eyes. “I feel like Santa’s elves sprinkled me with happy dust.”
Then she giggled for longer than people normally giggled.
“She inhaled, didn’t she?” said Chris.
Chef laughed. “First the f-bomb, now this. Finally, she’s free.”
Busker Boy strummed his guitar and Chris said, “Hello, you the new butler?” and Busker Boy laughed and said, “Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve been the new anything!” and I knew they were doing the Bing Crosby and David Bowie bit from Bing Crosby’s Merrie Olde Christmas ’cause we had the VHS tape at home. It was one of my favorites. Chris said, “Sir Percy lets me use his piano when he’s not around. He’s not around, is he?” and I said, “It’s Percival. Sir Percival.” They did the whole bit, and when they sang “Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy,” I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach ’cause it reminded me of sitting alone in a dark house with an empty stomach thinking I was having a holly jolly Christmas by watching TV specials but I could see now it was all pretend. I wondered if it was too late to start a career in acting. Learning the scripts would be a breeze.
Dragon Man came downstairs and told Busker Boy it was time to pay up. Big Eyes said, “Merry bleepin’ Christmas to you too.”
I said, “Why don’t you ask anyone else for rent?”
Busker Boy said, “Don’t talk to him, Bun.”
When Busker Boy left the room, Dragon Man winked at me and said, “I have a job for you, if you want it.”
Chef told me to ignore him.
Busker Boy came back with an envelope. Dragon Man took it and said, “I miss my little Pocahontas.”
Busker Boy lunged at him but Chef and Chris pulled him away.
I passed Busker Boy his guitar. “How about some Paul McCartney?”
Dragon Man smirked and walked away.
“You know the one,” I said. “The mood is right…”
Pretending was good. I hoped he’d play along.
“Give me a minute, Nishim.”
“You okay?” asked Chris.
He nodded and strummed his guitar. He didn’t sing Paul, he sang John instead. The sad sounding one about war. A bad choice for pretending, I thought. Singing about simply having a wonderful Christmas time would have been better.
—
Before bed, there was a knock at the door. Chef went to answer it and came back with a small box. He passed it to Chris. “It’s for you, Mr. Christopher Andrews.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Dunno. There was nobody there.”
“Maybe it’s a fan,” I said, “from your shows.”
His face lit up. “I like the way you think, my ducky.”
When he opened the box, the light in his face went out.
He pulled out a card. From Dad.
Busker Boy moved next to him.
“What is it?” I asked.
He pulled out a smaller box. “Come here, Bun.”
He said it was an inhaler, for my cough. When he was teaching me how to use it, Busker Boy squeezed his shoulder and I wasn’t sure why, but then I saw that Chris’s eyes were all wet. No matter how many times I pressed rewind I couldn’t figure out what was so sad about an asthma inhaler.
—
I woke up to say read me something but Busker Boy wasn’t at the end of my bed. I stared at the crack in the wall and hoped wherever he was he’d be back soon.
When he came back he had a bowl of oatmeal. “For you. From Chef.”
Once, in a box from the thrift shop, there was a sign: Enjoy the Little Things. I never really got it. What little things? But then I saw the careful swirl of jam on top of my oatmeal. It was definitely a little thing and I was definitely enjoying it.
I let the steam fog my glasses. “Where’s your paper?”
He pointed at the window. “Snowstorm. I’ll get it when it clears.”
“Oh.”
“I can read some poems from my book if you want.”
“Not if it’s full of hithers and dithers.”
I didn’t like flowery poetry. The second last line of “A Dream Pang” hurt my head. “But ’tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof.”
“Poetry isn’t always doths and thous, you know.”
“I know. It can be sneedles and thneeds.”
He laughed. “Dr. Seuss?”
“Yup. My kind of poetry.”
“You might like this too. It’s kind of funny. How about I read one? See what you think?”
I wasn’t convinced but said okay.
He settled in at the end of the bed and held up the book. Poems for All the Annettes by Al Purdy.
“This one’s called ‘At the Quinte Hotel’:
I am drinking
I am drinking yellow flowers
in underground sunlight
and you can see that I am a sensitive man
and I notice that the bartender is a sensitive man
so I tell him the beer he draws
is half fart and half horse piss”
Busker Boy paused and raised his eyebrows. I grinned.
He read on about a bar fight and it was funny and real and raw. I renamed it “At the Old Brewery Mission” and imagined Jimmy Quinlan as the drunk friend that got slugged “ass-over-electric-kettle.”
“Well?” he said when he was done reading. “What did you think?”
“I think I’d like to borrow that book.”
He tossed it up my end of the bed.
I pointed to the window. “Is it clear yet?”
He looked out. “We won’t be busking today. Not in this blizzard.”
“Want me to tell you a story?” I asked.
“How about I tell you one?”
“You know stories?”
“Lots of them.”
He pulled his comforter off the floor and wrapped himself up in it. “This one’s called ‘Wolverine Invited the Birds to the Drum Dance.’ ”
The Agony of Bun O'Keefe Page 7
