Our First Christmas

by Lisa Jackson

  “No strippers?”

  “I would not be at a party where there were strippers,” Josh said. “Neither would Jason or Chuck. We’re here having beers, that’s it. I don’t like the bar scene, but Miles is a good friend so we’re here.”

  “I don’t like the bar scene, either.”

  “I noticed you rode the bull.” The corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile. I told myself that I did not want to kiss that corner.

  “Yes, Camellia and Violet, the terrible twins, forced me and I was actually having fun until I face-planted off it.”

  “It was graceful.”

  “Funny.” I reminded myself that he owned our green farmhouse, our red barn, and our meadows, rocks, and visiting deer. Plus our purple and blue view of the Swan Mountains. “I don’t like you very much right now, Josh.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  He was so calm, unruffled. He watched me closely.

  “I am so mad at you.”

  “I’m aware of that, too.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Yes, I have. So have you. It’s been twelve years. We’re different people.”

  “But you’re hard now. You’re too tough. It’s like you’ve lost your heart and your emotions and your humor. You’re a wealthy landlord type of man who likes to own things, control things. I think you like knowing that I want my house and land back but you won’t sell it to me. It’s a power trip for you, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not.” His voice was clipped, and that jaw tightened right up. “I don’t do power trips, Laurel, and I don’t appreciate you telling me the type of man that I’ve become when you don’t even know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “You know nothing, Laurel, nothing, of who I am. Do you have any idea how offensive it is for you to call me a wealthy landlord, and to tell me I want control over something you want? And thanks for your judgment about not having a heart or emotions. As if you are one to judge me. I should ask you, what happened to you? What happened to that super-smart, interesting, adventurous, happy girl? Who loved sewing and skiing, baking and fishing, reading books and horseback riding? Who are you now, Laurel? You seem pretty hardened up yourself. Where did the other Laurel go?”

  “What do you mean by that? How do you know she’s gone?” But he was right. She was gone, gone, gone. Long gone.

  “You’re a woman who took off for years, hardly ever came home, and then on a rare visit is angry that her mother and aunt came to me to ask me to buy their home and land so they could have money to travel, money to live off, money for their future, and still live in the house.”

  He had done them a huge favor. I got it. I still wanted it back. “It’s my family’s home and land and you should sell it back to me.”

  “My answer is still the same. No.”

  “You’re a jerk, Josh, do you know that? There’s no give in you, no gentleness, no compassion, no laughter anymore, is there?”

  “Yes, there is, but I believe you told me loud and clear twelve years ago you didn’t want to see it anymore.”

  Low blow. That hurt. The pain radiated straight out from my heart.

  “Then you went to Los Angeles and became an ungrateful, demanding, angry woman who throws a temper tantrum when she can’t get her own way.”

  I wanted to throw my beer in his face, but I wouldn’t. That wasn’t me. I did, however, need to get away from him before I kicked him with my red cowgirl boots. Hot tears were burning my eyes. A hot blush was burning my face, and my hot temper was triggered.

  I did not want to fight with Josh. I did not want it to be like this. I could feel my chin tremble and I wanted to smack myself until it stopped.

  “Laurel,” his voice softened. Deep and soft. It ran right through my body.

  I turned away, embarrassed because I knew he knew I was about to dissolve into sniffly tears, grabbed my purse, and went to look for my gunpowder-dusting sisters.

  It was my way of running from him. Again.

  I could say that I don’t know what got into me that night, but I do know: Josh got into me. Into my head and heart.

  I don’t drink much alcohol, probably because I’ve been around it way too much on tours with Hellfire. Violet and Camellia hardly ever drink now, either. They’re mommies. We used to when we were teenagers, we fed that Kelly Family Wild Bone, and we did stupid stuff.

  But that night, Camellia said, “I’ve called my hubby. Told him I’m drinking martinis. He said he’ll come and get us in two hours.”

  “Hi ho, Silver, and gallop away,” Violet said. She’d already had three drinks. “Because I need a night off. I need to dance and sing and be a Rockette.”

  “A Rockette?” I asked.

  “Yep. Like this.” Then she climbed up on the wooden stage near the bar and did the cancan. Everyone cheered. We knew many of the people there.

  “Go, momma!” I shouted.

  “Kick ’em high!” Camellia said.

  And that started us off on a slippery slope of Kelly Family Wild Bone trouble.

  We ordered more drinks. That was a bad idea that became badder.

  The three of us ended up on stage singing karaoke. We screeched out, “It’s raining men.” Then we chortled along with Saturday Night Fever’s hit, “Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive.” We ended with, “We are family, I got all my sisters with me,” in which Violet hit a high C for a long, long ear-blistering time and Camellia decided to do a handstand and I did a cartwheel.

  A bunch of people we knew from high school joined us and we sang love songs, one about muskrat love. I later took another face-plant off the bull, danced with Camellia and Violet, but not Josh, Edible Cowboy, and laughed ’til my stomach hurt.

  I laughed so I wouldn’t cry.

  “I’ll take Laurel home.”

  “What? Nope and nope,” I said to Josh outside Taylor’s Bar and Grill. I shook my finger at him as the earth seemed to tilt. “You are not taking me home, mean landowner.”

  Talo, Camellia’s husband, a college professor, had a gentle arm around Camellia’s waist. She was nibbling on his ear. “Thanks, Josh, that’d be great.”

  “Hold on tight, hi ho, Silver,” I said. I held my head. My. What a rush! I would blame it on the bull. Or my headstand on stage with Camellia and Violet upside-down beside me. Nah. It was the alcohol. “I’m not getting in a car with this here”—I tapped my finger on Josh’s chest—“this here snow monster man. No way in Montana.” I swayed. Josh put an arm around my waist, and I leaned against his chest. “It’s raining a man. Bad man.” I sang a verse from the raining men song.

  “You can tell by the way I use my walk,” Violet sang out, walking a crooked line, hips swinging. “I’m a man’s woman, no time to talk.”

  Talo settled the ear-nibbling Camellia in the car after she trilled, “How deep is your love, how deep is your love?” Talo shut the front door, then guided Violet in. Violet warbled, “I’m stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. Ah ah ah ah! Stayin’ allliiivve!” She hit another high C and I laughed ’til I bent over.

  I sang/shouted back to both of them, “We are family. I got all my sisters with me.”

  They stuck their hands out the window and waved and yelled, “I love you, Laurel!”

  “Thanks, man,” Talo said to Josh. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I’m ten minutes from her house.”

  “Muskrat love,” I said. “I will not ride this cowboy like a bull.” I poked Josh in the chest again. My, it was fuzzy and swirly out here.

  Josh led me toward his black truck. I wobbled beside him. “I’m not going with you because of your King-Kong size and because you stole my house and put it on Santa’s sleigh and now it’s at the North Pole and you are not getting any presents because you were a bad boy this year.”

  “I can’t change my King-Kong size, I did not steal your house and put it on Santa’s sleigh, and I am not surprised about Santa’s decision.”

  “Why are you mean to me
, Josh Josh?” I said, looping an arm around his waist. I stared deep into those green, cold cowboy eyes. “Yep. You still have gold in your eyes mixed in the green. And you still have a lot of blond hair, but you don’t have a smile anymore. I think you lost your smile. Maybe it’s at the North Pole with my house on Santa’s sleigh.”

  “I think I lost my smile about twelve years ago. Let’s go, Laurel.”

  “I no go with Sam I Am.”

  “That’s right. You’re going with Josh I am.”

  I went with Josh I am.

  The cool air rushing by my face when I hung my head out Josh’s truck’s window sobered me up a tad, but not enough.

  I told Josh I was drunk for the first time since he and I got drunk together one night on a canoe when he was more of a friendly elf than he was now. I told him he did not actually resemble King Kong and I hoped it didn’t hurt his feelings but I thought he was intimidating now because his eyes were frosty cold, like Frosty the Snowman. Was he related to Frosty the Snowman? No? Are you sure?

  I further told him that I would not get naked with him again like a snow angel because he was not Santa Claus and fat and jolly and friendly, no, he was more like the Grinch and did he think bah humbug for Christmas, I bet he did. I said he might own my house and my land in the North Pole but he did not own any part of my privates, so there.

  Finally I told him he was a sexy reindeer. Then I slung my head as far out of his truck’s window as I could because I thought I was going to be sick.

  I do not remember him carrying me past my mother and aunt and upstairs to my pink bedroom. My mother and aunt told me what happened in the morning. They seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious.

  I only know I woke up with the most miserable headache of my entire life and I felt like a damn muskrat love fool.

  The drama for the Kelly Family’s Chaotic Christmas Eve started the next day, via e-mail, which only increased my brain-splitting hangover headache.

  Dear Laurel dearie,

  Greetings!

  About Christmas Eve dinner at your place. We hope a family tizzy war is not imminent. Between you and me, a secret, I was hoping you could run a tiddly bit of interference for me. Last year, Chantrea’s sons kept making fun of Richard because his last name is Longer. Old Swedish name, he thinks.

  Remember how Oakie, Aspen, and Redwood made up that phallic song and wiggly dance about Dick Longer? I told Chantrea that her boys sounded like braying donkeys and she threw that butter dish at me, which was uncalled for, goodness me.

  I can’t have the boys making fun of Richard again. If they do, I think he’s going to punch them. He’s a former boxer, and he does not appreciate being made fun of. Can you talk to Chantrea for me? You’re the only one she and her ballistic nature listens to, and I can’t have a butter dish flying at my ole’ head again.

  I love you. Tell your mother and aunt I said tra la la hello. I will bring my mother’s hash and onion casserole and meat-loaf balls for Christmas Eve.

  Tootles,

  Aunt Amy

  To Laurel:

  I no can stand that Amy. She say mean lies about my good boys. They are not troublemaker; they make little trouble, but they good boys. Judge say they have that probation but not the jail time for the borrowing of that friend’s (who not a friend) car and drive fast and judge say next time jail, but not time now. They serve community. They community servers. Like servants. Good boys.

  Okay, so if Amy come to your house for Christmas, not me. I no come and talk to her and her Longer Dick husband. He get mad at my good boys for singing nice song. That no sense. She say I throw butter dish at her. No. She lie. Not butter dish. Small flat plate. I shoot to miss.

  You my angel girl. Glad you back in this cowboy cowgirl town. Me, I miss Cambodia.

  I bring Cambodian ginger catfish to Christmas dinner and I bring Beef Lok Lak. You come see me again at restaurant soon and come my house for dinner on Wednesday.

  Kiss to you. Kiss kiss. Love to you. (Not that Amy)

  Chantrea

  Chapter 3

  It took us almost all day to get the Christmas trees decorated. We drank eggnog and ate St. Patrick’s Day clover leaf Christmas cookies while we did it.

  As usual, the trees were as eccentric as my mother and aunt. The parlor tree was decorated only with high heel ornaments. The tree in the sewing room, The Feminist Tree, was decorated with women-power types of sayings on red paper. The small tree in the kitchen was decorated for Valentine’s Day because they love love, and a fourth tree in the entry was covered in shamrocks and leprechauns to honor our Irish heritage.

  The tree in the family room was ten feet tall and covered with all our other ornaments, red ribbon, colorful lights, gold beads, and a two-foot-wide gold star at the top that had to be wrapped in wire and attached to the trunk. It still tilted.

  In the middle of it, James and Thomas skidded in, tongues flapping, Zelda hissed and shrieked, and they headed straight back out, whimpering.

  “They have to learn to stick up for themselves against Zelda,” I murmured.

  “We’ve talked to them about that,” my mother said. “Merry Christmas to three women who know and speak their own minds at all times.”

  “Let no man ever squash us,” my aunt said.

  “Cheers to that,” I said.

  We clinked our eggnog glasses.

  I thought about Josh. He had never squashed me.

  I was twenty. It was snowing and icy. It was cold enough to freeze a dog’s tail off. I was home from college for Christmas.

  I told him what I thought of our relationship, of him as a man. “I hate you,” I said.

  I cried.

  He cried, too.

  It was a sad, destructive conversation and when he went for a handkerchief to hand to me, we hit a slippery patch on that deadly curve.

  It all came to a head that one snow-blasted night.

  I blamed myself.

  I still do.

  I will never stop blaming myself.

  “Tell me about your apron business.” I cut the reindeer fabric on the long dining room table my granddad built in the sewing room, while Elvis Presley sang “Blue Christmas” on a CD.

  “We’re sewing Christmas aprons as fast as we can. Glad you’re here to stitch and sew, honey,” my mother said, talking around two pins in her mouth.

  “If you have any new apron ideas, you go right ahead and whip them up,” my aunt said, running poinsettia fabric expertly through her sewing machine.

  My aunt and mother made aprons for a number of businesses across Montana. I had helped them make aprons from the time I was about six. Usually, they made the old-fashioned type—a bib and skirt, pockets, ruffles, pretty trims and piping, large bows in back. They would use at least two different fabrics for each apron, often more. They also liberally used lace and unique buttons. There were no “plain” aprons. They didn’t believe in plain. Every apron had to be, in their words, “Montana spectacular.”

  What they created was apron art, in my mind. I’ve never seen aprons anywhere near as well-sewn, decorated, and original as theirs.

  “I’m a little rusty,” I said. “But it’s coming back.”

  “Nonsense,” my mother said. “Your seams are as straight as ever, your fabric choices compatible and charming blends.”

  I had slid back into sewing as quick as I slid into my pink wool socks this morning, red jeans, and a purple sweater. My sewing machine felt like my best non-living friend. I’m a sewing geek, I know it. It’s genetics. I sew, my mother and aunt sew, their mother sewed, her mother sewed, all the way back, I’m told, to Ireland.

  There were three sewing machines on the table, one for each of us. The rest of the table was piled with Christmas fabrics, pins, patterns, threads, and sketches of aprons. Above us were two twinkling chandeliers my late grandma bought when she was sixty. It was a gift to herself for “surviving Montana winters.”

  There was a wall of shelves for other sewing supplies,
including buttons, trim, rickrack, tape measures, a collection of antique thimbles, and sewing books.

  The sewing room was filled with color, light, and a sense of purpose. That my ancestors had all laughed, sang, cried, and danced in this room made it even more special. I tried not to have a mini-breakdown when I thought about how our sewing room wasn’t truly ours anymore.

  I decided to use fabric with candy canes on it as trim for the apron’s skirt.

  “A woman needs a pretty apron when she’s cooking and enjoying the pleasures of the kitchen,” Aunt Emma said. “Or, when she wants a little ooh la la from her man, she can wear an apron with nothing underneath and enjoy other pleasures.”

  “You’ve done it before, right, Laurel?” my mother asked. “Made dinner naked, wearing only one of our aprons?”

  “Do we need to talk about that, Mom?”

  “I’d like to know, too, dear.” My aunt winked at me. “What was the end result? Did our aprons contribute to a successful evening?”

  I put my hands over my face as a picture of me cooking chicken tacos for Josh, naked, wearing a pink frilly apron skittered through my mind . . . another time I made spaghetti for him in a red and white flowered apron only . . . once I wore a black ruffled apron over my birthday suit and we hadn’t made it to the meal....

  Stop thinking about him, I told myself. Stop.

  “Now, let us live vicariously through you and your radical rocker man, Ace Hellfire,” my aunt said.

  “Tell us more stories about the fire-breathing rebel,” my mother said.

  I laughed out loud thinking about “radical rocker man, Ace.”

  They did, too.

  “I should have known you would be here,” I muttered.

  “How about, ‘Nice to see you, Josh.’ ” Josh raised his eyebrows at me and handed me a glass of wine.

  “No, thank you. I’m not drinking.”

  “You look beautiful.”