The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  “No,” Aurora argues. “Tonight was fabuloso.”

  COMMAND PERFORMANCE

  COMMAND PERFORMANCE: presentation of an opera or concert at the request of royalty.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sadly, Jake and I both do more studying than kissing for the last week of the semester. I pull an all-nighter before my last exam, and he departs to meet his parents before my last test finishes.

  I’m bleary by the time Frederick and I climb into the back seat of a hired car headed for the airport. I wake up halfway to Boston with my head on his shoulder.

  “Sorry!” I sit up quickly.

  He gives me a smile. “You look like you just played a three-week tour. In Asia.”

  I rub my eyes. “I’m too tired even to be nervous about this trip.” We’re flying to Kansas City tomorrow.

  “Good. Because you have nothing to fear. It’s me who’s in the doghouse.”

  “Still?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “She can’t stay mad forever.”

  “Alice? Yes she can. She’s been pissed for twenty years that I didn’t become a surgeon like my father.”

  I swivel to look at him. “Really? Why would she care about that?”

  He tips his head back onto the seat and closes his eyes. “I don’t know. Wasted potential. Blah blah blah.”

  What a startling idea. It had never occurred to me that Frederick would be anything but a musician. His choice seems obvious. Fated, even.

  Outside the car, the sky has gone dark. Frederick’s reading light reflects in the window. I have the sensation of floating through the night with him, as if we’re the only two people in the world.

  * * *

  Another driver picks us up at the Kansas City airport. My father directs him off the highway and into a residential neighborhood. “It’s that house, the one with the tree in the window.”

  We pulled up in front of a big old house with a gambrel roof, like an old-fashioned barn. There’s a smattering of snow, and it crunches underfoot when I step out of the car.

  “You grew up here?” I ask. Another piece of the puzzle.

  “According to Alice, I never grew up at all,” he answers.

  As the front door swings open, I feel jumpy, like a nervous cat.

  The first person I see is my grandfather, who looks a lot like Frederick. When he smiles, the corners of his mouth turn up just the same way. And when I come through the door, his smile goes wide.

  “Rachel,” Frederick says behind me, “meet Dr. Richards.”

  The older man gives me a polite bow. “At your service,” he says. He’s charming, and I appreciate that he doesn’t run up and hug me. This is easier when everybody gives me a little space.

  But then Alice comes bounding down a flight of stairs. “She’s here!” she trills, her eyes shining. “I’ve been impossible all week, waiting for you to come. My friends wanted to put me on sedatives, let me tell you.”

  Frederick smirks. “I should have brought you some,” he says. “With a ribbon around the bottle.”

  Alice ignores him. “Let me show you your room, honey,” she says to me.

  I’m given the guest room. Frederick is down the hall, in his old childhood room. Since my grandparents have their bedroom on the main floor, the two of us have the upstairs all to ourselves.

  After I put my suitcase away, I hover in the doorway to my father’s room. He sits on the bed, taking off his shoes.

  “There’s an AC/DC poster on your wall? Really?”

  “They’re in good company,” he points out. There are posters of U2, the Who, and the Stones. “AC/DC was the first concert I ever went to. What was yours?”

  My stomach dips, and I sit down on the bed next to him. He doesn’t know what a loaded question he’s just asked. I’m never telling him about my first concert.

  He mistakes my silence. “You haven’t been to concerts?” He sticks a fake knife in his heart. “That’s terrible. It’s what I lived for when I was your age. Still is. If I can go hear somebody play—watch some guy with a quirky banjo technique, or a great drummer—that’s what makes me feel okay. Even if everything else is going to shit, I hear some live music, and I feel all right.”

  * * *

  After a dinner of Alice’s homemade lasagna, she chases everyone into the living room, where a Christmas tree stands eight feet tall. It’s covered in tiny white lights.

  “Rachel, you really rate,” Frederick teases as Alice brings in dessert. “Usually I’m not allowed to eat in the living room.”

  “Frederick, any time you come home to Kansas City, I’ll serve you high tea in here.”

  “Easy,” he cautions. “I’m here now. And to hell with tea. I’m ready for a big piece of that pie.”

  “It looks really good,” I agree, plopping down next to Frederick.

  “Thank you!” Alice beams. “This is just what I wanted for Christmas. All of us here together.” She hands me a piece of pie. “Now look at this.” She goes over to the mantel and opens a bag. She pulls out a stack of red velvet Christmas stockings. There are names appliquéd to each one. A minute later they hang in a row: FRANK and then ALICE and FREDERICK and RACHEL.

  Mine is a brighter red than the other three, which have faded gently over the years.

  “Wow,” I say. “Thank you.” My face feels hot. Alice is not going to let me ignore Christmas the way I’d brushed past the Thanksgiving holiday.

  I wish Frederick and I were eating takeout food in L.A. right now, with no tree and no stockings. Somewhere in those boxes I’d put into storage from our Orlando house is another stocking with my name on it. And also one that says “Jenny.”

  She’s not here to make cocoa for me on Christmas Eve, or to hide lip gloss in my stocking.

  She’s not here at all, and she never will be again.

  I hate Christmas now. But Alice is trying so hard that I’m going to have to pretend.

  “I pulled out some things to show you,” Alice goes on, dragging a wooden chest across the rug. “I’ll bet you’ve never seen baby pictures of Frederick.”

  My father rolls his eyes. “Time to break out the scotch, Dad?”

  “Good a time as any.” Grandpa Frank sets his empty pie plate down and crosses the room to a set of crystal decanters.

  I kneel in front of the chest, which Alice opens. “Let’s see…” She hands me an album. “Try this one. It’s my Christmas book.”

  I open the cover and discover that Alice was a devoted scrapbooker well before it was cool. There are little snippets of wrapping paper, and programs from church services. “Christmas 1980,” the first page announces. And there’s a photo of two-year-old Frederick holding a wrapped gift and staring up at the camera. “Aw. What a chub you were.”

  “He was a chunky little thing until puberty,” Frank says, handing a glass of smoky brown liquid to Frederick. "Then he shot up a foot and the girls started swarming like moths.”

  Frederick takes a sip of his scotch and unfurls his father’s newspaper. I flip the pages of the book, watching Frederick evolve from a toddler into a school boy. His smile is recognizable even from his kindergarten days. The first picture of him with a guitar is from 1989.

  Alice roots through the chest. “I saved some other things,” she says quietly. She draws out a silver baby rattle, tarnished with age. It chimes when I shake it. There are three die-cast metal cars, their paint chipped. “I thought a grandchild might use them some day,” Alice says, her voice heavy.

  I roll a tiny Camaro across my palm and say nothing. On the sofa, Frederick’s newspaper is raised like a shield. When I put the toys back in the box, my eye is drawn to the words “Wildcats 1995” stamped in gold on the spine of a book. I pull out my father’s high school yearbook.

  Alice chuckles. “It was a bad-hair stage,” she says. “You really do have to see that.”

  I bring the yearbook back to the sofa and open it up to the senior section. “Oh my God,” I howl. Alic
e is right about the hair. Frederick had rock-band hair—big and long. Eddie Van Halen hair. “I wonder how much People would pay me for this?” I tease.

  “I’ll kill you dead,” Frederick says from behind his paper fortress.

  I nudge him with the book. “I’m saving this as blackmail. So stay on my good side.” It’s easier to ignore the tightness in my chest when I’m teasing him.

  * * *

  The week wears on, tugging at intervals between tension and Christmas cheer. Alice and Frederick are both unfailingly nice to me, but their discomfort with each other is palpable. My father begins to resemble a caged animal. He avoids Alice, pacing the living room while she cooks, or shutting the door to his old bedroom to make calls. Sometimes I hear the strains of his guitar from behind the door.

  “Would it kill you to spend time with me?” my grandmother asks on Christmas Eve.

  “Would it kill you to stop starting sentences like that?” he counters, ducking into the refrigerator to get a beer. Then he goes into the den to watch the football game with his father.

  I’m teasing icing onto a gingerbread cookie with a toothpick when Frederick comes back to put his bottle in the recycling bin. “Hey.” I stop him. “I made one for you.”

  He puts a hand on my hair. “You know it makes your grandmother real happy that you do this stuff with her.” His voice is like gravel.

  “Here,” I say, lifting the cookie I’d set aside. “Check out his T-shirt.” I place it in Frederick’s hand.

  He lets out a bark of laughter. “I never saw a gingerbread man wear an AC/DC shirt before. You got the lightning bolt and everything.” Then he gives me a kiss on the head. “Thank you, kid. Would it be rude to eat it?”

  I shake my head. “Do your worst.”

  “Frank?” Alice calls to my grandfather from the other room. “Cathy is here. Can you help me with the trays?”

  I get up to see if they need help. A white van has pulled into the driveway, Cathy’s Catering painted on its side.

  I hold the door while Alice, my grandfather, and the caterer make trip after trip from the van into the kitchen.

  Frederick stands munching cookies and watching. “Mom,” he says. “How many people did you invite over tonight?”

  “I have my open house every year,” she replies. “If you ever came home, you’d remember. As it happens, I believe it will be very well-attended this time, seeing as there is a new guest of honor.”

  My stomach twists at this idea. I don’t want to be the guest of honor.

  My father studies me, then turns to his mother. “Maybe Rachel doesn’t feel like being your show pony. Couldn’t you keep it small?”

  Alice’s lips make a tight line. “She has the right to meet her extended family,” she says. “If it happens to spotlight nearly two decades of your stupidity, there’s really nothing I can do about that.”

  He takes another cookie and leaves the room.

  I taste something bitter in my mouth. “I’d better go upstairs and change.”

  When I walk past Frederick’s door, I hear only silence.

  * * *

  The first guest to arrive is Alice’s sister Anita. “Oh! Let me look at you,” she gasps. “Of course Frederick’s child would be beautiful. That boy gets the best of everything.”

  “More than he deserves,” Alice adds.

  It’s the beginning of a long night of compliments that I didn’t know how to handle. I look between Alice to Anita. “Are you… twins?” I ask. The resemblance between them is striking. Anita’s hair is more gray, but otherwise they’re so similar.

  My great-aunt laughs. “Bless you, Rachel. But there’s a few miles more on this model.” She taps her own chest.

  Anita has four children, and three of them come to Alice’s party. And those three children bring their children. Before an hour is through, I’m dizzy from trying to remember the names of my second cousins, who range in age from twenty down to six.

  And everyone stares at me. The women are effusive, the children curious. The men circle the food. Meanwhile, my heart gallops at unusual speed. Every few minutes Alice makes a disparaging remark about Frederick’s absence and then glances toward the stairs.

  He finally wanders down when the house is full of people. And even though he’s abandoned me here all evening, I’m still happy to see him. He looks sharp, in a nice shirt and a leather jacket.

  “Freddy!” someone calls. It’s Anita’s son…Vic? I can’t keep track.

  Frederick is swarmed by well-wishers. It’s clear to me that A) he wasn’t kidding when he said he doesn’t come around much and B) they love him anyway. One of his cousins fetches him a beer.

  “Let’s hear you, then,” Anita says, pushing him toward the piano. “How about something Christmassy.”

  “Because I’m known for my holiday spirit,” he says, winking at me.

  “It wouldn’t kill you,” his mother adds.

  Frederick throws a leg over the piano bench. “The scene of the crime,” he says. “My mama got me piano lessons because she thought a little classical music might make me smarter. I think she regrets it now.” He puts his hands on the keys and begins to play. The song is bouncy and familiar, but it takes me a minute to place it.

  “Grandma got run over by a reindeer…” Frederick sings.

  There’s a huge guffaw at his choice of tunes. And Alice turns red.

  I eat a few of the catered appetizers—tiny spinach turnovers and pigs in blankets. When I take my plate out to the kitchen, the back door opens.

  “Ernie!” I haven’t seen him since August, and I didn’t know whether he was in Kansas City to see his folks too.

  “Hey, kid!” He stomps the snow off his boots, smiling. He wears a knit cap over his bare head.

  It’s good to see a familiar face. I go over and hug his cold jacket. “It’s kind of intense here,” I whisper.

  He claps an arm around me. “So I hear. I’m sorry, kid.” He nods toward the music in the living room. “She’s got him singing?”

  “Under duress.”

  “No wonder he texted me.”

  In the living room, Ernie kisses Alice on the cheek and accepts a beer. I stand with them behind the piano bench.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Grandma Alice says to me, after Frederick finishes playing, “whether you might have any more family on your mother’s side?”

  “My mother had a little sister,” I say carefully. “But we’re not close.”

  Alice’s eyes get wide. “You have an aunt? I feel terrible. I would have invited her to visit. We’ll call her tomorrow.”

  I shake my head. “Maybe another time.”

  “Honey!” Alice throws a hand over her heart. “Family is everything. It’s hard to appreciate when you’re young and healthy. But it’s so important—”

  “Mom,” Frederick warns. “Rachel doesn’t have to see anyone she doesn’t want to see.”

  Alice’s eyes narrow. “Think about what you just said, Frederick.” She stares him down. “How did that policy work out for your daughter?”

  There is a horrible silence while Frederick works his jaw. “Wow,” he says at last. “And you wonder why I don’t come here more often.” He puts his beer bottle down on the piano. And then he heads for the door. After another awkward moment, Ernie trails him.

  “Where are you going?” Alice demands, running into the front hall after them.

  “To hear some blues,” Frederick calls over his shoulder.

  “Let him go, Alice.” Dr. Richards sighs.

  “That’s all he ever does!” Alice shouts. Everyone in the neighborhood hears the door slam.

  Chapter Twenty

  I fall into bed that night, overwhelmed. I miss Jake and I’m desperate to talk to him. But we said we’d talk on Christmas, so I only have to wait one more day.

  When I wake the next morning, it takes me a few minutes to remember that it’s Christmas Day. I get up and comb my hair, putting on the slippers that Aurora
gave me for Christmas. From my suitcase, I take the presents I’d brought for my grandparents and the big box I’d shipped here for Frederick.

  I feel heavy today. Like everything is just too much effort. I wonder who’s waking up in our old green house on Pomelo Court. There’s someone else’s tree in the corner of our too-small living room now.

  The only way to get through the day is not to think about that.

  When I leave my room, Frederick’s door is open. I peek inside, but he’s not there.

  Downstairs, I find Alice fussing in the kitchen. “Good morning,” I say.

  Alice turns. “Good morning, sweetie! I was just going to bring your grandfather some coffee by the Christmas tree. Would you like some?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Why don’t you wake your father? We’ll have a little Christmas breakfast together.” My face must give me away, because Alice’s smile slides away. “He’s not up there?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, Frederick.” She turns away. “You wouldn’t dare,” she says to the coffee pot.

  * * *

  We stall, drinking coffee and eating a breakfast quiche that Alice got from the caterers. “I used to do all the cooking myself,” she says. “But this year I was in the mood to work less and celebrate more.”

  I wonder how celebratory she’s feeling now. I’m embarrassed for Frederick. And it dawns on me that we shouldn’t be waiting around for him. It only makes his absence more glaring.

  I lean down to my little stack of presents. “I think we need this,” I say, handing a wrapped CD to Alice. It’s a recording of the Belle Choir singing Christmas tunes. “They’re some of my friends,” I explain when she opens it. The disc was made last year, so I’m not on it.

  “Thank you! Let’s put it on.” A moment later, a cappella voices warm the room with “Let it Snow” in three part harmony.