Christmas in July

by Alan Michael Parker

  CHRISTMAS

  IN JULY

  CHRISTMAS

  IN JULY

  A NOVEL

  ALAN MICHAEL

  PARKER

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  CHRISTMAS IN JULY. Copyright © 2018, text by Alan Michael Parker. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Parker, Alan Michael, 1961- author.

  Title: Christmas in July : a novel / Alan Michael Parker.

  Description: First edition. | Ann Arbor, MI : Dzanc Books, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017027310 | ISBN 9781945814464 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | Terminally ill

  children--Fiction. | Teenage girls--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3566.A674738 C48 2018 | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017027310

  First US edition: January 2018

  Interior design by Michelle Dotter

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  HELLO. THIS IS YOUR MOTHER.

  WAR

  THE MISSION

  MY BEAUTY

  MEG’S TEAM

  FIREWORKS

  DEAR DOROTHY

  BLUE THE DOG

  GLITTER

  CHRISTMAS IN JULY

  This one’s for Eli

  HELLO. THIS IS YOUR MOTHER.

  Hello. This is your mother. Your father thinks you should hire a different lawyer. We were having breakfast, and you know how he is, I hate when he reads from the paper like I’m not here, he does it all the time, just starts in and I’m supposed to listen, like that’s why I married him. As though I don’t have my plans for the day, or my birds aren’t right out the window, they need me, or I’m not thinking about anything myself. Really. I believe the man waits for my tea to cool—it’s just so evil. But no, he didn’t read some awful story to me, not this morning, which he did the other day, all about a poor child who was in the war and had to fly to England in a helicopter for treatment, and they gave her a white kitten, a stuffed animal, because she couldn’t have a real one in the helicopter and definitely not in the hospital, that poor girl, something about her oxygen. I think they give dogs. But there are a lot of kittens in England—I don’t know why I know that, I just do. Must have seen it somewhere.

  Your father said he doesn’t like your lawyer. He was looking up at me, you know that look—it’s those new half-glasses he has, they’re just perfect for a judgmental man—and he said, “She needs to fire that horse’s ass.” That’s what your father thinks. And I’m telling you what he said only to help you, Angela.

  Call me later. Byyeee.

  Hello. This is your mother. I know I just called. I can picture your face, you shouldn’t make that face, it’s not flattering. But I wanted to tell you that your father had some kind of procedure done. I don’t know what it was, but I found the bill. I think it’s a bill. I’ll show it to you next time—I hid it. If it’s a bill, they’ll send it again, right? So he’ll just think he misplaced it. That’s what I’m calling to ask, Angela. I’m sure it’s nothing. They’ll send another one.

  I’ll be home for an hour or so, and then I’ll be out. I know you’re at work, so don’t worry about it. I know I shouldn’t bother you at work, but I love to hear your voice, even on the machine. You have such a pretty voice, you should sing more. Do you still sing when you get dressed? Do the boys sing like you used to when you were a little girl?

  If you don’t get this message during the day, because you’re at work, that’s fine. Call me. Byyeee.

  Hello. This is your mother. Do you remember that Murcherson child who lived on the corner? Well, I guess he’s not a child now, and his poor cousin, what was her name, so sad, we met her at the train station that one time, she was a Murcherson, only she had a different last name, she was on the other side, do you remember her? She was in the newspaper, your father sent it to you. I think she went to school with your brother—isn’t she older? I know she’s not the same age as that Murcherson child—who’s a man now, well, by it all goes, doesn’t it? That Murcherson man is painting his parents’ house again. I think it’s nice he cares, that’s what I think. Your father says it looks like ditchwater. That someone could just go and drown, that’s what. So how am I supposed to step outside, with all those painters right there? Your father says they’re stealing.

  That’s all. I was just calling to tell you what your father said. I think he might be right—the man’s got to get something right, much as he talks, you know, the monkey and the nut and all that. The house is an ugly color, that’s the truth. But if you don’t let them in the house, how could they be stealing? That part he’s wrong about. True, Mr. Murcherson never did get on with his grandfather, leastways that’s what I heard, he was the one that built that house. I think he built that house, it was before our time. Lots of people don’t get on with their people, Angela.

  That’s all. Oh, I said that. Maybe you can show me how to use the camera on my phone, and I can take a picture of that house and then you can call me, and we’ll see what we find in the picture. Sometimes I think I watch too much TV, it makes me so…I don’t know. I just watch everything now. Not that I watch what’s on, it’s just on, so what’s the difference, that’s what I always say.

  Home later. Byyeee.

  That I ever call my mother back is God’s own miracle. As Janet says, “She’s like Fox News, your mother, all by herself.” Too true—all that worrying about everything, and then when something actually goes wrong, she’s just so smug, because she knew, the whole country’s wrong and she predicted it, didn’t she. What I think: all that blame she’s carrying around can bend a person permanently, it’s too heavy. It can gather inside and make a person different.

  I don’t want to live like that—I’m trying not to—because it’s not the answer. Because that’s what all of this is about, maybe not the answer, the answer, but more about how I want to live, or how anyone does. Deciding how to live: I’m deciding. Lucas and Fremont are at their dad’s, and I’ve got the next three weeks—well, seventeen days, more precisely, since they left on Saturday and it’s Tuesday already. But waste no time, Janet says, and she’s right. Janet is Financial Services in the office, and she’s the best friend a woman could ever have, plus she did two years of Accounting. Janet knows.

  I’m not wasting time. Mr. Ramirez from around the corner and I are getting busy every night together, as they say on TV, and the sex’s fun, and doesn’t he have such a wonderful mustache, Mr. Ramirez. It’s all I can do to keep from touching it when he talks, even though that wouldn’t be polite. Sometimes during the day, when I close my eyes and touch something just above my upper lip, I can feel Mr. Ramirez’s scratchy, stiff mustache. I can believe he’s touching me—even if it’s just the lip of my own coffee mug. It works better with the end of a paper clip, though.

  Not wasting time is easier in the summer. Wouldn’t that seem just the opposite of life when you’re really young? That it’s slower in the summer, and more of a waste? But I think time’s easier to understand in July. I can’t speak for other people, but my July here in Saxon Hills allows me to unfocus, fuzz out, and time’s not wasted, time’s part of me. I see what I see, but I’m thinking more. It lets me hear what I’m hearing, too. That might seem an odd statement—to hear what I’m hearing—but
it’s accurate. It’s precise. I’m a precise person. You have to be, to be me.

  When I walk to work on a July morning, and it’s already hot, I take the little footbridge and then the path along the Green Way that the county built with the last bond when they voted down the School Bond, when the charter school monkey business with the vouchers and everything made people crazy and they put all of the staff on ten-month contracts, so now we only have three of us in the office through the summer. Walking slowly, or trying to remember to walk slowly, I can hear the woods and the bugs and the birds. I can’t hear the wind, the air’s too close for that, even at seven in the morning, and I’m not hearing the cars on the highway, or the garbage truck with that deep engine sound as the forklift picks up a dumpster, or the seventh-graders by the gym door—the racket the seventh-graders make is the worst—I’m only hearing what I’m hearing, I’m hearing my thoughts. That’s usually a good thing first thing in the morning; my thoughts and the world around me come together, and I can hear them without all that riot or interference.

  But I’m not quiet all the time, I’m not one of those people, I sure love that noisy noise, too, especially at night, when I want more noise, all the noise, I want to be in the ocean of noise and have it everywhere, every sound. I want the boys chasing each other in the house and out into the backyard, Lucas screaming about this toy or that, he’s snotty-faced, and Fremont’s laughing, and I’ve got a bottle of Bud and I’m in my housedress after work, and I follow them a little, and stop, and say, “Time out, time out! You two need to solve this yourselves. Be the jury.”—that’s a code phrase we have for problem-solving, what I wrote in the “Teen Empowerment Tips” handout I made for the school kids in trouble. Of course, sometimes Lucas just slugs Fremont, but the little one’s not strong enough to hurt his big brother, and that’s what Fremont wants, too, just to get under his little brother’s skin. The look in Fremont’s eyes, he’s just like me that way—Fremont, who keeps stealing stuff and hiding his loot in a shoebox in his hockey bag, and who thinks I don’t know.

  Even then, unless it’s bloody murder, I’m not watching the boys in a manner that makes them answer me. They’re on their own. I turn back a little, I’m only peeking, and listening at the sliding screen door. I’m giving them a chance as brothers, in part because of the noise they make, they fill up the whole yard, it’s exactly what I want. They should work out their differences together—which usually happens, but only after Fremont makes Lucas cry, or sits on his chest, or once in a while just gives back whatever toy to keep Lucas from blubbering.

  That’s when I sip my cold beer, and I listen to the CD, the guitar and the singer cranked, the music sexing up the moment, it’s usually R&B and deep, and the whole house is making reverb. I’m in those waves of music, and it’s filling all the corners and secrets in me, smoothing me inside, and I’m swimming and breathing in the bass and guitars and the throaty singer, and that’s everything I want, all of that family and noise. It’s drowning. It’s love.

  Hello. This is your mother. Your machine cut me off. Why don’t you get a machine that doesn’t cut a person off? I was saying something important, and now I forgot. You should teach me how to call and listen to my own message on your phone, and then I would remember, and I wouldn’t have to bother you. I could say what I want. I’m not a bother, am I? Of course I’m not.

  This isn’t what I meant to say, but your father says that if Tommy thinks he can take you to the cleaners, he’s got another think coming. Isn’t that a funny thing to say—he’s got another think coming. Sometimes, your father’s such a card.

  I’ll be home tonight. Your father gets home at seven, but I’ll be home before that. Byyeee.

  During the summer months, the school’s closed but the main doors stay unlocked, and Janet and I work at the front desk rather than back in our offices, in case someone comes. People show up with the kookiest questions, or they try to wriggle out of things—as if this weren’t my job, to notice and check. I’m the registrar, after all, and no, your child cannot attend SHMS without your showing me three forms of identification and establishing that you live here. We usually accept some combination of a driver’s license, a utility bill with your name on it, a military ID, a lease, a payroll stub, a W-2, a bank statement…think about all of those pieces of paper that say you’re you, and be prepared to be you, when I ask, three ways. I don’t care, of course, if you’re you, but show me.

  All of the pertinent information’s on the Web, the World Wide Web we call it here, and there are handouts in the rack on the wall, along with the PTA’s newsletter and the immunizations form, the emergency dismissal forms, and extra copies of my “Teen Empowerment Tips”—I make sure that’s always stocked—and the new handout on digital literacy, which tells you in English and Spanish how to get a free laptop if you’re indigent, basically. There are children coming to school starving, but the District wants to give them a laptop. To eat? “To look up pictures on the World Wide Web of other starving families,” says Janet.

  I would be nowhere without Janet. She’s my rock. A rock keeps you from being nowhere: it’s a thing in the ground, and it makes the ground the ground. That’s what Janet does for me. Only I wish her Nana weren’t so sick in Chicago, because every day, I expect Janet to say that she’s quitting, Nana needs her, family first. I would find that reasonable; I’m bracing for it. I’m clutching my heart through my blouse every time I see Janet make a face that will tell me she’s leaving tomorrow.

  Janet has a couple of kids, too, but they’re older, and a husband she likes well enough. I guess that means she still loves him. Me, I don’t love Tommy anymore—not that I love Seve, either, which is Mr. Ramirez’s first name. Nice enough, Seve, but not much without that mustache. Mr. Ramirez’s mustache is how I think about it. Of course I know that Seve is a whole person, but he’s also Mr. Ramirez’s mustache.

  Our principal, Mr. Charlton, works in his office in the back all summer. He’s the busiest man I know, with the most energy of anyone I’ve ever met, and a good principal, even though he wears those sleeveless sweaters that make him look like a piece of fruit stuffed in a bag that’s too small. He can’t control his weight, it yo-yos, and he ends up all sweaty and looks over-ripe when he puts on the pounds. He’s such a bad dresser. Luckily the A/C wall units work in the front and back offices, or he would have a heart attack for sure. We keep the EST2s set on a higher temp when the classrooms are empty—we have to, or the District would have a conniption, and the stress would kill Mr. Charlton, who wouldn’t live to see New Student Open House.

  It’s not all men in my life—there’s Janet, and my mom—but sometimes, especially raising two boys, it seems like it’s all men. Mr. Charlton’s my boss, my dad bosses around my mom (although if you ask me, she’s the one who handles feeding time in their little zoo), and Tommy’s going to get whatever he wants in the settlement because of Mr. Ramirez’s mustache. I started it, the end. We stopped loving one another pretty much at the same time, Tommy and I, but it was my decision to hook up with Mr. Ramirez, in the way that a decision happens and then you realize that you went and decided, that was the decision you made.

  Mom and Dad don’t know about Mr. Ramirez’s mustache, or they wouldn’t be such a pain. Mom wouldn’t call me five times a day, every day since the boys went to stay with Tommy, and she wouldn’t be crazy and worried about me or what I’ll do without the boys these next three weeks, she would just be crazy and worried about something else, and Dad wouldn’t notice. Sometimes I think her being crazy works to keep Dad from talking about anything important.

  But it’s worse. Because Fremont’s been stealing things since Tommy left, or maybe even before, I don’t know, but now I know. I haven’t told anyone, not even Janet: there’s a shoebox wrapped in a dress shirt of Tommy’s that my screwed-up son keeps in his hockey bag, a box filled with small pieces of jewelry (some of them mine), and a real-looking silver money clip and an old guy’s driver’s license and a stack of pho
tos I didn’t want to see (they’re pornos), and then I found a big hunter’s knife in a scabbard or a sheath. I took that, even if Fremont notices. We’ll deal with the knife issue when he comes back in August. A nine-year-old doesn’t need a knife like that.

  The split’s my fault, although I can’t tell Mom and Dad, since I already told them that Tommy had cheated on me and not the other way around. Now the lie has become true, which is what happens when you lie and someone believes you. Just ask the school board. We were on the phone, Mom and I, and I knew what she wanted to hear, so that’s what I said, I said Tommy cheated on me, and now it’s true, and I don’t know how to fix it, because it’s too big a lie.

  I tell myself it doesn’t make a difference, that I’m not going to call her back for a couple of days, no matter how often she calls. I tell myself that when I feel like I’m falling, I’ll just grab hold of something.

  I was about to make two lists at work when the girl arrived with her aunt. The first list was in my head, before I typed it up, because that’s how I think:

  What I Love About My Job

  The nice people; the girls who work in the office; Gina, the new police officer who runs Code of Conduct with Vice Principal Simmons (there we go, both of them are women). The parents and guardians, the foster parents. We had two children register last week who were from Saudi Arabia. They were so interesting, especially in the middle of the summer.

  Lunch. My lunch break on my bench on the Green Way with Janet, unless Janet’s on the phone to Chicago.

  That no one taught me how to be the registrar—the old registrar had been gone for almost three weeks when I transferred in—so it was all mine right away. Plus the software I had to teach myself, which I did.