by Nancy Thayer
When they’d discussed their holiday schedules, Polly had thought it made perfect sense for Hugh to be with his children—and their mother—on Christmas Eve, while Polly was with her son and his family. Tomorrow, when she got to see Hugh, she would be glad to have the Carol part of Christmas behind them.
But tonight she was irrationally lonely. For a while, she indulged in a morass of negativity, imagining everyone else she knew celebrating the season in the bosom of their families. Quickly she got bored with that scenario. She’d spent too many holidays in the home of her mother-in-law, Claudia, Queen of Disdain, to believe all other families in the world were happy.
Besides, it wasn’t celebrating she missed—she did a lot of that, with Hugh and with her Hot Flash friends. It was a sense of being useful, of being part of the world, that made her feel so solitary now.
But then, how useful could someone be who set her house on fire on Christmas Eve?
4
MARILYN DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER HER MOTHER WAS truly an exceptionally pretty woman, or if it was just that Marilyn loved her so much.
Ruth came out of the guest bedroom, dressed for Christmas Eve dinner in a red wool dress and a strand of white pearls. Red lipstick brightened her pleated lips and cheerful rouge blushed her wrinkled cheeks. From her ears dangled shiny little Christmas ornaments, one red, one green. Her snowy white hair bobbed around in curls, and the bit of pink scalp showing through made Marilyn’s heart ache. Her mother had had such thick hair when she was younger.
“You look great, Mom,” Marilyn said.
Ruth’s face lit up at the compliment. “Well, thank you, dear! I believe, no matter which God you believe in, it’s important to keep rituals in your life. It helps you remember to be grateful. To reflect on the cycle of birth, life, and dirt.”
Marilyn bit her lip. Ruth had been a brilliant biology professor. Now, at eighty-five, her discourse was peppered with little malapropisms. Marilyn had phoned her sister Sharon about it, and they’d agreed it was probably a result of Ruth’s mini-strokes. They decided not to mention it to Ruth, who always seemed puzzled when they tried to correct her.
Ostensibly, Ruth was visiting her daughter for a few weeks, an unexceptional, ordinary thing for a mother to do. Tacitly, Marilyn was supposed to watch Ruth for signs of senility so she could share her observations with Sharon and help her decide whether or not their mother should be “persuaded” to go into an assisted care facility.
“I can’t make this kind of decision by myself,” Sharon had insisted during one of their many phone conversations this fall.
“I agree. You shouldn’t have to,” Marilyn had assured her. She already felt guilty because Sharon had remained in the same Ohio town where they’d grown up, while Marilyn had moved east for college and remained east all her life. Marilyn flew back at least once a year to visit her mother, and she sent Ruth cards and gifts and phoned her often, but that didn’t compare with the time and care Sharon gave. But then Sharon, who was the older sister, and always bossy, liked to be in charge, while Marilyn, a paleobiologist and professor at MIT, craved huge quantities of solitude for her studies.
Marilyn’s intellectual preoccupation was no doubt genetic, although nurture played its part as well, since both her parents, who had taught biology at a large state university, had spent much of Marilyn’s childhood lying on their stomachs in the backyard, observing insects.
For a few halcyon years when Marilyn and Sharon were children, they’d been extraordinarily popular, because their parents loved to talk about nature and were full of amusing anecdotes, complete with illustrations. The flatfish have both eyes on the same side of their heads, and the eyes can migrate from side to side! Some snakes have two heads! When the sea elephant becomes angry, his nose swells up like a balloon!
During their adolescent years, however, their peers began to consider their parents dorky and even weird. Their father loved to tell jokes— Two hydrogen atoms walk into a bar. One says, “I’ve lost my electron.” The other asks, “Are you sure?” The first one says, “I’m positive.”—which made the teenagers groan and roll their eyes.
It didn’t help that the professors, both of whom could describe in detail the colors of a deer botfly, dressed without any consideration of fashion. They wore clothes to keep from being cold or naked in public—the latter of which, they were always ready to discuss with the sisters’ contemporaries, was practiced in other cultures.
Sharon had rebelled, becoming obsessed with clothing, hair, and current styles. She’d majored in economics and, after trying a number of jobs, had ended up as a corporate headhunter. Sharon was slick, stylish, and savvy. Marilyn had been the child who adopted her parents’ ways. But Marilyn had moved away, while Sharon remained in Ohio.
So Sharon had been the one to help both parents, ten years ago, move out of their sprawling ranch house and into a small apartment in a comfortable retirement community. She had been the one to phone Marilyn when their father died, at seventy-eight, and when Marilyn flew back for the funeral, Sharon had been the one to suggest Marilyn help their mother sort through their father’s possessions.
It had nearly broken Marilyn’s heart to give away her father’s beloved paraphernalia: the insect light traps and transparent insect-rearing cages, the beautiful ant house she’d built with him when she was a child, the Schmidt boxes filled with specimens caught and mounted with exquisite care.
“You have mineral hammers and rock cabinets,” Sharon had argued when she caught Marilyn trying to sneak her father’s into her own luggage. “I’ve seen your house and your lab. You don’t need another bit of old equipment!” Sharon was strong-willed and assertive. They’d ended up giving anything useful to a children’s museum and taking much of the rest to the dump.
Finally they had the apartment sorted out, clutter-free and airy. Ruth had been sad to see the scientific equipment go, but only because it reminded her of her husband. After retiring from teaching, she had turned her attention to other things, small things, and lots of them, including knitting, doing crossword puzzles, and compiling a recipe collection. During the past five years of her widowhood, Ruth had accumulated a rather daunting mass of clutter of her own. Her increasing inability to part with her new possessions was one of the reasons Sharon thought she was no longer fit to live by herself.
Still, Ruth could shop for herself—she didn’t drive, but took the shuttle provided by the retirement community. She cooked for herself and kept her kitchen clean. She bathed daily, and her clothing was fresh and spotless. True, she was developing a tendency toward keeping her food around longer than it should be . . . the refrigerator was crammed with foil-covered packets. As with her needlework, Ruth tended to lose interest in her current meal, and being a child of the Depression, she wrapped it up and saved it for the future rather than throwing it out.
Ruth’s health was good enough. She’d had a hysterectomy years before, and suffered a few very minor strokes that hadn’t paralyzed her, only slowed her down. She was active; she had friends she played cards with in the lounge. Her sense of hearing was failing, she’d had cataract operations, and she needed a cane to walk because of arthritis, but still she was self-sufficient, goodhumored, and happy.
And, perhaps, failing. She often forgot appointments, names, where she put something, but then, Marilyn thought, who didn’t? Occasionally, Ruth’s speech was jumbled. Most worrisome: she’d fallen a month ago, while stepping out of the bath. She hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t wanted to make a fuss. But a week later, at her annual physical checkup, the doctor had seen the bruises, still purple and yellow, along the front of her torso, and had told Ruth—and Sharon, who’d accompanied her to the appointment—that she had most probably had a transient ischemic attack, a momentary blockage of the blood supply to the brain. He’d suggested follow-up tests. Ruth had stalled. He’d suggested she use a walker. These TIAs were transitory, but often recurring. They were mini-strokes, the doctor warned her. They could happen anytime. Rut
h had delicately rejected the walker, saying in her gentle way she would think about it, but didn’t feel she needed it quite yet.
“I really can’t tell if I want to move Mom into assisted living because it would make her feel better, or make me worry less,” Sharon had told Marilyn. “You have to help me evaluate.”
So Marilyn had invited her mother to visit for a couple of months, and Sharon had helped Ruth pack and board a plane, and now, here she was.
After her divorce, Marilyn had moved out of the huge Victorian where she and Theodore had raised Teddy— what a mind-warping, backbreaking project that had been! Much of her personal scientific paraphernalia and most of her books were in a storage locker until she decided where to live permanently. For the time being, Marilyn was renting a bland, furnished condo in Cambridge. She’d never been one to fuss about her surroundings or attempt coordinating curtains with carpets, and she found the small, practical space worked well for her life. Especially since she was thinking about taking a sabbatical and doing some traveling.
Now they were preparing to leave for Christmas Eve dinner with Marilyn’s son Teddy, his wife, and their family.
“I’ve got all my presents tucked away in these big shopping bags,” Marilyn told Ruth, gesturing to the bags sitting by the front door. “Where are your presents?”
“Ooops! Left them in the bedroom.”
“I’ll get them,” Marilyn offered.
“No, no, I’m not helpless.” Ruth toddled away, returning in a few moments with a large book bag. “I’ve got all my fits in here.”
“Um, well, good, Mom!” Marilyn leaned toward the mirror in the hall, checking her hair. She looked rather messy today. Her Hot Flash friends would want to fix her up somehow, cut her hair, give her a different lipstick, brighten her up with a colorful scarf. But having her mother with her was pretty much like having a toddler around. She didn’t have much free time for herself, and what time she had was often interrupted.
“What time is Fraidy coming?” Ruth asked.
“His name is Faraday, Mom,” Marilyn reminded her for the hundredth time. “He should be here any minute.”
She knew she sounded cranky when she talked about Faraday. Faraday McAdam was a charming man, also a scientist, always fascinating and courtly and attentive. When Theodore left Marilyn for a younger woman, Faraday’s flirtation had buoyed her up, convincing her as never before in her entire life that she was attractive.
The problem was that Faraday, who at his best, when they first met, had been only a one-minute wonder, was now completely impotent.
Whenever Marilyn tried to discuss this, gently, with Faraday, he changed the subject, turned on the TV, or left the room. Occasionally, Faraday hinted at their living together, traveling together, marriage . . . and Marilyn dreamed of Barton Baker, the cad who had betrayed her, but also had shown her just how amazing good sex could be. Marilyn didn’t want to live the rest of her life alone. But did she want to live it without ever having delicious, skin-heating, heart-thumping, artery-flushing, serotonin-surging, passionate sex again?
“Are you having a hot flash, dear?” Ruth asked.
Marilyn jumped. “I am,” she replied honestly, abashed. How could she think of sex with her mother in the room!
As Ruth adjusted a bow on one of her presents, she said, “Marilyn, did I tell you about Jean Benedict’s daughter? She’s about your age, you know. Well, she ran off with her gardener to the Dutch West Guineas! It was a shock to us all, because she had been a pillow of the community. But you see, you’re never too old for romance . . .”
Marilyn gaped at her mother. Had she developed a talent for mind reading?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Here he is!” Marilyn opened the door.
“Ruth! How nice to see you again!” Faraday, large, ruddy, and jolly, made a little bow to the older woman.
Ruth smiled sweetly. “Hello, Fruity. Good to see you, too.”
“Faraday, Mother!” Marilyn quickly corrected.
“That’s what I said, dear,” Ruth placidly assured her.
“Hello, Marilyn.” Unfazed, Faraday leaned forward to kiss Marilyn’s cheek. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Faraday. You look festive.”
“I try,” Faraday admitted modestly. Today he wore his most replete and elegant apparel: a Clan McGregor kilt in a handsome red and green tartan, perfect for Christmas; his Prince Charlie jacket with the handsome buttons on the sleeves; a tartan tie; and a dress sporran. Between his high wool socks and the hem of his kilt, his legs, massive and covered with fine red hair, were bare.
Marilyn’s mother threw her hands up in astonishment. “You look wonderful! I’ve never seen a real live man in Scottish garble!” Ruth bent forward, peering. “I’ve always wondered about the purpose of that little fur purse you’ve got hanging down. Is it to advertise the male’s reproductive equipment? Like a stag’s antlers or a peacock’s tail feathers?”
“Mother!” Marilyn admonished.
“Well, dear, it does draw the eye,” Ruth calmly pointed out.
Faraday seemed amused. “It’s called a sporran, and it’s exactly as you named it,” he informed Ruth. “It’s a little fur purse. The kilt doesn’t have pockets, so this began as a leather pouch for carrying our necessary items. This sporran is for dress only. It’s made from Greenland sealskin. Everyday sporrans are usually just leather.”
“And what do you wear under the kilt?” Ruth asked.
“Mother, stop it,” Marilyn intervened. “Come on, let’s get your coat on.”
“Why shouldn’t I inquire?” Ruth argued. “You’re never too old to learn.”
“Allow me.” Faraday helped Ruth into her coat. “Marilyn tells me you taught biology. Obviously you were asking in the spirit of scientific inquiry.”
“Obviously,” Ruth agreed, pleased.
“So I’ll tell you.” Faraday bent to whisper in Ruth’s ear.
Ruth giggled.
Marilyn rolled her eyes but smiled. “I’ll just get the presents.”
She gathered up the bags full of gifts and followed her mother and Faraday out to his car. Faraday opened the trunk and set the gifts inside, next to his offering of several bottles of Champagne and wine.
“Now, then,” he said, as he got behind the wheel. “Is everybody comfortable? Marilyn, do you have enough room for your legs?”
“I’m fine, Faraday.” Why did he irritate her so much today? He was behaving beautifully!
Faraday started the car and they were off, driving toward Marilyn’s son’s house.
“I know a joke about what’s under a kilt,” Ruth announced.
“Mother,” Marilyn said quietly.
But Faraday encouraged her. “I love kilt jokes! Let’s hear it!”
“Very well. A Scotsman spends an evening in a bar and has rather too much to drink. When he leaves the pub, he passes out on the street. Two young American women notice.
“ ‘My,’ one says to the other. ‘I’ve always wondered what’s under a Scottish kilt.’
“ ‘Let’s look!’ says the other.
“So they look, and glory be, he’s naked as the day he was born. The girls giggle. Then the first one mischievously takes a blue ribbon from her hair and ties it around the man’s sexual reproductive member. They run off, laughing.
“A while later, the Scotsman wakes up. Feeling something odd, he lifts his kilt, looks down, and sees the blue ribbon tied around his hoo-ha.
“ ‘Well, lad,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what you got up to while I was passed out, but I’m glad you won first prize.’ ”
They all laughed, and the shared laughter made Marilyn relax just a little. This was the first Christmas that Faraday had accompanied Marilyn to her son’s family dinner. She wasn’t quite sure what this implied about their relationship. She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted it to imply.
“Now tell me again who will be there this evening,” her
mother asked from the front seat.
“Well, Teddy and Lila and your great-granddaughter Irene, of course, since it’s at their house. And the three of us. And Eugenie, Lila’s mother.”
“But not Lila’s father?”
“No. They separated last year. Lila’s father’s gone off with a younger woman. Lila and Teddy and the baby will spend Christmas Day with Lila’s father. Eugenie got them for Thanksgiving this year, because I got them for Thanksgiving last year. Eugenie wanted them all for herself this Christmas, but now that she and her husband have separated, there aren’t enough bits of time to go around.”
“You need a computer to figure out how to divide the holidays up fairly,” Ruth said.
“Or a psychiatrist,” Marilyn said.
“Still,” Ruth said, “there’s no plague like home for the holidays.”
Faraday looked in the rearview mirror and winked at Marilyn.
The evening blurred past in a flurry of kisses, gifts, Champagne, and laughter. Teddy and Lila served a veritable Christmas feast, Ruth and her great-granddaughter formed a mutual admiration society, and Faraday charmed everyone, as usual, with humorous anecdotes.
Only Eugenie, Lila’s mother, cast a pall on the party. Always aloof, tonight she was especially remote, and no wonder. Poor Eugenie had had the face-lift from hell. She looked like a melted Madame Tussaud’s mannequin. Marilyn could only imagine how horrible this must be for Eugenie, whose extraordinary feminine perfection had been a living advertisement for her ex-husband’s plastic surgery business.
