by Mick Foley
Tietam got up from the couch, threw up his arms in disbelief, walked in a few circles on the same shag carpet that his penis had once brushed on a regular basis, and let out a loud sigh.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“What don’t you get, hon?”
“Well throughout history, the Jewish people have never felt wanted, right? Now I make up an ad that tells them, Hey you’re wanted, and you tell me it’s wrong. I don’t get it . . . So look, if I don’t print the ad, then maybe I’ll just offer the dough to anyone who wants it, and we’ll weed out the people who need the cash more than the family bonding.”
Holly went over and kissed her confused man. I thought momentarily that my father was going to start making out with her, but then I remembered that this was the new Tietam Brown, and the new Tietam wouldn’t do that in front of his son.
Holly said, “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I make up a new ad that doesn’t use the word ‘Jews’ in it. Then I will put it on the bulletin board of the local synagogues, along with our telephone number. When we get a call, we will explain what we’re doing with our Nativity scene. And if, by, say . . . the twenty-second, we don’t have anyone, then we’ll run your ad. How does that sound?”
“Pretty good, I guess.”
“Oh, and Tietam.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I’m a Jew . . . and I know that you want me.”
December 24, 1985 / 11 a.m.
Christmas Eve. But at 11 a.m., it wasn’t quite eve yet. Which made it, I guess, Christmas Eve day. I’d been lucky enough to thumb a ride almost straight home, and had crawled into bed at 8:30 a.m., where I’d drifted off immediately, and sometime in the night dreamed of Terri’s bare breasts springing from her bra, like a wire snake from a salted peanut can.
I awoke with a start and realized that my kettle had boiled over. I’d been so caught up in Christmas that I’d neglected to pour some out on my own. I looked at the clock, got up from the bed, rolled my shorts in a ball which I tossed in the trash, and then hopped into the shower to wash the sleep and other stuff from my skin. Actually, I stepped into the shower, as no hopping took place.
I walked down the stairs to see Holly curled up on the couch, a book in her hands. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said. “Care for some tea?”
“Anything but cocoa.” I was all cocoaed out. Cookied out too. Even now the smell of fresh cookies brings me back to my manger. “Where’s my dad?”
“Your father is out. Shopping. He claims he’s getting something special. But he wanted me to tell you that he has ordered a cab to take you to work. And a cab to take you back. It’s his treat.”
“Jeez, I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said.
“So tonight’s the big night, huh?” she said, and she put down her book and walked to the kitchen, where she poured me a cup of hot tea. Raspberry Zinger.
“I guess so,” I said.
“Well aren’t you excited?”
“I guess. Probably be more excited if I wasn’t so tired. And didn’t have to wash dishes for the next eight hours. What kind of people would eat at Frank ’n’ Mary’s on Christmas Eve anyway?”
“Andy, there are a lot of people who think going anywhere is a treat. Or maybe they have no one to spend Christmas Eve with.”
I nodded my head. “Yeah I know how that feels.”
She brushed my cheek with her hand and said, “I know that you do.”
We stood in silence for just a moment, but that moment, it seemed, was a moment too long. Long enough to think back to all of those years with no mom or dad with whom to share Christmas Eve. Then Holly spoke.
“He loves you, you know.”
“Yeah, I know that he does.”
“And he’s so happy to be with you at Christmas.”
I looked down at my cup.
“Andy,” Holly said.
“Yeah.”
“Try not to dwell on the past too much. Think of tonight. And all the great days to come.”
“Holly?”
“Yes, Andy.”
“You know this is our first Christmas together, don’t you? Me and my dad.”
“Yes, Andy, I know.”
“Holly?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re Jewish, why do you . . . uh . . . you know, why do you . . .”
“Why do I celebrate Christmas?” she asked.
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“Well Andy, it just seems to me that lots of people have been killed trying to prove that their religion is right. And I’ve got to believe that through all of this, God is shaking his head, thinking, This is not what I want. I think that there is a danger to anyone who thinks that they alone know God’s plan. So instead of seeing people as Jew or Christian, Buddhist or Muslim, I try to divide all people into two groups: those who are good, and those who have the potential to be good. I celebrate days that give people hope. Christian and Jewish, and Halloween too.”
I took a long sip of tea as I leaned on our counter and gazed at the mustard yellow refrigerator, which, had it been a dog, would have been taken out back and shot. I savored that tea, not so much because I liked tea as because it was Holly’s. And like everything she touched, the tea seemed full of goodness.
“Holly?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d he pick now? I mean this Christmas?”
“Because people change, Andy. People can change.”
“But that’s been your doing.”
“No, he already was changing. I just came along and kind of sped things up.”
She stopped talking for a moment, but I could see her mind at work. Pondering as she spoke, she did so haltingly.
“Andy . . . your father is a little difficult . . . to know.”
I nodded my head.
“I think that there are a lot of different layers to him.”
I nodded again, thinking of his layers and just how many I had gotten through . . . and how many more were left.
“And I think that if you got through all those layers, you would find a lot of pain there in the middle.”
“Pain?” I said. “Why pain?” I felt there might be something to this, but to tell the truth, I was kind of enjoying Holly’s sympathy. And now that sympathy was Tietam’s.
“I’m not sure,” Holly said. “Your father doesn’t open up a lot. You can’t pry him open either, or else he just clamps down. So instead I try to be patient, nurture him, so he’ll open on his own, like a flower.”
At later times, I would envision Tietam Brown as a flower, his head swaying in the breeze, like a daffodil on a brisk March morning. But on this particular date, I just nodded and said, “Does he open up to you?”
“Not too much. He opens up a little, and then I try to fill in the blanks myself.”
“Can you tell me what he said?”
“Well no, not everything, Andy, because some of it’s just for me.”
Holly touched my face. A touch I think of often. A touch of understanding. She then put her hand on my shoulder. I think of that touch too.
“Andy, your father is forty-eight years old, that’s nineteen more than me.”
“Yeah.” I had no idea what she was getting at.
“He grew up poor in Albany, toward the end of the depression. Winters are cold in Albany—”
“Holly, I don’t really see where you’re going with this.”
“Okay, okay, I guess what I’m trying to say is that Tietam’s first memories of childhood were of his father bringing strangers home as a way to pay the rent.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Andy?”
“Yeah?”
“From his little bed, he could hear his father next door . . . cheering.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s all he said. But like I said, I try to fill in the blanks myself.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I think that Tietam was afraid to be a father, because he
was afraid he’d be like his dad.”
I looked at her close. The way she looked in the winter sunlight, which flowed through the window and painted her face with a brush of warm gold. And for just a second, I swore that I saw the vaguest of halos surrounding her face.
“Holly?”
“Yes, Andy.”
“I had a wet dream.” Holy crap, had I really just said that? I didn’t mean it as sexual. I was just really confused, and I guess that I thought maybe this angel could help ease my mind.
The angel laughed, clearly not offended. Quite to the contrary, she seemed kind of glad. Not glad that I’d shot a load in my shorts, but glad that I trusted her with such a deep thought. “Well,” she said, “in a world filled with nightmares, your dream’s not the worst kind to have.”
“But don’t you . . .” My voice trailed off.
“But don’t I . . . don’t I what, Andy?” she asked.
“Um, don’t you think that maybe . . . that it’s a little weird . . . that um, a guy like me, you know . . . with a girlfriend and all, is um . . . you know . . . having . . .”
“Wet dreams?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t we sit down?”
We sat on Tietam’s plaid couch.
She patted my knee, smiled, and said, “Andy, I take it you’re not sexually active with Terri?”
I squirmed in my sagging plaid seat. “Not really,” I said.
“No, or not really?”
“Well, we kiss, you know, and do a couple of other things, but we haven’t . . . you know.”
“Done it?” Holly said, finishing my thought.
I nodded my head.
“Do you like kissing Terri?”
“Oh yeah.”
“How about holding her hand? I see that you do that a lot.”
I blushed and said, “Yeah.”
“And you like being around her?”
“Very much.”
“So why worry about it? Your body may be ready for sex, but maybe your mind isn’t.”
“No,” I assured her, “my mind definitely is.”
“Then I’ll tell you what. You keep thinking about it. But don’t put any pressure on yourself. And then, when it happens, it will happen on its own . . . and it will be the most beautiful thing in the world. Just take precautions.”
Maybe it would happen on its own tonight, Christmas Eve. I had to agree that it would be the most beautiful thing in the world. But then Andy the dreamer ran into Andy the horny teenager, and the horny guy won. And I found myself saying, “But other kids are doing it.”
“But Andy, other kids don’t have what you have.”
“What’s that?”
“Love, Andy, love. I see the way you two look at each other, and I know what it is. It’s love. And you don’t just love her because she’s beautiful, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Or because she’s stacked?”
I laughed and shook my head again.
“You love her because she likes you and she loves you and she wants you and because she makes you feel like you’re the most special person in the world.”
What was this lady, a mind reader? An angel?
I said, “Is that why you love Tietam?”
“No, ’cause he’s hung like a hippo.”
I fell out of my chair, and she laughed till it hurt, then laughed some more. Finally she stopped, leaned close to me, and said, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure,” I said, sensing something big.
“We’ve never done it.”
Had it not been for her arms, I would have fallen again. My eyes were wide and my voice was high as I let out a loud “You haven’t?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Well Andy, if your father is right, then I guess you’d know about his rather odd habits. You know . . . with women.”
I nodded my head.
Holly smiled and said, “Do you think he needs more of that?”
“No, probably not.”
“I think that he needs something else, don’t you?”
I nodded my head, but I wasn’t quite sure.
“Andy, your father needs to be loved, and he has never given himself a chance, not since your mother died. And I think that we’ve found that, found love, together. And just like you and Terri, when it does happen, it will happen on its own . . . and it will be the most beautiful thing in the world.”
It all made perfect sense. Perfect, that is, until I threw my dad into the equation, and then it seemed a little crazy.
“Andy.” Holly’s words startled me from my state of confusion.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what I do up in Tietam’s room all those hours?”
I laughed. “Well I kind of thought I did, but now I really don’t have a clue.”
“I paint.”
“Paint, like, his room?” Not the brightest comment in the world, but kind of par for my course.
“No, dummy,” she said, in a way that made “dummy” seem like a wonderful compliment. “Watercolors. And I want you to know that I’ve done a painting for you, and I think you’ll love it, and I’m going to give it to you for Christmas.”
“Wow,” I said, “that’s great. Do you do that for a living?”
Oddly my question seemed to catch her off guard, seemed to stun her like a quick jab from a boxer.
“I was painting in New York, the city, working on children’s books, but I kind of got . . . sidetracked . . . Hey, your cab is here.” “Thank you for listening, Holly, to my stupid worries.”
“Hey they weren’t stupid . . . and listen, when you come back from your dinner, we’re all going to open one present, and then you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to tuck you in and read you a story . . . do you have a favorite?”
My mind raced back to my dear Auntie M, and the thought of three kids nestled in bed waiting for Santa Claus on a clear southern night.
I said, “There was this one called, I think, The Happiest Christmas.”
“The one about the missing reindeer? I know it by heart.” And then I heard honking and an old Grand Torino pulled up the drive. A rusted-out chariot to take me to the ball.
“Bye Holly . . . and thank you.”
“No, thank you, Andy. And remember, people can change; I’m living proof.”
And I heard her exclaim as that rusted-out, cigarette-smelling piece of crap rolled out of sight, “See you later, Andy, it will be a great night!”
December 24, 1985 / 6:40 p.m.
The line of cars was backed up nearly a mile onto Elm Street, all coming to get a gaze at Tietam Brown’s little yard of Bethlehem. Unfortunately, the yard consisted of only one wise man, a new Mary, and the original nonsmoking Joseph, who apparently either felt a strong sense of loyalty to his job or else didn’t care a whole lot about Christmas. But that was it. No drummer boys, no angels, no shepherds.
I looked at the new Mary as I approached the manger. She may not have had Terri’s looks, but she seemed pretty and nice, about twenty, I guessed, with dark hair and dark eyes, which were probably a lot closer to the original Mary than Terri’s auburn-haired, green-eyed rendition.
My Joseph cohort said, “That’s Andy,” and she gave me a firm shake and a pleasant hello as I passed by her, accompanied by Mario Lanza’s proud tenor as it boomed “What Child Is This” on Tietam’s speakers.
The lack of performers meant that my dad and Holly would have the night to themselves as soon as I showered off the layers of Frank ’n’ Mary’s grease that had built up. True to Holly’s word, the diner was home either for families celebrating the night or for solitary souls just wishing for someone with whom to share a holiday meal.
I opened the door and was met with the foreign sound of . . . a television set. I don’t mean the language was foreign, like French or German, but foreign as in, you know, new to the surroundings. They looked so cute together on the couch, hand in hand
and both smiling broadly, as the Alastair Sim version of A Christmas Carol, which I think is called Scrooge, flickered warmly in the darkness.
My father sat up and said, “Andy, come in. Come in and sit down.” He patted the couch for emphasis, and I took a seat next to the happy couple, who seemed to be gloriously inebriated.
I said, “Wow, this is great, a television set.” I later found out that not only was this movie in black and white, but all else was as well, as the set was a black-and-white one, and an old one at that. Still, as I looked at the TV, with the aluminum foil on its rabbit ears, it seemed right at home in Tietam’s old house.
Tietam couldn’t have been happier. “Holly gave it to me early,” my dad said with pride. “So, you know, we could enjoy it tonight. Hell, if you weren’t having dinner at the big house, you could watch this with us. It just started, you know. It’s a heck of a movie. Been years since I’ve seen it.”
Holly leaned in to Tietam and whispered into his ear. My dad nodded his head.
She said, “Andy, your dad got something for me, too.” She was nearly crying from joy. She took her hand from behind my father and thrust it at me, and even in the dim glow of Jacob Marley’s ghost, I could see her diamond shine.
“Oh God,” I said. “It’s beautiful. Is it a, um a . . .”
Just as before, Holly finished my thought. “An engagement ring. Andy, yes it is. Yes it is.”
“Which means you’re going to be—”
“Married,” my father said. “We sure as hell are.”
I don’t know who was happier. Holly or Tietam. Or me for that matter. A kid with a family, what more could I want. Possibly it was a three-way tie for first.
Holly stood up, but still kept her hand in the air. She positively glowed with beauty, and a touch of strong alcohol as well, as she said, “Come Andy, have a drink with us.”
I thought about my one drunken exploit with my father, and had no desire to relive it, with or without the porno film. I said, “I’d better not.”
“Come on, young man,” Holly said as she took hold of my hand and pretended to drag me into the kitchen. “You have one drink with us. Now do as your mother tells you.”
Against my better judgment, I let her pour me a shot. I think of Wild Turkey, though I’m not really sure. But it was brown, it was strong, and it made me shake like a leaf while my father laughed and said, “Thatta boy, now chase it with this,” and handed me a Genny Light, which I promptly chugged down.
