Tietam Brown

by Mick Foley

  My father was laughing when I set my beer down. “Now take off those clothes and let’s do some push-ups,” he said, and the three of us laughed until I regained my wind to find one more shot in my hand.

  “Dad, I shouldn’t,” I said.

  “Andy, this is important. This is a toast.”

  I raised my glass, as did Tietam and Holly.

  “To the memory of my wife, who brought into this world a fine son. To the grace of God, who let me have a second chance. And to my future wife Holly, who believes in me.”

  We all said “Cheers,” and I downed my third drink, and took a deep swig from a new Genny to stop my body from shaking. My head was floating in a wonderful way, and part of me longed to stay in this warm loving room for the rest of the night. But then I saw Terri, or her vision at least, by the glow of the fire in her black lingerie, kissing me softly before peeling off clothing and making sweet love, and then carving a turkey. Hey I know the turkey doesn’t make sense, but it was my vision, and that’s what I saw.

  Damn, it was getting late. After seven already, and I still smelled like French fries with gravy, which was the perennial Frank ’n’ Mary’s favorite, day or night, Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve. I ran up the stairs, two at a time, like the Tietam of old, with the remainder of my Genny in hand.

  While the water streamed down, I thought of this night, and the magic it held. I couldn’t have been more excited if I’d seen Santa himself, with that smoke encircling his head like a wreath much in the way an alcohol buzz was encircling mine. Was it really a good idea to be drunk at my girlfriend’s house on Christmas Eve? Probably not, I decided as I swigged down the remainder of my beer.

  A quick change of clothes and a dash of cologne, and I was back down the stairs, where Ebenezer Scrooge was choosing money over love. What a jerk. I thought of Bob Seger and a song that wasn’t a hit but hit home with me nonetheless. “I ain’t got no money, but I sure got a whole lot of love.” Then I had the sudden feeling that I’d forgotten to do something, but I didn’t know what.

  Holly was holding two small presents in her hands. She said, “Andy, it’s probably better that you don’t drive right now, and even better if we don’t drive you.”

  “Yeah I think that’s safe to say,” I laughed. “Plus with this traffic outside I’ll probably be able to walk to Terri’s house faster than I could drive.”

  “So your father and I got you these.” She handed me the first gift. “This is for all the walking you do.”

  I opened the gift. A personal cassette player. I’d say a Walkman, but in fact it wasn’t. Some other brand, I can’t recall which.

  “Thanks Holly, thanks Dad, I’ll be able to use this a lot. But I don’t have any tapes.”

  Holly handed me the second gift, which was about exactly the size of an audiocassette. Nat King Cole, The Magic of Christmas. She started to cry. Just a little. “I know that this won’t take the place of your mother’s, but I thought you could listen to it in times when you can’t get to hers. And I know I can’t replace her, but I thought I could be here in times when you need me.”

  She gave me a hug and I tried not to cry, but man it was tough and I just laid my head on her shoulder and closed my eyes hard. Because remember, crying’s not crying unless a tear falls from the eye. And how could one fall if my eyes were clamped shut. Eventually the feeling subsided and I managed to walk out the door without shedding a tear.

  Holly held open the door and shouted, “Remember that story, Andy. I’m tucking you in.”

  And then it was Tietam’s turn. “I love you, son,” he yelled, which was all but drowned out by Dean Martin singing “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!”

  I said goodbye to Joseph and “Nice to meet you” to the new Mary, who said, “Why are you crying?” in a gentle, sweet voice. Damn. Then, just as I reached the end of the drive, a delivery truck put on its brakes and a driver jumped out and said, “You Antietam Brown?”

  “Sure am,” I said.

  “Then sign right here.”

  I signed and thanked him, I looked at the package, which weighed a pound or so. Magazine, I guessed, but as I started to open it, I read the full name on the label. Antietam Brown IV. Not mine. So I walked back across the lawn, where Mary checked on me again, and slipped the package between the storm and front doors. Nothing, I thought, was important enough to disturb them on this night.

  Then I turned up the collar of my denim coat and walked past the manger again, where Mary once more made sure I was all right. Then, once free from her care, I put on those headphones and pressed PLAY on the Walkman. Yeah I know it wasn’t a Walkman, but “personal cassette player” sounds a little goofy. Yeah I pressed PLAY on that Walkman, and . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. No batteries. Damn. I needed my Nat. Needed it bad. Was jonesing for Nat.

  But then my thoughts turned to Terri, and Nat slipped into the back of my mind. Thoughts that were jumbled together. Man, I was having trouble focusing as I walked at a quick pace, and I looked at the sky and saw stars spinning around, which I was pretty sure wouldn’t have been the case without my four drinks. Probably not a wise decision to arrive hammered at the reverend’s house. But a brisk walk with Jack Frost nipping at my nose ought to sober me up.

  So once more I thought of Terri, and let her various images slug it out in my mind. Green eyes, tight sweater, holding hands, good-night handshake, “Backstreets,” bare breasts, black lingerie, deep kisses, bare breasts, black lingerie, black lingerie, bare breasts.

  By the time I got to Terri’s door, we seemed to have had a tie in the visionary battle of supremacy. Yes, black lingerie and bare breasts had ended in a dead heat, but more importantly my brisk walk had served its purpose. No longer was I just a boyfriend showing up drunk at the reverend’s house. No, now I was a boyfriend showing up drunk and with a visible hard-on. In my hurry to get dressed, I’d sensed that I’d forgotten something. That something, it turned out, was my underwear. Quickly I arranged things in a more clandestine way.

  Dingdong. In a moment, Terri was at the door, and man, she looked beautiful. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in deep luxurious curls, and her eyes shone in a way even more beautiful than Holly’s new diamond. Her dress hugged her form, not too tight, but just enough, a green velvet number that, like her sweater, looked to have cost more than my father’s car.

  I saw the reverend approach with an outstretched hand, and I thought of my father’s handshake analogy, and momentarily I contemplated pulling my nuts out of my jeans and slapping them into his palm. Thankfully, no nuts were slapped, but I did let out a little dopey laugh as I shook the reverend’s manicured hand.

  “Have you been drinking, son?” he asked. Not quite the greeting I was looking for.

  “Just a little, sir.”

  “What in blazes is any teenage boy, let alone my daughter’s boyfriend, doing drinking on the eve of the Lord’s birthday?”

  God please let the truth suffice. “Well sir, my father just got engaged tonight, and they asked if I’d join them in a toast.”

  Terri squealed with delight, which seemed to take some of the heat off me. “Oh Andy, that’s great. I’m so happy,” she said.

  The reverend relaxed, and smiled a bit. A fake, forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Well, maybe that did call for a drink,” he said in his rich baritone that had saved many a soul.

  “Dad, rest assured, Andy is not a drinker,” Terri said.

  “Is this true?” the reverend asked as he ushered me inside. It smelled simply divine inside their fine home, like pine trees and cinnamon, and the fire crackled away in a blaze of deep orange while Alastair Sim danced at his nephew’s house on an awfully big screen. A screen that stood next to a huge Christmas tree. Ten feet at least, and as white as the snow. With a mountain of presents piled up underneath.

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson, it is. This is only the second time. And there won’t be another for a long time, I’m sure.”

  “May I ask what that f
irst occasion was?”

  “Yes sir, my father took me to a movie for my last birthday, and he gave me a beer before we saw it.” Not only had I left out the part about him not having seen me in sixteen years and nine months, but I hadn’t mentioned the porno flick either. Also, the six beers had conveniently become one. Maybe not technically lying, but pretty damn close.

  Mrs. Johnson appeared, looking seasonal in a red dress which showcased cleavage and a pair of breasts that seemed to have all the pliability of a pair of croquet balls. She extended her hand, which of course made me think of my nuts, but I swallowed my laugh while still trying to lose the images of Terri’s bare breasts that were sashaying in my mind.

  Just when things seemed at their very worst, I saw my salvation, so to speak. Tiny Tim. “I love this part,” I said, and we all turned to look as Tim, who didn’t look tiny at all in this particular version, said, “God bless us every one.”

  The reverend put his arm around his wife, who put her arm around Terri, who put her arm around me. We just stood there while the credits rolled, until the reverend finally said, “That’s what it’s all about.” I was dying to say something about the hokeypokey, but wisely refrained. Thankfully, both my buzz and my hard-on seemed to be subsiding.

  Then we sat in the living room, a big happy family, and things settled down nicely. Mrs. Johnson brought forth tray after tray of holiday snacks. Fresh-baked cookies and pastries, which made Tietam’s selection look positively sparse. We talked of the snow, which had just started to fall, and of Santa and reindeer and Christmases past, and I mentioned a place in New Hampshire where I’d heard it was Christmas all year. A little kids’ park, but one nonetheless that I wanted to see.

  Terri said, “Do you like roller coasters, Andy?” to which I replied, “I’m really not sure.”

  “Not sure,” she said. “What do you mean?”

  “Well I’ve never been on one.”

  “Never?”

  “Not ever.”

  “Mom, Dad, maybe Andy could come with us to Lake George this summer. They’ve got that great old wooden roller coaster.”

  “Sure,” the Johnsons said in unison. Said it in such a way that I knew they’d rather die a horrible painful death than have me take part in their vacation.

  “So it’s a date?” Terri said, and silence prevailed until Mrs. Johnson leapt up and said, “Time to eat,” and I imagined a boxer being saved by the bell.

  The reverend and I sat down at a table of mahogany with eight hand-carved chairs, surrounded by photos that hung in gold frames. One of the Johnsons on their wedding day. One of young Terri in pigtails and bows. And one of the reverend shaking hands with the coach. A black wig and a mullet sharing a smile. Then the Johnson women brought out plate after plate of mouthwatering dishes. Sweet potatoes, peas, corn, squash, a casserole of some kind, fruit salad, and fresh rolls. Four of them were foods I’d never even seen, but man they looked good. Then last but not least, a turkey. What a turkey it was. The type of turkey that Scrooge might send to Bob Cratchit, or his nephew’s house, depending on what version you watch.

  The reverend spoke up, and filled the room with his velvety baritone once more. “Terri, would you please carve the turkey?”

  My vision! It was coming true. My vision of Terri, it was all coming true. In reverse order, sure, but coming true nonetheless. Hey reverse order was fine with me. She could carve the turkey first, then we could make love, then she could put on her lingerie and place soft kisses on my lips in front of the fire. Nothing wrong with that order. Nothing at all.

  “Dee-licious,” said the reverend, clearly savoring his food, and I made the mistake of taking a swig of my milk as he started to speak again. “Whew-ee, I’ll have to work off this meal. Maybe some push-ups after—”

  But he never finished the sentence, because in a flash of mental lightning, I thought of the reverend in the nude doing push-ups, and I spit out my milk.

  “What the devil,” said Mr. Johnson, and he looked awfully mad, but I just couldn’t help it, and I laughed hard again. “What in Sam Hill is going on here, young man?”

  All eyes were upon me, and an answer was needed. The truth or a lie? Which one would do? I looked at Terri. No help there. I did a quick eenie-meenie-miney-moe in my head and decided to pick this very one. Uh-oh. The truth.

  “Well sir, I momentarily visualized you doing those push-ups naked, and it seemed kind of funny.”

  The silence was deafening. So I decided to break it. “I’m sorry, sir, but I think that drink I had has made me think a little strange tonight. But like I said, I’m not going to drink again for a very long time, maybe forever, so I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that anymore.”

  “Well let’s hope not,” the reverend said, adjusting his tie. “The Lord doesn’t want us to be thought of naked. That’s why he gave us clothes.”

  He did? Jeez, I must have skipped that chapter where the Lord handed out the clothes. Then I thought of Jesus saying, “Taketh ye this custom-tailored one-thousand-dollar suit and weareth it,” and almost laughed again.

  Unfortunately, the dinner conversation continued its religious theme, which didn’t bode well for me. The reverend opened the conversation.

  “Andy, to be honest, I was a bit apprehensive about letting Terri participate in your father’s little Nativity scene, especially as the Virgin Mary. Taking into account that some of our religions tend to place the Virgin almost on the level of our Lord, which borders on blasphemy.”

  “Yes sir, I respect your opinion.”

  “Do you agree with it?”

  “Um, no, not really . . . sir.”

  “What religion are you, Andy?”

  “I’m a recovering Catholic, sir.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “That I don’t believe in everything that I was taught.”

  “Including the Virgin?”

  “No sir, I do believe in her.”

  “But not in a place near the Lord.”

  “Yes sir, I believe she’s pretty close to the Lord.”

  “You do, Andrew?”

  “Actually, Andy is short for Antietam, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Oh I see, like the battle. Did you have ancestors who fought there?”

  “Yes sir, my great-great-great-grandfather did.”

  The reverend contemplated my answer and mumbled “Interesting,” then seemed to shift gears and headed back to my lawn.

  “Yes sirree, Andy, I had a few doubts, but then I thought, Heck, anything that honors the spirit of the season can’t be all bad, isn’t that right, hon?”

  “It sure is, William,” Mrs. Johnson replied. Speak when spoken to, I guessed, was the rule of this house.

  The reverend chewed a piece of turkey, swallowed, then turned his attention back to me.

  “But now tell me, Andrew, sorry Andy, did your father have trouble finding good Christians to stand in his manger on the eve of the Lord’s birth?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Johnson, he did have some trouble.”

  “So may I ask, how did he adapt to that situation? I heard from one of my congregation that he had quite a line of cars tonight.”

  “Yes sir, he did.”

  “Well then, Andy, what did he do about his trouble with Christians?”

  “Well sir. Most of the manger was empty. Just one wise man and Joseph. I’m not sure if they were Christians or not. And Mary was a Jewish girl.”

  The reverend let out a deep sigh, a sigh of disgust. “Can I be honest here, Andy?” His voice was picking up passion, as if he was saving a soul.

  “Yes sir, you can be honest with me.”

  “Well as a Christian, I am offended by that. Deeply offended.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, reverend.”

  “You’re damn right you should be sorry, son. The Jews killed our Lord, and for you, or your father, or his wife or whatever, to dress up a Jewish girl and parade her around as the Virgin is offensive to me.”

&n
bsp; “Well, I’m pretty sure that the Virgin was a Jewish girl.”

  I did a quick scan of Johnson faces. Mrs. Johnson disgusted. Terri scared. Mr. Johnson, contempt, pure and simple.

  “Mr. Johnson, if Mary had been a good Christian girl, well there wouldn’t have been a whole lot of need for Jesus, would there have been?”

  Mrs. Johnson screamed. Terri fought back tears. And the reverend. Well, he spewed forth a form of venom from way down in his gut. A big fat serving of fire and brimstone headed my way.

  “May I suggest, Mr. Brown, that you leave this house now, collect your father and his new bride, attend your midnight mass at St. Catherine’s, and pray for forgiveness.”

  “Well, uh, actually, my father’s not Catholic, and his fiancée is Jewish.”

  Terri tried to help. “Dad, she really is nice.” Her father wasn’t listening. Instead he brought up John 3:16 in a menacing, shaking baritone.

  “For God . . . so loved the world . . . that he gave his only begotten son . . . that whosoever believeth in him . . . should not perish . . . but have everlasting life! Which means it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a Jew to enter into the kingdom of God.”

  This talk had sobered me up in a hurry, but I had to fight off the temptation to laugh in his face. Instead I slowly put my hand in the air, as if he were a teacher and I had to go pee.

  “Mr. Johnson?”

  “Yes! What is it, an apology?”

  “Um, that’s not how the verse goes.”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “No, really, it’s not. It is actually easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

  I saw him lurch forward slightly, as if he was poised to rise up from his seat. I saw his lip start to shake, as if he was getting ready to mangle more scripture. Instead he sat back and closed his eyes softly, waiting, I guess, for the return of his good Christian sensibilities. He opened his eyes and then spoke in carefully calculated prose.