It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [45]
Satisfied that I was now within striking distance, Martha smiled politely, counted to three, and jumped into the intro again. I smiled as I watched all the singers do what I couldn’t and waited for Martha’s signal for my foray into the song. She gave me one firm nod on the chorus, and I jingled my little heart out. Jin! Gle! Bells! Jin! Gle! Bells! Jin! Gle! All! The! Way! Oh! What! Fun! It! Is! To! Ride! In! A! One! Horse! O! Pen! Sleigh! EY!
It was like the whole party took a collective breath when they saw I was going to shake the bell for real and not just move my head and murmur, “Ching ching ching.”
A! Day! Or! Two! A! Go! I! Thought! I’d! Take! A! Ride! …
I felt like I was a contribution to the gaiety of the evening, to the holiday atmosphere, and was being a worthwhile party guest. I was chiming along, lending so much festivity to the party, when the music stopped abruptly again, this time only long enough for Martha to hold up her right hand and sharply inform me, “Only on the chorus, dear,” before she led her troupe back into the second verse, which I had apparently been busy mutilating.
There are four verses to “Jingle Bells,” in case you didn’t know, and when sticklers sing the song in its entirety—which they tend to do when they’ve written out every single lyric on a sheet and copied it off on party paper—it can last longer than Avatar.
When we finally finished the song, Martha smiled again, took the bells from my hand, and thanked me. My husband had my coat already waiting for me at the front door, and my bell hand begged for my wrist splint during the short walk across the street. We never mentioned to each other, although we both knew that the next time we moved to a new neighborhood we were going to have to work up a routine or obtain a circus skill before accepting any invitations.
A year later, my husband and I were bundled up on a Tuesday night and were going out to get a bite to eat when I noticed something strange. There were cars parked everywhere, up and down the street, in front of our house, almost blocking our driveway. I had never seen that many cars on our street before. And that wasn’t all.
It was like a scene from a movie. People were streaming from every direction, also bundled up in hats and scarves, carrying pans, trays, and sometimes gifts, and all were converging on Martha’s house. If I didn’t know better, I’d say a team of horses pulling a sleigh had parked at Martha’s curb, delivering several ladies who’d been nestled under tartan wool blankets.
From my porch, I could see through her living-room window: The house was already packed. The perfect Christmas tree had been resurrected, and a fire blazed on the hearth. People were milling about inside, and I’m sure they were chewing on ham.
I looked at my husband at the same time that he looked at me. I opened my mouth to say something, but I was too stunned to make anything come out.
“Don’t even tell me you’re surprised,” he said to me after he locked our front door and stood in front of it.
“I can’t believe she banned us,” I whispered.
“WELL, I CAN,” my husband mouthed.
And it was true. We had been blackballed from the neighborhood holiday party, that was it. No second chances, no replays. One episode of lip-synching and we were sunk. No pleas or explanations of why I was faking it would ever be heard. I had apparently insulted my host by not participating in the fullest holiday sense, and I was not going to get a reprise.
I really tried hard not to take it personally, and I suppose that it stung that much harder because I liked Martha and her husband, I thought they were nice people, and my feelings were kind of hurt. Yes, I am a jackass who tried to lie my way through a Christmas carol. Yes, I am the neighbor who spazzed out on the shaking of bells and evidently took it too far. Yes, I am the one who would