The Age of Grief - Jane Smiley [30]
“Why not? It works.”
“For some people, at a great cost. Why should daughters be sacrificed to the whims of the father?” He should stop now. He doesn’t. “Just because he put his dick somewhere once or twice.” The result of too many bourbons too early in the day.
“In my opinion—” Eric seems not to notice the vulgarity, but Harold, beside Kirby, snorts with pleasure.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Leanne says. Kirby blushes and falls silent, knowing that he has offended her. It is one of those long holiday meals, and by the time they get up from the table, Kirby feels as if he has been sitting in a dim, candlelit corner most of his life.
There is another ritual—the Christmas Eve unwrapping of presents—and by that time Kirby realizes that he is actively intoxicated and had better watch his tone of voice and his movements. Anna hands out the gifts with a kind of rude bashfulness, and Kirby is surprised at the richness of the array: from Harold he has gotten a cotton turtleneck and a wool sweater, in bright, stylish colors; from Leanne a pair of very fancy gloves; from Isaac three pairs of Ragg wool socks; from Eric’s family, as a group, a blue terry-cloth robe and sheepskin slippers. When they open his gifts, he is curious to see what the wrappings reveal: he has bought it all so long before. Almost everything is some gadget available in Japan but not yet in the States. Everyone peers and oohs and aahs. It gives Kirby a headache and a sense of his eyeballs expanding and contracting. Tomorrow night he will be on his way home again, and though he cannot bear to stay here, after all, he cannot bear to leave either.
He drifts toward the stairs, intending to go to bed, but Harold looms before him, grinning and commanding. “Your brain needs some oxygen, brother,” he says. Then they are putting on their parkas, and then they are outside, in a cold so sharp that Kirby’s nose, the only exposed part of him, stings. Harold strides down the driveway, slightly ahead of him, and Kirby expects him to speak, either for or against Eric, but he doesn’t. He only walks. The deep snow is so solidly frozen that it squeaks beneath their boots. The only thing Harold says the whole time they are walking is, “Twenty-two below, not counting the wind chill. Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Feels dangerous,” Kirby says.
“It is,” Harold says.
The neighborhood is brightly decorated, and the colored lights have their effect on Kirby. For the first time in three Christmases he feels a touch of the mystery that he thinks of as the Christmas spirit. Or maybe it is love for Harold.
Back at the house, everyone has gone to bed except Leanne and Mary Beth, who are drying dishes and putting them away. They are also, Kirby realizes—after Harold strides through the kitchen and up the stairs—arguing, although with smiles and in polite tones. Kirby goes to a cabinet and lingers over getting himself a glass for milk. Mary Beth says, “Kristin will make the connection. She’s old enough.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“She saw all the presents being handed out and unwrapped. And Anna will certainly make the connection.”
“Anna surely doesn’t believe in Santa Claus anymore.”
“Unofficially, probably not.”
“It’s Isaac’s first Christmas,” Leanne says. “He’ll like all the wrappings.”
“I wish you’d thought of that before you wrapped the family presents and his Santa presents in the same paper.”
“That’s a point, too. They’re his presents. I don’t think Kristin will notice them.”
“If they’re the only wrapped presents, she will. She notices everything.”
Now Leanne turns and gazes at Mary Beth, her hands on her hips. A long silence follows. Leanne flicks a glance at Kirby, who pretends not to notice. Finally she says, “All right, Mary Beth. I’ll unwrap them.”
“Thank you,” Mary Beth says. “I’ll finish this, if you want.” Kirby goes out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom.
The light is already off, and Harold the younger is on his back, snoring.
When he gets up an hour later, too drunk to sleep, Kirby sees