Sing We Now Of Christmas

(Now you know that we blame you)

My breath fogs our front window as I keep watch for our father. Six days a week he repairs cars and pumps that Good Gulf gasoline with Uncle Emil at Trophy Motors. They just closed up. Right now Dad will be heading west on Hoffman Avenue, just south of the Long Island Railroad tracks. He’ll turn left down South Broadway and continue across Montauk Highway to First Avenue. Then he’ll turn right and it’s two blocks to South 5th. So far, no headlights. We can’t eat until he’s home. My sister’s put the chicken in the oven and the smell makes me hungry. I usually am. When nothing else is there for me, food is. I’m always eating. Last night, as I went for my third helping, my mother yelled “You’re taking more than your share!”

That’s why they hate me. I take more than my share.

I can’t get this thought out of my mind. I try to be a good person, stay out of the way. I’m the youngest and Mom say shit rolls downhill and there’s me, at the bottom. I’m embarrassed by my appearance, tired of being teased, called “tubby” and “fatso” and “tons of fun.” And that’s just by my brothers. Mario’s in his room, blasting Quadrophenia. I can hear it just under the Mantovani “Silver Bells” on my mother's piece-of-crap stereo. It consists of a Realistic receiver (8-track player built in) and BSR turntable from Radio Shack, both built into an old gramophone cabinet my father salvaged and restored, and connected to two shoebox-size speakers. The whole thing sounds tinny and doesn't get very loud but that hasn’t kept me from sneaking records onto it. Just today I got home from school, dreaming of Rosemary, grabbed some Hawaiian Punch from the refrigerator and headed off to my room for the 45 of Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes I bought from Korvettes. I was on the fourth play, imagining Rosemary in her green plaid dress and white knee-hi socks when my mother came home from shopping. She yelled, "Turn that damn thing off!", then did so herself, flicking the wall switch that kills the power to the stereo.

Love grows w h e r e   m   y    R    o    s    e. . .

I jumped over to the BSR, lifted the tonearm, slid the 45 into its sleeve and switched the receiver’s selector knob from PHONO to FM. My mother clicked the wall switch up and soft Christmas music soon filled the room. Her station is out of Paterson, New Jersey and soothes her nerves.

"Help me with the damn bags!”

I ran outside after my mother, careful on the snow, down to the Chevy station wagon, grabbing up four grocery bags and hauling them back up the stairs and into the kitchen as fast as my fat little legs could carry me. I drop the groceries on the kitchen table and get back to the front door in time to hear my mother bark, "Open this damn door!" I do so, grab the bags from my mom and run them back to the kitchen. Mom huffs her way inside, saying "Jesus, it's COLD!" She stamps her boots, takes them off, leaves them by the radiator. Then she turns to me and bellows, "WHY ARE YOU USING MY STEREO?!" My mother's easily the loudest mother on the block. Tommy’s mom Marilyn next door can sometimes be heard over here. But MY mom? I once heard her all the way over at Michael and Kevin’s, just past Tommy’s. They couldn’t believe it. IS THAT YOUR MOM YELLING AT YOUR BROTHER?! My mother’s only real competition around here is my father. When he gets mad, which is often, he’s like a jet plane taking off.

In the kitchen I tear through the grocery bags, looking for something to eat now. I can’t wait for dad. I would’ve made myself something but there was nothing in the house until Mom got back. No peanut butter, no eggs, no bread, no spaghetti, no tuna. Nothing. And the bags were full of all these. My mother had gone shopping for the week. There was a cornucopia before me, ice cream included. I immediately fished the Nestle's Quik out and made myself a tall glass of chocolate milk, licking the spoon. Then I dug out the Skippy's and Wonder Bread. The bread tore as I spread the peanut butter, but some Welch's grape jelly made the mess palatable. Soon I was feasting while my mother stood at the table pouring herself a glass of Coke over ice. She looked over at me exasperated.

"Can't you put anything away before you eat?"

"I was hungry.”

"You're always hungry."

It’s true. I am. I seem to be forever eating. That's why they don't like me. I take more than my share and I’m no longer cute. Being the youngest went from asset to liability. Now Mario and Marc pick on me. Fatso. Tons of fun. Goodyear Blimp. My mother intervenes, though I ask her not to. Like tonight, with Quadrophenia. I wanted to stay in Mario's room and listen. He throws me out, saying, "Leave NOW, tons of fun!" My mother overhears him, shrieks, “I TOLD YOU NOT TO TALK TO HIM THAT WAY!!!” Which means next time Mario gets me alone I’ll get punched real good in the arm as he adds, “You tell anyone and I’ll fuckin’ KILL you!”

I try not to think about all the impending ridicule and subsequent revenge beatings from Mario and Marc. The house is warm. Our Christmas tree is lit. I lean on the pane, cool against my forehead, watching my breath, wondering if it’s bad. The Paterson station is off: I’ve put a Christmas album on. It might’ve come from Trophy Motors. They’re always giving away something with a fill-up. Lanza finishes Oh, Holy Night and I know my favorite is next.

Come, he told me, ba-rum-ba-ba-bum...

I'm also in charge of the Nativity. There’s probably fifty pieces. Wise men on camels, the shepherds, flocks of sheep, oxen, lamb, ducks, geese–so many animals! Then there’s Joseph, Mary and baby Jesus (he’s not set out until Christmas Eve). Nana made all the figures by hand. She Maltese and has a good eye and steady hand. The wise men all have different skin-tones and the same gold piping on their robes. Nana has two kilns in her basement. I like to go down there and see what’s green, what’s been fired. She teaches a ceramics class for local women. Sometimes I’ll bring her a cold Canada Dry while the ladies sit painting and gossiping. “Is this your grandson?!” they ask. “Yes!” my grandmother beams. “He’s a big boy!” they’ll say.

“I’m big for my age.”

I check out in the street again. Dad will be driving the Willys, my favorite. He leaves Mom the Chevy during the day, in case of an emergency. He uses the Willys, a service vehicle. They put the plow on it in winter, drive it back and forth to the parts store and use it to tow stranded customers. The Willys has four-wheel drive and my dad once patted the hood and said “Never gets stuck!” I wonder what Dad will think of the tree. He set out the base last night. It’s a half circle of masonite, set on covered wire crates and pushed to the wall. Years ago, Dad brushed glue and sprinkled tiny rocks on the masonite to form roads that start at the wall and lead to the manger. For the procession. My mother’s father Joseph, who died before I was born, made the manger.  It’s almost a log cabin. He put real straw in it and a blue bulb at the rear so the angel descending is backlit. I love being down at eye level with the Nativity, pretending I’m in Bethlehem on the greatest day of the year, Christmas.

I want to be ready when dad turns on to our block. I'll run out and lift the garage door FAST so he can sail the Willys right in. I’ve been watching for almost an hour and run to the window every time I hear a car or see headlights. I'm in the kitchen, refrigerator door open, pouring some soda, when I tires squeal on the corner. I screw the cap back on the bottle, shove it in the fridge, drop my glass on the table and tear off to the front door. Marc is a blur chugging past me, leaving the front door flapping behind him. I get outside in time to see Marc yank the garage door up as Dad turns in to our driveway. He rolls the Willys in and Marc runs after him, then pulls the driver’s side door open before the car comes to a stop. My father ducks his head, climbs out of the Willys

“Damnit, Marc…" he says, "…watch how far you open that door!” 

My brother whacks the Willys door into the concrete wall of the garage.

”Jesus! Didn’t I tell you to watch that. AND not to throw the garage door open like that, too? You wanna break the damn springs? What is it with you and doors?”

Marc stands still, smiling. I feel conspicuous in the driveway and try to duck back in the house. Too late.

“Chris!”

“Yes?”

“Is supper ready?”

“Yes."

Well, what is it?”

"Chicken and mashed potatoes. And corn.”

"Chicken!"

My dad snorts as Marc switches off the light in the garage and yanks the heavy wooden door down. It slams into floor, rebounding a few inches as the springs go BRAAAAANNNNGGGG!

"What the HELL is WRONG with you?!” my father yells. “Didn't I JUST TELL YOU about that gee dee DOOR?!”

My brother says "Sorry!" and tries to run past my dad, who reaches out an arm, barricades him, spins him around and SMACKS him flat on his ass with an open palm. My brother rubs his butt as he jumps up the steps into the house. I walk slightly ahead of my father, worried I’m next unless I hurry and open the door. When I do, he says, “Why are you letting all the heat out?” Then he steps up and around me.

My mother’s putting the finishing touches on dinner. She pulls the pan of chicken pieces from the stove, directs my sister Joanie to find a trivet. I can't figure out how she does it but my mother makes chicken thoroughly greasy outside and completely dry inside. I eat it anyway. For vegetables Diana boils a bag of corn, softly singing something that might be Society's Child to herself. I'm about to mash the potatoes. Marc pours glasses of Coke, bringing them to the table in pairs. When he sticks his head around the corner into the hallway and cheerily asks my father, “Coke or Canada Dry?” the response is “Either. I don’t care.” I go looking for the right bowl for the mashed potatoes and my father enters the kitchen to a loud, collective “HI DADDY!”

“Hi.”

His hands black with grease, he turns the hot tap, rolls up his sleeves and scoops something called Goop from its ever-present container near the sink, slaps his hands together beneath the water and begins a first pass. We’re all quiet. Then he speaks up.

“Did that bulb go out?”

“What bulb?”

My mother barely looks up from placing chicken parts on a serving platter.

“The bulb by the front door. The light. The bulb is out.

My mother, losing hold of a wing.

“Shit!"

Daphne–our Weimaraner–is on it before anyone can stop her. My mother loses it.

“SOMEONE GET THAT AWAY FROM HER! SHE’LL CHOKE ON THE BONES!”

Joanie goes off after Daphne and my mother turns to my father.

"I don't know, Mario! Maybe one of the kids forget to turn it on. Maybe the bulb’s not dead. I’m trying to serve dinner.”

“You don't know?” my father says, on his second pass with the Goop, his hands only slightly less black.

“I was cooking, Mario. What do you want from me? I thought one of the kids turned it on when it got dark. You think you can say ‘Hello’ before starting the interrogation?”

“I said ‘Hello’ when I came in. Didn’t you hear me?”

No one responds. My father begins his third pass with the Goop.

“Diana, take this chicken to the table.”

“Mom, I’m doing the corn.”

“Joanie?!”

“She’s trying to get chicken away from Daphne.”

“MARC?!”

My brother comes racing in from somewhere and grabs the platter with the chicken from my mother, then ferries it to the kitchen table. Joanie returns triumphant with a gnawed but intact chicken wing. She gathers up serving spoons and forks while I grab the bowl of boiled potatoes and electric mixer. I pour milk and butter into the bowl and shove the beaters in. I click the switch to a low setting and begin, adding more milk and butter and speeding up the mixer until all the lumps are gone. We place everything on the table. Marc sets out cutlery and napkins. It's Friday night–no school tomorrow–and my brothers and sisters and I are in a buoyant holiday mood. My father? When not at work he's fixing things around the house, troubleshooting even now.

"Chris–go check that light!"

I hurry off to the switch by the front door and flick it on. Then I report.

"It's working!"

My father heaves a sigh of relief.

“Is it too much trouble for one of you kids to turn the light on when it gets dark?"

It's quiet a moment. Then my father hears music coming from Mario’s room.

“You say she's a virgin? I'm gonna be the first in. Her fella's gonna kill me? Ah, fucking will he?”

"Chris! Stop that!"

I turn the mixer off. My father grabs a towel, dries his hands, steps over to Mario's door, pounds on it, yelling, "OPEN THIS GEE DEE DOOR!" Nothing. Then the volume’s turned down and door swung open quickly. Mario, my father's namesake, stands there half-grinning. My father’s face is red.

"What filth are you listening to in there?"

"The Who.”

My father, thinking this is yet another of my brother's wiseass retorts, pulls his fist like he’s about to punch my brother, a signature move Mario knows so well he no longer jerks his head back.

"Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face and turn that garbage off!" my father yells. Then he sniffs the air in the room, grabs my brother by his shirt and adds, "And if you're smoking in there, I'll kill you." My brother’s recently taken up the habit. My father smokes a pipe. My mother goes through pack after pack of Kools. Mario Jr. sneaks those. And he smokes pot. Lots of pot. My father doesn’t know about THAT. Clapping her hands once, my mother breaks up the Mario glaring contest, saying, "Dinner is ready! Let's sit down!" Marc, Joanie and me scoot in behind the table, silently sliding down the banquette. Mario Jr. skulks past my father at the head of the table and sits by Diana. Resurrecting the bulb/light discussion, my father asks, "Would you like me to break my neck on the steps?” When he bows his head to mumble grace I imagine his neck permanently at that angle. We all bow our heads. No one makes a move until dad does. When he reaches for a breast it's GO and God help you. My father forbids extraneous talk during dinner, so we serve ourselves wordlessly. I'm too late for the second breast so. I take two drumsticks. I'm pulling the skin off my chicken while Joanie scoops mashed potatoes, Marc chugs Coke and Mario Jr. spoons corn. LOTS of corn when Diana takes offense.

“Mario! Leave me some!"

"Diana!" my mother scolds, "Your father’s trying to EAT!"

"But MA...!"

"Here!" my brother sneers, shoving the bowl of corn her way. My sister grabs it, spoons out a heap as my mother tries to engage my father.

"How was work?"

"I don't want to talk about it. I want to eat."

I bite into the chicken. Greasy and dry. I sip some Coke as remedy. Dad lifts a forkful of mashed potatoes to his mouth, then stops halfway. He’s spotted something.

"Where do you think you’re you going?"

Joanie’s trying to slip out beneath the table.

"I'm not hungry.”

"You're not hungry?"

"I had some potatoes.”

My sister thinks she's fat.

"You eat some of that chicken.”

“Dad!" my sister pleads.

“Joanie, sit down NOW and eat some gee dee chicken."

"Mario..."

"Don't Mario me. I work like a slave to buy that chicken. She's going to eat it."

Everyone’s head is ducked, not wanting to become my father’s next target. My mother tries again.

"Mario...”

"What the hell did she take the chicken for if she doesn't want it?

My sister stares at her plate. My mother says, "She'll put it back. She doesn't want it."

"She doesn't leave this table until she's eaten everything on that plate."

Joanie crosses her arms over her chest, juts her lower lip out.

"Do you hear me? You better start eating if you know what's good for you."

My father has this thing about not wasting food. If it's on your plate, you eat it. You can't put food back. My sister continues pouting. She hasn't taken a bite.

"Don't screw around with me, Joanie!"

Mario picks this moment to ask, "May I be excused?"

My father looks over at Mario's plate.

"You haven't finished, either."

There's a lump of mashed potatoes, two forkfuls of corn and a complete chicken wing on the plate.

"I don't like it..." my brother mumbles.

"What?!” my father asks.

"I don't like it."

"You don't like it?"

My father turns to my mother, incredulous: “He doesn't like it."

My mother tries again: "Mario...”

"No one asked you if you like it. Your mother made this meal and you'll EAT it. I don't care if you don't like it. You'll finish what's on your plate."

I plow corn and mashed potatoes into my mouth, devour my chicken wing, stripping it to the bone. Mario grumbles, pushes his food around on his plate with his fork. Marc proudly proclaims, "Look Dad! I'm all done!", then lifts his plate up for my father to see.

"That's good, Marc. You’re excused."

Marc slides underneath the table, emerging between my mother and father. He scurries off to our room to finish the Frankenstein model he's building. My mother gets up, puts her plate in the sink and runs the tap. Mario and Joanie still refuse to eat.

"May I be excused?" Diana asks. My father draws himself up, shoots her a suspicious look, says, "Is your plate clean?" Diana shows him her plate, shiny with chicken fat but otherwise clean.

"Okay. But you two are not going anywhere until those plates are clean."

Joanie makes a feeble stab at the pile of mashed potatoes on her plate. Mario’s taken a hard-line.

“Pick up that goddamn fork... " my father says, "...and eat that goddamn food I'm paying for."

Mario doesn’t budge. Joanie begins weeping. Before anyone sees, my father scoops their plates, one in each hand and somehow simultaneously overturns them on their respective heads. Corn, mashed potatoes and chicken grease ooze down their startled faces. My mother turns from the sink and screams.

"MARIO!"

"Don't say a goddamned word!" my father yells.

Joanie sobs uncontrollably. Mario is quivering.

"Now get the hell up from this table and go wash yourselves.”

They pull the plates off their heads, place them slowly down on the table and hurry for the bathroom. I reach for another helping of mashed potatoes.

I always did like the way I made them.