Scenes in a cabin

He’s going to make himself sick.

“Alex, make sure you eat some fruit too. That is an awful lot of fondue you’re eating.” He doesn’t eat enough fruit and vegetables so adding cheese doesn’t always help his system.

It was Christmas Eve and we were at a party. It was me, my two boys, my parents, my brother, his daughter and wife. That was our side. On her side were her parents, her niece and nephew, and her sister. My brother, Mike, had invited us to go up to his winter cabin in North Carolina. In these stories, cabins are always in the middle of nowhere and it’s snowing. This isn’t that isolated, it’s in a housing development with a campground. Also, to the disappointment of the native-born Floridians, Alex and Drew, it’s not snowing. It’s too warm, only in the forties at night. The only snow we saw was fake at a ski resort. My younger son Alex had gone ice skating at their outdoor tiny rink. Much longer on the ice and he might have been swimming. Mike had bought the cabin, thinking to rent it out part of the year. And truth be told deep down I was blindly jealous. The man had married well-a doctor whose family had money. Unlike his idiot, fat, and divorced sister. I could never afford the damned place.

Maybe that’s all for the best said a voice inside me. It sounded like my mother. You don’t need the headaches. Being a landlord, that second mortgage. You know he’ll let you come here. Rationalization isn’t always the bad thing people make it out to be. Sometimes it saves.  My parents nearly didn’t make it to this party. She and my father have cataracts. So, she had complained about the time and the fact she’d have to drive at night. I don’t blame her; these roads aren’t the best. My car’s engine light had come on due to the altitude or so Mike says. I hope so. Anyway, the roads are dark, steep, narrow and curving. So, I don’t blame my parents for not wanting to drive. But she went on and on about it. More rationalizing.

“So, what are you worried about?” I asked. “Mike offered to drive you back to your hotel in town.”

“He shouldn’t have to do that,” she said. “Why couldn’t they have had it earlier?”

“I don’t know. Don’t go if you don’t want to. Or suggest they do it earlier.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Then quit complaining. I didn’t say it. “I don’t know what to tell you. But you can always just come on Christmas Day.”

“I hope they have a midnight Mass here.” We’re Catholic. Supposedly. I can’t remember the last time I went to church.

“I’m sure they do.” Or watch the Pope on TV. That’s good enough for me.

In the end they took Mike’s offer of a ride and now here we all were, eating fondue. There was also fruit, cheeses, deli meats, cookies. I sat with Alex and my other son, Drew at the table, eating. People spilled over into the small living room. The cabin was small. It’s only a two bedroom plus two beds down in a partially unfinished basement. What I hate is walking up the steep driveway. The damned thing kills my knees and my lousy Found on the Road Dead Focus hates it too. All these years in business and Ford still couldn’t do a transmission right. It occurred to me I shouldn’t complain about my mother when I’m getting cranky too.  I’m not even menopausal yet. Besides what do I want? That car is pushing 200 hundred thousand miles. It’s paid for and that’s good enough for me.

“Hi,” said Helen. She was in my face. “Hi. Hi. Hi.” She'd been doing this all week. It was annoying. I love my niece, but I really was glad my kids weren’t that age anymore. Nine years old. Did I really get my kids through these stages? Must have but I don’t know how.

 “Ready for Santa?” I asked. She went over to Alex and did the hi thing. That wasn’t a good idea. He really didn’t like little kids and had no patience. He was silent but I’m sure he was thinking she should take a walk into the forest never to be seen again. “She has too much,” Mom says. Well, she doesn’t want for anything that is certain. She even has a bigger bed than I do. My mother and I had laughed over that. “What kid needs a queen?” she’d ask me. The Silent generation isn’t so silent anymore. I agree but what do I know? I have a son in counseling for anxiety and his grades are so terrible for a while his caseworker called me weekly. He’s sixteen. The other one my mother thinks also needs counseling and he hates reading. He’s in college, studying mathematics. He looks like someone that should be in a medieval garret discovering zero or doing alchemy. It’s that long, wild, black hair. I hate that he doesn’t like reading, but I tried. My other son has curly hair and likes to paint. One night while they were at my ex’s he went for a walk and never came back. An abandonment, but not his fault. He’d had a massive heart attack. So, my mother says “Drew doesn’t talk about his feelings. He’s closed up. Not many friends.” This was before his father died. Alex is closed too but at least he has someone to talk to.

           “That’s his nature. He’s introverted.” I told her. “He’s old enough to decide and he doesn’t want to go. I have one kid in counseling. You wish me to send the other. This says nothing good about me.” Don't cry, I thought.

“It says you’re a good mom,” she said. Right. I told Mary, my sister in law this the other day.

“He’s fine, is social. He cares about people. Don’t worry,” she said, smiling.

It’s possible my mother is insane. But maybe she’s not. Tonight, Drew told me his feet hurt.

“Yes,” I said very helpfully I thought. “You wore the wrong shoes today. You should have worn those hiking boots on the trail.”

“I hate those hiking boots,” he said. “And by the way, your orthotics. I hated them.”

“You did? But you wore them.” My job is making braces and artificial limbs. Drew is flatfooted. He used to complain his feet hurt. So, I did what any orthotist would. I made the ungrateful child foot orthotics. Arch supports. With my own two hands I did, slaving over a hot oven that melted the plastic for forming. When he was a kid, he wore them, saying they helped. When he was a teenager he stopped, saying he longer liked them. So, I stopped making them. His feet were too far gone by then I thought.

 It is said kids break your heart. He did just that. “They hurt. Orthotics are a lie.”

“Gee, son, thanks for this uplifting opinion on what I’ve dedicated my life to doing.” But I can’t blame him. Braces allow someone to walk, to function, to have an easier life. That doesn’t mean people like them. We just can’t make plastic mimic human bone and muscle. So, at best, they’re probably like wearing an underwire bra or steel toed shoes. People can’t wait to get them off. Still, did he have to say it? “Your gratitude brings a tear to my eye.”

“Well Mom, they did. And you lied about those hiking boots. They don't give like Vans do.”

“Drew, the boots are so you don’t sprain your damn rotten ankle.” And if you had, you would have rotted there, I thought. I barely climbed that trail today up Grandfather Mountain never mind dragging your sorry ass out. This trail involved a lot of climbing up rocks like steps. To me it wasn’t easy. They say it is half a mile, or something like that. What they don’t tell you is that’s how the crow flies not the twists, turns and rocky stairs one has to climb. I felt like one of those humans in Wall-e. Fat and weak. That movie hurt. A lot. I’m glad I did the hike. The view at the bridge was beautiful and the boys were so happy, but it hurt my knees. “You wear what you want though. Your feet are probably too rigid for hard plastic orthotics. So, they hurt you.” Your brain is rigid too and maybe it will fix itself when you’re thirty if we’re lucky. Still, Grandfather mountain had cost me 65 dollars for the three of us. That night we had dinner and Drew took the check from me.

“I’ll pay,” he said, “I know that park was more than you expected.” He had gone once with a friend when he was a kid. “They made us get onto the car’s floor when we went. And they threw a blanket over us. But I forgot to tell you to do that.” There could be hope for him after all. He probably just stated what my father won’t. The stubborn man won’t wear his knee brace either. Face it, a voice said, People hate the things and the fact they’re necessary.

“Boots also protect your ankles from snakes and ticks,” Mike pointed out. Something flew past me. I looked into the living room to see what is going on.

My father is wearing moose antlers. They are throwing rings at him.

 Mike’s in-laws had brought over these big, blow up moose antlers. Someone ties them onto their head and people throw rings at them, trying to hook them onto the antlers. So, rings are flying in the living room. The kids laugh.  David, Mary’s father puts on the antlers. I’m surprised. He’s a retired judge. My father has always been able to be silly. He’s a teacher. Maybe that’s it. Thirty years of dealing with children, many troubled. Dealing with troubled adults. Now these two men don’t care and don’t need to drink much.  Just put on moose antlers and be silly. Because they’ve had a lifetime of being serious, being authoritative, telling people what to do. Seeing far too much. I took some of the rings and tossed them myself. I missed.

Margie’s is Mary’s older sister. Her children are named Elaine and John. I don’t remember their ages but it’s similar to my boys. John is older than his sister. They had a menorah since their father is Jewish. Margie is divorced. Mine was sort of friendly. Theirs, I know wasn’t. Her mother Sarah had told me. Margie cornered me. I don’t know what it is that people talk to me. I think it’s because I haven’t seen her in years. One must deal with a friend’s judgment behind the sympathy. A stranger leaves.

“I’m sorry about your ex,” she said to me.

“Well, it’s two years now.” I watch her children go to call their father. “How is it going with them?”

“That bastard will give them a guilt trip about their decision to come here for Christmas,” she said. “He yelled at me as if I influenced them. I didn’t. He does that all by himself by throwing it up what he does for them, what he pays.”

“Shit.”

“They told him off, so I don’t know if they’ll see him.” She turned as the kids came out of the bedroom, looking like the Cratchits when Bob told them drink to Scrooge’s health. That part over they went to play with their cousin and my kids. I stood there thinking. My boys always wanted to see their father. They wanted him involved; got along as far as I know. He left them that night to go for a walk. They tried to sleep, hoping when they woke up, he’d be there. But no, their uncle was instead. I am sure Drew wanted his father at his graduation. I know. He’s said it on social media, gets sad on Father’s Day. I know more about what he feels than Alex actually.

I sat next to my mother.

 “Did you end up bringing food?” she asked me.

“Yes, Mom.” Mike is vegetarian. I’m also a bad mom because Alex loathes them. Once my friend Shannon told him no dessert if he didn’t eat a piece of a carrot. He gagged. I don’t know if he made himself do that. Or he didn’t. Either way, I have to hide vegetables in things although he knows I do it. Furthermore, Mike and Helen eat like birds. So, we always bring food to his house.

“He’s doing brunch,” my mother had said at Thanksgiving, disbelieving. “Christmas brunch.” I didn't see what the problem was, except it’s not traditional. No turkey was mentioned, no stuffing, no plum pudding. My father makes plum pudding, but he didn’t this year. I eat it but it sounds better than it is. It’s beautiful, better, but fruitcake all the same. The taste is helped by pouring brandy over and lighting it. One year as he lit it the brandy spilled onto the table and caused quite a bit of excitement. “What’s he going to have?” Mom asked me.  “He's very vague. I don’t think he knows what he’s having.” Food isn’t food to my family. Cooking means I love you. I cook this because think this highly of you. I think to Mike and Mary it’s just an annoyance. My mother doesn’t understand this.

Well, she could be right to be concerned. The last time we went to my brother’s Drew complained about the cold leftover chicken they had served him at lunch. Without even bothering to heat it up he said. They had cold salmon too. We ended up scrounging things, eating out. Drew also begged me to bring food to my brother’s. “I’ll bring a ham. It’s my boss’ idea of a bonus this year but it will work. The meat eaters can have that.” And I did. “I hear he’s having salmon too. And his in-laws are bringing things over tomorrow.” We’re staying here, everyone else has rentals. There is not enough room here. As it is, the boys are sleeping in the basement. Tonight, Helen will sleep with her parents. Because Santa can’t come if she sleeps in the living room.

Alex quietly gave me his opinion on Santa. We went down into the basement to play Foosball. “I want to tell her he doesn’t exist. Shout it.”

“Oh, leave it be. It does no harm. She won’t believe much longer. I had Grandpa dress up for you and Drew one year.” I picked up the ball. I was going to lose. I always do. “You slept through the whole thing.”

“She’s being annoying and won’t stop talking about it. Mom. He’s a stalker. And a criminal. He breaks and enters.”

“No, since kids write to him and invite him in.” I hit the ball weakly. I can never hit the ball strongly enough.

“So, if I dress up as Santa I can come in?” Another goal for him. “Besides, does he pay his elves? They could be slave labor, you know.”

I considered throwing him outside to sleep. That isn’t in the spirit of Christmas but so be it. Besides, he’s going to win. “If you’re bringing them iPods or an iPhone, sure I bet they’ll let you in. As for the elves, maybe it’s like Harry Potter. The elves in that book enjoy doing things for humans.”

“He’s judgmental,” he says.

“Yes. Plus, prejudiced. Don’t forget you have to celebrate Christmas for him to come to your house.”

“He doesn’t exist.”

“He does. St. Nicholas.”

“He did, yes.” Another goal.

“Besides, NORAD tracks him every year. So, he must exist if some government defensive department says so.” I laugh. “Would you call NORAD liars?”

“Yes. You believe he’s a jolly old man, and then when you grow up you realize he’s a stalker and probably is using illegal surveillance.” With that he slams the winning goal. John comes down and they go to play a game on his Nintendo Switch. Mike leaves with my parents.  I’m tired too. Drew is ready to go to bed.

“John do you want to stay?” I ask. He and John are laughing, playing together.

“I’ll go home so Drew can go to bed,” John says and tells us good night. We’ll see everyone tomorrow anyway. We let Pogo outside and pet him. He has three legs and a false hip. A car accident. I don’t like Chihuahua mixes Still, he took a losing hand, said screw you, and kept going. I can’t help but like this running, playing dog.

A knock on the bedroom door. “One minute!” I threw on my pajamas and opened the door. Mike. “Do you want to help me eat these cookies we put out for Santa?”

“I just brushed my teeth but sure.” And I have my fucking partial out. Thanks to gum disease I’ve lost four lower front teeth. I hate people seeing me without it.  Oh well, too late now. He didn’t seem to notice. We sat on the bed and ate them. I looked at Mike sitting there. He looks like he should be writing poetry about a talking raven. But I’m the one that does that. Do ravens even talk?

“Well, I don’t know if Mom and Dad will make it to church, but I showed them where it was,” he said. He is glad they came tonight; I think.

“It was nice. We all had a good time.”

He drinks his milk. “I’m surprised she still believes in Santa.”

“My boys never really did. I think it’s sweet she does.”

He nods. Gets up and takes my plate. “Well, goodnight.”

“Good night,” I tell him. “Merry early Christmas.”