God Hates Us All

rain that wouldn’t let up for a week.

11

CHRISTMAS AT THE KIRSCHENBAUMS should be a contradiction, and would be if not for Larry Kirschenbaum’s pragmatism: If his clients come in all stripes of faith, then so can he. Each year, forty or so guests are treated to a ten-foot Christmas tree and sexy caterers, usually dressed as naughty elves, serving potato latkes. This year, the menorah will be joined by a Kwanzaa kinara, a nod to a medium-famous rap artist Larry successfully defended on gun possession charges. Still, out of deference to those Irish Catholics whose need to drive inevitably collides with their passion for drink—the bread and butter of Larry’s practice—the event itself will probably always be called “Christmas at the Kirschenbaums.”

After making my regular Friday night delivery to Danny Carr, I take the train back to the Island. It’s the first time I’ve been home since I moved to the city. This time, no one’s awake to greet me. But it feels good to sleep in my old bed. When I wake up, my mother’s already in the kitchen. I sit down at the table while she makes me pancakes.

“Dad sleeping in?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says. “He didn’t come home last night.”

I’m pouring syrup on a stack of pancakes when Dad enters through the back door. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes. He kisses Mom, who’s joined me at the table, on the top of her head. “Goddamn Harvey made me sleep at the bar,” Dad says. “I told him I was fine, but you know Harv….”

“I’m sure he just wanted to be sure you were safe,” my mother says without looking at him. “Honey, would you please pass me the syrup?”

“What? You don’t believe me? Call Harv and ask him.”

“Are his phones working?” she asks.

“What do you mean, are his phones working?”

“I mean if his phones were working, then you could have called. Or called a taxi.”

“Like I need this shit first thing in the morning,” Dad growls.

Welcome home, kid. Fortunately Tana calls, giving me an excuse to go back to my room.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Tana asks.

“So it’s true. Your basic greetings have finally become passe. Hello to you, too.”

“Are you coming or what?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? At my parents?”

“I’m just making sure,” she says.

“Let me guess. You’re having some difficulties with a representative of the gruffer sex?”

“Something like that.”

Tana sounds anxious in a way I can’t quite pinpoint. “Is this something that can wait? Because I can come over now.”

“I won’t be here. Dottie’s booked us haircuts and manipedis. Oh yeah, and a massage.”

“Sucks to be you,” I say.

“I’ll see you tonight.” She hangs up, good-byes apparently having gone the way of hellos. I turn to head back to the freak show in the kitchen, but the circus has come to me. Dad’s framed in the doorway like the maniac in a slasher flick.

“You got a minute to talk?” he asks.

“Sure,” I reply. “Is this about the money you borrowed?”

“Heh,” he says, closing the door behind him. “No. I’m thinking of leaving your mother.”

The silence gets awkward. “Okay,” I finally say.

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Don’t do it’? ‘Congratulations’?”

“You’ve got every right to be angry….”

“I’m not angry. We both know Mom deserves better than you. I’d say that I hope the bimbette is worth it, but knowing you, she’s probably not.”

“Janine. Her name is Janine. We didn’t mean for it to…”

“Dad,” I say, “I really don’t give a fuck.”

He stands up, looking at me as if he wants to say something else. After a false start or two, he claps me on the shoulder and exits.

I spend the rest of the morning hiding out in my room. When it’s time to go to the party, my mom insists I ride in front with Dad. “And away we go,” he says, starting the engine, “to another one of Larry Kirschenbaum’s tax write-offs.”

We finish the trip in silence, turning the car over to one of the red-suited valets Larry has hired for the occasion. Dad makes a beeline for the bar, leaving me alone with Mom. She looks pale. I want to say something, but I don’t know what my father’s said to her. “Go mingle,” she tells me. I give her a hug and wander into the living room.

I’m scanning the crowd for Tana when one of the Naughty Elves appears beside me. Black hair, maybe thirty, with a mole above her lip like Cindy Crawford. Not quite as tall, but she earns major points for her costume: I had no idea elves wore fishnet stockings.

“Sufganiot?” she asks. Her voice is husky. I can imagine her, thirty years from now, playing canasta with a long brown cigarette dangling from her mouth. Strangely, I don’t find this a turnoff.

“Gesundheit,” I reply.

“It’s a jelly donut.”

I should admit that hooking up with one of the Kirschen-baum elves has long been a fantasy of mine. In the past, they’ve seemed remote and unattainable, like supermodels. But now that I’ve spent a little time next to supermodels, an elf from the Island doesn’t feel like such a stretch. “If I were Santa,” I say, accepting a donut, “I don’t think I’d let you out of the workshop.”

She’s already moving away with the tray. “Be careful,” she says over her shoulder. “Bad boys usually wind up with coal in their stocking.”

“What was that?” asks Tana, who at some point has materialized behind me.

“Just me figuring out what I want for Christmas this year.”

“Uh, hi,” she says, annoyed that I haven’t bothered to turn around. My jaw drops open when I do.

“Holy shit,” I say. “Look at you.”

Tana is definitely something to look at. A short black cocktail dress makes the most of her already formidable cleavage. And heels. Tana never wears heels. “Who are you trying to impress? Is Bono coming this year?”

“You could just tell me I look great,” she says.

“You look great. But you could have just looked around the room and gotten the same opinion.” Indeed, most of the heads are turned her way, their faces forming a continuum between “sneaking glance” and “drooling stare.”

Tana blushes. “I need a drink,” she says.

A few minutes later, armed with spiked eggnogs, we settle into the couch for what’s become an annual Christmas tradition for Tana and me: taking turns guessing the sins of each of the guests. “International terrorist,” I say of a man with a pencil-thin mustache.

“Not even close,” replies Tana. “That’s Mr. Atkins. Tax evasion. What about the guy over there in the red sweater?”

I see Red Sweater but my eyes keep going until they reach my father. Scotch generally keeps my Dad in one of two states—loose or too loose—but right now he just looks uncomfortable.

He’s glancing nervously at a frosted blonde in a business suit on the other side of the room. She isn’t a head-