her life, like her ability to pretend that Ace had never existed. But it was a trait I had inherited from her without even knowing it.
Is it strange that I have never once in all this time thought back on the last night I spent with my uncle Max? His death was so shocking that all the events following the phone call to our house announcing Max’s car wreck had taken over all other memories of that night.
It was a perfect Christmas Eve. A light snow fell and all the houses on the street were glittering with tiny white lights. (It was a town ordinance that no multicolored-light strands could be used; that’s how precious it is there.) All the neighbors had been saving their gallon milk and water jugs for weeks, and now they lined the streets, filled with sand and votive candles. The effect was magical, roads lined with glimmering white candles, protected by the plastic containers. After dinner, families would take to the streets, where the gaslight street lamps had been dimmed for the evening, and stroll off their heavy meals, stopping to chat with neighbors and friends amid the candlelight. It was nice. Even a hip, jaded New Yorker like myself had to admit there was simple beauty to it.
Nobody except me seemed to notice that Uncle Max showed up drunk. Well, maybe my parents noticed but nobody acknowledged it. Are you starting to get how it is with my family? I am, finally. Ugly or worrisome things are ignored. It’s such a Waspy cliche. Not that we’re actually Wasps. But the ignorance of these things was so deliberate, so total, that mentioning or discussing them would be tantamount to setting the house on fire, met with alarms and pandemonium. Denial, she’s a fragile bitch, isn’t she. So brittle and self-conscious, she can’t stand the sight of herself.
Uncle Max was a practiced, functioning alcoholic. Maybe if you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t hear the lilt in his voice, see the glitter in his eye, the teeter in his gait. We had a house full of guests. Some of the young doctors my father worked with and their spouses, as well as Esme. Zack was also there; we were at the beginning of our relationship; it was still new, still promising, and though not thrilling, exactly, at least pleasantly tingling. Some of our neighbors had joined us. My mother had slaved to make everything perfect, from the flowers to the food. She was running around like an overstrung wind-up doll, marshaling the perfection, her face a grim mask of concentration among the sea of flushed and smiling ones. I remember Zack saying to me, “What’s up with your mom? Is she okay?” I looked over at her. The tension was coming off her in waves as she straightened and served, moved quickly to and from the kitchen. “What do you mean?” I asked over the din of carols and conversation. “She’s always like that.” In that moment I really didn’t see the problem. My mother was a basket case in her frenzy to have everything perceived as perfect; any flaw in the evening would be seen as a disaster and would be met with her total emotional withdrawal from everyone around her. And that seemed absolutely normal to me.
Looking back, I realize my father stayed as far away from her as possible. I remembered her scolding him for removing an hors d’oeuvre tray from the oven with a dishrag instead of an oven mitt, for overfilling the coffee filter, making the coffee too strong, any number of minor things. She’d scold him quietly but in a tone sizzling with white- hot disdain. By a certain point, he’d just learned to stay out of the line of fire. Again, none of this seemed odd to me. My obliviousness was total and I was having a perfectly lovely time.
Max blew in like a gale-force wind, all smiles and arms full of shopping bags filled, I knew, with impossibly extravagant gifts. He was a magnet and all the partygoers swirled around him like metallic dust. I don’t know if it was his personality or his money or the powerful alchemy of those two things that drew so much attention to him, but from the minute he entered the room, he was its center and the joviality level increased tenfold. His booming voice and laughter could be heard over all the other auditory confetti. Even my mother seemed to relax a bit, the attention drawn away from her performance as hostess.
Zack and I disappeared into the kitchen and sat at the table, eating from a box of cookies someone had brought as a gift to my parents. From our position, we could still see all the party activities but we had stolen ourselves a quiet spot to sit alone and talk. We ripped open the decorative red cellophane and found these luscious little bow-tie cookies filled with raspberry jelly and dusted with sugar.
“Man, your uncle can put it away,” Zack said.
“Hmm?” I said. “What do you mean?”
He looked at me. “I mean he’s had five bourbons and he’s only been here an hour.”
I shrugged. “He’s a big guy.”
“Yeah, but, Jesus, it’s barely had an effect on him.”
I shrugged again, intent on the cookies in front of me. “That’s just Max.”
A couple hours later the house was quieter. Esme and Zack had left. My father had led a group out for the annual neighborhood candlelight stroll. My mother stayed behind, was furiously scrubbing pots in the kitchen, rebuffing all of my attempts to help her with the implication that no one could do it the way she could. Whatever. I wandered into the front room in search of something sweet and found my uncle Max sitting by himself in the dim light of the room before our gigantic Christmas tree. That’s one of my favorite things in the world, the sight of a lit Christmas tree in a darkened room. I plopped myself next to him on the couch and he threw an arm around my shoulder, balancing a glass of bourbon on his knee with his free hand.
“What’s up, Uncle Max?”
“Not much, kid. Nice party.”
“Yeah.”
We sat like that in a companionable silence for a while until something made me look up at him. He was crying, not making a sound, thin lines of tears streaming down his face like raindrops on glass. His expression was so unlike anything I’d ever seen on him, almost blank in its hopeless sadness. I think I just stared at him in shock. I grabbed his big bear-claw hand and clasped it in both of mine.
“What is it, Uncle Max?” I whispered, as if afraid that someone would see his true face exposed like this. I wanted to protect him.
“It’s all coming back on me, Ridley.”
“What is?”
“All the good I tried to do. I fucked it up. Man, I fucked it up so bad.” His voice was shaking.
I shook my head. I was thinking, He’s drunk. He’s just drunk. But he grabbed me then by both of my shoulders, not hard but passionately. His eyes were bright and clear in his desperation.
“You’re happy, right, Ridley? You grew up loved, safe. Right?”
“Yes, Uncle Max. Of course,” I said, wanting so badly to reassure him, though at a total loss as to why my happiness meant so much to him.
He nodded and loosened his grip on me but still looked me dead in the eye. “Ridley,” he said. “You might be the only good I’ve ever done.”
“What’s going on? Max?” We both turned to see my father standing in the doorway. He was just a black form surrounded by light. His voice sounded odd. Something foreign had crept into him, something dark and unrecognizable. Max released me as if I’d burned his hands.
“Max, let’s talk,” said my father, and Max rose. I followed him through the doorway and my father placed a hand on my shoulder to stop me. Max continued and walked through the French doors that led to my father’s study. His shoulders sagged and his head was down, but he turned to give me a smile before disappearing into the room.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked my father.
“Don’t worry, lullaby,” he said with a forced lightness. “Uncle Max has had a bit too much to drink. He’s got a lot of demons; sometimes the bourbon lets them loose.”
“But what was he talking about?” I asked stubbornly, having the sense that I was being shut out of something important.
“Ridley,” said my father, too sternly. He caught himself and softened his tone so quickly, I believed I’d imagined the harshness just a moment before. “Really, honey, don’t worry about Max. It’s the bourbon talking.”
He walked away from me and disappeared behind his study doors. I hovered there a minute, heard the rumbling of their voices behind the oak. I knew the impossibility of listening at those doors; I’d tried it many times as a kid. Those doors were thick. You had to stand with your ear against them, and the people inside had to be yelling to hear anything. Plus, I’d run into my favorite aunt in the hallway. You remember her, Auntie Denial. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered comforting sentiments:
