Stasia gives her head a good shake, like a sportive filly, and her long hair falls down over her shoulders. She tries to adjust the beret but it looks ridiculous now no matter at what angle it's cocked.
Come on, let's get going. Carry it!
Is it far? she asks, limping again.
Just half-way down the block. Steady, now.
Thus we march three abreast down The Street of Early Sorrows. A rum trio, as Ulric would say. I can feel the piercing eyes of the neighbors staring at us from behind their stiff, starched curtains. The Millers’ son. That must be his wife. Which one?
My father is standing outside to greet us. A little late, as usual, he says, but in a cheery voice.
Yes, how are you? Merry Christmas! I lean forward to kiss him on the cheek, as I always did.
I present Stasia as an old friend of Mona's. Couldn't leave her by herself, I explain.
He gives Stasia a warm greeting and leads us into the house. In the vestibule, her eyes already filled with tears, stands my sister.
Merry Christmas, Lorette! Lorette, this is Stasia.
Lorette kisses Stasia affectionately. Mona! she cries, and how are you.? We thought you'd never come.
Where's mother? I ask.
In the kitchen.
Presently she appears, my mother, smiling her sad, wistful smile. It's crystal clear what's running through her head: Just like always. Always late. Always something unexpected.
She embraces each of us in turn. Sit down, the turkey's ready. Then, with one of her mocking, malicious smiles, she says: You've had breakfast, I suppose?
Of course, mother. Hours ago.
She gives me a look which says—I know you're lying—and turns on her heel.
Mona meanwhile is handing out the gifts.
You shouldn't have done it, says Lorette. It's a phrase she's picked up from my mother. It's a fourteen pound turkey, she adds. Then to me: The minister wants to be remembered to you, Henry.
I cast a quick glance at Stasia to see how she's taking it. There's only the faintest trace of a good-natured smile on her face She seems genuinely touched.
Wouldn't you like a glass of Port first? asks my father. He pours out three full glasses and hands them to us.
How about yourself? says Stasia.
I gave it up long ago, he replies. Then, raising an empty glass, he says—Prosit!
Thus it began, the Christmas dinner. Merry, merry Christmas, everybody, horses, mules, Turks, alcoholics, deaf, dumb, blind, crippled, heathen and converted. Merry Christmas! Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to the Highest! Peace on earth—and may ye bugger and slaughter one another until Kingdom Come!
(That was my silent toast.)
As usual, I began by choking on my own saliva. A hangover from boyhood days. My mother sat opposite me, as she always did, carving knife in hand. On my right sat my father, whom I used to glance at out of the corner of my eye, apprehensive lest in his drunken state he would explode over one of my mother's sarcastic quips. He had been on the wagon now for many a year, but still I choked, even without a morsel of food in my mouth. Everything that was said had been said, and in exactly the same way, in exactly the same tone, a thousand times. My responses were the same as ever, too. I spoke as if I were twelve years old and had just learned to recite the catechism by heart. To be sure, I no longer mentioned, as I did when a boy, such horrendous names as Jack London, Karl Marx, Balzac or Eugene V. Debs. I was slightly nervous now because, though I myself knew all the taboos by heart, Mona and Stasia were still free spirits and who knows, they might behave as such. Who could say at what moment Stasia might come up with an outlandish name—like Randinsky, Marc Chagall, Zadkine, Brancusi, or Lipschitz? Worse, she might even invoke such names as Ramakrishna, Swami Vivekananda or Gautama the Buddha. I prayed with all my heart that, even in her cups, she would not mention such names as Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman or Prince Kropotkin.
Fortunately, my sister was busy reeling off the names of news commentators, broadcasters, crooners, musical comedy stars, neighbors and relatives, the whole roll call connected and interconnected with a spate of catastrophes which invariably caused her to weep, drool, dribble, sniffle and snuffle.
She's doing very well, our dear Stasia, I thought to myself. Excellent table manners too. For how long?
Little by little, of course, the heavy food plus the good Moselle began to tell on them. They had had little sleep, the two of them. Mona was already struggling to suppress the yawns which were rising like waves.
Said the old man, aware of the situation: I suppose you got to bed late?
Not so very, said I brightly. We never get to bed before midnight, you know.
I suppose you write at night, said my mother.
I jumped. Usually she never made the slightest reference to my scribbling, unless it was accompanied by a reproof or a sign of disgust.
Yes, I said, that's when I do my work. It's quiet at night. I can think better.
And during the day?
I was going to say Work, of course! but realized immediately that to mention a job would only complicate matters. So I said: I generally go to the library ... research work.
