Chapter 12 THE DARK CHRISTMAS BREAK OF THE SOUL

 

 

I dreaded going back to Cambridge for Christmas. Christmas had always been painful since my mom died, and I knew what to expect: the house would be a mess, Dad would be in high dudgeon about some wrong done to himreal or imaginedand it would be up to me to create holiday spirit.

Harder then ever since all I wanted was to be with Alistair. I couldnt bear the thought of not seeing him for nearly a month, especially since I hadnt heard from him since that magical night he told me he loved me.

It had been exam time for both of us, but Id hoped for at least a phone call. Id begun to despair. Lois warned me not to buy him a holiday gift. She said men sometimes dump you right before the holidays so they dont have to buy you anything.

But all my anxiety vanished when I arrived at the Bryn Mawr train station after my last exam, and there was Alistair on the platform. He was talking to two of the Brontës and some juniors from Rhodes Hall.

I ran and threw my arms around him.

You came! I should have known you wouldnt leave without saying goodbye. Im going to miss you so much.

He looked embarrassed and pulled away. I wondered if it was because of my shabby luggage. The Rhodes juniors had sets of matching Vuitton cases.

Were all going to miss Alistair,Emily said.But we hope hell come to my New Years Eve party in Newport. Its going to be the event of the season.

This was the first Id heard of a New Years Eve party. Maybe because I was underage. I felt the sting of being left out. I suppose I looked Cinderella-ish.

And you must come too, Nicky,Emily said with admirable poise if not sincerity.Give me your phone number so I can call with details and directions. I havent firmed things up with my parentsstaff yet.

We exchanged phone numbers as the train chugged into the station.

I need your number, too,Emily said to Alistair.Or will you be over the pond?

I havent the foggiest,Alistair said in a lazy tone.But you can usually reach me at this number.He pulled out an elegant silver case I hadnt seen before and slid out a business card.

I got brave.Can I have one of those, Alistair? In case theres an emergency?

He pretended not to hear and clicked the case shut.

Dont be a prick, Alistair,Charlotte said.I cant believe Saint Nick doesnt have your phone number. 

He slowly opened the case and handed me a card.

Its a business number, Nicky. For emergencies only. Remember that.

I looked at the card.Alistair MilbournePhotographerit said. Underneath was what looked like a local phone number.Of course.I turned to the Juniors.Hes a fantastic photographer, you know. Hes going to be a photojournalist.

Everybody giggled.Yes. We know,one of the Juniors said. I had that not-invited-to-the-ball feeling again.

The conductor calledall aboardand I scrambled onto the nearest coach. The Brontës and Juniors got on behind me, but they must have gone on to the lounge car because I didnt see them again. I sat next to a soldier with only one leg and had to lean over him to wave goodbye to Alistair.

He was waving goodbye to somebody else and didnt see me. I wondered if hed acted so strange because he was mad at me about something. Sometimes hed get strange. Hed say something likeIts going to rain tomorrowand the next day, if it was sunny and beautiful, Id try to do an I-told-you-so. But hed claim he never said any such thing and get mad at me.

But I couldnt think of anything amiss on our last date, which had ended with his declaration of love. He must have been in a bad mood about something else. Maybe he didnt have anyplace to go for Christmas. He did say he didnt know if he was going to England. Maybe the Gorgon was being meaner than usual.

I wondered if I should have invited him to Cambridge. It wouldnt have been much fun for him, but probably better than being alone, ignored by a Gorgon.

Or going home to your family with only one leg. I talked to the soldier until he got off at Newark. He said his family didnt know about his injury yet, and I found myself quietly weeping for him as I watched him lurch through the crowd, balanced on his crutches.

 

It was after ten PM when a taxi deposited me at the door of our house in Cambridge. The lights were off, which was weird. My dad tended to be a night owl.

I let myself in with my key and was astounded to see the place tidy and spotlesswith a decorated Christmas tree gracing the living room. I knocked on the door to Dads study, but he didnt answer. Maybe hed fallen asleep working on a poem. It would be better not to disturb him.

I went to the fridge, hoping there would be something inside besides beer and old mustard, and was amazed again. I found sausages, cheese, vegetables and fresh fruit. In the bread box was a round loaf of crusty bread. I cut myself a slice and sat down at the kitchen table with some cheese and an apple. I read that days Boston Globe, which Dad had obviously read, but re-folded with more uncharacteristic neatness. Maybe he had finally cut down on his drinking.

With that hopeful thought, I hauled my suitcase upstairs. As I climbed, I heard something stirring. Dad must have gone to bed early. Maybe part of his new regime. I didnt want to wake him, so I opened the door to my bedroom as quietly as I could.

But from the darkness came a screama womans screamshrill and terrified.

The bedside lamp flashed on and at first I wondered if Id somehow let myself into the wrong house. In the bed was a womannot much older than mewith dark flowing hair. Id never seen her before. She screamed again.

Im sorry,I said, trying to get my bearings. It looked like my roomonly not. My books, old toysall my personal treasureswere gone.I thought this was my room, but obviously, it isnt…”  But it had to be my room. The furniture was the same. So was the old rose-printed bedspread. The roses seemed to be pulsating in the half light. I wanted to run, but I didnt know where.

What the hell is going on?My fathers voice boomed from across the hall. He stood in the doorway, dressed in blue pajamasneatly pressed.

That woman. Shes in my bedroom,was all I could say.

The woman chattered in a language I didnt understand as she tied a dark woolen robe over her white nightgown.

Its not your room any more,my father said.You abandoned me, remember? This is Caterina. My housekeeper. A graduate student from Portugal.He turned and stumbled back toward his bed as if hed as if he had settled everything.

Dad, why didnt you tell me? Where am I supposed to sleep?

He looked at my suitcase and then at me.

Damned if I know. Try the couch. I need my rest. Ive got exams to grade.

Caterina gave me a reproachful look and slammed the door.

I hauled my suitcase downstairs again and tried to get comfortable on the hard, Victorian couch, shivering because there were no blankets except an old afghan I found in Dads study. Ill have to admit I cried: gasping, abandoned-child tears.

After about an hour, I realized sleep was not going to happen. I stared at the Christmas tree, decorated with the ornaments my mother and I used to hang with such joy. I felt a familiar thunk in my heartthat feeling that the world would be better without me in itthe way my mother must have felt when she jumped off that cliff.

I pulled a glass ball off the tree and stomped on it. And another. And another, until there was glittering colored glass all over the antique Persian rug. I didnt care. I hated the rug. Hated the tree. Hated the house. Hated every damned thing in my whole sorry life.

Except one. That one shining beacon that gave me the will to live: Alistair. Who might be spending as lonely a Christmas as mine. I reached in the pocket of my coat for his card, went to the kitchen phone and dialed the number.

After two rings, he answered. Himself. Not some answering service, even though it was nearly midnight. I felt a spark of hope.

But he didnt sound pleased to hear from me.I told you this is a business number, Nick. Emergencies only.

Thats what this is.I gushed with tears and half-coherent words.

At first he tried to stop me with annoyed remarks, but after a bit he changed his tone.What did you say about jumping off a cliff? Are there cliffs near your house?

I backpedaled.No, no. That was my mom. She killed herself when I was seven.I dont know why Id never told him. Embarrassed, I guess.Sometimes my Dad says she should have taken me with her. Sometimes I think so, too.

He was quiet for a moment and then said.You have to get out of there. Do you have a friends house you can go to? What about Punch?

Not Punch.I said through my sniffles.Shes Wogsfriend, not mine.

Wogs. She would help. Shed even invited me to Kennebunkport for Christmasshe was taking her hockey-team friend Judybut I hadnt considered going, since it would have meant abandoning Dad.

I guess I could go up Maine,I said.Wogs invited me to Goose Hill. But I dont know how Id get there. I spent every penny of my December allowance getting home and buying Dads gift.I stopped myself as a sob constricted my throat.Not home. This isnt my home any more, obviously.

Goose Hill in Kennebunkport?Alistairs voice was bright with sudden cheer.Youre going to spend Christmas with Polly Conway at the Conway Mansion?

I guess Goose Hill was a mansion. Not like Punchs place, but it was one of Kennebunkports big old Victorians with 10 bedrooms or so and a musty old ballroom. I told him yes, but teared up again when I realized how stupid Id been not to accept Wogsinvitation. She had a car. I would have saved so much money riding with her and Judy.

If you could wrangle an invitation to Goose Hill for a stray Princeton man,Alistair said.I could be on your doorstep bysay eight AM? No traffic at this time of night. I can breeze through New York.

Breeze. He was going to breeze up to Cambridge to rescue me. My hero yet again.

 

After I managed to sleep a few hours on the horrible couch, I got up and helped myself to some sort of pudding and made sandwiches out of the bread and cheese and imported salami. Full of reckless anger, I took a couple of bottles of Bordeaux I knew my father had been saving for a special occasion.

When I heard Dad and the Portuguese person stirring upstairs, I put on my coat so I could wait outside and not have to talk to them, but just then I saw the TR-3 pull up to the curb. With his usual impeccable timing, Alistair rang the doorbell just as Dad was making his bumbly way down the stairs.

Alistair gave me a lovely kiss and then studied my face.

Your eyes are puffy. But I have just the cure for that.

He nodded in Dads direction as if Dad were the gardener or something as he picked up my suitcase. He started out the door, but stopped. I could see his knuckles go white where they gripped the doorknob, although he showed no other sign of emotion. With sudden intensity, he turned back to Dad.

Mr. Conway,he said.You are not a good enough poet to get away with being such a terrible human being.

He ushered me out in front of him, leaving my dumbfounded father standing in the chilly open doorway.

If the awkwardness at the Bryn Mawr train station had spawned any doubts about the wonderfulness of Alistair Milbourne, they evaporated at that moment.

As I got into the car, I blew a kiss back at my father, still standing in the cold in his pajamas, looking like some senile old guy in a nursing home who couldnt remember who he was.

Have a Merry Christmas!I said in a cheery sing-song voice. Then under my breath, I saidyou asshole.

Alistair laughed.I dont think Ive ever heard you sayasshole,Saint Nick.

Desperate times call for desperate language.I felt giddy and free.But I wish Id slapped him in his selfish, miserable face. Can I tell you how much I love you for what you said to him?

You may.He leaned over and kissed my cheek.I suppose I was projecting. There have been so many times when Ive wished I could talk that way to my father. Unfortunately, I dont even know who the asshole is.

Once we were in the car, he reached across me and popped open the glove compartment.Speaking of assholes…” He pulled out a tube of ointment.Preparation H. The best thing in the world for puffy eyes.He dabbed ointment onto my lids.In fifteen minutes, youll look as if the mediocre poet F. Nicholson Conway never made you cry. And lets hope he never will again.

I dabbed my eyes the hemorrhoid cream and babbled my gratitude at him for the cream, the rescue, his bravery at confronting my father, everything. He finally silenced me with a squeeze to my shoulder.

I had to come, Nick. And now we have to talk about it. Were you seriously thinking of killing yourself?

I didnt know what to say. I was afraid if I told him that suicidal thoughts were pretty much a permanent fixture in my subconscious, hed be disgusted with me.

You were, werent you? You think about it a lot?

It was scary how he seemed to read my mind.

Me too,he said.Thats why Im drawn to you. We both live at three oclock in the morning. Do you know that Fitzgerald quote?

I couldnt speak. I was overwhelmed with the privilege of seeing this unguarded, vulnerable side of him.

He gave a bitter smile.Fitzgerald said,In the real dark night of the soul, its always three oclock in the morning.

He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him.We have to help each other survive our abysmal parenting, dont we?

He understood me. Saw me. We were two of a kind. I had never loved him as much as I loved him at that moment.

 

We had already crossed the New Hampshire border before Alistair mentioned that he was hungry.But I refuse to eat at a Howard Johnsons or a MacDonaldshe said.I simply cant digest food inside offensive architecture.

I told him about the picnic Id put together from the treats in my fathers refrigerator. He laughed and took an exit aptly namedBreakfast Hill.

Although it was a warmish day for December, the landscape was covered in a layer of snow, and I certainly hadnt expected us to eat outdoors, but Alistair spotted a rest area with picnic tables and pulled over. With a sweep of his arm, he brushed the snow from one of the benches and motioned for me to sit down.

Were going to freeze off our derrières,I said, handing him a sandwich.

Didnt you say you brought wine?He bit into the crusty bread and nodded his approval.That should warm us up.

Its nine-thirty in the morning.The sandwich was incredibly good.

That wouldnt bother you a bit if you were French.

Alistair pulled one of the bottles out of the bag with a flourish. But when he looked at it, he nearly choked on his salami.

Chateau Margaux 1953?He studied the bottle again and reached into the bag for the other.You took two bottles of Chateau Margaux from your father?

I nodded, a little apprehensive.

He let out a belly laugh.

Then Id say you have indeed slapped that asshole in his selfish, miserable face. Each of these bottles is worth a thousand dollarsprobably more.

He pulled out a Swiss Army knife and stabbed its corkscrew into a bottle neck.

I cringed. I knew the bottles were important to Dad, and that no matter how drunk he got, hed never touched them. But I didnt know why. I grabbed Alistairs arm to stop him. Id never done anything so wicked.

But just then the cork popped out. Alistair ran to the car and came back with his two silver shot glasses.

These will have to do for wine glasses, Im afraid.

He poured himself a taste.

Rich undergrowth. Flowers. Red berries. And a hint of leather, Id say. Rich, powerful, but understated. A superb and elegant wine, Miss Conway.

He held out a glass for me. Never beforeor perhaps sincehave I tasted wine so delicious.