IN THE MORNING the phone and electricity were still out. But the sun was out, too, and Dr. Tuttle was convinced power would soon be restored. He and the boys bundled up and went out to shovel the walkway and the driveway under a storm-scoured sky. They couldn’t look anywhere without squinting, the reflection of the sun off the new snow was so brilliant; and the air was so cold, their nostrils tingled.
After finishing the shoveling, they carried a few extra loads of firewood into the house. Then everyone gathered in front of the blazing fire and plundered their Christmas stockings. As usual Tim’s and John Henry’s stocking presents were mostly practical: underwear, soap, four-packs of Ticonderoga pencils, Scotch tape, socks, rulers. And at the bottom was the usual box of maple-sugar candy.
They all got new mittens, too, and Mrs. Tuttle put hers on before venturing into the kitchen. Mittens might have seemed an unfair handicap to someone who wasn’t a world-class cook in the first place, but then cooking was out of the question anyway, since the stove was electric. No poached eggs. She couldn’t even make toast. Nor could she stick the turkey in the oven. But she did halve a couple of the grapefruits her parents had sent from Florida.
After Christmas breakfast she usually called her parents, but she’d been unable to recharge her cell phone, and the regular phone was still dead, so they headed straight for the tree. The family tradition was for Dr. Tuttle to hand out presents in order of age, starting with the youngest. John Henry’s first present was a book bag from his mother—which, he was relieved to see, didn’t have any women’s rights slogans on it. Tim’s first present was three large tubes of acrylic paint—indigo, tan, and forest green—from his father. Mrs. Tuttle’s first present was the scarf from John Henry. She put it around her neck and went to check herself in the hall mirror. The green-and-yellow silk made her look a bit sallow, but she gave John Henry a big kiss and said he had exquisite taste.
“And it means even more, love, knowing you spent your own money on it. What do you think, Trev?”
“Very silky-looking,” said Dr. Tuttle, who was unwrapping his own present from John Henry. “Hey, get a load of this!” He started playing with the reel. “Those trout better watch out, if they know what’s good for them. Thanks a million, son.”
“I hope it fits your rod all right,” John Henry said.
“I’m sure it will. Now if you could just arrange to melt the ice on Lake Champlain …”
In years past Great-aunt Winifred had been next to open. By shutting his eyes, Tim could see her happy smile as she asked him to help her get the ribbon off a package.
“You’re up again, tiger,” Dr. Tuttle said, handing John Henry another present.
In the second round, John Henry got a pair of rechargeable foot warmers from his parents. They were ingeniously designed, slender enough to slip into his snowboarding boots, and according to the package, they stayed warm for up to four hours. Next, Tim opened a Swiss Army knife from John Henry.
“Wow, scissors … a saw blade … everything,” Tim said, admiring it. “This one’ll be perfect for scraping paint off when I make a mistake. Thanks a lot, John Henry.”
But John Henry hardly heard him. A pounding had started up in his ears as soon as his father picked up the flat package in aluminum foil.
“Here’s one for both of us, sweetheart,” Dr. Tuttle said, handing it to Mrs. Tuttle and moving behind her chair.
An even louder pounding started up in Tim’s ears. What if they didn’t like the portrait as much as he hoped? What if the fact that he’d painted it had clouded his judgment? As his mother undid the ribbon, he stopped breathing altogether.
She pulled away the foil—and scowled.
“Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do. Who are these people supposed to be?”
Tim thought she was joking, pretending she couldn’t tell who the subjects were. But she didn’t laugh and say, “Just kidding, Tim, it’s absolutely marvelous.” She just kept scowling.
“Why, it’s you and Dad,” Tim said. “Can’t you tell?”
Dr. Tuttle looked at it and scowled, too. “Is this your idea of a joke, Timothy?”
Tim flinched. His father used “Timothy” only when he was in trouble. “A joke? No, it’s … I know it didn’t cost much, but I worked hard on it.”
“I can see that,” Mrs. Tuttle said, running a finger above her upper lip.
“This is what you call the Christmas spirit?” Dr. Tuttle said, touching his nose.
John Henry had to clench his teeth to keep himself from chortling. Tim, bewildered, joined his father behind his mother’s chair. In the portrait his mother had a mustache. His father had three warts on his nose.
“But … but … but Mom!” Tim sputtered. “I didn’t give you that mustache!”
“Who did, then?” Mrs. Tuttle asked, feeling above her upper lip again.
Tim looked at his brother, but John Henry had put on an expression of perfect innocence.
Dr. Tuttle was still touching his nose. “The only warts I ever had were on the bottoms of my feet,” he said. “And that was years ago.”
“But I didn’t give you those!” Tim protested. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Imagine what poor Winifred would have said,” Mrs. Tuttle said, sliding the painting under her chair, “if she knew this was how you were going to put her painting lessons to use.”
Bringing in Great-aunt Winifred this way was more than Tim could bear. A sob welled up in his throat, and he raced upstairs.
Up till then John Henry had been pleased with himself for the work he’d done in the middle of the night. It hadn’t been easy, adding the warts and mustache by the light of the flashlight, his fingers half frozen in the icy sewing room. But the sound of Tim’s door slamming upstairs gave him a pang. Had he gone a little too far?
Mrs. Tuttle walked back to the hall mirror to inspect her upper lip again. “Not a very nice joke,” she said.
“You know, though,” Dr. Tuttle said thoughtfully, “it doesn’t really seem like Tim.”
“He couldn’t be starting the I-hate-my-parents phase already, could he? He’s still just in middle school.”
“I don’t know. He never mentions Winifred. Maybe it’s a symptom of repressed anger over her death.”
“But why would he blame us for that?” Mrs. Tuttle wondered, drifting back into the living room. “Do you have any idea what this could be about, John Henry?”
“Huh?” said John Henry, lifting his eyes from his foot warmers.
“Do you know what could have gotten into your brother?”
“Tim?” he said, as if he had several brothers to choose from. “Search me, Mom.”