Islands (32 page)

But I knew that it loomed in their minds, as it did in mine. The ghosts of holidays past were powerful. Our last Christmas dinner at the beach lingered on my tongue. The toasts still rang in my ears. The edgy pageant of Lila and Simms repeating their vows before the fire bloomed behind my eyes. The glorious fireworks on New Year’s Eve, and then the shock of Fairlie and Henry announcing their retirement to Kentucky…

They started something rolling, I thought. They opened us up and let something in. The voodoo started then.

No. I wanted nothing of the holidays this year.

Apparently no one else did, for Christmas drew closer and closer, and still no one mentioned it. Say its name aloud, folklore has it, and the demon will be summoned to you.

Simms and Lila told us, on a weekend in mid-December, looking rather shamefaced, that they had decided to have Christmas in Charleston this year. Clary and the grandchildren had begged. Please, wouldn’t we come and share it with them? We’d all forgotten how grand Christmas in Charleston could be.

It was a fatal rupture, and we all knew it. We looked at each other, and then Camilla said, “What I’d really love to do is stay here and have a very quiet Christmas. It’s a time for remembering. Henry and Anny don’t need any commotion on their first Christmas…alone. Why not just let us old widows and widower have one final orgy of remembering?”

I could not suppress a gasp, and I saw Henry’s face redden. We stared at Camilla. It was so unlike her to be insensitive that I thought perhaps I had heard wrong. Lila and Simms nodded and looked away, embarrassed.

“We’ll be sure to make it for New Year’s Eve,” Lila said. But I knew that they wouldn’t. Their bodies might be present on the creek now and then, but their hearts had flown back to Charleston. Was it the end of the Scrubs? No. That had happened sometime long ago, while we were not looking, but there remained a powerful bond between Henry and Camilla and me. I could not put my finger on what it was.

When the Howards had gone, Camilla said, “That was awful of me. I don’t know what got into me. I think I was mad at them and just wanted to sting them a little. Forgive me?”

“Of course,” I murmured. Who had ever failed to forgive Camilla?

“Listen,” she said a day or two later. No one had mentioned Christmas again. “I’ve been so absorbed in my own wants that it never occurred to me that either or both of you might want to be with your families at Christmas. If that’s so, it’s perfectly okay with me. I’ll rent a dozen adult videos and pile into bed with a gallon of Häagen-Dazs.”

“No, I’ll be here,” Henry said. “Nancy and the children are going to her in-laws. I’d rather spend the day at the periodontist’s.”

I don’t have any family, not really, not close, I did not say.

And of course, neither Henry nor I would have dreamed of leaving Camilla alone. We still had made no Christmas plans when Gaynelle came for the last time before Christmas.

“Where’s your tree?” she wailed. “Where’s the wreath and stuff? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Howard?”

I said, “They went home for Christmas. I guess the rest of us are just not ready for home yet.”

“Isn’t this home?” Gaynelle said.

I flushed with shame. Gaynelle lived from paycheck to paycheck, in a cinder-block apartment building. It must be inconceivable to her that anyone had the riches of another home to go to.

After she had left, I thought, We do have homes. We all do. And this is not them.

I said something of the sort at dinner. Camilla’s eyes filled with tears. “It is for me, now,” she said. “I had hoped it would come to be for both of you, like we planned. All of us together.”

“Oh, Camilla,” I said, reaching over and squeezing her hand. Henry smiled.

On a late foggy-gray afternoon with Christmas only two days away, T. C.’s black Rubbertail belched into the drive, followed by Gaynelle and Britney in Gaynelle’s old truck. The truck wore a lopsided wreath on its grill, and the Rubbertail was strung with tinsel. The truck’s bed was covered with a bright red cloth of some sort.

“Uh-oh,” Henry said from the window. “Elves at eleven o’clock.”

They burst into Camilla’s house bearing strings of lights and ropes of glitter and fresh pine boughs smelling as if they had just been cut from the woods. Gaynelle led the procession lugging a great basket covered with a white cloth. T. C. followed, struggling with three hideous small white metallic trees, whose kindred I had seen all month at the BI-LO. Britney brought up the rear dressed in a short red velvet skirt trimmed with dingy fake fur, twirling a glittering baton and singing “Here Comes Santa Claus” in a grating, whiny treble. I remember thinking that it was a good thing she had the juice harp to fall back on.

“There’s no way I’m going to let y’all sit out here by yourselves with no Christmas,” Gaynelle said. “It’s a hard time, the first Christmas you’re by yourself. I remember how it was when Randy took off and left us, just before Christmas. I’m not taking no for an answer. You all just sit still and let us put a few things around. You’ll be surprised what a difference it makes.”

And so we sat, Henry and I smiling helplessly, Camilla rolling her eyes, while Gaynelle and T. C. and Britney set up the dreadful metallic trees and strung lights on them, piled fresh greens on the mantelpieces, put white electric drugstore candles in every front window, tacked a silver-and-blue metallic wreath on the front door, and hung huge, gaudy felt stockings over the hearth. Gaynelle’s pièce de résistance was a plastic Nativity scene that she set up on the old William and Mary gateleg table in front of Camilla’s window. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, and the lumpen camels, were bubble-gum pink.

“Doesn’t do to forget what Christmas is about,” she said.

When it was all done, they settled themselves on sofa and chairs and looked around, pleased with their handiwork. As a matter of fact, I was, too. The tasteful room exploded with vulgar vitality; it reminded me of the dime-store Christmases I had scraped together for my younger siblings, all those years ago. We had loved Christmas then. I felt a powerful surge of nostalgia rising, not, surprisingly, for all the past Scrubs’s Christmases but for those meager earlier ones at home.

“It’s fabulous,” I said to Gaynelle. “It reminds me of when I was a little girl. What a sweetie you are!”

“I picked out the trees!” Britney squealed, wriggling with excitement, and I hugged her.

“I’ve never seen any trees like them,” I said.

They all looked at Henry and Camilla, and Henry smiled and said, “Just what the doctor ordered. It looks great.”

“Really unique,” Camilla murmured.

“Henry, come on out and I’ll take you for a little spin,” T. C. said. Sometime out in the dark of T. C.’s first visit, they had become Henry and T. C.

“You got it,” Henry said, getting up.

“Henry, not this late!” Camilla cried. “It’s one thing to ride a motorcycle on a good day, but in this fog, with night coming on! Please don’t be an idiot.”

We stared.

Her cheeks burned with color.

“It’s okay, Miz Curry,” Britney piped up. “I ride with Mama all the time at night, and T. C., too. They got lights on the bikes.”

Camilla shook her head and smiled. “Oh, go on out and play,” she said. “I’m certainly not your mother. But would you do me the great favor of putting on a hat and scarf?”

In a moment T. C. and Henry, capped and scarfed, were out the door, and in another moment we heard the farting stutter of the Rubbertail kicking into life, and gravel spurting as it roared away. Faintly, I heard the old classic rebel yell that every Southern child learns as soon as he can talk: “Yeeeeeee-
Haw
!”

I knew it was Henry, and was glad.

I lit the fire in Camilla’s fireplace and said, “I think there’s some hot chocolate around somewhere. It’s instant but it’s better than nothing. And some biscotti.”

“What’s that?” Britney said.

“Italian cookies,” her mother told her.

“Cookies!” Britney yelped, and ran to me and threw her arms around my waist. She tipped her curly head far back and laughed with pleasure. I had forgotten the vinelike tensile strength of a child’s clutch. All the children I had ever lifted or rocked or cuddled at Outreach flooded back to me. Especially I felt the wet, wriggling body of little Shawna, she of the terrible leather boot, the day I had carried her through the warm rain and into Lewis’s office. Until today, I hadn’t touched many other small bodies.

Oh, Lewis, I said silently. It was a mistake about the children. At least I’d have something of you left. At least I’d have someone.

I turned and started briskly for the kitchen, Britney still attached to my thighs. Gaynelle followed, admonishing her daughter to let go. Britney did, dashing around to look at the rest of the house.

“She’s crazy about you,” Gaynelle said. “She doesn’t usually take to people she doesn’t know well, but she sure has to you. So I have a big favor to ask y’all. You can say no in a second if you don’t want to.”

“What is it?” I said apprehensively.

“Well, Britney wants to open her presents over here Christmas morning. I don’t know what it is, maybe because she doesn’t see her grandparents…like I said, it’s perfectly okay if you say no. We’ve got our own tree and all.”

“Well…sure,” I said. I was not able to think of any reason we should not host Britney’s Christmas morning except perhaps that none of us really felt like it. It seemed a small-spirited reason in the face of a child’s joy on Christmas morning.

“I think that would be fun.”

“So listen, I’ll bring over a big Christmas dinner just in case you want to have yours with us at noon. That’s when we always have ours. I got a big turkey all cooked, and cornbread and oyster dressing, and gravy, and collards, and mashed potatoes, and yams with marshmallows. I even made some ambrosia. It’s my mama’s recipe. And T. C. makes these fruitcakes every year that he soaks in bourbon and keeps under a cloth for three months. You all wouldn’t have to lift a finger.”

What could I say? We’d love your dinner but not you? Besides, the thought of the festival day spent with Gaynelle and Britney Toomer and T. C. Bentley, of John’s Island and Bohicket Creek, made my mouth tug up in a grin. Simms and Lila would die.

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll have to check, but I’m sure everybody would love it.”

After they had left and Camilla and I and Henry were sitting before the fire, I told them about Gaynelle’s Christmas plan.

Henry laughed out loud.

“Why not?” he said. “It’s not like we were expected at the yacht club.”

“Oh, my God,” Camilla moaned. “All day? Really? With those motorcycles out there stinking up the creek, and that child…I mean, I know she’s a pretty little thing and all that, but she’s not exactly the sort of child you’d want to come to your grandchild’s birthday party….”

Henry leered at her.

“Do I detect a bit of Lady Chatterley and Mellors the game-keeper here?” he said.

“No, you do not,” she snapped. “But you do know you’re going to have to go out and buy presents for everybody now, don’t you?”

And we did. The next morning I took off a half day and went foraging on King Street. I found a spangled child’s tutu in a vintage clothing store for Britney, books for Gaynelle, and, in the Harley-Davidson shop on Meeting Street, bought enormous logo T-shirts for T.C., Henry, and, just for a joke, for Camilla. Henry came in from his safari laden with packages that he said one of the girls at the clinic had wrapped for him. They looked it.

“Will one of you get me some nice, crisp new bills?” Camilla said. “That’s going to have to do for me.”

On Christmas morning I woke very early, as I had when I was a child, and like that child, felt a faint gnawing of excitement in the pit of my stomach. I dressed and went over to Camilla’s house. I would not wake her, I thought, but I’d make some coffee and a fire.

When I got there, I found the living room ablaze with Christmas tree and firelight, and the smell of coffee perking, and the ill-wrapped presents under the tree. Henry sat on the couch watching the fire. He looked up and smiled at me.

“I haven’t done this since Nancy was little,” he said. “It’s nice. I almost feel like putting a train set together, or something.”

I plopped down on the sofa beside him.

“It
is
nice. Where’s Camilla?”

“Still asleep. I was very quiet.”

We sat in silence for a little while, and then I said, sudden salt rising in my throat from the bottomless ocean of the grief, “Merry Christmas, Henry.”

He put his arm around me and pulled my head down on his shoulder, and said, “Merry Christmas, Anny Aiken. They say it gets better after the first one.”

At nine
A
.
M
. the motorcycle and the truck burped up, and peace fled. They came in shouting, “Merry Christmas,” their arms full of packages, Britney in a spangled
Little Mermaid
costume that left her skinny chicken’s shoulders bare. She wriggled voluptuously, and sequins peppered the rug.

“I can live underwater,” she sang.

“We ought to test that,” Camilla said under her breath, but she, too, was smiling.

For an hour we unwrapped gifts and exclaimed loudly and tried them on and tossed paper and ribbon everywhere. Soon Britney was hysterical with excitement, and insisted on doing her interpretation of the original Britney Spears’s “Oops! I Did It Again.” It was awful beyond imagining, and we all smiled just as broadly as Gaynelle did. Finally Britney choked on her bubble gum and began to cry, and was put down for a time-out in Camilla’s nunlike bedroom. I flinched for Camilla.

Dinner was loud and heavy and wonderful. Camilla had laid the table with her grandmother’s linen and crystal and silver, and lit white beeswax candles. Before we began, Gaynelle nodded at T. C., and he cleared his throat and bowed his bald, shining head and said, “For this and all thy blessings, Lord, we thank thee.” He had put on a blue suit for the occasion, dusted now with Britney’s spangles, and when he bowed his head, he brushed the beard aside. His hands were scrubbed raw; motorcycle grease was obviously difficult to dislodge. Suddenly I loved him.