The Christmas Sweater (8 page)

The stinging in my cheek made it hard to focus on what he was saying. “I think my
world has already changed enough,” I replied.

“Look, Eddie, I know life hurts terribly right now. Your grandmother and I pray every
night that God will ease your pain and ours. But you are not the first young man to
lose his mother, and I’m not the first man to lose
his daughter. We could learn together how to miss her. You don’t have to do it alone.”
I noticed his eyes for the first time in a long time: The piercing, look-right-through-you
blue had turned tired and gray.

“I’m sorry I slapped you just now, Eddie, but I don’t know who you are anymore. You
are not the young man you are meant to be, and I don’t know who you are allowing yourself
to become. I know it’s tough, but you’ve got to find your way through this. The hurt
will pass, and, with time, you and I can learn to laugh together again.” He paused
and looked away. “I want my daughter back. And Eddie, I want my best friend back.
I want
you
back. Sometimes I think I lost both of you in that damned car.”

Damn
was a big swear word for my grandfather. I had seen worse words appear on his face,
but Grandma didn’t put up with any cursing. I looked for anger, but his expression
now showed only sadness and exhaustion. He looked
old.

It occurred to me for the first time, I think, that Grandpa had lost a daughter. He
needed me just as much as I needed him. Like the time on the roller coaster, we
needed to squeeze each other’s hands. It didn’t matter who was comforting whom.

I was suddenly tired too. More than just physically; I was tired of being alone, tired
of being mad all the time, tired of keeping my guilt caged in the pit of my stomach.
I wanted to fall into my grandfather’s long arms and let him hold me and tell me everything
was going to be all right. But I was still only twelve. I didn’t know how to go back.
I didn’t know how to correct all of the mistakes I had made. I found strength in anger.
I hated the words that came out next, but I couldn’t stop them:

“I don’t need your help, and I certainly don’t need God’s.” My voice was calm, and
I could feel the curl of the sneer on my lips.

“I know you want to be mad at someone,” Grandpa replied calmly. “If you need that
to get through the day, then be mad at me. But don’t be angry at God. He hasn’t done
this to you. Things just happen. Sometimes it’s a consequence of our own actions,
other times it’s not. Occasionally it’s just that bad things happen to good people.
But God’s only plan is for you to be happy.”

I stared at the ground, hoping he would just stop talking. He didn’t. “We all face
challenges and tests, some bigger than others. They’re meant to strengthen us and
prepare us for the road ahead. Not just for our sake, but for all those we encounter
along the way. I don’t know what He has planned for us, but I do know that we’re meant
to conquer it, Eddie. He will never leave us in a place without the strength and knowledge
we need.” I wondered if Grandpa had learned all of that during one of his marathon
church sessions.

“His help?” I looked up and met Grandpa’s steely gaze. I felt my entire body begin
to heat up. “I think He’s helped us enough already, don’t you? If killing innocent
people is some sort of challenge or test, then God is sick and His lessons are as
helpful as this stupid chicken coop. Which, by the way, I haven’t finished yet.” I
bent down and picked up another old barn board. As I walked away I muttered something
just loud enough for Grandpa to hear. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

On the last day of school one of my teachers stopped me in the hallway and put her
hand on my shoulder. “Eddie, have you met Taylor?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered, wondering why she cared. She produced a boy my age
from somewhere behind her.

“Taylor, this is Eddie. Eddie, Taylor.” She stood in front of and between us, a hand
on each of our shoulders. “You two are neighbors. Did you know that?”

“I haven’t seen you before,” I said to the gangly boy. His chocolate brown hair was
curly and shot out in every direction. It was obvious that no amount of spit could
tame it.

“I don’t ride the bus,” he answered.

We stood there looking awkwardly at each other. The teacher—her good deed now done—smiled
and walked away.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Out on Route 161 a ways.”

“Me, too.”

“You want a ride home? The bus stinks.”

I didn’t know if he meant it figuratively or literally. Either way, he was right.

We walked out a side entrance and up to a long tan car. “Wow,” I asked, “is this yours?”

Taylor seemed to like the fact that I thought it was cool. “No, we stole it,” he replied.
It was my first taste of Taylor’s never-ending sarcasm.

The car was a brand-new, mammoth Lincoln Continental Mark V, and while it was unlike
anything I’d ever been in before, it really wasn’t “cool” so much as it was impressive
to a kid who was used to bread-bag shoes. “Is your dad a doctor or something?” I asked.

“Actually, yeah,” Taylor replied. “He’s a brain surgeon.”

“Really?” Coming from a family of bakers, that was even more impressive than the car.

“No, gotcha again. Boy, Eddie, you’re really easy to fool. My dad is actually a salesman.”
Taylor smiled and opened the door. His parents were in the front seat.

“Who’s your friend?” Taylor’s mother asked.

“This is Eddie.”

“Hello, Eddie. I’m Janice, Taylor’s mother, and this is Stan, his dad.”

“Hi, Eddie,” Stan said.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs…”

“Ashton,” they said in unison, “but call us Stan and Janice.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ashton, nice to meet you.”

“Same here, Eddie,” Mr. Ashton said. “What’s the plan, Taylor?”

“Eddie lives near us. I told him we could give him a ride home.”

“Sure, happy to,” Mr. Ashton said as he wrestled the Continental into gear. “Climb
in.”

“Can we talk you into joining us for dinner, Eddie?” Mrs. Ashton asked as we turned
onto the road leading to my grandparents’ farm. “We’re going out to Taylor’s favorite
restaurant.”

Wow,
I thought. Out to eat? On a Tuesday? They must be loaded. “I’d love to…Stan, but
my grandparents are
probably expecting me.” I felt weird calling an adult by his first name.

“Well, just give them a call and see if it’s all right.”

We got to Taylor’s house a few minutes later, and I immediately called my grandmother.
Her happiness over my making a new friend apparently outweighed any disappointment
about my not being home for dinner. After I explained who the Ashtons were and where
they lived, she reluctantly agreed to let me eat with them.

Dinner was like an adventure for me. I hardly ever got to eat out, and
never
on a regular old Tuesday. On special occasions my parents used to take me out for
an All American Banana Split at Farrell’s ice cream parlor, but it had to be a birthday
for something like that to happen. Even still, Mom always reminded me about not ordering
milk—she obviously didn’t care that it came from the same place as ice cream.

I didn’t know what Mr. Ashton did for a living, but he must have been rich. Not only
were we allowed to order milk but we could order pop too. That was a real treat,
considering the fact I didn’t get to drink pop at restaurants or at home. In fact,
for a long time I didn’t even know what pop was, other than the fact that it had lots
of bubbles.

One time, about three years earlier, I’d found a bottle of lemon-lime Alka-Seltzer
in our kitchen cabinet, where we stored all the medicine. I saw the fizz that it made
when you dropped a tablet in water, and figured that it was “instant pop.” For the
next few nights I waited until my parents had gone to bed, and then I savored the
taste of what I thought was an exclusive (albeit disgusting) drink. I didn’t understand
why people loved pop so much, but I figured it would grow on me.

My clandestine soda factory was put out of business a week later when my mother had
heartburn, found the half-empty bottle, and confronted me. I’d told her that I was
sorry for drinking all the instant pop. She probably would’ve been mad if she’d been
able to stop laughing.

As I now savored my
real
soda pop I noticed that Mr. Ashton was wearing a suit and tie, something that I’d
never seen my father or grandfather wear outside of
church. I wasn’t a clothing expert, but his suit looked expensive, and I could tell
that Mr. Ashton’s shirt wasn’t exactly homemade.

I was so busy noticing all the expensive things they had that I didn’t notice how
little the Ashtons actually spoke to each other.

About halfway through dinner Mr. Ashton broke the silence by saying that he had a
surprise. He had some work to do in Southern California, and he was going to take
the family with him so they could all go to Disneyland for a week. To my surprise,
Taylor didn’t look the least bit excited. In fact, he looked angry. “Oh, come on,”
he said, “not again. I’m so sick of going there.”

I couldn’t believe it. How many times had they gone? What kid could ever be sick of
Disneyland? “If you guys want to go,” Taylor continued, “that’s fine, but I’m staying
home.”

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence. I was prepared for Taylor to get
the “Now you listen here, young man” speech that I would’ve gotten had I made a comment
like that, but it never came. Instead, Taylor’s
mom simply replied, “Oh, well, maybe that would be okay.”

What? I couldn’t believe this family!

“You know, Taylor,” his father continued while staring down at his meal, “if that’s
what you want to do, then I think it’s fine. The last thing I want to do is drag you
around to someplace you don’t want to go. Maybe we can find somewhere else to go later
in the summer.”

I wanted to shout out, “You can drag
me
around!” but I think I was still in shock. Not only did Taylor not want to go on
vacation to California but he’d also told his parents he was going to stay home and
they’d said yes! He was my new hero. It was as if Taylor had been a grown-up and his
parents had treated him as such. My grandparents could sure learn a lot from Stan
and Janice. They were the perfect family.

“Thank you so much for having Eddie over for dinner,” my grandmother said through
the rolled-down window of the Ashtons’ giant Continental.

“You’re welcome. It’s nice to know that these two boys each have someone nearby for
the summer.” The two women shared a look I recognized from watching my mother and
Aunt Cathryn together.

“We’ll have to invite…” My grandmother’s voice trailed off as she looked at Taylor.

“Taylor…”

“…Taylor over for a visit soon.”

Mrs. Ashton drove away, and my grandmother stood, smiling, between me and the house.

“What a nice turn of events, don’t you think, Eddie?”

“I guess.” I walked past her and through the front door. She didn’t come in. In fact,
she didn’t move at all. She just stood there looking at where I had been standing.

I had never hurt my grandmother like that before, but in that moment I didn’t really
even notice. I was too busy thinking about how great Taylor’s life was and wishing
I could be part of his family. I unknowingly made a decision that would impact Taylor
and me greatly: I planned to erase the past by ignoring it.

And Grandma was part of the past.

I
spent a lot of time at the Ashtons’ house that summer. Aside from age, Janice had
nothing in common with my mother, and that was okay with me. I didn’t want to be around
anyone that reminded me of all that I’d done and said, or, more importantly,
not
done and said.

I didn’t realize it until much later, but Mrs. Ashton was very lonely. I never saw
her drunk, but she hardly ever spent an afternoon without a crystal tumbler nearby.
At the time I just assumed that it was all part of the life that “rich” people lived.
It seemed glamorous. I felt at home.

Mrs. Ashton’s whole life revolved around Taylor. She spent nearly all of her time
and attention on making him, and now “us,” happy. It was a relief, a respite from
what had become my daily reality. There wasn’t any past with the Ashtons, only a future.
And it was bright.

Their family was very different from what I was used to. What they didn’t have in
laughter, they more than made up for with money. Taylor didn’t wear bread bags for
boots (in fact he didn’t wear boots at all if he didn’t want to), and his parents
would give him a bike any time he wanted one. I saw at least three of them sitting
idly in their garage next to the Continental.

Mr. Ashton was as tall and quiet as the house became when he was in it, which wasn’t
all that often. His sales job required a lot of travel, but every time he came home
from a trip he brought another gift with him. I thought it was great that he and Taylor
never talked much. No talking meant no lectures.

One recent trip ended with Taylor getting a brand-new TV game called Pong. Another
time, after he’d been gone a long time, Mr. Ashton came back with a brand-new
twenty-five-inch color television set. It was beautiful. Who needed to talk when everything
was “in living color”?

When I was growing up, our TV was so small that I would sit on the floor right in
front of it to see better. Mom always told me that I would get cancer or go blind
sitting so close to the TV set, but Dad said she was just trying to scare me. In retrospect,
I think he only said that because I was his personal remote control. Every once in
a while he would call out, “Eddie, four. Five. Try seven.”

It never seemed right that I was the one who sat close to the television and he was
the one who got the cancer.

Taylor didn’t know how great he had it. Just looking around their modern, Brady Bunch–style
house, you could tell they were happy. They even had a real remote control. Taylor
would probably never get cancer or go blind and not even know why.

After a while, I began to convince myself that I was a part of their family—even more
than my “real” family just a few farms away. They didn’t have any problems, and life
there was easy; it was what a real family was supposed to be like. Mom had always
told me that “stuff” couldn’t make you
happy, but I realized that she had been wrong. Taylor had a bunch of stuff, and he
was happier than I had ever been.

What at first seemed like a long walk to Taylor’s got shorter and shorter each time
I made it. One of the farms along the way was overgrown and seemed abandoned, but
on one of my trips home, I discovered that I was wrong.

“Afternoon,” the well-worn man said as he leaned on one of the few sturdy sections
of fence along the road. He was about as old as my grandfather but leaner and quite
a bit shorter. His eyes looked like they belonged to a much younger man, but his face
was nearly caked with dirt, and his full, speckled beard sprang from his face as if
trying to escape. If I hadn’t been standing outside his farm, I’d have thought he
was homeless.

“Hello,” I answered, stopping a few feet away from him.

“On your way from your pal’s house, are ya?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, uncomfortable that he knew where I was coming from.

“I’ll bet you feel at home there,” he said with understanding.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, we’ve both got things to do and people to see. You have a nice evening.”

“You, too,” I answered. I took a few cautious steps, then turned to see if he was
watching me.

He was.

“Sorry to hear about your mother,” he said in a voice that had changed so drastically
from what I’d just heard that it could have come from a different person. His eyes
were fixed on mine, but his face appeared completely relaxed. “But all is well, son.
All is well.”

Those words, my grandfather’s words, instantly brought me back to Mom’s funeral. I
couldn’t move or even look away; the man’s gentle face and deep blue eyes had transformed
into something else. My mother’s face came to me so intensely that I could no longer
see the stranger—I could only see the last few days of her life running backward in
front of me.

She was painted and peaceful in a cheap casket.

She was tired and hurt in the car headed home from the farm.

She was disappointed and humiliated standing over a sweater on my floor.

She was forcing down a bitter square of Baker’s chocolate.

Grief exploded within me, forcing out sobs and streams of tears, which poured down
my cheeks. I sank to the ground and sat in the rough grass, cross-legged, with my
face in my hands. I cried for the first time since my mother died.

After my shoulders heaved for the last time, I looked through bleary eyes toward the
fence and the stranger.

I couldn’t believe it—he was smiling. He began walking back toward the farmhouse.
Then he stopped and turned around, his eyes meeting mine. “Until we meet again, Eddie.”

“Grandpa, who lives in that run-down farm next door?” I asked that night at dinner,
still a little shaken from my earlier encounter.

“Nobody, Eddie. It’s been vacant for six or seven years. The Johnsons still own it,
but they moved back East.”

“Well, somebody’s over there. A man was at the fence, and he talked to me.”

My grandfather stopped chasing peas around his plate and narrowed his gaze. His bushy
white eyebrows almost met above his nose. “What did he say?”

I wasn’t sure whether or not to answer. “He was trying to be nice, I think. He knew
I was coming from Taylor’s house, and he just wanted to say hello.”

“What else?” Grandpa asked, noticing my hesitation.

“He knew about Mom and said he was real sorry but that everything would be okay.”

Grandpa looked over at my grandmother and then back to me. “Everybody knows everybody’s
business on this road, Eddie, and I guess it’s possible some neighbor was checking
up on the place.”

“He kind of looked like he belonged there.”

Grandma tried to hide it, but I caught her flash a worried expression to Grandpa.
I knew the look well, because I’d seen it about a year earlier. We were sitting around
the
table having dinner when the phone rang. Grandma answered and, without saying a word,
gave Grandpa the same look that I’d just seen.

A neighbor who lived at the end of the street was away and someone had broken into
his house. As word spread, guys from the neighborhood ran toward the home—rifles in
hand. They reached the Bauer farm just in time to catch the guy as he ran out the
side door. They pinned him down and held him at gunpoint—actually, at eight gunpoints—until
the police arrived.

The cop could barely contain his laughter as he walked up and saw the impromptu vigilante
mob that had formed. “Boy, you’re either not from around here or you’re the dumbest
criminal I’ve ever met,” he said to the man with his face in the dirt. “This has got
to be the safest road in the county. These people would give the shirt off their backs
or the bullets out of their guns for each other.”

The men all silently nodded and smiled to themselves in a rare moment of recognition
about how wonderful life was on their little road. The officer continued, “Normally
I’m called out to protect the homeowner, but in your case,
I actually think I’m here to protect you.” The men all laughed as the would-be robber
was put into cuffs.

Now, as I saw the same worried glance on my grandmother’s face, I knew exactly what
it meant: Grandpa would be personally checking out the Johnsons’ place—and he’d likely
be bringing David Bauer and some of the other neighbors, along with a few Winchester
lever-action rifles, with him.

I went to bed early, but I was afraid to sleep. My mother had been a character in
some of my dreams before, but always in a dull, black-and-white way. I’d never had
a dream so vivid as what I’d experienced on the road that day—and I didn’t want them
to start now.

Unlike the Ashtons, my grandparents had an old color console Zenith television set
that they’d bought at an auction. About fifteen minutes before we were going to watch
a show, my grandfather would say, “I’m gonna go in and warm up the set.” It took forever
before the picture finally came on and looked right (with “right” in this case
meaning colors that always made everyone look a little seasick).

The one show that my grandparents never missed was Lawrence Welk’s. Grandma loved
him, but now that I’d seen Taylor’s TV, Lawrence Welk only annoyed me. The show was
anything but “Wonderful, wonderful!” and watching him was a constant reminder that
I wasn’t able to see
Starsky and Hutch
or even
Happy Days,
which Grandma called a “cute” show, except for “that Fonzie Boy.”

But while I hated Lawrence Welk, I loved the idea of television. It amazed me that
a camera somewhere in Welkland captured him leading an orchestra and that a moving
image somehow made it through the air to the big device humming in the living room.
When Grandma turned the television off, I would keep watching as the picture collapsed
on itself until nothing was left but a fading dot in the center of the screen.

That night, after tossing and turning in bed for an hour, I snuck down to the family
room and turned the television on. The control made a thunk so loud that I was
sure one of my grandparents would come to see what the noise was. I didn’t dare turn
the channel selector; it made even more noise than the power switch.

As I waited for the picture to materialize, I noticed for the first time how old their
TV set was. I wondered if it bothered my grandmother that Grandpa couldn’t afford
a new one. It sure bothered me.

I sat right next to the screen—way too close to avoid getting cancer or going blind.
That was when the cast of characters in my new life at the farm became complete: There
were my grandparents; Taylor and his folks; the stranger next door; and my three newest
friends—Johnny, Ed, and Doc.

I watched
The Tonight Show
that night and, at least for an hour, escaped the farm and my thoughts. I would have
watched all night, but the station signed off after the show ended, leaving me with
an American flag waving as “The Star Spangled Banner” played in the background.

Then there was just an Indian head on top of an odd circle—and I was alone again.