All-Moist Christmas

The unease in her eyes was profound. She pulled herself out from under him and got off the bed. "I have to pee," she said flatly.

From within the bathroom, he slid back as she quickly opened the door, shut it behind her and squatted on the toilet. She did not pee, but sat there with her head in her hands.

There was a gentle knock at the door and she looked up, biting her lip, a look of genuine despair and frustration furrowing her brows. "Are you going to come out?" came a concerned voice.

"No," she said. "I, uh, have stuff to do."

He didn't immediately respond, but finally said, "Okay." He dressed slowly, looking toward the bathroom door once and said, "Thank you." Then he was gone.

She looked at him sitting there on the bathroom floor. "Let's drink again," she suggested.

He shrugged and nodded. She was wearing sweat pants and a heavy sweatshirt as they sat across from one another on the couch. She sat staring at a distant point, her lips fixed to the glass.

"He was young," he said.

She looked up as though shaken from a dream. "Huh?"

"That guy," he said, indicating the bedroom. "He seemed young."

"About your age, right?"

"He looked it."

She squinted. "You're about twenty-one."

"Twenty-three."

"Right."

"He seemed nice," he offered. A far cry better than the one she'd gotten misty-eyed over.

"I don't do nice."

"I noticed," he said under his breath.

"What?" she snapped. She appeared ready to fight, then her anger was gone just as quickly. She rubbed her eyes. "I've been with a couple boys from Embry." She glanced at him. "That's your school, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"A couple your age, thereabouts. It's a good school?"

"I like it," he said with a noncommittal shrug. "Some think it's too chic…a nice way to put it."

"Expensive?" she said.

"It's not cheap."

She raised her glass in toast. "Thank God for rich parents."

"He's not."

"Oh," she said.

He watched her mannerism and the way her gaze retrained on some fixed point across the living room. Her eyes flashed and dulled. They seemed unfocused for moments at a time, to dart about suddenly as though tracking a thought. But she didn't speak after all. Simply stared ahead.

He gazed past her through the window that looked onto a white-brick wall. The afternoon sun had turned it mauve. It had snowed that morning, but the evening was clearing. Christmas Eve would be a frigid one. He slid his charcoal stubs into a pocket and stretched his legs.

"Don't you have someplace to be? It's Christmas."

"I'll go," he muttered."

He commuted the sketch to canvas in his apartment. The neighborhood was deadly quiet, early Christmas morning, and he sat staring at his work for a long time, rubbing his smudged fingers together and staring into her shadowed face. Charcoal was, to him, a superior medium through which to translate his work, as it removed the expressive spectrum of color and forced something more raw and real to resonate. Imperfections were rendered abrupt, and the shades of coal possessed their own harsh spectrum of emotion. Where color might overwhelm and mask the emotion—the cruelty of unintended beauty—charcoal unearthed it. What one saw was what he got. Her features were raw, dark and otherworldly.

He was waiting on the corner just as he had when first they met. She eyed him suspiciously, he followed her up and she let him in.

"It's yours," he said presenting the print. "Merry Christmas."

"I can't," she said. "You framed it."

"What did you expect?"

She scrunched her shoulders. "I thought you'd just tear a sheet out of your book."

He smiled without reservation. "No."

"I can't," she said, but she'd taken it from him. He went to the kitchen and poured them each a glass of rum. Placing hers at the edge of the counter, he took a swig and watched her. She held the frame as if it were a newborn, or far more fragile than it was. His ego found it romantic to see the care with which she appraised his work. And the way she looked it over, a critic could not have made his hands sweat so.

"This is your mark," she grinned and pointed. "Like a real artist." He'd never intended to be there. He'd been impulsive so he wouldn't have to think about it. She squinted her eyes. His heart thudded slowly, and the smile slid like jelly from his lips. He gulped the last shot of rum and let it burn, placing the glass on the counter for fear he'd drop it. Her eyes grew very wide. It was time.

He had to say it a second time. The word got stuck on his parched throat. "Mother."

Her lip trembled. She took a step back, tripped on her handbag and fell to the floor. He made a move toward her and she screamed. "Get away!"

"Please, mom. Just tell me why you left us?" he groaned. "It was my first day of school! Why then? Why did you leave him?"

"No, no, no, no," she cried. "How dare you!" She was white as a sheet. He stumbled backward, feeling the wall for the doorknob. "Get out!"

"Don't do this," he pleaded. "Let me come back when you're not mad. Please, don't go away again. Not now."

She clawed the floor and lunged at him. "Get out, get out!"

He turned, jerked the door open and closed it. He heard her body fall against the door, and the wrenching sound of her groans as she fumbled with the lock and slid the deadbolt into place.

The concrete fell away and the street sounds blurred. All he could see was her screwed up face, mouth bent, lips awash in spit and mascara-stained tears. He ran and ran, through an orgy of dull color and sidewalks shadowed by the fading afternoon. An icy breeze ushered him toward oblivion, and he ran fast and far enough to make his sides ache. He ran until the next thing beneath him was a bed, and there he withered and cried.

**

New Year's Eve. The apartment door was ajar. He went inside and sank to his knees. The place was empty, mouse droppings speckling the counters. When he could stand, he ran his hand through the fine film of dust on the living room window sill. He entered the bedroom and stared at the blank space where her makeup desk had stood. He glanced at the toilet through the bathroom door, then crossed the room and opened the closet. Her scent fell upon him and tears welled in his eyes. Stepping inside, he fell against the wall and wilted to the floor.

Becky answered the phone when he called.

"Can I come up there?"

She was quiet a moment before her voice broke. "Whatever it is," she cried, "I love you. You don't have to be afraid of being here. Take the next train. We'll pick you up at the station in the morning."

He hung up and closed his eyes. Not your family, he said inwardly. The last chapter of mine.

He would bring it to her, and explain everything at last. It was a sketch he drew from memory. From the second time he'd gone to see his mother, the first time he'd seen her smile. The apartment smelled like forest pine. She looked awake and alive, standing there by the window, thumbs hooked over her jeans, sunlight pouring in around her. She was barefoot with toes speckled in fading red polish—not belonging to the room. She was apart from it. Apart from everything.

Before the train ushering him upstate disappeared into the tunnel, he caught a glimpse of the Eve's first fireworks as they shot skyward and exploded in silence over the Hudson River. The empty car lit up for a brief instant, then the earth swallowed him, leaving the future forever new.