Christmas morning, Rue was down early. She had to get the goose ready, put all the leaves in the table, and get out the tablecloth and napkins and start ironing the creases that always settled in, since she didn’t have a linen press or a drawer long enough to store the tablecloth rolled. She called her parents in Florida where they had somewhat unwillingly gone to visit her mother’s brother. Her father said the trip had been fine and it was raining. Her mother seemed almost entirely recovered, he reported, and they were on their way out to eat something called fried conch for lunch. Fish for Christmas. Rue said, “You should see what we’re having.”
Rue found that her stocking and Henry’s were half-stuffed with presents from Georgia, and that hers and Georgia’s had presents in them from Henry. That fox—when had he done that? He must have gotten up in the middle of the night. She brought out the bag of stocking presents she had been collecting and wrapping since summer and added them to Georgia’s and Henry’s stockings.
At nine she made a breakfast tray with fresh orange juice and hot tea and the rest of the muffins from last night, and carried it up to Henry. She got back into bed with him.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she said, kissing his shoulder. He pulled himself awake and sat up. He stared at the tray for a minute or two, and then said, “Oh, bliss,” and retrieved the extra pillows from his side of the bed that he always threw on the floor. He propped them behind his back so he could sit up straight. She transferred the tray to his knees, and made him take his vitamin pill, and while he ate, they talked about Georgia and Jonah, and about Christmases in Maine when Georgia was a baby, and Christmases after they moved out here, and Christmases when they themselves were children. When he’d eaten everything on the tray, she kissed him and took it back downstairs, and he got up to take a shower. In her room, Georgia was up and dressing. Rue was surprised she wasn’t going to sleep until noon, and she hurried to make coffee for her.
Nothing went quite as planned for the rest of the day. Somehow they blew a major fuse when Georgia put a bagel in the toaster and a cup of coffee in the microwave at the same time as the dishwasher was running. Then Rue discovered that the chestnuts she needed to stuff the goose were gone; Henry had given them away a week ago to a young lady who was going house to house gathering food for the needy.
“You gave them my chestnuts? What do you think they’ll do with them?”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I told you, stuff the goose!”
“Well, I didn’t know that. We never had goose before. What if I don’t like it?”
“You’ll like it. Will you see if Tagliarini’s is still open, and if it is, go buy me three cans of chestnuts?”
Henry trudged off.
They were still opening their stockings when Emily and Malone and David arrived with an armful of flowers. Soon after that Charla Percy and her husband arrived, then Catherine Trainer, and Consuelo Cole, the new Spanish teacher, and Dr. Coburn and his wife, Dr. Klein, and their three hulking teenagers. In the middle of this the phone rang and Georgia disappeared into the closet for half an hour. When she emerged, she was so excited that Rue looked at her and thought to herself, My God, he’s asked her to marry him.
She only hoped Henry hadn’t noticed. Henry was serving sherry and Bloody Marys by now. Georgia, keeping her own counsel, became a whirlwind in the kitchen since her tempura was not yet cooked, and she still had to make the condiments for the curries. Rue was in and out of the kitchen, passing crudités, refilling the platter with hot cheese puffs, refilling the ice bucket. Each time she came in, she studied her daughter, who was flying with inspired efficiency from saute pan to mixing bowl, chopping board to oven. Georgia was brimming with excitement and happiness, and she didn’t want to talk to her mother.
Well. She’ll choose her time, thought Rue. I’ll have to wait.
At last Charles and Craig MacEwan arrived from church. Rue met them at the door. “Are you full of Christmas spirit?” she asked. Craig was the parish administrator, and it was his job to distribute the turkeys and presents that had been collected for needy families.
“Half full,” said Charles.
“Half empty,” said Craig.
“Did you have enough presents?” Rue asked.
“We have a hundred left. We’ll save them for next year.” They were shaking off their wet raincoats and stuffing scarves into their sleeves and wiping their feet. Henry appeared as if by magic with a tray with two drinks.
“The one with the celery is the Bloody Mary,” he said. Craig took it and said, “Bless you, my child.”
Charles took the Bloody Shame. Craig said, “There was a woman who came in and said, ‘Do you have my stuff?’ We said what’s your name and she showed us a welfare card. We said no, so she showed us another, and another. She had five welfare cards. She was listed as having twelve children when she has two. There were eighteen boxes of presents there for her.”
Craig had finished his drink. “It took her so long to assemble it all that by the time she was ready, her car had been towed.”
Rue laughed, appalled.
“Guess what kind of car. A ’91 Jaguar convertible.”
“Have another drink,” said Rue to Craig.
“Thank you, I intend to.”
“Will the cook say grace?” said Henry.
They all stood around the table, which was covered with hot dishes, while the sideboard was lined with salads and relishes brought by the guests.
“Which cook?” said Rue.
“The one who cooks meat,” said Henry.
They bowed their heads. “We thank you,” said Rue, “for all your goodness to us. We thank you for our health, for our friendships, for your love and for each other’s. We think today of all those who have less than we do, and we thank you for perhaps the greatest blessing of all, the gift of being able to give. For these and all thy many gifts, Lord, make us truly thankful. Amen.”
“Amen,” chorused the table, the chairs scraped back, and everyone sat except for Henry, who was carving. There were many thoughts around the table as people digested the grace and prepared to digest the food. The three hulking teenagers were wondering what all that vegetable-looking stuff was at Georgia’s end of the table and hoping the goose would go around. Malone Dahl was thinking that one of the hulking teenagers was quite cute. David Dahl was hoping his mother wouldn’t make him eat any raw tomato. Catherine Trainer was thinking it was indeed blessed to be able to give, and she hoped her nephews in New York City would like the bird house she had sent them. Dr. Coburn was thinking how much he liked Brussels sprouts, and Dr. Klein was thinking how much she liked latkes and wishing there would be some. She hadn’t done much about Hanukkah this year, and she wished she had a wife who could cook.
Henry said, “Georgia, what would you have said if we let you say grace?”
“Well, of course, I would have asked that all the wicked people at the table wearing leather and eating animals would learn to stop it, and…”
“Thank you, that’s what I thought. We’ll give you another chance next year.”
“Would you like some eggplant curry?” Georgia said to the youngest hulk, who was nearest her. It shook its head briefly no.
“Eggplant makes him throw up,” offered its brother.
The oldest hulk, which had a tattoo on its wrist, said “What is grace for?”
Its father looked shocked.
“You know what grace is for…we say grace at Thanksgiving and Christmas….”
“I know we do it, but I don’t know what it’s for. If its important, why do we only do it then? If it isn’t, why do we do it at all?”
“I think that’s a good question,” said Henry. “Is this thing all dark meat, dear?”
“Yes, Henry.”
The hulk with the tattoo said, “I’m not like, being rude. I want to know. Is it an incantation? Like, magic? How is it supposed to work?”
“What’s your tattoo for?” asked
his father crossly.
“Decoration,” said the hulk, as if he had now heard a truly stupid question.
“Grace is not decoration,” said Rue. “But I don’t know if it’s magic. Although I’m all for magic where I find it.”
“Perhaps,” said Charla, “we can arrive at a definition by elimination.”
Atta girl, thought Rue. That’s a teacher.
“I don’t think it’s incantation,” said Georgia, “but it’s ritual. The question is ritual what?”
Dishes were passing hand to hand now. Those who wanted wicked goose flesh were passing their plates to Henry. Charla and Georgia were hoping to have the tempura all to themselves.
“What does ritual mean?” Malone asked. She had decided that the hulk with the tattoo was the cutest, really.
“Should we get a dictionary?” said Dr. Coburn.
“Oh, heavens no, that would spoil the fun,” said Henry.
“Ritual is something that is repeated in particular ways at particular times.”
“That’s all? Just things you repeat?”
“Like ‘Who stole the cookie from the cook—ie jar?’”
“No, not like that,” said Georgia. “It’s something that symbolizes a meaning.”
“Spiritual or ceremonial,” said Dr. Coburn, feeling with relief that they were getting somewhere.
“But if you have no idea what the meaning is, then the ritual won’t work.”
“Now wait, that’s arguable,” said Henry. “When me and my friends go out in the woods and beat on drums and talk about what shits our fathers were…”
“My friends and I, Daddy.”
“Oh, you go in for drumming too?”
“This conversation is deteriorating,” said Rue.
“Speaking of drumming,” said Georgia, “I thought our grace today was full of meaning.”
All eyes turned toward her. This sounded as if it was going to be interesting. Uh-oh, thought Rue, here it comes.
“Did you, dearie?”
“Yes. I’ve noticed something since I’ve been away. I’ve noticed that people who feel blessed and lucky are the ones who aren’t always watching their backs or saying ‘I’ve got mine, Jack.’ The ones who have always been lucky and safe and had enough of everything are the ones who dare to keep giving things away. And who dare take risks. It’s the ones who feel pinched and unsafe and mean who hunch over their bowls and snarl when people come near.”
Oh my god, thought Rue, she’s not getting married, she’s going to join a cult. She’s going to join Mother Teresa. We’re never going to see her again.
The others listened expectantly. They could tell she was going somewhere, they just couldn’t guess where.
“It’s the people who haven’t felt lucky, and blessed, who have to say Me First, and I Win, who are always looking for systems to keep them safe, who think they aren’t all right unless they’re beating somebody else.” Her eyes were bright. She was full of passionate conviction.
Rue was tearing apart inside. On one hand, she was fiercely proud of Georgia. On the other hand, she was terrified that her beloved only child was about to take a vow of silence and become a nun.
“That’s very well put, Georgia,” said Henry.
“Yes, it is,” murmured Emily. She was unable to take her eyes from Georgia’s face. It was as if she were seeing Cricket again for the first time.
Georgia took a deep breath. She was smiling as if she would bubble over. “So…” she said, “I have something to say.”
That much had long since been evident to all.
“You always taught me…” she looked to her mother, and then to her father “…you always taught me that we have an obligation to use our gifts. To find the thing that we can do that nobody else can do.”
From opposite ends of the table, Henry and Rue nodded at Georgia. Then they looked at each other. Henry had finally gotten out from behind the eight ball. What the hell is going on? his eyes asked Rue.
“So,” said Georgia, “I have to say truly that the world is full of sopranos with well-trained voices who want to sing Santuzza. And in the long run it won’t matter if it’s me or somebody else. But no one can write the songs I’m writing. No one can sing the new music we’re going to make.”
“We?” said Henry.
“So Jonah and I are leaving school. We’re starting a band called Brain in a Jar,” said Georgia.
You are carrying this too far,” said Henry, coldly furious. They were sitting in their bedroom, talking in low tones to keep from waking Georgia. It was hours past their usual time for sleep, and the room was cold. Rue was wearing a nightgown and bathrobe and a pair of Georgia’s aerobics socks. Henry was naked under his bathrobe. It was the first, and worst, fight they had had in many years.
“I think she has a right to make her own mistakes. It’s her life,” said Rue softly. Her voice was almost pleading. She was horrified to feel so far from him, and part of her wished he would behave like a Victorian patriarch, and simply forbid Georgia to leave school.
“If she was four, and she wanted to light her hair on fire or bring a toaster into the bathtub with her, would that be her right?”
“She’s not four.”
“But she’s not right! She’s infatuated with this Whale fellow, she’s thinking with her…”
Rue interrupted him. “I don’t think you’re qualified to say that.”
“Qualified! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m her father, what kind of qualifications do I need?
“You would have to be her. She. You would have to be nineteen.”
“Rue, I know this is a long-standing principle of yours, everyone gets to decide for himself who to be and what path to follow, but sometimes children need to be protected from themselves. When she was little, there were times when we shut her in her room and told her to stay there until she could control herself. This is one of those moments! She’s talking about changing the course of her life in a way she can never undo, and she hasn’t even thought about the consequences!”
“She has now, since we spent the whole evening yelling at her.”
“We didn’t yell at her, and she didn’t think at all. All she did was tell us the decision was made. Do you think, if she drops out now, and two years from now she gets sick of greasy spoons and sleeping bags and she wants to go back to Juilliard and have a grown-up professional life, do you think they are going to take her back? Of course not, they’re going to give her place to someone who’s shown some commitment, some vocation!”
“We don’t know that. They might grant her a leave of absence.”
“She isn’t asking for one. She’s dropping out.” He picked up a small book that sat on the table between them, held it in midair between finger and thumb, then opened the fingers. The book dropped. What had been where it belonged, ready for use, now lay on the floor, face-down, with pages crumpled, and Rue had to fight to resist picking it up.
“You talk about gifts, Rue. You talk about people’s obligation to use their god-given gifts. That girl has an incredible set of pipes, and she has a brain and she has an ear. She could be Jessye Norman, with proper training…”
“She doesn’t want to be Jessye Norman.”
“She did last week, and she may next month.”
“I wish you wouldn’t yell at me, Henry, this isn’t my idea.”
“I can’t help it. It is your idea, as much as any one else’s. You’ve been telling her since she was in Pampers that it’s her life to do what she wants with.”
“That’s not fair. I never told her that without also making it clear how responsible she is to all the people who are affected by what she does.”
“Is she showing that she heard that part?”
“Some things have to be learned, not just received.”
“Oh, bull. You just can’t back down because this is a page from your sermon. And because you pander to her, because you can’t bear to be at odds with her.”
T
his was true, and Rue knew it, though she didn’t care for the choice of words. She felt so profoundly cold at the moment that she couldn’t tell if it was from the chill in the room or some ague of misery that had come to live in her bones forever. She couldn’t bear being at odds with Georgia, but it was no worse to her than being at odds with her husband.
“If we acted together,” said Henry, “if we showed a united front, and we both told her we didn’t want her to do this, we might be able to get her to finish the year. And by then everything might have changed. She might change her mind, she might convince us…but if you won’t stand by me, then she’s gone.”
“It’s not a matter of standing by you! I’m listening and I’m trying to agree with you, but I can’t! I don’t! I think she has a right to do this, whether I think it’s a mistake or not!”
“Does she have a right to be supported while she does it?”
“Not a right, no. I wouldn’t want to think of her in want….”
Henry stood up and began to pace. The bare floor was cold on his feet; Rue noticed he confined himself to the area of the rug.
“That’s it, I see it. You are going to let her commit professional suicide, and then you’re going to send her money behind my back.”
“Are you willing to starve her into submission?”
“I would hardly choose those words for it. I would give her the opportunity to feel the consequence of her actions.”
Rue stared at him. She suspected, with an awful misgiving, that he was absolutely right. That that’s what they should do…and that she wasn’t strong enough to do it. That if Georgia asked her for money, Rue would be unable to deny her.
As if he could read her mind, Henry said, “You think this is principle, Rue, but it isn’t. It’s just sick. And I’m going to sleep in the guest room. I’m too angry to get into bed with you, and I have to sleep, I’m on call tomorrow.”
And he walked out. In a moment, Rue ran after him. She gathered an armful of blankets from the linen closet and went into the guest room, where Henry had just discovered that the bedside lamp was unplugged. In rising from plugging it in, he banged his head painfully on the corner of the bedside table. Then he pushed the switch and found it still didn’t go on. Rue put the blankets on the foot of the bed and went back to the closet for a bulb. She returned and handed it to him. He took it and screwed it in, handing her the dead one. Then he got into bed, still wearing his bathrobe, either too cold or too angry to appear naked before her, and turned off the light again. Rue stood by the door, hoping he would at least say good night. But he didn’t want to talk to her anymore, and standing there, shivering with shock and exhaustion, she wasn’t sure it was such a good idea anyway.