Christmas Break
Finally! Christmas Break had arrived. Classes were over, exams were done. Two weeks of no thinking. No assignments, no studying, and no homework. I was wrapping up the four-hour drive home and had half an hour left. I was tired of driving but in no hurry to get home. My home was a soap opera.
The last stop before heading home was always a visit to the John's house. Thank god they were there. Their house and everyone inside were the only normal part of my life. It was good to start the holiday there, with John, Wanda, and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I'd been friends with John and his family since I was five. We'd made it through thick and thin together. Fourteen years later we headed off to college. John and I had started our second year and Wanda was in her first. Not kids anymore, not adults, but getting close.
When I walked in the door the smells of Christmas cooking rolled over me. Mrs. Anderson was bustling around the kitchen, focused on doing five things at once. Setting plates out, pulling one thing out of the oven to be replaced by another, giving directions to each one of her kids, even polishing silver when she could. It was pretty impressive.
Dishes made it over to the table, covered in tinfoil and cyran wrap, and slowly the table took on the look that it had passed the capacity to hold anything else. Salt, pepper, sweet pickles, black olives, corn bread, rolls, cranberry sauce, butter, gravy, chitlins, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potato pie, rolls, iced tea, apple and pumpkin pie. Glasses filled with ice that was starting to melt, pitchers of tea waiting to be poured, forks, knives, and spoons, serving spoons and forks waiting to fulfill their duty. The last thing to arrive would be the turkey, which was supposed to fit in that empty space left in the middle. It didn't seem likely but we knew it would end up there eventually. Each dish would be exceptional, simply because they were created by Mrs. Anderson.
Christmas decorations were out and I could see some of the lights and decorations were up. I bumped into John first and he wrapped a welcoming arm around my shoulders. "Davie!" Then onto Wanda. I got a quick hug from her that barely brought us together, a brief little kiss on the cheek, then she spiced it up with a quick cheek-to-cheek thing that she only brought out at Christmas. I felt a brief moment of warmth when our cheeks touched, then it was done. Didn't even give me time to attach any dirty thoughts to the sensation.
Mrs. Anderson gave me a hug, which brought me close enough to put a kiss on her cheek. Mr. Anderson gave me a nice firm handshake. I thought he was a fairly good guy. I'm not sure his kids would agree. He was the assistant principal at the local high school, so being strict was part of him. He was probably born like that. To have him as a parent was probably pretty tough and I know he didn't shed any of that seriousness nor that quiet dignity he carried around with him. How totally opposite to my father. Me? I felt like stray dog they'd brought home then couldn't get rid of. But I always felt welcome there.
Amazing what memories surface after all these years. In the kitchen the fluorescent lights over the sink tossed out a yellow glow, balanced out by the bright white bulbs in the chandelier over the kitchen table. The living room furniture was covered in heavy plastic, the kind that burned you unmercifully on hot days if you slipped up and forgot. I remember riding bikes around their neighborhood, playing in the dirt in the backyard, and working with John on our pinewood derby cars for cub scouts. It was the people, though, that made it such a special place.
John was putting up lights in the living room and Wanda headed down to the basement for more decorations. His parents told me to take a seat, like I was still a guest, but I never seemed to sit still that long. I wanted to move through life quickly, so I never slowed down enough to sit and think. I had my own reasons for being that way but I avoided letting them out. Certainly not here at my 'refuge.' I went in to see John, where he was putting up Christmas lights in the picture window. I sat on the arm of the sofa, which was always a
no-no
. "David, can you not sit on the arm of the sofa? It wrinkles the fabric." Mr. Anderson chimed in. Like he was more interested in not hurting the feelings of the sofa I'd sat on, as opposed to dishing out some discipline to me for sitting there. Yet, I still got off quickly, with a stab of guilt. Wow, that was subtle. Isn't he slick? Lord knows what he did to the students that ended up in his office.
"Oh, right. I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson." I slipped down to sit on a cushion and leaned over to talk to John. "Hey, John. Do you see these twenty little marks on my belt? Do you know what each one represents?"
He let out his patented sigh, that he only used on me. "Oh, Davie. Don't tell me. It can't be good." He knew he didn't want to know.
"Come on. Give it a try."
"Oh, okay. The number of girlfriends you've had?"
"Thanks, John. You make me sound like a slut." I shook my head left-right. "Nope."
"The number of times you've gotten your head stuck in something?"
"No, John." I said with a frown. "If I never kept count, why did you? No, not that."
"The number of times you've tried to kiss Wanda. Tried!"
"You are something. It's only been ten times. Unless you want to count the times I kissed her when she was sleeping."
"Really?"
"No, John. Not really. You know my shock collar goes off when I
go near her room. It's hard to be romantic when you're on the floor twitching."
"The number of times your father's been caught with his pants down." With a wicked gleam in his eye.
"Wow. And wow. You go right for the jugular, don't you? Twenty? I come over here to feel better, not for you to drag me around behind some horse like Hector around Troy. But no, not that."
"Alright. Out with it. I know I really don't want to know but get it over with."
I leaned in and whispered, "These twenty little marks are for all the times I sat on the arm of this sofa when you weren't looking. I even drank a soda here once and spilled some and then I didn't even clean it up. Look. You can even see the spot." I scuffed my foot over some nonexistent spot. I sat back and shook my head up and down and added a big wink to make it even better.
"You're gonna go to jail someday."
"Ha! You don't know where the bodies are buried, Buddy! I have a hole dug for you already!"
He shook his head, then he called out, "Mom!"
"John! No, No. Don't do that."
She stuck her head in. "Yes?"
"Can David stay for dinner?"
"Of course, he can."
"Oh, man." I covered my face with both hands and rubbed my eyes. Two things I tried to avoid: Don't make life difficult for Mrs. Anderson and don't get on Mr. Anderson's bad side.
"Busted!" said John.
"You used to be such a nice guy."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I can remember all the times I did something simply because it would hurt his brain. Whatever my mind baked up, his mind could never have dreamt it up. His brain would seize up and shut down like a Star Trek robot. By the time the thought coalesced in his brain to make him burst out, "Davie!" I would be on step four and it would be far too late. He would just sigh that sigh and follow along, just to make sure I didn't get my head stuck in pipe or drown in those tanks at the town's septic farm. I think on a day-to-day basis, his parents couldn't decide if I was a good influence on him or bad. But hey! Maybe . . . maybe the real goal was for him to be a good influence on me? That seems even more likely.
So, I got a smacked on the wrist and I scooted off the arm of the couch. I'd only been asked to do that probably four or five or ten times before. "So, old buddy, old pal. How's school going? I hope your grades are better than mine."
"They're pretty good. I'm taking a psyche course called Abnormal Psychology. There are some pretty messed up people out there. We've gone over cases for some really strange people."
"I don't doubt it. Has my family made it into any textbooks yet?"
"Not yet but I'm working on it. We focus on specific behaviors, like serial killers, chronic liars, or people that have been criminals their whole lives. We have to identify the factors we think led to their behaviors. They're way outside the norm. So, we have to search through a database, establish their background, and set up scenarios that match everything we identify. It's pretty neat stuff.
That's
