Gifts were exchanged. Only Louis was present. Mickey was already at a friend’s house. “Someone got Atari,” Dom said. “And the kid found out. We don’t expect him back until Tuesday.”
“Where’s Cindy?” his father said.
“She’s upstairs. Cindy!” he called. “She’ll be right down.”
They unwrapped gifts, thanked each other, and held them up for all to see. Biddy opened his and pulled out a Viking jersey.
“See the number?” Dom said. “Fifty-nine.”
“What’s fifty-nine?” his mother said.
“Who’s fifty-nine, Biddy?” Dom asked.
Biddy folded it up. “Matt Blair,” he said.
The Lirianos received a knife block. “Great,” Dom said, hefting it. “We don’t have to cut our hands to ribbons in the knife drawer anymore.”
Cindy still hadn’t appeared. “Cindy!” Biddy’s mother called. “C’mon. You got two presents to open this year.”
His eyes widened in horror. His parents had gotten their own present.
“Where’s Ronnie, anyway?” his mother said.
“Don’t ask,” Ginnie said.
Cindy came downstairs in a royal-blue robe with yellow embroidery on the shoulders. She glanced at Biddy first and smiled and wished everyone a Merry Christmas.
“Merry Christmas,” his father said. “Come get your presents here.”
She moved to the middle of the room and knelt on the rug. Her hair was brushed close to her head and tied back in a tight ponytail. Biddy wanted nothing more than to be out of the room.
“Two,” she said, raising an eyebrow politely. “How’d I get two?” She was very quiet.
“Biddy bought you one all by himself,” his mother said. “The small one.”
She looked at him, and he had to look away. “Well, let’s see what we have here,” she said. She opened the large package first, a blouse, and lifted it gently from its wrapping. “It’s beautiful. Isn’t it?” Her parents agreed.
“Now open Biddy’s,” someone said.
She tore off the paper, the dark red box showing through. She gazed at it silently before opening it and pulling out the bottle. She screwed off the cap and sniffed.
“Mmm. Very nice. Smell.” She dabbed her wrist and held it up to her mother, looking at Biddy intently. “Thank you,” she said, leaning forward until their faces were almost touching, and, smiling hesitantly, she kissed him.
He started to cry.
“Now isn’t that the goddamnedest thing you ever saw?” his father said. “What’s wrong now?”
They waited, stunned, until he stopped sniffling. He said something about having to watch TV, and left the room.
His father followed, alone, and sat opposite him. “What was that all about?” he finally asked.
He didn’t know. His father squinted at him. “Are you all right?” He nodded vigorously and his father stood up, half satisfied. “I don’t know about you, guy,” he said at the doorway. “Sometimes I’m not sure you have both oars in the water.”
At eleven-thirty Christmas night his parents shut their bedroom door, telling him to get to bed soon, and at ten after, he went to the back porch and climbed into his boots, coat, scarf, and mittens. Stupid followed, and after a moment’s indecision Biddy got his leash and took him along.
It was very cold outside, with no wind. Stupid led him down the driveway, weaving from snowbank to snowbank, his breath showing silver in the streetlight.
They walked toward the beach quietly, Biddy silent and the dog’s sniffing muffled. The only sounds were the crunch of his boots on the snow and the jingling of the dog’s license. He could smell the salt water, which surprised him. They passed Father Rubino’s house on the corner facing the bluffs and he noticed a light on in the living room. He crossed over to it through the yard, the dog loping along in chest-deep snow to keep up. He crept along the bushes and peered over the sill.
Father was alone, his back to the window, playing the piano. On a small table nearby was a glass of wine. There were a few sprigs of holly about, and a red candle over the fireplace. The rest of the house was dark and empty. The whole image seemed melancholy and sad, and Biddy pulled away from the window, turning his back to it.
At the edge of the bluffs the beach spread out below him, dark and noisy, the waves glistening in long lines. Stupid strained to go down, his breath hoarse and visible, and after Biddy tested the steps for slipperiness, they did, the sand poking through the snow in great coarse patches after they’d reached the bottom and walked up the rise to the water.
There was a suggestion of wind. At close range the waves made a sibilant sound slapping under the ice at the water’s edge. It was salt-water ice, less smooth, greenish. It crumbled easily in his hand, as if made of countless tiny pellets, and lay tumbled about in slabs like translucent pavement that had been torn up. A piece of driftwood rose from it nearby and he maneuvered over it and sat down. The dog, after wandering the length of the leash, sat next to him. The horizon was invisible, the stars simply fading away at a certain point.
“I used to take Lady down here,” he said, but Stupid gave no sign of understanding. A wave advanced a little farther than usual, collapsing some slabs in front of him.
“I could sing,” he said. “Want me to sing?”
The dog sniffed the air, as if to guess his mood.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. He rubbed his thighs, bunched his mittens into fists. “It was a good Christmas. I was the one who had to make it a good Christmas, and it was a good Christmas. I’m the one who has to help me.”
His rear felt wet, cold. There was ice on the log. “I wonder what Ronnie’s doing,” he said. He broke off a piece of ice and offered it to the dog, who sniffed it and turned away. He tossed it into the water. For a second it stayed opaque, bobbing, but then the dark sea color poured into it and it disappeared completely except for the faintest trace of an outline.
“I keep thinking I’m going to figure out something down here,” he said. “What to do, how to make things better. What’s wrong, even.” He stood, wiping the seat of his pants. “And I never do.”
You’re a very fortunate boy, Sister had told him once. Jesus loves you, your parents love you, you’re healthy and bright, you live in the best country in the world. Imagine if you lived in Pakistan or a place like that. What do you have to be so unhappy about? He shook his head, starting for the bluffs with Stupid. There was a piece of salt ice on his mitten, and he touched it to his tongue, wincing at the familiar saline taste. He labored up the stairs behind the dog, surprised by his fatigue. The wind was picking up behind them. It had been a good Christmas and the beach at night was beautiful. Stupid was a good dog. He would get some sleep. Things would get better. At the top of the stairs, with the new wind across his face as he turned for one last glimpse of the beach in the moonlight, that was what he decided: things would get better.
IV. Memorial Day
BIDDY. Completing the Checklist
I saw things in my head. I knew they weren’t real but that didn’t make them any less important. I tried to talk to people about them and never got anywhere. It was like they were keeping something from me. If they’re not, am I the only one like this?
They were dreams I could go to whenever I wanted: except I started them, I made them up. They were mine. But even there I couldn’t always keep control.