Something to look into. Meanwhile… She stretched. Breakfast. And then… Christmas!
***
She spent the first half of the day just puttering around the house and relaxing, rejoicing in not even having to look at the clock, despite the low-level buzz of anticipation already building inside her as time for the arrival of friends and guests got closer. It was the first real day of the holidays for her, the first weekday that Nita didn’t have to go to school, and wouldn’t have to go again until the first week in January; and the calm of it felt like heaven. Miraculously (or actually due to hard work and some forethought) she was all sorted out for her between-semesters work: no reports to write, no projects to agonize over. And nothing to procrastinate over, either! Or to get stressed over because you know you’re procrastinating. It was perfect.
…Well, nearly perfect. Every now and then the thought of the one person who wouldn’t be there for Christmas this year came up to meet her as she looked at some window decoration that wasn’t quite right and needed to be straightened, or some spot where another traditional Christmassy item—that glass bowl full of fake poinsettia flowers, the other bowl full of shiny ball ornaments—was dusty and needed attention. Nita kept waiting for one or another of these moments to turn into pain, and kept being surprised when they didn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t miss her mom. Because I do, every day. It was just that for some reason, her sense that her mom was okay was stronger than usual. Initially Nita was tempted to spend more time trying to figure this out. But why? Why do I want to keep poking at it like a tooth where the filling fell out? Mom would tell me to let it be. So I will.
She had more tea, and after a while wandered upstairs to her bedroom again and put a few last wrapping-or ribbon-touches on a couple of gifts she’d picked up for other party guests. It wasn’t mandatory for people to bring each other things, but along the line she’d seen a thing or two that seemed right for one or another of the people who were coming. And there was one special gift that she kept stealing peeks at, half in admiration and half in nervousness that he wouldn’t like it. Finally, she laughed at herself—very softly, so as not to wake Dairine, who apparently still wasn’t up yet—and closed the little box. Then she felt around underneath her bed for the bedroom slippers with the waterproof soles, the ones that wouldn’t mind being out in the snow. What the heck, she thought, garbage is garbage, it needs to be out…
She pulled the full plastic bag out of the kitchen garbage pail and quietly went outside to where the big garbage cans sat next to the garage. The snow was still falling gently out of a solid gray sky, mostly straight down, in a persistent, purposeful kind of way. Only the occasional tiniest breath of breeze stirred it around and made it swirl as it came down. Then it straightened out again, doing a credible imitation of snow globe snow. I meant to look at that weather report, she thought, as she put the kitchen garbage in the big can, shook the snow off the garbage can lid, and quietly put it back in place. In a moment. Right now, despite the way the cold bit at her through her bathrobe and the flannel nightgown, Nita was quite content to stand in the snow—maybe two inches deep, now—and let the silence soak into her bones. There was no sound anywhere; even the normal traffic noise that would have drifted over from the nearby Southern State Parkway was completely muted.
She glanced down at the tracks her dad’s car had left in the driveway snow. They were already filling up again, and the salt underneath them didn’t seem to be having much effect. Nita briefly considered doing a small wizardry to talk the driveway into believing it was warmer than its surroundings so that the snow would stay melted. But is it really necessary? she thought. Sometimes it was harder for wizard to wait a little while and not spend energy that might not have actually been required to improve a situation. Then she grinned at herself. And maybe, she thought, I’m just feeling lazy. And every now and then, why not?
She went back in the house, took off the outside slippers and left but by the door to melt their snow off on the doormat; then found her other slippers which had somehow migrated to the dining room, put them on, and wandered into the living room. It was bright enough, even though no lights were on; the picture window was letting in that pale gray snow light, restful. Perfect to read by, she thought. She went upstairs very softly, pulled a book out of her to-read pile, went downstairs again into the kitchen for more tea, and curled up on the couch with the book and just read.
The next thing she knew the kitchen door was opening.Her dad had come home for lunch, and even two rooms over Nita could tell from the sound of the way he tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter that he was in a bad mood. Oh great, she thought, what’s this about?
She put the book down and picked up the empty tea mug sitting by her, and wandered into the kitchen. Her dad was staring into the refrigerator, scowling. Nita leaned around him and peered into his face. “What?”
“Don’t get me started,” he muttered.
“About what?”
“Football.”
Nita rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, the miracle…”
“Not miraculous,” said her dad, and started rummaging around in the fridge a lot harder than he needed to.
Nita snickered. For her, the only sport of interest was baseball. But come the end of baseball season her dad normally started paying attention to football, for which Nita had no time whatsoever. Apparently the Philadelphia Eagles had played the Giants at the Meadowlands over the weekend and had abruptly come from behind in the last quarter to badly beat the Giants, her dad’s favorites. Now, every time he heard the local news teams on TV or radio referring to this as “the Miracle in the Meadowlands,” he positively growled.
“Daddy, you really want to shake this mood,” Nita said. “If Fil turns up here and sees you upset like this, he’s going to want to know why you’re upset! And then you’re going to have to explain football to him. And he always gets freaked when he thinks he hasn’t done enough research in something.”
“Well,” her dad said, and sighed. “I take it that on this visit your job is going to be explaining Christmas to him?”
“Well, he’ll have arrived doing the basic reading, you know that.”
Her dad laughed a little. “Not sure how basic basic is, but the subject can get complicated…”
“Tell me about it,” Nita said. And then the front doorbell rang.
Her dad glanced at her. “And you not dressed yet,” he said. “Let me get it. Probably it’s the first batch of kids wanting to shovel the driveway.” He went past her to answer the door.
Nita heard him open it, and then something unexpected happened; her dad started laughing. Curious, she went into the living room and peered around towards the door to see what was going on. Then she understood his surprise, because standing there in bright red ski coveralls and big boots and a parka and a woolly Christmas hat was Tom Swale, with a snow shovel over his shoulder.
“I don’t even know what the going rate for this is anymore,” Nita’s dad said, and laughed again, feeling around in his pockets. “Is five dollars enough, or has inflation hit this too?”
Tom roared with laughter. “Just leave that they are, Tom,” said Nita’s dad. “Come on in. Coffee?”
“No, it’s okay, I won’t be keeping you,” Tom said, leaning the snow shovel up against the side of Nita’s front porch underneath the mailbox. He stepped in the door that Nita’s dad held open for him, and all the snow obligingly fell off him before he crossed the threshold.