Hobo Jungle
My wife said, "You're drinking already?" I said, "I don't have a choice. Jon called for a toast. I couldn't let him down." Ha, ha.
Hey, the PFE is resting next to the Berk on my mantle above my desk. Can't wait to add it to the all reefer train in January. Trains! I get to put up the trains. Toot, toot.
Hey, the PFE is resting next to the Berk on my mantle above my desk. Can't wait to add it to the all reefer train in January. Trains! I get to put up the trains. Toot, toot.
Tramp, Will do!!! But the sausage reefer is still on its way according to the wife 
She says you just have better postman!!! 
But we should do another kind of "shot" in a minute or two!! I was a good boy yesterday with only 5 sourmash shots and 15 beers, so I just might cut loose today!!!!! Look out, Pete!!
San, how was the water?
Daisy, was Santa good to you?
I think Jackie's passed out under the tree!!!
She says you just have better postman!!! But we should do another kind of "shot" in a minute or two!! I was a good boy yesterday with only 5 sourmash shots and 15 beers, so I just might cut loose today!!!!! Look out, Pete!!
San, how was the water?
Daisy, was Santa good to you?
I think Jackie's passed out under the tree!!!
I'm beginning to return to life. Drove around town, everything but the Variety was closed. Found a fairly fresh 12er of Dutch beer lurking in the cooler. Jon, I can't tell you how neat it was to see the graffiti reefer appear in one of your fabulous RR shots. You do exist!
Where is everyone? Jackie, did you survive? Thanks again for posing!
Where is everyone? Jackie, did you survive? Thanks again for posing!
-
San Diegan
On Christmas morning Mary was as excited as a child. She’d bought something special for Jay. It was quite a find, and she believed Jay would be thrilled, though how could you ever tell with him? Mary got up early and took a leisurely bath. She dressed with care, the smell of coffee and bacon from the kitchen mingling with her bath oil and lotions. Having Frankie Demanno around was like having a gentleman’s gentleman. And it was all free, courtesy of Mr. Anthony Brignolia. But is anything ever really free? she wondered. Anthony Brignolia must want something. As she combed out the tangles in her wet hair, she glanced at one of the Christmas cards leaning against the bureau’s mirror: a Santa Claus on a reindeer roping a steer. It seemed ages ago that she had ridden in Garland’s pickup truck, yet he never failed to write her a card for every holiday. From the top of her bureau was a recent letter from Kelly Harris; she reread a few sentences.
With all these LiveCell phones not many people are writing letters anymore. Strange to think of myself as old-fashioned. I have to admit something about those phones: I find them almost too intimate, too intense. I look forward to seeing you for Christmas—
She was startled that her perception of Kelly had changed. She still loved him dearly and missed him, yet he was no longer a hero, or a mentor, for her. It’s because he never accomplishes anything, she realized, he doesn’t use his abilities—he runs and hides from them. But she was sure he did the best he could. And he had plenty of heart.
Had she changed that much in a year and a half? Something passed through her, an energy that shot up her spine, and it forced her to sit on the bed. Then, in a moment of pure calm, she could feel the entire planet surrounding her with all its complexity and all its contrast, all its desire and all its need, all its anger and all its love. As if she could almost touch everyone she cared about, and she felt Sammy somehow with her as well.
She breathed deeply, stood, checked herself in the mirror one more time, and went to wish Frankie Demanno a Merry Christmas.
A few minutes after they finished breakfast, a courier knocked on the door with a nine-and-a-half-foot-long, cylindrical, burlap-wrapped package addressed to Mary MacKensie. Frankie carried it inside for her. “Fresh cut,” he said. It was a balsam fir tree. From his bedroom, he hauled a bright-green metal tree stand, Christmas tree candles, and shiny tin holders that clipped onto the branches and pivoted to allow the candles to point vertically.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. They set up the tree in the corner of the living room facing the ocean. He brought out multicolored lights and an overly generous assortment of ornaments.
“I made a few phone calls,” he said. “They shipped everything. I hid the boxes under my bed. I thought that tree guy was never gonna get here. ‘Course he’d be dead if he didn’t.” He winked at her, but she wasn’t absolutely certain he was kidding.
Around noon, Frankie, wearing an apron with an embroidered elf over his big chest, started baking crostini in olive oil with two toppings—sweet and sour onion with fresh rosemary, and roasted red pepper and eggplant. When the guests arrived, these would be flanked by a slab of parmesan, clams oreganata, and crisp fried whole baby artichokes. A stuffed goose to honor Mary’s New England roots was ready for the oven. Yesterday he’d prepared a spicy tomato sauce for the spaghetti; today he’d add lobster and mussels. Soon it was early afternoon, the kitchen exhaling a variety of wonderful vapors. They opened a bottle of champagne, toasting the day. Frankie, though he enjoyed his red wine while cooking, wasn’t really much of drinker. Their first night had been an exception, and with a tiny smirk she realized even he might get nervous on occasion. There is something in life to frighten everyone.
Nick Brignolia was the first to arrive, dressed in a black suit, starched white shirt, and cardinal-red tie with a small diamond tie pin. He carried an enormous bouquet of roses. While Mary went into the kitchen to arrange them in a crystal vase, Frankie offered Nick a glass of wine. The old man shook his head: “Later, later I will have one. I talk to Anthony this morning. My brother wish everyone a Merry Christmas.”—calling this to Mary as she walked out of the kitchen. “Frankie, he thinks he make a crazy mistake to send his best guy out here. He miss your cooking.”
“He may miss it a long time. I like it out here.” He glanced at Mary, or where she’d been a moment ago setting the flowers on the table. She was fiddling with something on the tree. His eyes followed her, as if he were hoping for a reaction.
“He might be coming to visit,” Nick said to him.
“When?”—a flicker of concern.
“In a few weeks.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, maybe for your cooking.”
“Maybe to see you?”
“Maybe.”
Deirdre and Jimmy Hakken arrived together in her station wagon. Jimmy was his usual black-clad, tattooed self with the addition of a pendulous candy-cane-striped stocking hat and a cloth bag full of presents. He made a very ominous Santa. Deirdre wore a new pants suit and a fresh stylish hairdo. After Mary hugged her, she leaned back and looked her up and down still holding her hands.
“Deirdre,” she said, “you look fantastic. What a beautiful suit.”
“I just bought it,” she said, blushing.
“What a great color on you.”
“I hoped you might like it; I mean, the suit. They called the color, like, antique plum or something. Silly name.”
“Fantastic color though.”
Mary introduced everyone, and Frankie greeted the new guests with a wide smile. Deirdre shrieked on seeing the table of food, and he explained his appetizers to her. Jimmy Hakken was mute as usual, first setting his big bag near the tree, then observing Frankie carefully, probably having heard something, maybe noting how relaxed and easygoing he seemed. Regardless, Jimmy remained withdrawn and serious. Mary offered champagne, which everyone but Jimmy accepted. He had a beer. Always the outsider, she thought.
“That tree is so beautiful,” said Deirdre. “And all the red candles look really nice. Oh, my, God, they’re real.”
“We’re going to light them,” said Mary.
“No way!”
“Frankie had the tree cut in the wild. That way it has the right spaces between the branches for candles. With pruned Christmas trees the branches are too close together, and you never know when they’ve been cut.”
“That is way cool. I didn’t know anyone still did it. I mean, have real burning candles.” A pause. “Is Jay coming?”
“He said he was. He’s a bit late, isn’t he? I’ll livecell him.” She set down her glass. “Jay? . . . okay, good. We were just making sure.” She turned to Deirdre. “He’s on his way. I don’t think he’s so big on Christmas.” She glanced at the three men talking around the dining room table—Frankie telling a funny story, Nick carefully sipping his champagne, Jimmy Hakken listening with rapt attention, the strange stocking hat such a contrast to his demeanor.
Deirdre leaned closer to Mary, lowered her voice. “We’re always going to worry about Jay now, aren’t we?”
“At least he decided to go back to work. I was terrified he wouldn’t reopen LiveCell. The idea of being beaten by those bastards irked me to no end, but I knew Jay had to work through it in his own way. Remember Detective Artega?”
“Sure. Tall, lanky, dark. From the shooting at the factory. The only cop that seemed to believe Jay.”
“In the last few days he’s made some headway on Sammy’s death. Michael Pegonis has—”
“Who?”
“From that night, the ex-security guy who shot Jay in the arm.”
“That big *******.”
“He worked for Alden Stein Associates. He’s contacted Artega and says he has information on the shooting. He wants immunity and protection from Artega, and two million from Jay. Jay doesn’t trust the whole thing. Artega wants him to go along, see where it leads.”
“Are you and Jay doing better?”
“Because he’s telling me these things?”
“Not just that.”
Mary examined her. Deirdre wanted to know if she was going to attempt the phone infusion. Had Jay been talking to her about it? Asked her to say something? She couldn’t open herself to him like that again, it was too destructive. Or what if she fought against the infusion as Deirdre had? What if Jay’s heart stopped?
“I don’t think I can,” she said.
“It’s like, real important that you try.”
Mary only nodded, then glanced over at the men.
“Frankie’s awful cute, isn’t he?” said Deirdre.
Mary suddenly felt that maybe Deirdre was getting too damn intuitive.
“Aw-oh, I’m making you blush again,” she said.
“It’s just not that way with Frankie and me.”
“Hey,” said Frankie from across the room, his ears burning. “What’s the huddle about? Come on and join us.”
“He’s right,” said Mary. “It’s Christmas.” Besides, she wanted off the subject.
Jay finally arrived, Cutlass sounding terminal. It had developed an ominous rapping, a noise that secretly pleased Mary. She’d heard him coming—who couldn’t?—and stood now in the open doorway as he parked. Everyone had kept the space free in front of her two-car garage as she’d requested, and Jay followed suit. He jumped out and walked toward her, still dressed the same as the first day she saw him.
“Hey,” he called. “Merry Christmas. Sorry I’m late. Car isn’t running so well.”
They embraced. His body just seemed to fit hers. He was warm too, even in only the T-shirt. Why hadn’t he dressed up? Was it from being preoccupied, or from being a bit of a Scrooge? But being an orphan, what kind of good feelings could he have about Christmas? Of course, he never dressed up except in Deirdre’s jacket anyway, which, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen in weeks.
When they entered the house, everyone got up to greet Jay, even Nick. Deirdre threw her arms around him, and Mary again felt jealous; they seemed so close. Frankie and Jay had met briefly at the office, but they shook hands now with no readable expression. Mary wondered how they felt about each other. Frankie treated Jay as if he were a celebrity. Maybe he was? Would she ever stop feeling this way around him? She tried to put him out of her mind and concentrated on her hostess duties, taking beverage orders, pouring champagne. Jay decided to join Jimmy Hakken and drink beer. He would.
After about an hour Mary couldn’t contain her excitement, couldn’t wait any longer. She also wanted to do it while there was still plenty of light outside. She winked at Frankie—their signal. He excused himself, and she kept Jay occupied. She’d made sure the CD player was loaded and that the volume was up enough. She gave Frankie five or six minutes and glanced outside. She told Jay she needed to show him something in the yard. He followed her.
Resting in front of her garage was an arctic blue 1965 Chevrolet station wagon with an enormous red ribbon and bow around it. “Merry Christmas, Jay,” she said.
He walked up to the car, caressed a fender for a few moments, turned back to her, put his arms around her, kissed her cheek. “It is beautiful,” he whispered, releasing her.
“I know the paint isn’t perfect.” she said, ignoring the placement of his kiss. “Especially on the roof. And it has the one dent, but it is all original, even the paint. You can see cracks in the lacquer. I thought you would prefer it that way. It runs like a top.”
“It’s perfect,” he said. “The best.”
By then the others had come out of the house and gathered around. “Oh my God, it’s an Impala,” said Deirdre. They told Jay to get in, to try it on, see how it fit. Behind the wheel he actually looked like a celebrity as he smiled out the rolled down window at them. The car fit him.
“Let’s all go for a ride,” said Mary, and they climbed onto the blue naugahyde bench seats. Jay fired up the rumbling engine and backed up the wagon; Mary beside him, Frankie riding shotgun, the other three behind. His old Cutlass wasn’t a small car, but he acted as though he were backing up an ocean liner.
They drove slowly, coasted through the Christmas day, the road all but empty, a hazy afternoon sun in the yellow grass as they paralleled the shoreline. Nick told them how his first car in Boston had been just like this one. “It was a sixty nine Buick sedan.” he said. “Maroon color with black seats.” Frankie said: “Same car exactly, Nick,” and they all laughed. For the first time since Sammy’d been shot, Mary felt some life come back into Jay.
As the sun began to color the sky over the Pacific, Frankie said he hated to end the family outing, but he had to get the goose in the oven. Jay carefully turned the big boat, and with the water on their right now, motored back.
It was still light when they returned. After mooring the Impala, Jay walked over and popped the trunk of the Cutlass, removed five packages. Jimmy Hakken, still in his incongruous hat, helped him carry them into the house. Frankie had shot into the kitchen and was a whirl of activity. He explained he didn’t need help, just quiet to concentrate. Everyone else settled in the dining and living room as Italy began to stray from the stove. Though another bottle of champagne was opened, Jay and Jimmy stayed stubbornly with beer. Nick sipped his one glass of red wine, commenting twice about how good it was. Mary had vodka for Deirdre, but after one on ice, she joined the champagne drinkers. Mary played Perry Como and Frank Sinatra for Nick, and Nat King Cole and Elvis’s Blue Christmas. As dusk gently dimmed the room, they turned on the tree lights.
Mary and Jay set the table, and soon everyone except Frankie was seated—Jimmy Hakken removed his hat, exposing his shaved head—and a procession of food began to arrive from the kitchen. First there was a chilled seafood salad with fresh squid, sea scallops, and shrimp, the pale creatures glistening in herbed olive oil, each glass bowl containing a tentacled squid head like a small violet crown. This was followed by his spaghetti and signature red sauce laden with lobster and mussels. Accompanying the goose, a roasted red snapper with olives, steamed broccoli rabe, and mashed potatoes latticed by fried sage leaves. A salad of radicchio, arugula, and frisee, a turbulent coil of reds and greens finished the main course.
“Everyone get enough to eat?” he said.
“Frankie, best meal I have since I leave Boston,” said Nick, setting his napkin firmly beside his plate.
Mary raised her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To Frankie, who not only supplied us with one of the finest meals I have ever eaten, and provided the beautiful tree, but also, with his humor and his calm, helped at a very difficult time.”
He looked down as they drank to him, then his eyes came up, searched hers, and glanced away again.
“That was like, unbelievable. Everything was so good.”
“Should we have coffee, more champagne?” said Mary.
“Nick, I picked up a pannetone. Traditional recipe. And I got a bottle of anisette.”
“I think I call Anthony, tell him you staying here now with us.”
Jay said: “Mary, and Frankie. It was a lovely idea to have this meal, and to invite all of us to share it. This is the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had. You’ve all been very considerate not talking about Sammy’s death. If I may, I would ask that we drink to our friend’s memory and to his family. I talked with Jolene earlier today and she asked us to drink to Sammy’s memory tonight.” He looked above their faces. He held out his glass, and they waited. “Sammy . . . ” If he had more to add, he couldn’t manage it. They all drank.
Jimmy Hakken, standing on a chair, lit the top half of the tree candles. Frankie, after giving Mary another gift: a CD with A Child’s Christmas in Wales on it, lit the rest. They sat on chairs and sofas, each person with a full beverage, all other lights turned off. “. . . and out of all sound except the distant speaking of voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, . . . All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky . . .” Each of the three-dozen candles with a starred halo, the tinsel wavering restlessly in the rising heat of the flames, the ornaments reflecting, the warmed balsam sap beginning to scent the air. “. . . I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”
With all these LiveCell phones not many people are writing letters anymore. Strange to think of myself as old-fashioned. I have to admit something about those phones: I find them almost too intimate, too intense. I look forward to seeing you for Christmas—
She was startled that her perception of Kelly had changed. She still loved him dearly and missed him, yet he was no longer a hero, or a mentor, for her. It’s because he never accomplishes anything, she realized, he doesn’t use his abilities—he runs and hides from them. But she was sure he did the best he could. And he had plenty of heart.
Had she changed that much in a year and a half? Something passed through her, an energy that shot up her spine, and it forced her to sit on the bed. Then, in a moment of pure calm, she could feel the entire planet surrounding her with all its complexity and all its contrast, all its desire and all its need, all its anger and all its love. As if she could almost touch everyone she cared about, and she felt Sammy somehow with her as well.
She breathed deeply, stood, checked herself in the mirror one more time, and went to wish Frankie Demanno a Merry Christmas.
A few minutes after they finished breakfast, a courier knocked on the door with a nine-and-a-half-foot-long, cylindrical, burlap-wrapped package addressed to Mary MacKensie. Frankie carried it inside for her. “Fresh cut,” he said. It was a balsam fir tree. From his bedroom, he hauled a bright-green metal tree stand, Christmas tree candles, and shiny tin holders that clipped onto the branches and pivoted to allow the candles to point vertically.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. They set up the tree in the corner of the living room facing the ocean. He brought out multicolored lights and an overly generous assortment of ornaments.
“I made a few phone calls,” he said. “They shipped everything. I hid the boxes under my bed. I thought that tree guy was never gonna get here. ‘Course he’d be dead if he didn’t.” He winked at her, but she wasn’t absolutely certain he was kidding.
Around noon, Frankie, wearing an apron with an embroidered elf over his big chest, started baking crostini in olive oil with two toppings—sweet and sour onion with fresh rosemary, and roasted red pepper and eggplant. When the guests arrived, these would be flanked by a slab of parmesan, clams oreganata, and crisp fried whole baby artichokes. A stuffed goose to honor Mary’s New England roots was ready for the oven. Yesterday he’d prepared a spicy tomato sauce for the spaghetti; today he’d add lobster and mussels. Soon it was early afternoon, the kitchen exhaling a variety of wonderful vapors. They opened a bottle of champagne, toasting the day. Frankie, though he enjoyed his red wine while cooking, wasn’t really much of drinker. Their first night had been an exception, and with a tiny smirk she realized even he might get nervous on occasion. There is something in life to frighten everyone.
Nick Brignolia was the first to arrive, dressed in a black suit, starched white shirt, and cardinal-red tie with a small diamond tie pin. He carried an enormous bouquet of roses. While Mary went into the kitchen to arrange them in a crystal vase, Frankie offered Nick a glass of wine. The old man shook his head: “Later, later I will have one. I talk to Anthony this morning. My brother wish everyone a Merry Christmas.”—calling this to Mary as she walked out of the kitchen. “Frankie, he thinks he make a crazy mistake to send his best guy out here. He miss your cooking.”
“He may miss it a long time. I like it out here.” He glanced at Mary, or where she’d been a moment ago setting the flowers on the table. She was fiddling with something on the tree. His eyes followed her, as if he were hoping for a reaction.
“He might be coming to visit,” Nick said to him.
“When?”—a flicker of concern.
“In a few weeks.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, maybe for your cooking.”
“Maybe to see you?”
“Maybe.”
Deirdre and Jimmy Hakken arrived together in her station wagon. Jimmy was his usual black-clad, tattooed self with the addition of a pendulous candy-cane-striped stocking hat and a cloth bag full of presents. He made a very ominous Santa. Deirdre wore a new pants suit and a fresh stylish hairdo. After Mary hugged her, she leaned back and looked her up and down still holding her hands.
“Deirdre,” she said, “you look fantastic. What a beautiful suit.”
“I just bought it,” she said, blushing.
“What a great color on you.”
“I hoped you might like it; I mean, the suit. They called the color, like, antique plum or something. Silly name.”
“Fantastic color though.”
Mary introduced everyone, and Frankie greeted the new guests with a wide smile. Deirdre shrieked on seeing the table of food, and he explained his appetizers to her. Jimmy Hakken was mute as usual, first setting his big bag near the tree, then observing Frankie carefully, probably having heard something, maybe noting how relaxed and easygoing he seemed. Regardless, Jimmy remained withdrawn and serious. Mary offered champagne, which everyone but Jimmy accepted. He had a beer. Always the outsider, she thought.
“That tree is so beautiful,” said Deirdre. “And all the red candles look really nice. Oh, my, God, they’re real.”
“We’re going to light them,” said Mary.
“No way!”
“Frankie had the tree cut in the wild. That way it has the right spaces between the branches for candles. With pruned Christmas trees the branches are too close together, and you never know when they’ve been cut.”
“That is way cool. I didn’t know anyone still did it. I mean, have real burning candles.” A pause. “Is Jay coming?”
“He said he was. He’s a bit late, isn’t he? I’ll livecell him.” She set down her glass. “Jay? . . . okay, good. We were just making sure.” She turned to Deirdre. “He’s on his way. I don’t think he’s so big on Christmas.” She glanced at the three men talking around the dining room table—Frankie telling a funny story, Nick carefully sipping his champagne, Jimmy Hakken listening with rapt attention, the strange stocking hat such a contrast to his demeanor.
Deirdre leaned closer to Mary, lowered her voice. “We’re always going to worry about Jay now, aren’t we?”
“At least he decided to go back to work. I was terrified he wouldn’t reopen LiveCell. The idea of being beaten by those bastards irked me to no end, but I knew Jay had to work through it in his own way. Remember Detective Artega?”
“Sure. Tall, lanky, dark. From the shooting at the factory. The only cop that seemed to believe Jay.”
“In the last few days he’s made some headway on Sammy’s death. Michael Pegonis has—”
“Who?”
“From that night, the ex-security guy who shot Jay in the arm.”
“That big *******.”
“He worked for Alden Stein Associates. He’s contacted Artega and says he has information on the shooting. He wants immunity and protection from Artega, and two million from Jay. Jay doesn’t trust the whole thing. Artega wants him to go along, see where it leads.”
“Are you and Jay doing better?”
“Because he’s telling me these things?”
“Not just that.”
Mary examined her. Deirdre wanted to know if she was going to attempt the phone infusion. Had Jay been talking to her about it? Asked her to say something? She couldn’t open herself to him like that again, it was too destructive. Or what if she fought against the infusion as Deirdre had? What if Jay’s heart stopped?
“I don’t think I can,” she said.
“It’s like, real important that you try.”
Mary only nodded, then glanced over at the men.
“Frankie’s awful cute, isn’t he?” said Deirdre.
Mary suddenly felt that maybe Deirdre was getting too damn intuitive.
“Aw-oh, I’m making you blush again,” she said.
“It’s just not that way with Frankie and me.”
“Hey,” said Frankie from across the room, his ears burning. “What’s the huddle about? Come on and join us.”
“He’s right,” said Mary. “It’s Christmas.” Besides, she wanted off the subject.
Jay finally arrived, Cutlass sounding terminal. It had developed an ominous rapping, a noise that secretly pleased Mary. She’d heard him coming—who couldn’t?—and stood now in the open doorway as he parked. Everyone had kept the space free in front of her two-car garage as she’d requested, and Jay followed suit. He jumped out and walked toward her, still dressed the same as the first day she saw him.
“Hey,” he called. “Merry Christmas. Sorry I’m late. Car isn’t running so well.”
They embraced. His body just seemed to fit hers. He was warm too, even in only the T-shirt. Why hadn’t he dressed up? Was it from being preoccupied, or from being a bit of a Scrooge? But being an orphan, what kind of good feelings could he have about Christmas? Of course, he never dressed up except in Deirdre’s jacket anyway, which, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen in weeks.
When they entered the house, everyone got up to greet Jay, even Nick. Deirdre threw her arms around him, and Mary again felt jealous; they seemed so close. Frankie and Jay had met briefly at the office, but they shook hands now with no readable expression. Mary wondered how they felt about each other. Frankie treated Jay as if he were a celebrity. Maybe he was? Would she ever stop feeling this way around him? She tried to put him out of her mind and concentrated on her hostess duties, taking beverage orders, pouring champagne. Jay decided to join Jimmy Hakken and drink beer. He would.
After about an hour Mary couldn’t contain her excitement, couldn’t wait any longer. She also wanted to do it while there was still plenty of light outside. She winked at Frankie—their signal. He excused himself, and she kept Jay occupied. She’d made sure the CD player was loaded and that the volume was up enough. She gave Frankie five or six minutes and glanced outside. She told Jay she needed to show him something in the yard. He followed her.
Resting in front of her garage was an arctic blue 1965 Chevrolet station wagon with an enormous red ribbon and bow around it. “Merry Christmas, Jay,” she said.
He walked up to the car, caressed a fender for a few moments, turned back to her, put his arms around her, kissed her cheek. “It is beautiful,” he whispered, releasing her.
“I know the paint isn’t perfect.” she said, ignoring the placement of his kiss. “Especially on the roof. And it has the one dent, but it is all original, even the paint. You can see cracks in the lacquer. I thought you would prefer it that way. It runs like a top.”
“It’s perfect,” he said. “The best.”
By then the others had come out of the house and gathered around. “Oh my God, it’s an Impala,” said Deirdre. They told Jay to get in, to try it on, see how it fit. Behind the wheel he actually looked like a celebrity as he smiled out the rolled down window at them. The car fit him.
“Let’s all go for a ride,” said Mary, and they climbed onto the blue naugahyde bench seats. Jay fired up the rumbling engine and backed up the wagon; Mary beside him, Frankie riding shotgun, the other three behind. His old Cutlass wasn’t a small car, but he acted as though he were backing up an ocean liner.
They drove slowly, coasted through the Christmas day, the road all but empty, a hazy afternoon sun in the yellow grass as they paralleled the shoreline. Nick told them how his first car in Boston had been just like this one. “It was a sixty nine Buick sedan.” he said. “Maroon color with black seats.” Frankie said: “Same car exactly, Nick,” and they all laughed. For the first time since Sammy’d been shot, Mary felt some life come back into Jay.
As the sun began to color the sky over the Pacific, Frankie said he hated to end the family outing, but he had to get the goose in the oven. Jay carefully turned the big boat, and with the water on their right now, motored back.
It was still light when they returned. After mooring the Impala, Jay walked over and popped the trunk of the Cutlass, removed five packages. Jimmy Hakken, still in his incongruous hat, helped him carry them into the house. Frankie had shot into the kitchen and was a whirl of activity. He explained he didn’t need help, just quiet to concentrate. Everyone else settled in the dining and living room as Italy began to stray from the stove. Though another bottle of champagne was opened, Jay and Jimmy stayed stubbornly with beer. Nick sipped his one glass of red wine, commenting twice about how good it was. Mary had vodka for Deirdre, but after one on ice, she joined the champagne drinkers. Mary played Perry Como and Frank Sinatra for Nick, and Nat King Cole and Elvis’s Blue Christmas. As dusk gently dimmed the room, they turned on the tree lights.
Mary and Jay set the table, and soon everyone except Frankie was seated—Jimmy Hakken removed his hat, exposing his shaved head—and a procession of food began to arrive from the kitchen. First there was a chilled seafood salad with fresh squid, sea scallops, and shrimp, the pale creatures glistening in herbed olive oil, each glass bowl containing a tentacled squid head like a small violet crown. This was followed by his spaghetti and signature red sauce laden with lobster and mussels. Accompanying the goose, a roasted red snapper with olives, steamed broccoli rabe, and mashed potatoes latticed by fried sage leaves. A salad of radicchio, arugula, and frisee, a turbulent coil of reds and greens finished the main course.
“Everyone get enough to eat?” he said.
“Frankie, best meal I have since I leave Boston,” said Nick, setting his napkin firmly beside his plate.
Mary raised her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To Frankie, who not only supplied us with one of the finest meals I have ever eaten, and provided the beautiful tree, but also, with his humor and his calm, helped at a very difficult time.”
He looked down as they drank to him, then his eyes came up, searched hers, and glanced away again.
“That was like, unbelievable. Everything was so good.”
“Should we have coffee, more champagne?” said Mary.
“Nick, I picked up a pannetone. Traditional recipe. And I got a bottle of anisette.”
“I think I call Anthony, tell him you staying here now with us.”
Jay said: “Mary, and Frankie. It was a lovely idea to have this meal, and to invite all of us to share it. This is the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had. You’ve all been very considerate not talking about Sammy’s death. If I may, I would ask that we drink to our friend’s memory and to his family. I talked with Jolene earlier today and she asked us to drink to Sammy’s memory tonight.” He looked above their faces. He held out his glass, and they waited. “Sammy . . . ” If he had more to add, he couldn’t manage it. They all drank.
Jimmy Hakken, standing on a chair, lit the top half of the tree candles. Frankie, after giving Mary another gift: a CD with A Child’s Christmas in Wales on it, lit the rest. They sat on chairs and sofas, each person with a full beverage, all other lights turned off. “. . . and out of all sound except the distant speaking of voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, . . . All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky . . .” Each of the three-dozen candles with a starred halo, the tinsel wavering restlessly in the rising heat of the flames, the ornaments reflecting, the warmed balsam sap beginning to scent the air. “. . . I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”
The inlaws are gone, the boy is sleeping. So now what?
I'm Too Sexy
Right Said Fred
I'm too sexy for my love too sexy for my love
Love's going to leave me
I'm too sexy for my shirt too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts
And I'm too sexy for Milan too sexy for Milan
New York and Japan
And I'm too sexy for your party
Too sexy for your party
No way I'm disco dancing
I'm a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I do my little turn on the catwalk
I'm too sexy for my car too sexy for my car
Too sexy by far
And I'm too sexy for my hat
Too sexy for my hat what do you think about that
I'm a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I shake my little touche on the catwalk
I'm too sexy for my too sexy for my too sexy for my
'Cos I'm a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I shake my little touche on the catwalk
I'm too sexy for my cat too sexy for my cat
Poor pussy poor pussy cat
I'm too sexy for my love too sexy for my love
Love's going to leave me
And I'm too sexy for this song
I'm Too Sexy
Right Said Fred
I'm too sexy for my love too sexy for my love
Love's going to leave me
I'm too sexy for my shirt too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts
And I'm too sexy for Milan too sexy for Milan
New York and Japan
And I'm too sexy for your party
Too sexy for your party
No way I'm disco dancing
I'm a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I do my little turn on the catwalk
I'm too sexy for my car too sexy for my car
Too sexy by far
And I'm too sexy for my hat
Too sexy for my hat what do you think about that
I'm a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I shake my little touche on the catwalk
I'm too sexy for my too sexy for my too sexy for my
'Cos I'm a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I shake my little touche on the catwalk
I'm too sexy for my cat too sexy for my cat
Poor pussy poor pussy cat
I'm too sexy for my love too sexy for my love
Love's going to leave me
And I'm too sexy for this song
-
Jackie Blue
I managed to survive spending the night with my 3 year-old grandson, Jack, at his house. Of course I had to sleep with him, but he couldn't sleep for all the excitement, especially after we heard Santa's sleighbells at midnight. He got me up at three to fetch him some water, then every hour after, he would wake me up to ask whether it was time to go downstairs. By seven, I had to wake him up. As I put my robe and slippers on, he began crying, and when I asked what the problem was, he sobbed that he thought Santa had forgotten him. I told him that was nonsense, but he could not be consoled. We walked downstairs together hand-in-hand, and Jack was really starting the river of tears. Where do children get this stuff? When we turned the corner and entered the Christmas room, he shrieked in mid-sob and dived into the sea of presents. The rest of the day was a whirlwind of packages, ribbons, toys, food, candy, drinking, and playing. Jack had the most wonderful day, and so did I. He fell asleep in the car as his daddy drove me home this evening. It has been a grand Christmas!
Time for a drink, so pour yourself one along with me, walk outside and gaze up at that incredible Christmas full moon, lift your glass of warmth, and be happy.
Cheers!
Time for a drink, so pour yourself one along with me, walk outside and gaze up at that incredible Christmas full moon, lift your glass of warmth, and be happy.
Cheers!
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