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"Nice to meet you," she says. Lovely voice, too. "I've heard a lot about you, Ed." She's lying, of course, and I decide not to go along with it. This year I simply don't have the strength.
I say, "No you haven't, Ingrid," but I remain pleasant as I say it. I'm almost shy. She's too beautiful to get annoyed with. Beautiful girls get away with murder.
"Oh, you're here," says Ma when she sees me.
"Merry Christmas, Ma!" I shout excitedly, and I'm sure everyone picks up on the sarcasm in my voice.
We eat.
We give presents.
I give Leigh's and Katherine's kids a hundred airplane rides and piggybacks, or at least until I can't stand up anymore.
I also catch Tommy with his hands all over Ingrid in the lounge room. Right near the famous cedar coffee table.
"Shit--sorry," and I back away from the room.
Good luck to him.
By quarter to four, it's time to go and pick up Milla. I kiss my sisters, shake the hands of my brothers-in-law, and say a final goodbye to the kids.
"Last to get here, first to leave," says Ma, blowing out some cigarette smoke. She smokes a lot at Christmas. "And he lives the closest," which nearly makes me throw my temper from my skin and hurl it at her.
Cheating on Dad, I think. Insulting me at every turn.
I want so much to verbally abuse this woman standing there in the kitchen, sucking in smoke, and pouring it out from her lungs.
Instead, I look right at her.
I speak through the warm mist.
"The smoking makes you ugly," I say, and I walk out, leaving her stranded among the haze.
On the front lawn as I leave, I'm called back twice. First by Tommy, then Ma.
Tommy comes out and says, "You doing all right, Ed?"
I walk back. "I'm doing fine, Tommy. It's been a crazy year but I'm doing fine. You?"
We sit on the front steps, which are half in shadow, half in the sun. As it happens, I sit in the darkness and Tommy sits in the light. Quite symbolic, really.
It's the first time I've felt comfortable all day as my brother and I talk and answer each other's brief questions.
"University okay?"
"Yeah, the marks have been good. Better than I hoped."
"And Ingrid?"
There's a silence before we can't contain it anymore. It breaks between us and we both laugh. It feels very boyish but I'm congratulating him, and Tommy's congratulating himself.
"She's not bad," he says, and genuinely I tell my brother that I'm proud of him--and not for Ingrid. Ingrid means nothing in comparison to what I'm talking about.
I say, "Good for you, Tommy," plant my hand on his back, and stand up. "Good luck."
As I walk down the steps, he says, "I'll call you sometime. We'll get together."
But again, I can't go along with it. I turn and speak with a quietness that surprises even me. I say, "I doubt you will, Tommy," and it feels good. It feels nice to emerge from the lies.
