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My eyes tear up like they always do when I choke on the words that I miss him. But I don’t need to say them. Somewhere out there, Dad knows. Another way of looking at it, he’s finally spending Christmas with Mom.
Back at the house, Polly hangs her dappled gray head over the fence and nickers softly.
“Hey, girl, you ready for breakfast?”
She slings her head up and down in answer. Dad would say the flies drive her crazy, but I prefer to think she understands English.
“I’ll give you a good brushing later on today, after I take off this white sweater.” My palm flattens against her neck, and a light cloud of dust floats into the air. Polly’s ears prick forward, her neck protruding into the small tack room as I break apart carrots and dump them into her morning oats. “A little Christmas treat for you.”
The soft skin along her nostrils vibrates as she lets out her noise of appreciation, a light whinny. After hanging her bucket in her stall and giving her one more pat, I gather all my contributions for breakfast and get in my car.
It feels lazy to drive to the Dukes’, but with the presents and food, I suppose it’s not. Dad and I used to join the Dukes for Christmas every year. Even after Sam, their oldest son, and I broke up, we’d join them. But then Sam met his wife, and I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, and besides, family traditions evolve. Dad and I were good at doing our own thing.
But this year, everything’s out of whack. Dad’s no longer here. Sam’s kids are sick, so they canceled their travel plans. Oliver, their second son, flew to Jackson to go skiing with some friends. Patty didn’t say what her youngest son, Ian, would be doing, but he’s missed Christmas several years in a row. It wouldn’t surprise me if he needs to stay in Houston and work this year too.
When Patty called and asked me to come for breakfast, I figured she and Sam Senior would welcome the company, given they’re used to a gaggle of family around them on the holiday. But as I park the car in front of the old ranch house, a wave of unexpected memories floods me. Little flashes, like mental photographs, flip in sequence.
Sam, Oliver, Ian, and me sitting on the front steps, posing for a photo on Christmas morning. We did it for years. Dad and me walking around the house, skipping the front door and going to the back, to join the Dukes for dinner. Me out here in this gravel checking out Sam’s new pickup truck. Then a couple of years later, doing the same thing with Oliver, then even later, with Ian’s Prius. He didn’t want a pickup truck.
I shake my head, trying to shake all those bittersweet memories. There’s no need for flashback sequences. I visit Oliver all the time. Back then we called him Ollie. He still lives in the ranch house, which is walking distance from the house that’s now mine. It must be Christmas dredging up memories.
I gather the bag of presents, a cooler of baked goods, and my casserole, step up to the front door, and press the small circle doorbell. In the foyer, the Christmas tree lights flicker. It’s a smaller tree than the Dukes used to get, back when they bought real trees. A few years ago, Patty and Sam transitioned to a fake Christmas tree. Through the narrow windowpane and down the hall, I can see the corner of Sam Senior’s newspaper. I knock louder in case they can’t hear me.
I step back and wait. I rock back on my heels, as uncertainty about whether I should ring the doorbell twice rocks through me. Doing so would be rude, but Sam Senior isn’t moving.
The door swings open, and my breath gets knocked right out of me.
“Sunny.” Ian beams, and before I can get a word out in greeting, he’s bending down and pulling me in for a hug. It’s been years since I’ve seen Ian, and he’s different. His dark, shaggy hair frames familiar warm brown eyes and a full trimmed beard. His slim build strikes me as somehow taller with broader shoulders. Nothing about Ian says little brother anymore. I suppose it hasn’t in years, but this is unexpected.
All the Duke sons grew into good looking men. Sam got the darkest head of hair, and as the oldest, for years he’d been the tallest. Oliver takes after his mom and has sandy brown hair, and he ended up maybe an inch shorter than Sam. As a rancher, Oliver spends his days outdoors, and the guy almost always has a suntan. Growing up, Ian was the wiry, indoor kid. The momma’s boy. The one who pretty much refused to go to the slaughterhouse but would collect old deer and cow skulls from the woods.
Ian filled out years ago, but the beard is new. His loose, unruly cut is longer in the front, and nearly touches his dark eyebrows. The chocolate brown shade lies somewhere between Oliver’s sandy brown and Sam’s nearly black. The Merry Christmas t-shirt he’s wearing has a snug fit and hugs his broad shoulders and biceps in a way that leaves little doubt Ian finds time to do more than just work these days. The long sleeve tee dips down over red and green flannel pants. Patty Duke always buys matching holiday pajamas for her boys, but I don’t think she meant to buy an outfit this year that deserves prime placement on a holiday calendar.
“What all have you got here?” Ian busies himself lifting the package and cooler from my arms.
“Sandra, I told you that you didn’t need to bring anything,” Patty calls from the kitchen.
I smile at Ian, and he gestures for me to lead the way.
“I just brought a few things.” There’s no way I’d show empty-handed.
“How long has it been since you spent Christmas with us?” Patty rounds the corner, one hand on her waist apron with red fringe and peppermint candy designs all over the front.
“It’s been a while.” I don’t want to put in the mental effort to answer that question. “How can I help you? It smells great.”
Ian sets my cooler on the counter, fills his coffee mug, and joins his dad at the breakfast table. Patty and I join forces, setting out the table with all the food. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have brought anything, because we have enough food for twelve.
After Mr. Duke’s quick blessing, we pass dishes around and fill up our plates.
“So, Ian, your mom said you finished residency and you’re a full-fledged surgeon now.”
Ian is about eight years younger than me. But I kept up with his accomplishments through Patty and occasionally Oliver. He doesn’t do social media, but he and I text every now and then. I got to know him better after Sam and Oliver went off to college and he was the only one down the road at the ranch house. Like Oliver, I attended UT Austin, but I didn’t live on campus. I lived at home in Whispering Creek with my dad to save money.
“Orthopedic surgeon,” Patty clarifies, dripping with pride.
Ian spreads butter across his toast, somewhat oblivious to his mother’s fawning, but I suppose he’s probably grown accustomed to it.
“Do you have a private practice?”
