“We don't have to
do this, you know.” Clarice reached across the car's center console
and gave Randy's hand a gentle squeeze. Randy sighed, his breath
fogging the windshield. They had been sitting in the driveway for 10
minutes, and the cold was starting to seep through his dress pants
and thin loafers, chilling him to the bone. He was anxious to get
going, but he knew better than to rush his newly minted fiance.
Randy returned her
squeeze, hoping he used just enough pressure to be reassuring. It was
hard to tell. His fingers were starting to go numb from the cold, and
her mittens were thick. They had been a gift from his mother. They
were giant, frightening, furry things, that made it look like Clarice
was wearing dead rabbits on her hands. Bizarre, but warm, he thought,
wistfully. He had received a pair as well, but had buried them at the
back of the coat closet after the neighbor's dog nearly took his hand off.
“Is it too early
to start drinking?” Clarice mused aloud.
Randy raised an
eyebrow and gave her a sideways glance. He knew this was a rhetorical
question, but felt compelled to answer anyway.
“That was the
first thing you asked me this morning when the alarm went off.”
“Heh, heh. Just
checking.”
“Besides, I know
you filled your water bottle with white wine before we left the
house,” he said.
“So?”
“It held the
whole bottle of wine.”
“And?”
“And now it's
empty.”
“Oh!” Clarice
tipped the bottle up and held it there, hoping one last drop might
accumulate and roll out onto her tongue. When that didn't happen, she
licked the inside of the bottle neck.
“Well, that
explains a lot,” she said. “Maybe we should swing by a store for
a refill. Maybe we should swing by a store, get a case of wine and a
roasted chicken from the deli and go back home and hide out until
Christmas is over.”
“I'm pretty sure
everything is closed by now, honey. You'll be fine.”
Clarice and Randy
sat in the car a while longer, watching the snow fall. It had been
snowing all afternoon, a magical, storybook, Christmas Eve snow.
Marshmallow-sized, fluffy flakes glimmered in the headlights and
swirled crazily under the streetlights. Randy guessed a good eight
inches had fallen already – three of that while they had sat
waiting in the car. He sighed again. If they didn't get going soon,
they'd have to climb out through the sunroof, he thought. If they
could get it open.
“I could call Ma
and tell her we had a flat,” Clarice said softly. “Or that the
roads are bad and we just don't want to risk it. Or that the dog got
out and we have to look for it.”
“We don't have a
dog, Clarice.”
“We'll tell her
you got me one for Christmas. Adds to the drama.”
“I'm allergic.
Your mom knows that. We had a long discussion. A long
discussion that somehow segued into gallstones, hemorrhoids and
colonoscopies. In great detail.” Randy shuddered at the memory.
“She might have
forgotten. She's old.”
“Not that old.”
He squeezed her hand again. At least he thought he did. All feeling
was gone in his hands, and his teeth were starting to chatter.
“Clarice, honey, it will be fine.”
“It will be a
nightmare,” Clarice said.
“I've met your
family before. Many times. I like them.”
Clarice rested her
head on the passenger side window and stared out into the gathering
darkness.
“You've never
seen them at Christmas.”
Randy cupped his
hands in front of his mouth and breathed heavily onto them. It
sounded almost like a sigh, he thought, and Clarice didn't seem to
notice.
“I survived the
Fourth of July party.”
That got her
attention. She looked at him and snorted. “Yeah, it only took what,
10 stitches?”
“I didn't realize
it was full-contact yard bags,” Randy said, shrugging. “Or that
the first rule of Dasher family games is that there are no rules.”
“I told you my
nephew threw overhand.”
“But you didn't
tell me he had such bad aim.”
“He doesn't.”
“Oh.”
Randy sighed again,
for real, and tried to slip his hands under his thighs to warm them
up. That only made his legs colder.
“Mu-mu-mu-maybe I
cu-cu-could just run the heat for a mu-mu-mu-minute.” He reached
for the ignition. Clarice shot her hand out to stop him. Randy winced
at the sudden contact, certain that at least one frozen finger had
shattered.
“No!”
Clarice hiss-whispered. “Listen to that.”
Randy tilted his
head and listened. “I don't hear anything.”
“Exactly. We must
respect the quiet.”
It was
quiet, Randy thought. Quiet and peaceful. And he was so tired. But
that might have been caused by the carbon monoxide or hypothermia.
I LIKE BIG BUTTS
AND I CAN NOT LIE . . . . Clarice's phone shattered the silence.
Randy knew that was the ringtone she reserved for her mother.
“How long you
gonna sit out there in the driveway? Dinner's almost ready.”
Clarice held the phone out between them. She didn't have it on
speaker. Her mom was just that loud. “Tell Randy I've got a special
surprise for him. Hi, Randy!”
Randy looked up.
Mrs. Dasher was standing in the front window of the house, next to
the Christmas tree, waving at them.
“Hi, Mrs.
Dasher,” Randy said towards the phone, while waving back at her
through the windshield.
“Ah, geeze, Ma.
You promised, no surprises . . . .”
“Pish. I called
his mom. She shared one of their favorite family traditions. She's a
pip, that one. I invited her and the family down for dinner, but she
said they already had plans.”
Clarice put one
mittened hand over her face. When she peeked out around the fur, she
saw Randy staring at her, his eyes open wide with shock. He silently
mouthed My family?
“We're gonna get
together after the first of the year. But we can go over all that
when you two get in here. Hurry it up. I need you to make the green
bean casserole. Your sister's no help. She's been drinking since she
got here. At noon.”
Clarice looked at
Randy and mouthed I'm already behind! Randy
shook his head and tried to suppress a giggle. Clarice punched him in
the arm. Randy watched it happen, but didn't feel it. His arm was
numb now, too.
“What
about Aunt Jan? Why doesn't she help you?”
“She's
got her hands full keeping Uncle Jimmy away from all open flames.
He's been in the bean dip all afternoon. Your dad and your brother
are arguing over the NFL highlight game from '84 – but it's still
not changing the outcome. And your nieces and nephews are holed up in
the old toy room, 'burning incense'.” Randy and Clarice saw that
Mrs. Dasher made air quotes as she said that. Then she snorted. “As
if. Little bastards. Think I was born yesterday? I know what
frankincense and myrrh smells like. Your brother's latest wife . . .
.”
“Shandra.
She has a name, Ma. Shandra.”
“No,
Shandra was last year's model. This one's Melody, or Melissa, or
something. Anyway, she's downstairs with the cousins playing cards. I
just hope it's not for money or clothes. You know how your cousin
Donnie cheats. And Mel-whatever wasn't wearing much to begin with.”
“You
invited the cousins?”
Mrs.
Dasher sighed. “Your dad let it slip when he ran into Angie down at
the gas station. What could we do?”
“I
dunno, Ma, sounds like a houseful. And the snow's really piling up.
Maybe we should just head back home.”
“Clarice
Lorraine. You live ten minutes away. You could walk.”
“Yeah,
but . . . .”
“You
are not leaving me alone with this house-full of crazies!”
She's
the Queen Crazy, Clarice mouthed
at Randy
“I
heard that young lady.”
“Ma,
I didn't say anything!”
“I
read lips.”
Clarice
rolled her eyes.
“I
saw that, too.”
“Fine.”
“Get
in here, or I'm bustin' out the slide projector . . . .”
Randy
sat up and smiled brightly.
“I
said fine. Just gimme a . . . .”
“And
the pictures of you as a sheep in the church Christmas pageant.”
Randy's
smile grew. Clarice's shoulders slumped, defeated.
“We'll
be right in, Ma.”
“Love
ya', hon. You too, Randy!” Mrs. Dasher waved one more time, then
disappeared from the window.
“Save yourself,
Randy. Take the car, drive around the block a couple times. Gimme 10
minutes. Then just pull up to the curb, flash the lights, honk the
horn twice and I'll come running out.”
“Maybe you're
getting a little carried away, sweetie. It looks pretty quiet from
here. No visible flames, no SWAT team, no disco lights.”
“Oh, sure. On the
outside, this is just another quaint, cozy, happy family home. That's
how they do it, you know. They lull you into a false sense of
normalcy, them BAM! Total. Fucking. Chaos. I bet John Wayne Gacy's
house seemed pretty normal from the outside, too.”
“Nah, I think
there was always something . . . off there. I mean, look at the other
houses in your neighborhood.” Randy pointed at the houses around
them. “One creepy, dark house, still in Halloween mode – I think,
at least I hope; one tacky, over-decorated house testing the
endurance of the electricity grid; one giant, hippie, peace-sign –
which stays up all year round, by the way; and one yard covered with
frightening, jiggling, inflatable decorations. What is that one
supposed to be, anyway?”
Clarice tilted her
head sideways to get a different perspective.
“I think Mrs.
Snowman fell over and pulled Mr. Snowman with her, but he's still . .
. . Oh, dear, sweet baby Jesus!” Clarice started laughing. “We're
gonna be over-run with snowbabies!”
“And then there's
your family's house. Tasteful wreath on the front door, soft glow
from the Christmas tree in the window. An oasis of calm.”
“When we were
little, Dad would put a Santa on the roof. That stopped after Bobby
added a string of yellow lights to make it look like Santa was taking
a leak. We had a plastic nativity scene, but Dad put too big a bulb
in Joseph and he melted and slumped over. Looked like had gas pains.
Then Ma switched to those lighted deer. Until the cousins
repositioned them . . . not unlike our neighbor's amorous snowmen.
Last year they hung one deer from the tree by a hind leg, like they
were gutting it. Ma. Freaked. Out. She said no more outside
decorations. Ever. I think she underestimates the rest of the family.
Mark my words. By the end of the night, somehow these modest
decorations will be re-arranged into something obscene or
sacrilegious. Or both.”
“I dunno,
Clarice, your mom can really lay down the law.”
“Dad says she
keeps a loaded Supersoaker by the door. She's on hyper-alert. She's
already accidentally doused the newspaper boy and the mailman. Dad
gave them each a bottle of whiskey to apologize.”
“A thoughtful
man.”
“Not so much. The
paperboy is 12.”
Randy coughed to
cover his laughter. He sensed Clarice didn't see the humor.
“We should have
gone to your folks',” she said.
“No way! I put
you through that hell last year. You deserve a respite.”
“What are you
talking about?”
“I'm talking
about crazy, as in my family.”
“They're not
crazy. They're . . . quiet. They just sit there so politely. And they
talk. Quietly.”
Randy snorted.
“Yes, they are quiet, but no, they don't talk. That's how crazy
they are. No one talks to anyone about anything. Anything! As if
that's not a recipe for misunderstanding! Just because they're quiet
doesn't mean they're not crazy. The Donners are the poster family for
dysfunctional. It's a quiet dysfunctional, but it's still
dysfunctional. And crazy.”
“I'll take quiet
crazy over loud crazy anytime,” Clarice said. “And I bet they
never throw stuff.”
“That's a bet you
would lose, sweetheart. Believe you me. Besides, I don't think
dysfunction is a competition.”
Mrs. Dasher flashed
the porch light on and off. Then she appeared in the window holding a
slide carousel tray.
“I guess we'd
better get inside.”
“Darn, I was
really hoping to see the sheep show.”
“You know she'll
show that to you anyway,” Clarice said, wearily. “I'd just like
to explain ahead of time: I was five, the costume was hot and itchy.
And it smelled. And Ma should have made me wear something under it.”
Randy chuckled,
then leaned over the console and kissed Clarice gently on her nose.
“I can't wait to see how our crazy, dysfunctions combine.”
Clarice pulled him
closer and kissed him. It was a long, slow kiss, full of promise.
Randy felt his extremities begin to thaw.
“Maybe we should
head back to our place,” he whispered in her ear.
The porch lights
flashed urgently. Randy and Clarice looked up to find both Mr. and
Mrs. Dasher standing in the doorway. Clarice's brother and sister and
her husband were all standing in the window. Clarice's brother was
dancing inappropriately with the tree.
After shucking
their coats and adding their presents to the pile surrounding the
tree, Randy and Clarice joined an assortment of Dashers in the
kitchen.
“Oh. My. God! You
win the ugly sweater contest, hands down!” Clarice's sister Karen
said to Randy. “That is hideous!”
“That was my
Christmas gift to him. It's cashmere,” Clarice said, gritting her
teeth.
“Oops! My bad.
Still . . . .” Karen shrugged, then tried to change the subject.
“So, what were you two doing out there? Workin' on a last minute
Christmas gift?” She winked at Randy and elbowed him in the ribs.
“Christ! They
were out there long enough to conceive and deliver a Christmas gift,”
Clarice's brother Bobby said.
“Not everyone is
as quick at . . . wrapping as you are, darling,” Mel-whatever said,
exiting the kitchen.
“Oh yeah? Well, I
got a Yule log with your name on it, right here, baby,” Bobby
shouted after his wife.
Mrs. Dasher,
Clarice and Karen shared a look.
“This is why we
don't bother learning their names,” Clarice whispered to Randy.
“He'll have a new one next year.”
“Yule log? That
gives me an idea!” Karen's husband Eddy said, grabbing her by the
waist.
“Oh, please. Yule
twig maybe,” Karen said, rolling her eyes.
“Twig? What? I'm
talking lawn ornaments, here,” Eddy said. Two of the cousins nodded
in response.
“We got just the
thing for superior exterior illumination in the truck,” the cousins
said.
“What are you
talking about?” Eddy said to Karen.
“What do you
mean, 'lawn ornaments?' There will be no 'exterior illumination'!”
Mrs. Dasher shouted.
Clarice pulled
Randy into a corner. “Let the holiday chaos commence,” she said.
“Twig? Twig?
What are you talking about woman?”
“Oh, please. It's
not as if . . . .”
“No decorations!
Do I make myself clear?”
“I remember my
high school sweetheart,” Aunt Jan said. “Talk about a Yule log.”
“What the . . .
.”
“None! No lights,
no inflatables, no nothing!”
Ka-Chang!
A heavy, metalic
thunk cut through all the yelling and shouting and planning, and the
normal clattering of plates and silverware and dishes heaped with
food. The hand-held can opener rocked slowly on the tile floor,
beneath a hand-held can opener-shaped indentation in the drywall. An
indentation that had not been there just moments ago.
The fighting
stopped. An uneasy quiet settled over the room.
Each member,
soon-to-be member or soon-to-be-ex-member of the extended Dasher
family looked sheepishly at each other, trying to determine who the
appliance-thrower was. The dent in the wall had appeared in the small
gap between Mel-whatever and Bobby's son Rocky. Another couple inches
either way, and one of them would have been impaled. Or at least
bruised. But who had thrown the unwieldy manual appliance? It had
been years since Bobby had raised a finger to help with food
preparation. Would he even know which drawer the can opener was
stored in?
“THAT'S. IT.”
Mrs. Dasher's voice was strong and clear. She smacked the counter
with a kitchen towel for emphasis.
Clarice looked at
Randy, her eyes filling with tears. This was a new level of crazy,
even for her family. She wouldn't blame him if he asked her to return
his engagement ring – which she had only received that morning.
“We have .
. . .” Everyone in the room held their breath.
“A winner!
Ladies and gentlemen, check your lottery charts!” A happy shout
went up.
“What? Ma? What
the hell is going on?” Clarice looked on in astonishment as the
rest of her family pulled papers out of their pockets, unfolded them
and compared notes.
“Who had
'something gets thrown' and 'kitchen'?” Mrs. Dasher asked.
“R.D. – Randy
Donner!”
“Alrighty then!
The winner of the first annual Dasher Family Lotto is Randy! Now,
help me get this food to the table before it cools off. Get! Go!
Let's eat!”
“Congrats Randy,
my boy. And welcome to the family,” Mr. Dasher said as the rest of
the family carried dish after dish laden with food to the dining
room. All traces of bickering had been replaced by teasing and
laughter.
For the moment.
“I'm gonna need
you to repair that divot in the wall, you know,” Mr. Dasher said,
as he hoisted the platter overflowing with turkey. “I didn't know
you had such bad aim.”
“I don't.”
Randy grinned.
“What just
happened here?” Clarice asked him.
“That's my nice,
quiet family's favorite tradition,” Randy said. “Christmas Lotto.
Typically accompanied by lots of egg nog. Heavy on the bourbon, light
on the nog.” Randy showed Clarice his lotto chart. It was a grid of
squares – ten wide, ten deep. Along the horizontal axis were
written a variety of times and places; the vertical axis was labeled
with random events, including “something gets thrown,” “someone
requires stitches,” “a punch is thrown,” “tree is knocked
down,” and “someone gets naked.” The initials of each family
members were scattered throughout the grid.
Clarice looked at
Randy in astonishment.
“This is your
family Christmas tradition?”
“Like my mom
always says, 'it's not Christmas until someone throws a can opener'.”
