The Secret Life of a Funny Girl (4 page)

CHAPTER SIX

THE RICH SMELL OF roasting turkey warms the whole house; in the living room a coal fire burns low and red in the grate. From the hi-fi, Bing Crosby sings
White
Christmas
, his voice deep and hypnotic. Slouching lazily on the sofa, my eyes drift toward the Christmas tree, which shimmers in the dim afternoon light. Long silver icicles sparkle and turn like millions of tiny mirrors, reflecting shiny glass ornaments and glowing red and green lights. My thoughts drift peacefully away.

In the armchair next to the fire, feet propped up on a round humpty, Dad stretches out with a big book in his hands. Now and then he chuckles softly to himself.

“Good book, Dad?” He grunts a response—hasn't heard a word, I know.

On the floor beside the Christmas tree, Beth-Ann gently rocks a small wooden cradle. Her new Thumbelina doll lies covered with a tiny pink blanket, sucking its plastic thumb. Beth-Ann whispers softly to her doll, totally lost in a world of her own making.

Piled beside me on the sofa are my gifts from Santa. The purple and yellow happy-face bag that Mom ordered from the States will definitely cause a major sensation at school. Then there's
Abbey Road
by the Beatles, a record I've been dying to get for months. But best of all is my brand new maxi-dress. It's blue and white and satin and ruffles, falling all the way down to my ankles—by far the prettiest dress I've ever owned.

“Well now, isn't this a cozy Christmas picture.” It's Gran, standing in the doorway, two hands planted on her hips. Yikes, does she ever look crabby! Wire-rim glasses halfway down her nose, face blood red, frizzy grey hair springing wildly from the bun at the back of her head. Short and thick as a tree trunk, she's wearing a plain red dress—red for Christmas Day, of course. Over that she's got on one of Mom's frilly white aprons, which looks ridiculous on Gran, cuts right into the rolls around her waist. She's sizing up the three of us as she stands there, green eyes sharp as a cat.

“Looks like everyone's getting a great rest in here.” Her tone is clipped and annoyed.

“Sorry, Gran!” I jump up straight away. Cripes, what was I thinking, lying around daydreaming. “Can I give you a hand?”

“Just coming in to get you,” she says, full of business. “I want you to stir the gravy so it doesn't burn, while I mash the potatoes and turnip. Your poor mother's got herself totally worn out with all this and I've just sent her in for a nap.”

I follow Gran out to the kitchen. How is it that Mom can't keep going, but Gran has no trouble and she's about thirty years older? But hey, there's no time to dwell on this point, because as soon as we open the kitchen door we're hit in the face with a tidal wave of heat.

“Oh my God, Gran! It's so hot! How can you stand it?”

It has to be a hundred degrees in here—I mean, the window over the sink is so thick with steam you can't see out. On top of the stove, Mom's pots are boiling furiously away, like witches' cauldrons. My mouth waters with the smell of turkey, and the bird itself sits plump and golden on a large oval platter in the centre of the table.

“Heat from cooking never bothered me,” replies Gran, although I think it might be bothering her a bit, judging from the colour of her face. She picks up the masher and starts driving it into a big pot of potatoes sitting on the table right next to the turkey. Dollops of milk and butter are dropped into the mix, and Gran's upper arms jiggle wildly as lines of potato squirt up through the masher like white worms.

I drag my eyes from the sight and find a wooden spoon for the gravy.

“Let's see,” Gran says, more to herself than me. “We've got the turkey and dressing, the potatoes and turnip. Grace is bringing the creamed broccoli and the carrots. Kay is bringing the trifle for dessert. I don't think we've forgotten anything.”

“What time are they all coming?” I make deep, thick swirls in the velvety brown gravy.

“In about half an hour,” replies Gran. “Now, when they get here, we'll feed the little ones first, here in the kitchen. Then we'll make sure Grace has the baby fed and settled before the rest of us sit down in the dining room. No sense having Christmas dinner spoiled by a fussy baby.”

“I bet Billy and Bobby are some excited today,” I say, just for badness, eyeing Gran from my spot by the stove.

“Oh, don't talk to me about the two of them!” She jabs fiercely at the potatoes. “Their problem is they don't understand the meaning of the word ‘no.' It's beyond me how Kay could run an entire school in St. Brendan's but not be able to teach two small boys how to behave. Well, they better not ruin
my
Christmas Day!” She finishes this point with a sharp rap of the masher and a clump of fluffy potato falls back into the pot.

I grin, and hide my face. This is a running theme in our family. According to Aunt Kay, Gran doesn't understand a thing about boys because she never had any of her own. But I'm not totally sure about this. Billy and Bobby don't seem like normal boys to me, always shouting and racing and breaking stuff. I know Mom nearly gets weak any time they come through the door. So I'm siding with Gran on this one. But maybe I'm wrong. I don't have any brothers myself, so how do I know what's normal?

“It looks like my kitchen has been completely taken over!” Mom suddenly appears in the doorway, all done up like a stick of gum. I turn around and smile at her. She's wearing a snow white blouse, a red fitted skirt, and a pale green scarf knotted at the neck. All Christmas colours, of course—my family is big on this. Mom's short dark hair is fringed around her face in a pixie-style, and her eyes look huge and wistful. She just seems so tiny and fragile standing there, you'd think the least little force would crush her. Sometimes I feel like an elephant next to her, and there's nothing enormous about me.

“Cecelia, you're supposed to be resting!” Gran's grey eyebrows knit together in a straight line, the potato masher held over the pot like a weapon.

“How can I stay in my bedroom when all the fun is going on in here?” says Mom, moving toward me. “Here, honey, let me do that.”

“It's okay, Mom. I actually sort of like doing this.”

“All right, then. How about I check the dining room table, make sure it's all set for dinner.” Then she stops and looks at Gran, waiting.

Why does this always happen? Why does Mom always wait for someone else to tell her what to do?

“How about you get back in that bedroom and finish up your rest?”

Mom smiles gently. “Look, I'm all dressed now and everyone's going to be here soon. It's Christmas Day, for heaven's sake; who wants to lie around in bed?”

Score one for Mom!

“Hmmph!” Gran snorts and heads toward the stove for the pot of turnip. “Well, go ahead and check the table. I don't think the knives and forks are out yet.”

Mom winks quickly at me and slips into the dining room. Meanwhile, Gran is at the sink, pouring water off the turnip, turning her face away from the huge clouds of steam.

“Your mother's going to kill herself,” she says, more to the clock on the wall than to me. “She doesn't know when to stop. She doesn't know how to take care of herself.”

I'm staring at Gran, her thick jelly arms stiff as two pokers, holding the heavy pot. Her pudgy face is fire-engine red and beads of sweat are bubbling out on her forehead. Gran's the one going to collapse, it hits me. She's the one who needs to take care of herself.

Just then the doorbell ding-dongs through the house.

“Holy Mother of God, they're early!” Gran pushes back a limp strand of hair. “Well, they'll all just have to wait, now, won't they? Because there'll be no dinner in this house until I'm good and ready to dish it out!”

* * * * *

At the head of the table, Dad stands tall with the carving knife, cutting into the turkey breast. Slices as thin as paper curl away. He spears a few, drops them onto a plate, and sends the plate down the table. Casserole dishes heaped with steaming hot veggies travel in the opposite direction.

“Here, Lloyd, have some mashed potato. There's plenty more out in the kitchen, so take as much as you want.” Gran's in her element now, tending on the men. That's a number one priority with her, seeing to their needs, making sure they're served first. “Charlie, would you like some of my turnip? Bits of onion in it, just the way you like it.”

So I wait for my food and watch Dad carve the turkey. Standing at the head of the table, smiling and drumming up conversation and making jokes.

“Charlie, bet you wish this was a moose roast! Better luck next year, buddy.”

Another running theme in our family—moose-hunting. Who really cares? So much talk and discussion and packing up gear in trucks, and half the time they can't find one anyhow. And then when they do shoot a moose, we have to listen to the story of how they killed it, over and over again. After all that, they cook it up. Which just about turns my stomach. I can't stand the taste of moose, can't even stand the smell of it.

Uncle Charlie just smiles cheerfully as Dad turns his attention to Aunt Grace.

“Hey Grace, that baby's a real little beauty. Nice and quiet, too, which is just the way you want 'em on Christmas Day.” Aunt Grace beams at this and proudly looks over at little Sophie, sound asleep in her carry seat, poked in a corner of the dining room.

“Maureen?” Uncle Lloyd is nudging me with a bowl of broccoli.

“Oh sure, thanks.” I take the bowl and spoon some out.

Just my luck to get stuck next to Uncle Lloyd. It's a sin for me to say this, but Aunt Grace's husband is weird. He has no personality. Zero. Just sits around all the time, with a foolish look on his face, nodding his head once in a while, saying nothing. Plus, he's disgusting to look at. Well over six feet tall and shaped like a giant pear. Huge rear end—which is bad enough on a woman but looks ridiculous on a man. He's got watery eyes and thin black hair slicked back over his head with some sort of greasy gel.

But according to Gran, he's a good husband. “He's kind to Grace,” she says. “Holds down a steady job and heads straight home from work each evening.”

This, of course, is a direct shot at Uncle Charlie, who's a travelling salesman and often meets up with clients for drinks. Well, I wouldn't care about that, because as far as I'm concerned there's no comparison between my two uncles. Uncle Charlie is lean and wiry with reddish gold hair, full of energy, always laughing and carrying on. Even now, he's telling some story to Dad—probably about moose-hunting—waving his hands as he's telling it, and Aunt Kay is smiling indulgently at him from across the table, unable to keep her eyes off her husband.

Uncle Charlie's great fun to be around, but I think Mom's got a pretty good husband too. Dad's face is a bit ruddy and his belly might be starting to bulge over his belt, but he has this knack for making people feel good about themselves and welcome in his home. I glance sideways at Uncle Lloyd, who's now got his face nearly into his dinner plate, shovelling food into his mouth. Oh my God. I could never marry anyone like that; I'd rather spend my entire life alone.

“That's mine, give it back!” The shout comes from the hall, along with the sound of racing feet. Kay and Charlie exchange panicked looks as their two boys burst into the living room. Billy's ahead, but just barely, when Bobby takes a flying leap and lands on his back. The two of them crash to the floor in a tumbling ball of bright orange hair, blue plaid shirts, and flying cowboy hats.

“Give me back my gun!”

“Not your gun, it's
my
gun!”

“Liar!”

Kay and Charlie leap to their feet, but they're not quick enough. Kicking and punching, the boys roll straight into a wooden side table holding a tall porcelain lamp. One bright red sneaker shoots out of the confusion, striking the table leg hard. The lamp teeters wildly, then nosedives, smashing into a million little pieces.

“Sweet Mother of God!” Gran's two hands fly to her head; green eyes narrow into slits, lips press together into one thin line.

At the head of the table, Dad's carving knife is suspended over the turkey, the amused grin on his face slowly draining away. Mom sits motionless at the other end, eyes like tea saucers, one hand over her mouth. Grace looks horrified, like she's picked up a bad smell in the room. We've even got Lloyd's attention—he's actually stopped eating, lifting his eyes to stare.

Cripes! I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep myself from laughing.

For a couple of seconds there's a horrible silence. Billy and Bobby sit motionless on the floor, surrounded by jagged bits of lamp.

“Get up!” Uncle Charlie's feet crunch loudly on the broken pieces. He lunges toward each boy, grabbing them by an arm, yanking them to their feet. “Two little hooligans! What in the hell is wrong with you?”

“Now Charlie, calm down, it was only an accident.” Aunt Kay comes up behind him, her voice firm and steady. “The boys didn't mean to break the lamp.”

“An accident?” He looks at her incredulously, like she's suddenly lost her mind. “Kay, how in Christ's name can you call this an accident?”

“They didn't set out to break a lamp, I can tell you that!”

Beth-Ann appears in the doorway, looking guilty and scared, and simultaneously a piercing wail rises up from the corner of the dining room. Grace throws down her napkin, shoots a poisonous look at Kay, and bolts up from her seat. Stomping around the table, she scoops up her baby, who's rapidly working herself into a real rage.

Gran takes it all in, her expression frosty as she shifts her gaze to the platters and casseroles of food cooling on the table. “Kay,” she says, her tone as hard as ice. “Is there
any
way for you to control these boys of yours?”