EPILOGUE
LUCIA
Four Christmases later
I am four and it is Christmas and the tree is crooked on porpoise.
Mama says “on purpose,” but porpoises are funnier and also good swimmers, which is important if a tree falls over into the ocean.
Our tree will not fall because Daddy tied it with string that looks invisible unless you are me.
I can see everything.
I am the Looker.
The house smells like oranges and cinnamon and soup and also like the radiator, which sings the hot song.
The window is all sparkles because snow is trying its best.
The door chime goes ding, ding, ding like Jingle Bells, except Uncle Tino made it fancy so it tricks the song and does three notes at the end like “surprise.”
I have three jobs:
Sprinkles captain.
Star helper.
Do not touch Daddy’s knives, even if they look like pirates.
I am already done with one sprinkle tray (perfect) and one sprinkle tray (artistic chaos).
Daddy says both are beautiful like the city.
He has flour on his cheek and pretends he doesn’t.
Mama kisses the flour spot and it disappears into her mouth, which is magic.
“Bee,” Mama says (that is my nickname), “quality control on the biscotti.”
I take a bite like a scientist.
“Crunchy. Approved.” I hand one to the giraffe on my shirt.
The giraffe is not hungry. That means more for me.
Daddy stirs sauce with his serious face and then checks the door latch with his click.
He always does the click.
The click is how the house says good morning and you can’t come in unless you ring twice and say the right word.
Today the word is panettone but only in our family.
It is a secret like Santa’s shoe size.
There is a knock-knock—two times, polite.
The door chime sings surprise.
Uncle Rafe stands there with a hat that looks like a grandpa and a paper bag that says NOT COAL.
He is my godfadder.
He says it like that because he is silly and from here.
He bends down.
I pat his cheeks with cookie hands.
“You are festive,” I tell him.
His whiskers are spicy.
His eyes are soft.
“I am at your service, Captain Sprinkle,” he says.
He hands me his whistle. “Hold this. Don’t blow it. Ever.”
I hold it.
I do not blow it. (I blow it later. Very softly. Only once. It is a mouse whistle. Nobody knows except the giraffe.)
Uncle Tino comes next with a toolbox that goes clink and a box of lights that goes tangle.
He says, “The door chime was flat. Now it is jazzy.”
“It is jazzy,” I agree.
He smells like outside and peppermint.
He fixes things without making them feel bad, which is a good trick.
Rosa comes up the stairs with bread wrapped like a present and says, “Don’t tell anyone, I baked for the wrong holiday,” and winks because baking is always the right holiday.
Nonna (my grandma) comes after, with soup and opinions in a pot.
She puts the soup on the stove and the opinions in her pocket for later.
She shows me herbs with her hands like puppets. “Basil. Oregano. Thyme.”
I give thyme a hug because we are friends.
Then the door chime sings again and it is Auntie Rizzo from Mama’s work.
She wears blinking lights like a very safe ambulance and brings a tiny sweater for my giraffe because my giraffe does not know winter.
Everyone is here now.
The house gets bigger to fit them.
The tree glows like a secret you can keep and also tell.
Daddy lifts me up, whoosh, so I can put the star on.
The star is glitter and bravery.
My hands shake from big job feelings.
“You got it?” he asks.
“I got it,” I say, and I do.
It tilts a teeny bit, which means it’s alive.
Mama says, “Beautiful,” in her river voice, the one she uses for babies at the hospital and for me when I am a baby again at night when I had a bad dream about a crab in a hat.
We go outside to give Mrs. Ortega next door a loaf with a bow.
The snow is like shaker sugar on everything.
Daddy holds my mitten and my mitten holds his hand and we are a train with two cars.
Bayard Street has paper stars in deli windows and a tiny plastic baby sleeping in straw in front of the church.
One wise man is missing.
I think he went to get cocoa.
I tell Mama this and she says, “Probably,” because she agrees with true things.
Back inside is warm.
The window fogs like a dragon.
There is a problem with the lights because there is always a problem with the lights.
Daddy says a not-for-me word in Italian and then says sorry to the tree.
Uncle Tino pokes the plug.
The lights go whoomp like applause.
Rafe claps for real.
I clap too because I believe in celebrating electric victories.
We eat long noodles and little fishes and bread that makes crumbs like snow.
Mama sits and smiles and does not jump up to help because we make her sit because she does everything other days.
She lets me steal an olive from her plate and pretends she did not see me.
I am a very sneaky olive robber.
“Word of the day,” Daddy announces, because he works with boxes and forklifts and words now, and words are prizes. “Fulfillment.”
“It means when the boxes get to the people,” I say. I am expert. “And when my tummy gets spaghetti.”
“Smart,” he says.
His eyes do that happy wrinkle like paper fans.
“Also what Daddy feels when the tree doesn’t fall,” Mama says, and everyone laughs like a song.
After dinner we have an important ceremony called Pajamas On Before Chocolate.
I put on the ones with tiny deer and the butt flap that is not real.
I present each guest with my art, one drawing of a forklift (accurate), one drawing of a cookie (still life), one drawing of us (me very tall—my parents are medium).
I write my name even though my u sometimes takes a walk.
Rizzo says, “This is going on my fridge in a frame made of other magnets.” Tino says, “You captured the forklift’s soul.”
Rafe puts his in his chest pocket like a shield.
Nonna cries and says there is dust and also I am perfect.
Rosa tells me the cookie looks delicious and tries to eat the paper.
I do not let her.
We sing.
Auntie Rizzo is loud and shiny and wrong on purpose.
It is good.
Uncle Rafe sings very quietly like a secret.
Daddy does the low part that makes the floor hum.
Mama hums without words, and I lean on her and feel the hum inside both of us.
When the song goes “sleep in heavenly peace,” I yawn so big I see my own brain, which is pink and sticky and full of cookie plans.
Everyone laughs the soft laugh.
Daddy picks me up.
I am heavy and he is strong, but he still grunts because he likes to brag.
In my room the night light is a moon that learned manners.
We read the forklift book because it is the best book.
Daddy does all the beeps and the backup noises.
Mama does the part about safety goggles because she is a nurse and everyone on earth should wear helmets and drink water.
“Tell me the story,” I say, even though I know it.
Mama tucks my blanket and tells the Christmas Eve story where there were bells and snow and I yelled a lot before I learned words and Daddy said thank you to the ceiling.
I know this one by heart. I like the parts where everybody was brave and Auntie Rizzo threw coffee at a man once in another story and the hospital sang a song just when I arrived.
I always ask if the wise man ever got his cocoa.
She says he did.
“Tomorrow, pancakes,” Daddy says.
“And Rosa’s pastry by accident,” Mama says.
“And soup from Nonna and a nap for Rafe and Tino will change the door song again,” I say, because I am the Looker.
“Probably We Three Kings,” Daddy says, “but in secret jazz.”
“Sleep,” Mama says, and kisses my forehead where my thoughts live.
Daddy checks the latch-click even though the door is fine, it is always fine, but he does it because it is his prayer and I like prayers that sound like click.
I close my eyes and listen to the house do its night chores—radiator singing, fridge purring, the click of the door that is a promise, the city outside being busy without us.
I am warm like toast.
I think about my jobs.
I think about the star that is crooked on porpoise.
I think about being the Looker who sees lights and herbs and hats and hands and knows all the codes—double ring, secret word, be kind.
“Bee?” Daddy whispers from the doorway.
“Yes,” I say, very tiny.
“Best sprinkle captain,” he says.
“Best Daddy,” I say, because truth should be said out loud sometimes.
He goes back to the kitchen where Mama is making two mugs of sleepy tea and pretending not to put extra sugar in Daddy’s.
They talk in sofa voices.
I don’t catch all the words, just the good ones—boring, tomorrow, pancakes, safe.
The star on the tree glows through my door crack like it is looking at me on porpoise.
Maybe it is.
Maybe stars know about little girls and their families and crooked things that stand up anyway.
I put my hand on my giraffe.
He is warm because he sat on the radiator too close; we rescued him.
I smile with my whole face.
I keep this feeling.
I put it in my pocket with the mouse whistle and the secret word and Nonna’s thyme and the way the door goes click.
Outside, the snow keeps trying. Inside, we already did it. I sleep.