Chapter 32 Samson
Water drips from the inside of the window and I let it fall on my grazed knuckles. The boat is whisper quiet, the fire silent. Pulsating embers. Dad fast asleep on his bed.
Christmas morning.
The drops of condensation hit my fingernails and cuticles and soak slowly into my skin. They roll over veins and deviate around pores and fine hairs before running down by my thumb. Water that used to sit inside my own chest. Old breath running down glass.
He’s sleeping in.
I am warm, my comforter tight around me and tucked under at the sides. I can’t smell the woodsmoke. I am too used to it. Dad’s desk is secure: each drawer padlocked, and the trophy glows on top like some ancient talisman.
Normally at this time Mom would be running around in her pale blue robe making breakfast, lighting a candle on the table, turning on Christmas lights, arranging gifts to look like there are more than there are.
She makes English rice pudding on Christmas morning, Nanna Ruth’s recipe.
We eat it piping hot. Not from a can, but with skin on top, in a dish from the stove, and we eat it with grated nutmeg and ground cinnamon and crunchy brown sugar.
Another drop of water.
There’s a family of ducks outside, mere inches from my head, and they squawk and preen themselves in the unmoving waters. From the boat I am afforded a rare view. They do not seem to be afraid of us. They see us for what we are: water fauna, just like them.
Phoenix has moved onto Mr. Turner’s houseboat full-time. He’s waiting for something called probate, but he’s allowed to stay on the boat and keep it secure until then. He moved in and then he tried out the motor. He’s positioned the boat twenty feet behind ours and Dad says he’s taking liberties.
I stretch.
The boat interior brightens. I look at the kinked chimney of the stove. The cans of food we don’t bother to put away anymore are stacked on the kitchen counter. Their lids shine. Cream of mushroom. Split pea and ham. Canned chicken. Pink salmon.
There is no tree this year.
No presents.
Paul Pricklett and I shook hands on a deal last week.
He says his mom’s off with a new man so we agreed we would buy each other something.
We couldn’t steal or borrow. We had to buy it.
That was a rule. We met at the bakery: two pastries, two colas.
He talked a lot about X-Files, like usual, and then I gave him a Mars bar and a quarter ounce of cola cubes from the candy store all wrapped in a fresh page ripped out of a Playboy I found by the railroad tracks.
In return he gave me a pair of black wool gloves he bought in Safeway with his own money.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. That was a proper gift, not just a bag of candy.
It was something your grandpa might buy you to keep you warm.
What I want, more than anything else in the world, is for Mom to come home today.
It’s been long enough, I think, no matter how sick she was.
I can look after her. Not professionally, but I can make sure she’s all right; keep an eye on her, help with chores and cooking and her medicines.
I can’t stand going to sleep and waking up with her not here.
The canal is subdued. No boats. I haven’t heard a locomotive yet.
I told Dad how we should turn up there every day until they let us see her. I said we should make a fuss until they let us in. He said that would make it all worse because they wouldn’t let her out if she didn’t have a stable home and support waiting for her.
I left her a note instead. Dropped it off yesterday. I have no idea if she got it, but I have to believe she did. Told her about my grades and about Paul. Told her I love her.
Christmas morning and the world is at rest.
Dad comes through.
“Still in bed?”
I stretch.
“Idle.”
He exercises outside on the frosty towpath. Push-ups and lunges, squats and pull-ups. He thinks this is how soldiers train. I watch him, sipping coffee from a chipped mug.
“You need to work on your physique, boy. Not just your arms, not just your chest, the whole frame. Back, stomach, legs. You need to be able to hold your own in this town.”
One day I won’t need to.
“I know, Dad.”
“Come on then.”
“What?”
“Get down here. Might as well make a start.”
He shows me how to do proper push-ups. Is this his gift to me? He teaches me how to do sit-ups with my feet held down by his arm.
“Body of a boy, of a child.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You need to build yourself, Samson. Fight battles for yourself because nobody will do it for you. Learn that lesson quick.”
I strain to do ten more sit-ups.
“You got to turn tables on them, boy. Christmas is just another day, remember that. Fight the fight. You got to transform from prey to predator.”
How much does he know?
“There, I’ve done them.”
“You haven’t done them properly, though. My mother could train harder than that.”
I walk away, biting my tongue.
We eat ravioli for lunch. Dad crumbles some cheddar cheese on top.
We listen to The Old Man and the Sea on tape as we eat.
Charlton Heston narrates, and his voice is like quicksilver.
I watch the ribbon move around in the cassette deck and every time I try to utter something he looks at me as if to say, Not now.
Shut your mouth and listen to his words.
I have never been away from Mom for this long. And never at Christmas. She loves Christmas. Back in the bungalow we would watch cooking shows together. I never really liked them that much, but Mom did.
After I do the dishes I listen to my Walkman.
Dad comes back in.
“What?”
“I said,” he says. “You need a haircut. You look like a girl. Sit down and I’ll do it for you.”
“I’m not…”
“Don’t answer back. Sit.”
I move to the camp chair and sit down heavily. Dad stands behind.
Chill breeze at the back of my neck.
“Reckon you’re old enough to have it cut close. Get that mop off.”
I hold my head in my hands. “No, Dad. Just a trim.”
“What?”
She might not recognize me when she comes home.
“My school won’t like it, Dad. They don’t want shaved heads.”
He tuts and cuts my hair short with the scissors. It takes two minutes. I go out after and shake my head into the canal. Red strands float on the surface, attach to frosty leaves, form clusters. Phoenix is outside on his boat wearing his leather jacket.
“Merry Christmas, Samson.”
I like that he knows my name.
I like it very much.
“And to you, man.”
“Having a good one?”
I swallow hard. The words catch in my throat. “Not bad. You?”
“Quiet.”
I go back inside.
“Don’t get friendly with the likes of him. Looks like a queer to me with that hair, those clothes. Looks like he’s been in a fire. Keep your distance.”
He holds out his closed fist.
“What is it?”
“Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
I do it. Something cool and metallic drops into my palm, scraping it.
“Open,” he says.
It’s Dad’s old pocketknife. I didn’t know he still owned it. Rusty on one end. Some bone in the handle.
“I can have it?”
He nods.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Don’t break it.”
I open the blade and close it again.
“You’ll need to clean it up and oil it. You can use my sharpening stone but be careful, I mean it, cost me a fortune. You break that stone and I’ll break your legs, do you understand?”
I nod, smiling.
“Now, get off with you. Get.”
I hide the knife in tufts of insulation by the dinette table. It sits next to my Walkman.
Now it is time for my mission.
There is no bus service today, so I walk the whole way into town.
The sidewalks are empty and there is very little traffic.
The sky is gray: no contrails or clouds.
My new black gloves keep my hands warm. I sing R.E.M.
and Annie Lennox songs out loud as I walk, no boys to chase me down today, no one to laugh at me.
I sing timidly at first and then at the top of my voice, mouth wide open.
Ultimate freedom. Liberation. I’m screaming out the lyrics, letting it all out.
The walk downhill is slippery. A fine mist in the air.
I sing “Losing My Religion” so fiercely birds flee from their trees.
There are no other humans on this sidewalk, it is mine.
I walk through town.
Up the hill to the hospital. It’s almost dark now. I see the tall fence and the signs. The parking lot and security lights. I walk inside.
It’s a different woman at reception today. An older woman with bangs and green eye shadow.
The clock ticks on the wall.
There is nobody else here.
She’s reading the TV Guide Christmas issue, a marker pen in one hand.
“Can I help you with something, young man?”
“Can I see my mom, please? It’s the right time.”
She bites her lip and says, “Is your dad around?”
“He’s back home.”
“Talk to him and arrange a visit. Your dad will sort it all out for you.”
“I can’t come in?”
“Not today. I’m very sorry.”
“I just want to see her. Just for a minute. I want to give her a hug.”
She places her palm on the glass screen and smiles. “It’s Christmas. You should be home with your father, shouldn’t you?”
“I came out for a walk.”
She nods.
“Can I give you something for her?”
She frowns and starts to speak.
I take the Milky Way from my pocket and hand it over. I’ve been saving it.
She smiles. “I think we can manage that as it’s Christmas. What’s your mom’s name, young man?”
“Peggy Jenkins.”
“Peggy Jenkins. A beautiful name. I’ll make sure your mom gets it, all right?”
I nod.
“Talk to your daddy about visiting. Now get off home with you and play with your new toys.”
I start to leave.
“Young man?”
I turn back to face her. “Yeah?”
She smiles. “Merry Christmas.”