Henry
Meredith called last night and said she was ready to be taken there.
“Oh,” I said, surprised.
I nearly said no—my default. I was tired and depressed still from being at the row house.
But then I heard Grace’s voice in my head.
You said she’s pretty, right? And nice? Meredith is those things—cool and smart, too.
Maybe that’s what people do: They go look at Christmas lights with attractive, nice, cool, smart people.
Grace would be at her holiday party. Maybe I could at least try to get into the spirit of the season.
“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. How about tomorrow night?”
So now we’re in my car approaching Hampden. We pass a bookstore called Atomic Books and a 7-Eleven that looks like it narrowly survived an apocalypse. Some light snow has started.
“You’re a very cautious driver,” Meredith says.
“You never know where the icy parts are,” I say, because, well, you don’t.
“I did some research on this,” she says. “The lights.”
I turn right, then ease around a double-parked car.
Meredith is bundled up for the cold, but it’s warm in my car, so she sets her gloves and scarf on the dashboard.
“The Miracle on 34th Street started with a single strand of lights hung on a tree by a teenage boy named Dale in 1947,” she says. “His neighbors caught on and started hanging their own lights. Now it’s a Baltimore tradition, and one of the most visited places in Maryland.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“I listened to a podcast.”
I park on the street, and we start walking. Within seconds, we join a flow of pedestrians headed to the same place. Families with young kids, couples holding hands, teenage girls skipping together in matching Uggs. A guy in a parka carries a Bluetooth speaker that plays “Last Christmas” by Wham!
34th Street is about a block away so we can’t see the lights yet, but there’s a yellow glow in the sky ahead, like when you approach Times Square.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Meredith asks.
“You’ll see,” I say.
Her glasses keep fogging up, which is endearing, and she looks good in her hat.
“How do you like Baltimore so far, by the way?” I ask. “I just realized I haven’t asked you that yet. Seems unwelcoming of me.”
“I like it,” she says. “Everyone here always seems like they’ve been drinking.”
I smile because that’s maybe the most astute observation I’ve heard about this place.
We turn a corner at a blue city mailbox that’s covered in graffiti, and there it is: a full city block of houses decorated as elaborately as you could imagine.
“Oh my god,” she says.
“Yep.”
This becomes Meredith’s refrain: “Oh my god.” She says it when we pass the Christmas tree that’s made entirely of old hubcaps.
Again, at the house that’s decorated in all flamingos.
Then at the Hannukah house, and later at the house with twenty lit-up Disney characters out front like carolers.
A full lap up and down 34th Street, even walking slowly, only takes about fifteen minutes, so we do it again, catching a few things we missed the first time, like the tree with all the blinking crabs.
I’m not sure where the guy with the Bluetooth speaker is, but he’s put “Last Christmas” on repeat, and the song never sounded so good.
“Here, let’s sit,” Meredith says, and we settle onto a bench with a great view of the street.
“I’m glad I didn’t look at any pictures when I was researching,” she says. “They wouldn’t have done this justice.”
“Yeah, this kinda tacky needs to be experienced in person,” I say.
We watch the crowd and the lights. New people keep streaming in as George Michael sings on.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” she says. “I mean, I know I kinda made you, but…”
“Nah,” I say. “Well, okay, maybe, but it’s my pleasure.”
A cop strolls nearby. When he’s a safe distance away, I say, “Everyone here always seems like they’ve been drinking, huh?”
“Yes,” she says, “and I stand by that.”
I unzip my coat and take a silver flask out of my chest pocket. “You’re not wrong.”
She laughs and accepts the first hit of mint schnapps and what I’m sure is now lukewarm hot chocolate.
“So,” she says. “Did Cal tell you my sob story?”
“Your what?”
“I spent eight years with a guy who was fundamentally against marriage.”
“Ah,” I say.
“The institution,” she says. “He said it was deeply flawed—antiquated, even misogynistic. He was big on that, the unfair politics of marriage. Like not wanting to be married was him doing me a favor.”
I take a sip of schnapps, and because I know how the world works, I’m pretty sure where this story is going.
“Turns out,” she says, “surprise! He was fundamentally against marriage as it pertained to marrying me.”
“Shit,” I say, handing back the flask. “So, is he married yet, or still engaged?”
She takes a longer drink this time. “He married our dental hygienist in June. Well, she’s just his dental hygienist now.”
“Ouch,” I say.
“And they have two matching Yorkshire terriers,” she says.
“Wow,” I say. “I should’ve brought more alcohol.”
She turns toward me. “I don’t want to sound weird or, I don’t know, forward. But I like you, Henry. You’re nice.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks. You’re nice, too. I like your glasses. Have I mentioned that?”
She touches her frames. “Yeah? You don’t think they’re too big?”
“What? No. I’d go even bigger.”
She laughs again, then hesitates. “Look, I know my thing doesn’t in any way, shape, or form compare with, well…”
As she trails off, I realize my phone is ringing. I can feel it vibrating in my pocket.
“My point is,” she says, “in a much smaller, far, far less significant way, I’m hurting, too, like you. I’m healing.”
When I ignore a call, I usually get a ping that it’s gone to voicemail, but my phone starts vibrating again. I think of my parents, Grace and the kids, fires, catastrophes. I think of that last call from Brynn. What if my pitch with Win had ended early and I’d answered?
“So, I was thinking,” says Meredith. “Maybe we could try to maneuver through all this togeth—”
“Do you mind if I answer this really quick?” I say, taking out my phone. “I’m sorry. It’s been going off. It might be…”
“Oh, yeah, okay.”
I see Ian’s name. He’s called twice. “Oh, shit.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s my friend, Ian.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, he’s…” And now he’s calling me again. He and Bella are with Miss Nadine, I assume. Maybe something’s wrong. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I need to—”
“Of course,” says Meredith. “Go ahead.”
“Hello? Ian?”
“Henry?”
I put my finger in my ear. “Hi, Ian. You okay? Everything all right?”
“Yeah.” He’s breathless, like he’s been running. “Guess what.”
I relax because he sounds happy. “Um, what?”
“I got inspired, Henry.”
“You got—”
“I looked around. Like you said. Like how the artist guy said to the writer guy. I looked around, and I saw something amazing.”