48. Zelda
ZELDA
Otto prefers the paper.
I have chosen a wooden bird with a bright red wing, and he has spent Christmas morning trying to reach the wrapping it came in. Hedy gives him a large piece to crumple, then takes it back when he decides to taste it.
“A difficult audience,” she tells me.
“You should see him with a bottle he doesn’t approve of.”
He pats the bird once, generously, and looks for the paper again.
I woke beside Jeremiah this morning with one foot outside the covers. He had been up with Otto and come back to bed. When I moved, his hand found my cold toes beneath the sheet.
“Absolutely not,” he murmured.
I put them against his leg. He made a noise of outrage and pulled me closer anyway.
We had breakfast in the kitchen before anyone arrived, sharing the crisp pieces from the pan while Otto watched from his seat. I caught myself turning my ring with my thumb. Jeremiah noticed. Neither of us said anything. He kissed the hand when I reached for the coffee.
Now the dining room is full of coats over chairs and people trying to finish stories through interruptions.
Suri has brought a younger cousin who would otherwise have been alone.
She called first; we made another place.
The cousin is helping Hedy decide where the bread should go so everyone can reach it.
Jeremiah’s mother has Otto on her knee. He has discovered her necklace, and she is trying to interest him in a much less satisfactory button instead.
“How did you all meet?” the cousin asks me.
Before I can answer, Hedy begins the story of Jeremiah bringing a cake to our first family dinner when she had already made one.
“He ate both,” she says.
“I had a slice of each,” he tells her.
“They were not modest slices.”
“I wanted to make a good impression.”
“You made an alarming one.”
I laugh, remembering him beside me afterward, so full that he could barely bend to put on his shoes. Under the table he had caught my hand and whispered that he hoped he had been worth the trouble of inviting.
I had kissed him in the car before I let him drive home.
My dress today is one I bought with my library pay. It has pockets deep enough for the paper star a child pressed into my hand at the end of the holiday program. I find it while looking for a tissue and smooth one bent point with my thumb.
My supervisor has asked me to lead the program again next year. I have already thought of something I want to try. For once, I leave the idea where it is instead of finding a piece of paper before it escapes. I will remember it. There is time.
Jeremiah comes beside me carrying water.
“We’re using the chipped plate?” he asks.
“I’m using it.”
“I could get another.”
“Then we wouldn’t have all eleven blue ones out.”
He looks at the table and smiles.
“Overruled in my own house.”
“Our house.”
“Our house.”
He sets down the pitcher and pulls out his chair. I sit beside him.
Suri tells us about the trip she and Dax hope to take after their wedding. Hedy recommends the train. The cousin says nobody who has seen Dax pack could recommend the train. Suri laughs and admits he has already bought a bag too large for either of them to lift.
When Jeremiah passes the vegetables, there is only a spoonful left of the part I like best.
“I want that,” I say, pointing.
“The crispy bit?”
“All of it.”
He tips it onto my plate and takes the onions. I give him the last piece of bread because he has been looking at it while he talks.
Otto grows tired before we do. He puts his face against his grandmother’s shoulder and complains in a low, exhausted voice. Jeremiah takes him upstairs. I start collecting plates until Hedy takes the stack from me.
“You cooked.”
“So did he.”
“Then neither of you is doing this part.”
I leave her to organize the cousin for kitchen duty and go through to the fireplace. Our stockings are hanging there, with a small new one between them for Otto. Mine has a loose stitch near the heel. I meant to mend it last year.
I touch it, remembering Hedy’s window on Christmas morning. Wanting Jeremiah, and not being able to come back. I stand there for a moment with the soft fabric beneath my fingers.
Then I hear him call from upstairs.
“He’s found the other sock.”
“Where?”
“Under himself. He seems offended.”
I laugh and go up to them.
Otto is on the changing mat, solemnly investigating his bare foot. Jeremiah has the recovered sock in one hand. I kiss our son’s warm stomach before we put him into his sleep clothes. He catches at my hair and lets go when his father offers a finger instead.
We settle him in his crib. He pushes one foot out, then the other. Jeremiah waits until he has finished, tucks the blanket back, and rests a hand lightly on his chest.
I stand close enough to lean against my husband. His arm comes around my waist.
“After everyone goes,” I whisper, “I want an hour by the tree.”
“I was hoping for that.”
Otto’s eyes close, open once in protest, then close again. We wait a little longer before going downstairs.
The guests leave slowly. There is food to send home, a scarf to find, a last argument about who owns a dish. Hedy hugs me at the door and presses her cheek against mine for a second longer than usual. Then she tells Jeremiah she expects her dish back and goes down the path.
We finish the two plates left in the sink. I wash; he dries. When I reach for the pan, he puts it in to soak and hangs up the towel.
“Your hour,” he says.
I take his hand.
By the tree he sits first, and I settle beside him with my legs over his. The glass star catches a light above us. We hung it together this year too; he held it steady while I tied the thread, then kissed the back of my neck until I threatened to drop it.
I lean against his shoulder.
“There was a boy at the library who made a star with eight points and insisted it was a snowflake.”
“Was he very firm about it?”
“Immovable.”
Jeremiah turns toward me. He is already smiling, waiting for the part I want to tell him. I had saved it through lunch, through the dishes, through the last goodbye at the door.
“You should have heard what he said when I asked about the glitter.”
“Tell me.”
“He said it was going to a party. Then he asked whether I went to parties without making an effort.”
Jeremiah starts laughing. I feel it beneath my cheek, the whole warm movement of him, and begin laughing too.
“I had glue in my hair. He made a fair point.”
“What did you say?”
I tuck my cold feet beneath his leg. This time he keeps them.
“Well, first I had to stop laughing.”
He draws me closer, still smiling, and waits for the rest.
I take my time telling him. There is nothing too small to include, and I no longer have to guess which parts of my day he might want.
My husband wants to hear them from me.