Claus
What’s the first memory of your childhood? I have snippets of early memories – being in my crib, looking at the piggy bank on the bookshelf, for example – but the first real memory I have, one tied to an event, was a Christmas when I was probably three or four years old. We went to visit my mother’s parents, the first and last time I ever recall seeing them. They were cute old gray-haired people who, in my memory, looked like what Santa and Mrs. Claus would look like in their regular clothes.
My grandmother baked enormous gingerbread cookies, decorated with frosting and candy buttons. My sister sat on the floor in her Christmas dress with a green-suited ginger man, watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” on TV while grandpa slept in the recliner. I sat in the kitchen with grandma as she baked and fed me an endless supply of cookies and milk. She talked to me like I was another adult who knew how to bake cookies. “Now, let’s see, what should I add to the batter this time?” She would take a finger full of batter and sample, and then let me do the same. “Do you think it needs more vanilla?” She would look at me so intently, and I knew that my answer was very important. I would think hard, with all the seriousness of an expert pastry chef before responding, “Yes, more nella.” She asked me to sing Christmas carols for her, and I tried to do the best I could with my preschool skills: “Jinga bells, jinga bells, jinga all away! Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open say!” She picked me up and danced with me in the kitchen as I giggled and clapped.
But then I heard their voices rising in the other room. My parents were fighting again, screaming at each other with a power I hadn’t heard in a long time. She threatened to take her girls away from him (we were always her girls when they fought, as opposed to when we did something wrong; we were his girls when we were bad), and he threatened to leave her on the side of the road on the trip back. There was the sharp shattering and impact of glass hitting a wall. I became frightened and withdrawn, curling up into my grandma’s chest, trying not to cry. I knew that crying made mommy angry. Grandma rubbed my head and danced with me. “Shhh, no tears. Don’t cry, Angela. You’re grandma’s little angel.” I threw my little arms around her neck and breathed in the smell of her, like freshly-baked cookies and apple shampoo.
My mother stormed into the kitchen and grabbed the rolling pin, spinning around to face my father who was just a few steps behind. “Don’t you dare touch me!” she screamed shrilly. He stepped closer. She swung the rolling pin. There was a sickening thud as the wooden pin made contact with his head. He went down to the floor in a bloody heap, writhing in pain. “No!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Daddy! Daddy!”
My mother pulled me from my grandmother’s arms and ran through the house, grabbing my sister by the wrist and half-dragging her to the front door. She tried to put me in my coat, one tiny, stiff arm at a time, and the faster she moved the more I tensed. Susan put on her own coat and picked up my mother’s purse from the floor, clutching it with all her strength. My mother gave up on zipping my coat and scooped me up again, fumbling with her car keys in the door locks. She told my sister to latch me into my car seat, and we backed out of the driveway at top speed without being buckled in. “Don’t cry,” Susan whispered, her own lower lip trembling with fear and repressed tears. “Don’t cry.” I put my thumb into my mouth to stay quiet.
I looked at my mother in the rearview mirror, and saw that she had been crying. Her mascara had left long black streaks from eyes to chin, and smudges where she had tried to wipe the tears away. Her eyes were on fire, as she muttered to herself. “Bastard thinks he can do that to me. He’s wrong. Fuck him.” She rolled down the window, with cold, sharp wind filling the car. “Merry fucking Christmas, asshole!” she screamed as we drove down the street.
I’ve never liked Christmas since, although I still retain a fondness for Santa and Mrs. Claus. They seem like a safe haven in an otherwise frightening world.
My grandmother baked enormous gingerbread cookies, decorated with frosting and candy buttons. My sister sat on the floor in her Christmas dress with a green-suited ginger man, watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” on TV while grandpa slept in the recliner. I sat in the kitchen with grandma as she baked and fed me an endless supply of cookies and milk. She talked to me like I was another adult who knew how to bake cookies. “Now, let’s see, what should I add to the batter this time?” She would take a finger full of batter and sample, and then let me do the same. “Do you think it needs more vanilla?” She would look at me so intently, and I knew that my answer was very important. I would think hard, with all the seriousness of an expert pastry chef before responding, “Yes, more nella.” She asked me to sing Christmas carols for her, and I tried to do the best I could with my preschool skills: “Jinga bells, jinga bells, jinga all away! Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open say!” She picked me up and danced with me in the kitchen as I giggled and clapped.
But then I heard their voices rising in the other room. My parents were fighting again, screaming at each other with a power I hadn’t heard in a long time. She threatened to take her girls away from him (we were always her girls when they fought, as opposed to when we did something wrong; we were his girls when we were bad), and he threatened to leave her on the side of the road on the trip back. There was the sharp shattering and impact of glass hitting a wall. I became frightened and withdrawn, curling up into my grandma’s chest, trying not to cry. I knew that crying made mommy angry. Grandma rubbed my head and danced with me. “Shhh, no tears. Don’t cry, Angela. You’re grandma’s little angel.” I threw my little arms around her neck and breathed in the smell of her, like freshly-baked cookies and apple shampoo.
My mother stormed into the kitchen and grabbed the rolling pin, spinning around to face my father who was just a few steps behind. “Don’t you dare touch me!” she screamed shrilly. He stepped closer. She swung the rolling pin. There was a sickening thud as the wooden pin made contact with his head. He went down to the floor in a bloody heap, writhing in pain. “No!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Daddy! Daddy!”
My mother pulled me from my grandmother’s arms and ran through the house, grabbing my sister by the wrist and half-dragging her to the front door. She tried to put me in my coat, one tiny, stiff arm at a time, and the faster she moved the more I tensed. Susan put on her own coat and picked up my mother’s purse from the floor, clutching it with all her strength. My mother gave up on zipping my coat and scooped me up again, fumbling with her car keys in the door locks. She told my sister to latch me into my car seat, and we backed out of the driveway at top speed without being buckled in. “Don’t cry,” Susan whispered, her own lower lip trembling with fear and repressed tears. “Don’t cry.” I put my thumb into my mouth to stay quiet.
I looked at my mother in the rearview mirror, and saw that she had been crying. Her mascara had left long black streaks from eyes to chin, and smudges where she had tried to wipe the tears away. Her eyes were on fire, as she muttered to herself. “Bastard thinks he can do that to me. He’s wrong. Fuck him.” She rolled down the window, with cold, sharp wind filling the car. “Merry fucking Christmas, asshole!” she screamed as we drove down the street.
I’ve never liked Christmas since, although I still retain a fondness for Santa and Mrs. Claus. They seem like a safe haven in an otherwise frightening world.
posted by Ali at 12:01 AM
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