Season’s Greetings

By Bruce McDougall. Published on April 15, 2023.

Gillian directed her husband toward an empty spot near the back door of the apartment building. “Park over there,” she said.

“It’s a handicapped spot,” he said.

“They won’t tow the car on Christmas Day.” 

The sun was setting. Gillian thought their car, a year-old Range Rover Autobiography, would be safer in this neighbourhood if they parked it near the entrance to the building than it would be in a dark corner of the lot. Peter did as she instructed.

From the rear compartment, they pulled out a carton of wine and three shopping bags filled with gifts. In the carton were six bottles of Vega Sicilia 2014. The bags came from high-end stores like Hermès. Gillian’s mother could use them to carry her shoes and a thermos of coffee to her bridge game in the common room. 

Using the key that her mother had given her Gillian opened the metal door. It was heavy and ill-fitting and squeaked on its hinges. Inside, a low-ceilinged hallway led to the building’s lobby. The worn carpet smelled of pee.

Gillian glanced around the lobby. It was clean enough, but shabby. A glass door opened onto a vestibule where tenants came to collect their mail. A brown leather couch squatted against the wall to the right of the door. A pointless wooden hutch stood beside it. If Gillian opened one of its drawers, she’d find nothing but a wad of chewing gum or a discarded apple core. 

Finally, an elevator door rumbled open. Gillian and Peter carried the carton and bags onto the elevator. Gillian reached out to a panel of buttons beside the door, pressing her index finger against the one marked with a 10. The button didn’t light up, but the elevator moved. Gillian felt relieved until she realized they’d descended to the basement, where the elevator stopped abruptly. The doors opened onto a concrete hallway lit by a single bulb in the far wall. The hallway led to residents’ storage lockers, where they kept stuff that didn’t fit into their apartments. Gillian’s mother kept bags of wrapping paper in her locker along with a dolls’ house and an electric piano. The dolls’ house came from Gillian’s bedroom in the house where she’d grown up with her mother and father and brother. The electric piano had belonged to her brother when he’d played in a rock band in high school. How many years had to go by, Gillian wondered, before her mother would admit that the past was over?

When the doors closed again, the elevator ascended to the lobby. A crowd of people in bulky coats and woolen hats crammed themselves into the compartment, reaching past each other to press a button or asking one of the other passengers to do it for them. “Three, please.” “Can someone press eleven for me?” “These fucking elevators.” Peter and Gillian pressed themselves against the back wall. A short man in a fur hat turned to her and said, “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” she grimaced. 

When he looked at the bottles of wine, he said, “Somebody’s having a party tonight.”

“Family dinner,” said Peter. He turned away to study the numbers above the door. 

Each button on the panel was lit. The elevator would have to stop at each floor. It would take forever to reach her mother’s floor. Gillian felt anxiety and fury roiling in her chest, and her ordeal hadn’t even begun.

#####

In the pandemonium of her mother’s apartment, no one noticed when Gillian opened the door and stepped onto the soggy mat that was cluttered with running shoes and children’s snow boots. Peter followed as she advanced toward the living room. Shopping bags and carton of wine in hand, he peered over her shoulder until finally Gillian’s eight-year-old niece looked up from the video game in her lap and called out, “It’s Auntie Jilly!”

The girl stood up from the floor and rushed over to wrap her arms around Gillian’s legs and press her sticky face against the fabric of her Kate Spade pant suit. Peter stood in his cashmere sweater and brown corduroy trousers, a stupid grin on his face, until Gillian’s brother Ken, lying on the sofa, turned his head away from the three-year-old boy on his chest and said, “Hey, look who the cat dragged in.”

The apartment was cramped and hot. Two upholstered chairs had been pushed together under the window to make room for an artificial Christmas tree in the corner. Gillian’s mother sat beside Ken’s wife Barb on one of the chairs. When she saw her daughter and her husband, she stood up and held her hands to her face. “Oh, I’m so glad you came,” she said.

“Hello, Pam,” said Peter.

“You’ve known we were coming since October, mother,” said Gillian. 

“You and Peter have such busy schedules,” said her mother. She was grey-haired, short and slender, wearing a red pantsuit and fluffy bedroom slippers. She looked at Gillian with a penetrating gaze, as if she were challenging her to question the concentrated wisdom of her years.

Gillian took a deep breath. “It’s Christmas, mother,” she said. “What can be more important?”

Peter carried the wine into the small kitchen and set the carton on the formica table against the wall. Then he nudged his way past Gillian and carried his bags of gifts to the Christmas tree in the corner. “Merry Christmas everyone,” he said. He unloaded the gifts, then went to the alcove where the dining-room table had been set for six and brought two chairs back to the living room. 

From the exertion, sweat appeared on Peter’s face. He was sorry that he’d worn a sweater. He wished he could remove it, but he’d worn nothing underneath but a T-shirt. He took a deep breath. The apartment felt stuffy and smelled of turkey and the scented candle that Gillian’s mother pulled out every Christmas from the storage locker in the basement along with the fake tree with the flashing lights and the twisted angel balanced on the top and Ken and Gillian’s Christmas stockings, which she filled with oranges, unshelled walnuts and candy canes from the dollar store and positioned on the back of the couch under the framed painting of a waterfall that she’d bought at a Sunday art sale at a nearby shopping mall. 

A skinny, hollow-cheeked young woman sat on the floor with her head resting against the cushion at one end of the couch. In her left hand, she held a glass. “You remember my sister, Monica,” said Barb.

Monica turned her attention away from the silent TV on the wall to raise her glass in greeting to Gillian. “Skol,” she said, before taking a mouthful of amber liquid, setting the glass on the carpet beside her leg and returning her attention to the TV. 

“Of course,” said Gillian. “We met last Christmas.”

Gillian unwrapped herself from her niece’s arms and perched herself on one of the dining-room chairs. Her niece leaned against her, resting her head on her lap.

“Take your shoes off,” said Ken, raising his voice to be heard over Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” through a speaker at the end of the couch.

“Don’t bother with your shoes, you two,” said Pam. 

“I forgot,” said Ken. “Your shoes don’t get dirty when you walk on water.”

Gillian kicked off her Tod’s driving shoes. Peter leaned forward to untie the laces of his Cole Haan boat shoes. “I’ll take them,” said Gillian’s niece. She carried both pairs to the hallway where she dropped them onto the pile that already cluttered the mat.

“Thank you, Roxy,” said Gillian.

“This looks festive,” Peter said, rubbing his hands together as he looked around the room from his chair. 

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Monica on the floor, raising her glass and winking at Peter over the rim.

Gillian curled her feet under her chair. She was glad she’d worn black stockings and that no one could see her feet. Her feet embarrassed her. She had her mother’s feet, with the same bunions and hammer toes and callouses. 

“What’s festive?” said the boy, still bouncing up and down on his father’s chest.

“You know, Brady,” said Ken. “Festive. Like fester. Here we all are. Festering.”

“Fester,” said Brady. He bounced more rapidly up and down on his father’s chest. “Fester, fester, fester,” he chanted. 

“Brady, you’re going to hurt your father,” said Gillian. She hated the boy’s name. It sounded common and loutish. His parents had named him after Tom Brady, the quarterback of their favorite football team. With a name like that, she thought, the boy would grow up to be a three-hundred-pound muscle-bound meathead who would work as a tow-truck driver after failing to become a professional athlete.

“So what’s new and exciting?” said Ken, lifting Brady off his chest so he could sit up and look at his sister and Peter.

“New and exciting,” said Peter.

“He doesn’t expect an answer,” said Gillian. “Why do you ask such dumb questions?” she said to her brother.

“It’s not a dumb question,” said Barb.

“I was just wondering what you’d been up to,” said Ken. 

“We hardly see you guys from one year to the next,” said Barb. 

“You don’t have to answer, Pete,” said Ken.

“I got my license back,” said Monica from the floor. 

“Did you lose your license?” said Pam.

“DUI,” said Monica. 

“FBI!” hollered Brady.

“Is one of those presents for me?” said Roxy. 

Gillian knew of only one other woman with that name, and she was a stripper. She wondered if her brother and his wife had given any thought to the future to which they’d doomed their children with their stupid names.

“I think so,” said Gillian.

“I want to open it,” said Roxy.

“In a minute,” said Gillian, irritated by the child’s blatant greed.. “We brought presents for everyone.”

“I want to open mine now,” said Roxy.

“Just wait for a minute,” said Gillian.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Roxy!” hollered her father from the couch. “Just wait.”

Roxy began to cry. 

“Go and sit down,” Barb said.

“Where?” said Roxy.

“Sit on the floor,” said Ken.

“The floor’s dirty.”

“Do as you’re told,” hollered Ken.

Through the speaker, Bing Crosby sang “Mele Kalikimaka.”

“I just love this song,” said Monica.

“You must be on drugs,” said Ken.

“Ken!” said Barb.

Monica began to weep. 

“You didn’t have to say that,” said Barb.

“Come on,” said Ken. “Mele Kalikimaka? You’d have to be on drugs to like that song.”

“And you should know,” said Gillian.

“Let’s not start,” said Pam.

“When did she ever stop?” said Ken.

“You mean caring?” said Gillian. “I stopped that a long time ago.”

“Hey, Brady,” said Peter. “How many fingers do I have behind my back?”

Relieved by the distraction, everyone turned to look at the boy. 

“Four hundred,” said Brady, exulting in the attention.

“Be serious,” said Ken.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Monica. She struggled to her feet and wobbled out of the room.

“Fifty?” said Brady.

“Come on,” said Peter. “It has to be a number between one and ten.”

“Why?” said Brady.

“Because he only has ten fingers,” said Barb. “You know that.” She turned to Peter. “He could count before he could talk.”

“How’s the turkey?” said Gillian to her mother.

“Another forty minutes,” said Pam.

“Can you wait that long?” said Ken.

“Would you like something in the meantime?” said Pam. “I can make you a sandwich if you’re hungry.”

“I’m fine,” said Gillian.

“Have some nuts,” said Ken, lifting a bowl from the end table by the couch.

“I want a sandwich,” said Roxy.

“Not before dinner,” said Barb.

“Why not?” said Roxy. “Auntie Jilly can have one.”

“I’m not having a sandwich,” said Gillian.

“Auntie Jilly prefers caviar,” said Ken.

“What’s caviar?” said Roxy.

“Fuck off, Ken,” said Gillian.

“Auntie Jilly said a bad word,” said Roxy.

“My bad,” said Gillian. “I’ll put a quarter in the jar.”

“What jar?” said Roxy.

“There’s a jar,” said Gillian, “and every time you say a bad word, you put a quarter in it.”

“Where’s the jar?” said Roxy.

“We don’t do that in our house,” said Ken.

“Who gets the quarters?” said Roxy.

“I’m going to check on my sister,” said Barb. She headed down the hall to the bathroom.

On the couch, Brady lifted himself to his feet, jumped up and landed with all his weight on his father’s chest. “Boom!” he shouted.

“Jesus Christ,” wheezed Ken.

“We should open our gifts before dinner,” said Peter.

“Let’s do it now,” squealed Roxy, pulling herself on her hands and knees across the carpet to the Christmas tree. 

“We opened ours this morning at home,” said Ken.

“So it won’t take long,” said Gillian.

“Where’s mine?” said Roxy, pulling gifts from under the tree and studying the names on the tags before shoving them roughly aside.

Gillian knelt down beside her. “I’ll find yours, sweetie,” she said.

She picked up one of the gifts that Roxy had discarded. “This one’s for you, Ken,” she said.

Ken lifted Brady off his chest and set him on his feet on the floor. He reached for the gift from his sister.

“Let’s find one for Granny,” Gillian said to Roxy. 

Roxy crawled under the tree, kneeling on unopened gifts as she rummaged through the pile. “Here’s one,” she said.

“Take it to Granny,” Gillian said.

Roxy carried the gift-wrapped parcel to her grandmother. 

“Thank you, dear,” said Pam. “You always wrap things so nicely,” she said to Gillian.

“Now me,” said Roxy. “I want to open mine.”

When Gillian passed a gift to her, she tore the paper off in shreds and let them fall to the floor. “It’s a Play Station,” she yelled as her mother returned to the living room with Monica. “Look, mom. A Play Station.” 

Roxy ran across the room to show the box to her mother. Then she rushed over to her father. “Can we use it now, dad?” 

“Wait till we go home,” said Ken. He looked across the room at Peter. “Thanks, Pete,” he said, holding up an orange Hilti drill. 

“It’s top of the line,” said Peter.

“I know,” said Ken. “Five hundred bucks.”

“Well, not quite,” said Peter.

“We can plug it into the TV,” said Roxy, holding up her Play Station. 

“Auntie Monica is watching TV,” said Ken.

“I don’t mind,” said Monica. “I’m going out for a smoke anyway.”

Monica went to the door that led onto the balcony and stepped outside. A blast of cold air blew through the room. “Shut the door,” Ken bellowed.

“Don’t be so hard on her,” said Barb.

“I want to use my Play Station,” said Roxy. 

Ken took the box from his daughter. “OK,” he said. “Let’s see if we can get this thing to work.” He pulled the TV away from the wall and peered behind it. Then he lifted the entire unit off the wall and set it on the floor.

“Who’s going to help me with the rest of the gifts?” said Gillian.

“I will,” said Brady.

“I’ll do it,” said Roxy. She shoved her way past her brother, knocking him into the couch. “It’s my job.”

“I want to do it,” Brady cried. 

“You can both help,” said Gillian. She handed a gift to the boy. “Here, Brady, take this to your mom.” 

“And you take this one to your Auntie Monica,” said Gillian to Roxy.

“I’m not supposed to see her smoking,” said Roxy.

“All right,” said Gillian. She handed another gift to Roxy. “Give this one to your brother.” 

“Oh, Gillian,” said Barb. She raised her right arm to show off the bangle that she’d slid over her wrist. 

“Do you like it?” said Gillian.

“I love it,” said Barb. She stood beside her husband, who was inspecting the back of the TV. “Look, honey,” she said. “An Hermès bracelet.”

“That’s nice,” said Ken, hardly glancing at his wife.

“Who’s Hermès?” said Roxy.

“It’s a store,” said Barb. “Downtown.”

“They sell over-priced stuff to status-conscious snobs who pay a fortune to impress their friends,” said Ken.

“Don’t mind him,” Barb said to Gillian. “I love it.”

“Hermès has been in the same family for six generations,” said Peter. “One of the co-chairmen is married to a Cristofle.”

“How do you know so much?” said Gillian with admiration.

“I read a lot,” said Peter.

“Yeah, well, I still think $12,000 is too much to pay for a handbag,” said Ken. “Ow. How do you get this fucking cable into the slot?”

“Daddy said a bad word,” said Roxy.

“Another quarter in the swear jar,” said Gillian.

“Where’s the swear jar?” said Roxy.

“Ask Miss Perfect,” said Ken.

Another blast of cold air blew through the room as Monica stepped inside from the balcony, carrying with her the scent of tobacco.

“You stink,” said Brady.

“Brady!” said his mother.

“Here’s your Christmas present, Auntie Monica,” said Roxy.

“No, that one’s for your brother,” said Gillian. “This one’s for your aunt.”

Roxy dropped the package that she was holding onto the floor. Brady picked it up and tore it open.  

After handing a gift to her aunt, Roxy turned to her brother. “What is it?” she said.

“A piece of wood,” Brady said with disappointment. 

“It’s a balance board,” said Gillian. 

“What’s it do?” said Brady.

“Nothing,” said Gillian.

“You have to figure out what to do with it,” said Peter, standing up and joining Brady in the middle of the room.

Brady put the board on the carpet. It was as long and wide as a stair tread, curving up at each end. 

“You can balance on it like a surfboard,” said Peter. He placed his feet on the board, spread his legs and moved one foot to each end. He held out his arms. “Like this,” he said, shifting his weight from side to side. 

“Don’t break it, Peter,” said Gillian. “They use them in Montessori schools,” she said to Barb.

“Let me try,” said Roxy.

“It’s mine,” said Brady. “I want to try it.”

Peter stepped aside and watched as Brady stepped onto the board.

“How much did that thing cost?” said Ken.

“It wasn’t cheap,” said Gillian.

“Neither was this,” said Monica, holding up a red hoodie. “This is beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Gillian.

“Let’s see,” said Barb.

“It’s a Lululemon hoodie,” said Monica.

“Christ,” said Ken, who was sitting with a laptop computer on his legs. “Two hundred and fifty bucks. I could make one of those things for the price of a sheet of plywood.”

“There’s a little more to them than that,” said Peter, returning to his chair.

“Not much,” said Ken. “It’s a piece of wood.”

“You haven’t opened your present yet, mother,” said Gillian.

“I’m sure it’s beautiful, whatever it is,” said Pam. She looked down at the gift-wrapped box in her hands. “You always get us such nice things, dear.”

“A lot nicer than the shit you get from me, right, mother?” said Ken.

“Daddy said another bad word,” said Roxy.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Pam.

“You should open it,” said Peter. 

“You owe another quarter for the swear jar,” said Roxy.

“I can’t get this thing to work,” said Brady, standing on the balance board.

“Let me try,” said Monica, who was wearing her new hoodie. 

She wobbled over to the board and waited for Brady to step aside. She stood on the board, spread her legs and stumbled forward, tripping onto the couch. 

Brady laughed. “Do that again,” he chuckled.

“Oh, dear,” said Pam. She held up a plain silver ring. “It’s lovely.” 

“Do you know what it is, mother?” said Gillian. 

Peter moved to Pam’s side and took the ring from her. “It’s called a Balance,” he said. “See, it has little sensors inside. They monitor your heart rate and temperature and calories.”

“As if she needs to keep track of her calories,” said Barb. “She weighs about five pounds.”

“Can I use my Play Station yet, daddy?” said Roxy.

“In a minute, honey,” said Ken.

“It interacts with the iPhone that I gave you for your birthday,” said Gillian.

“Oh, dear,” said Pam.

“What?” said Gillian.

“I don’t use my iPhone,” said Pam. “I can’t figure out how it works.”

“We showed you how to use it,” said Peter.

“But I forgot.”

“She hasn’t learned how to use the TV,” said Ken.

“I’ll show you again,” said Peter. 

“I’m like you, Pam,” said Monica. “A techno-moron.”

“Without the techno,” said Ken.

“I’m hungry,” said Brady. He’d set the balance board on one end and was leaning his chest against the other end.

“Watch out,” said his mother, as he tumbled forward onto his face. He began to cry. Barb hurled herself out of her chair. 

“Are you all right?” she said. “Let me see.”

Wailing, Brady turned his face toward his mother. “You’re OK,” she said.

“So much for Montessori,” said Ken.

“He could have broken his neck,” said Monica. 

“He’s all right,” said Barb

“Montessori teaches kids how to think,” said Gillian.

“Another status symbol,” said Ken. “Turn your kids into a Hermy’s handbag.”

“It’s air-mez,” said Gillian.

“Whatever,” said Ken. “Public school’s fine for us.”

“It would help if your kids learned to think,” said Gillian, “instead of playing games all day.”

“At least we have kids,” said Ken.

“I think the turkey’s ready,” said Pam. She went into the kitchen.

“Why don’t we put this board over here, where nobody will step on it,” said Barb, holding her son in her lap.

“Is my Play Station ready, daddy?” said Roxy.

“Not yet,” said Ken. “Maybe after dinner.”

“I want to play with it now,” said Roxy.

“Go wash your hands,” said Ken. “Auntie Monica will take you.”

“Come on,” said Monica. “We can wash our hands together.”

Finished distributing gifts, Gillian stood up by the tree. She looked at Peter and pointed to her wrist. “What time is it?” she whispered.

Peter looked at his watch. “Six-thirty,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Gillian,” Ken said from across the room. “It’ll be over soon.”

“We didn’t give Auntie Jilly and Uncle Peter their present,” said Brady.

He ran to the tree and hauled out the last remaining gift. It was wrapped haphazardly in red paper emblazoned with images of Batman. “I wrapped it myself,” said Brady, handing the package to Gillian.

“It’s beautiful,” said Gillian, passing the gift along to her husband.

Peter read the tag. “To Uncle Peter and Auntie Jilly, from Roxy, Brady, Barb and Ken and Monica.” He pulled the paper away from the gift, opened the box inside and lifted out a tea pot shaped like a giraffe. 

“Well,” he said, “we certainly don’t have one of these.”

“I’ve never seen one quite like it,” said Barb.

“It’s certainly unique,” said Gillian.

“Daddy found it at a flea market,” said Brady. 

“It was an art fair,” said Ken. “We met the guy who made it.”

“I’m sure we’ll use it,” said Peter, tucking it away under his chair.

#####

“I want to sit next to Auntie Jilly,” said Roxy. 

She scrambled like a mountaineer onto the chair beside Gillian and balanced on her knees while Gillian pushed her closer to the table. “I’ll be back,” she said. 

“Anybody want some wine?” said Ken, unscrewing the cap from a half-gallon bottle on the table and filling his glass.

“Thanks,” said Barb. 

“Gillian?” said Ken. “Take it while you can. Not every day you’ll find wine in this apartment.”

“I’ll wait for Peter’s,” said Gillian.

She went into the kitchen then to help her mother with the turkey. Monica was there, too, ladling mashed potatoes from a pot into a serving dish. 

The kitchen was cramped, narrower than the elevator, with doorways at each end that allowed passage between the dining area and the front hall, and it accommodated three people only if they moved with caution. Pam had taken the turkey out of the oven and set it on the small formica table against the wall, opposite the sink. Now she was struggling to transfer the turkey onto a platter. 

“Let me help, mother,” said Gillian.

She nudged her mother aside and, with oven mitts on her hands, stuck a fork into each side of the turkey and tried to lift it out of the metal roasting pan. When it didn’t budge, she called Peter into the kitchen to help.

When Peter squeezed himself into the kitchen, Monica turned away from the sink to give him more room. Holding a spoon in front of her, she brushed against him, dribbling mashed potatoes down the front of his cashmere sweater.   

“Shit,” he said.

“I’m so sorry,” Monica said. “Let me clean it off.”

She turned back to the sink, where she dropped the spoon and picked up a wet sponge. Turning back to Peter, she rubbed the sponge over the white blob on the front of his sweater, leaving a red stain on the residue of potato. 

“You’re making it worse,” said Peter.

“Don’t use the sponge,” said Pam. “It has beet juice on it.”

“Here,” said Gillian, turning to face Monica. “Let me do it.”

“Beet juice,” said Peter. “Fuck.”

Monica threw the sponge into the sink. “I can’t do anything right,” she said. She bolted from the kitchen into the hallway and disappeared down the corridor.

“Uncle Peter said a bad word,” said Brady.

“Two,” shouted Roxy.

“It’s OK,” said Peter, pushing Gillian’s hand away. “Let me help with the turkey.” 

He wedged himself between his wife and Pam and grabbed the two forks that were still embedded in the side of the bird. 

“You’d better let Ken carve,” said Gillian, “so you don’t spill anything more on your sweater.”

“I’ll do it,” said Ken. “My shirt’s only worth a buck or two.”

Peter set the turkey on a platter in front of his brother-in-law. He returned to the kitchen to fetch one of the bottles of wine that he’d brought in the carton. When Pam saw it, she said, “We already have a bottle of wine, dear.”

“I know,” said Peter. “That’s why I brought this.”

Gillian and her mother carried bowls of potatoes, carrots and beets and a gravy boat from the kitchen. Peter set the bottle in front of his place at the table.

“Where’s Monica?” said Barb. 

“I think she went to the bathroom,” said Gillian.

“Again?” said Ken.

“I’ll get her,” said Barb. She squeezed her way past Pam at the head of the tabler.

“You might as well get started with the carving,” said Pam.

“I’ll wait for Monica,” said Ken. “Don’t want to start till everyone’s here. Let’s have some more wine.”  

He tipped the large bottle and filled his glass. “Did you buy this wine yourself, mother?” he said.

“I hope it’s OK,” said Pam. “The nice man at the store recommended it.”

“It’s fine with me,” said Ken. “Peter doesn’t like it.”

“We’re fussy when it comes to wine,” said Gillian.

“What have you got there, Peter?” said Ken.

“It’s a 2014 Vega Sicilia,” Peter said. “Churchill used to drink it with the Duke of Alba during the war. He was the Spanish ambassador.”

“Looks expensive,” said Ken.

“It is,” said Gillian.

“I’ll leave a bottle for you,” said Peter.

“Oh, don’t bother,” said Pam. “It’s wasted on me.”

“I’m hungry, dad,” said Roxy.

“Me, too,” said Brady.

“At least let the children get started,” said Pam.

“Just another minute,” said Ken. 

Finally, Barb and Monica returned to the table. Monica kept her eyes on the empty plate in front of her.

“We’re all here,” said Pam. “Barb, why don’t you say grace?”

Roxy groaned. 

“Shush,” said Gillian.

Barb said, “For what we’re about to receive, Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Pam. 

“Why is it called grace?” said Roxy.

“Because it’s not Alice,” said Ken.

From the other end of the table, Peter laughed and filled his glass with wine.

“Don’t forget you’re driving,” said Gillian. 

Ken severed a wing and a drumstick off the turkey and began to carve slices of meat from the breast. “Who wants white?”

“I do,” said Roxy.

“Me, too,” said Brady.

“OK, pass your plates.”

“It actually comes from a Latin phrase,” said Peter. “Gratiarum actio.”

“What does?” said Barb.

“Grace,” said Peter. “It means act of thanks.”

“I figured you’d know,” said Ken.

“Mommy says you know everything,” said Roxy.

“Well, not quite,” said Peter.

“When did I say that?” said Barb.

“You said Uncle Peter’s a know-it-all,” said Roxy.

“I said you know a lot,” Barb said to Peter. “Will somebody please pass me the cranberry sauce?”

“We all have something to be thankful for,” said Pam.

“You’re right, mother,” said Gillian.

“Pass the butter,” said Roxy.

“Pass the butter, please,” said Gillian.

“Pass the butter, please,” repeated Roxy.

“You’ll never get anywhere in this life without good manners,” said Gillian.

“What she means is you need good manners to attract a rich husband,” said Ken.

“Like Uncle Peter?” said Roxy.

“We should tell each other what we’re thankful for,” said Pam. “I’ll start. I’m thankful to have my family with me today. And you, too, Monica.”

“I’m thankful we don’t have to do this every day,” said Ken.

Monica snorted, but kept her eyes on her plate.

“I’m thankful for my Play Station,” said Roxy.

“Me, too,” said Brady.

“You can’t feel thankful for my Play Station,” said Roxy.

“Maybe he’s thankful because you’re thankful,” said Pam.

“No, I’m not,” said Brady. “I’m thankful for this fork. So I can eat my turkey.”

“That’s stupid,” said Roxy.

“What about you, Monica?” said Barb.

“Nothing,” said Monica.

“You must be thankful for something,” said Barb.

“Not that I can think of,” said Monica.

“What about your hoodie?” said Roxy.

“I said thanks for that.”

“Sometimes I wish I was your age again,” said Gillian. 

“Don’t we all,” said Pam.

“What’s so great about my age?” said Monica.

“You have your whole life ahead of you,” said Gillian. “Opportunities.”

“Opportunities,” Monica scoffed. “Looks more like a black hole to me.”

“You must feel grateful for something, dear,” said Pam.

“I’m single, depressed, underweight, unemployed,” Monica said. “I’m ugly and stupid. I have no money. I drink too much. I’m sleeping on people’s couches. Thanks for what? Look at my hair. If I had something to feel thankful for, I’d have something to lose. I’d start jogging. Quit smoking. That’s what people do when they have something to live for, isn’t it, Peter?”

“That’s why I play squash,” said Peter.

“You’ve always had something to lose,” said Ken.

“He’s worked for every penny,” said Gillian.

“So have we,” said Barb.

“But you have more pennies,” said Ken.

“I save pennies,” said Brady.

“And don’t you, Monica?” said Pam. “Have something to lose?”

“Like what,” said Monica. 

“Will you pass the cranberry sauce?” said Peter.

“Please,” said Roxy.

“Please,” said Peter. 

“Maybe you should work harder,” said Gillian.

“Or marry somebody rich,” muttered Barb.

“So we can have what you have?” said Ken.

“If it makes you so jealous,” said Gillian.

“You don’t have anything that we don’t have,” said Ken. “Just more of it.”

“And we have Brady and Roxy,” said Barb. 

“Let’s see how that turns out,” said Gillian.

“As long as they don’t turn out like you,” said Ken.

“Stop!” Pam slammed her fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “It’s Christmas. Let’s try to be nice to each other. For once.”

“I’m with you,” said Monica. 

“Me too,” said Roxy. 

“You don’t get anywhere by being nice,” said Gillian.

“I agree,” said Peter.

“The turkey’s delicious, Pam,” said Barb.

“Who wants more?” said Ken.

“I do,” said Roxy.

“Aren’t you becoming the man of the family,” Gillian said to Ken.

“Why don’t you have a husband, granny?” said Roxy.

“I did,” said Pam, “but he passed on.”

“He’d be your grandfather,” said Barb. 

“And mine, too,” said Brady.

“What happened to him?” said Roxy.

“I’ll tell you later,” said Pam.

“Did he die?” said Roxy.

“She said she’d tell you later,” said Barb.

“Why can’t you tell me now?” said Roxy.

“Because it’s not a nice story,” said Gillian. “And we’re trying to be nice.”

“What’s that blob on your sweater, Uncle Peter?” said Brady.

Peter looked down at his chest. “Potato,” he said.

“That was my fault,” said Monica. “As usual.”

“Why did you put potatoes on Uncle Peter’s sweater?” said Brady.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Monica, pushing back her chair. “Excuse me.”

“Do you want more turkey?” said Ken.

“No thanks,” said Monica as she passed through the kitchen.

“Why is Auntie Monica always sad?” said Roxy.

“She doesn’t have an easy life,” said Barb.

“Who does?” said Gillian.

“Like you would know,” said Ken.

“What gives you the right to judge?” said Gillian.

“Let’s not get started again,” said Pam.

“I’m finished,” said Brady, dropping his fork onto his plate. “Can I have dessert now?”

“Wait for the rest of us,” said Barb.

Brady looked down the table at Peter. “Hurry up, Uncle Peter,” he said.

“Does anyone want more?” said Ken.

“There’s more of everything,” said Pam.

Peter lifted his plate. “I could eat a little more turkey,” he said. “It’s delicious, Pam.”

“Oh, no,” Brady moaned. He leaned forward and buried his head in his arms.

“I’m going outside,” said Monica, who had reappeared in the kitchen. She squeezed past Barb and Brady’s chairs and went out onto the balcony. A draft blew through the room.

“Close the door,” said Ken as he took Peter’s plate and loaded it with turkey and potatoes.

Monica pulled the door closed.

“She should stop smoking,” said Gillian.

“You’d smoke too if you were in her shoes,” said Ken.

“Think of how much money she could save,” said Gillian.

“Not everything’s about money,” said Barb.

“Am I the only one having seconds?” said Peter.

Gillian held out her plate. “I’ll have that slice of dark meat,” she said.

“I want dessert,” said Brady.

“Don’t whine,” said Ken.

“What’s for dessert?” said Roxy.

“Apple pie,” said Pam. “And ice cream.”

When Peter finished eating, he stood up with his plate and lifted Pam’s, as well. “Stay where you are, Pam,” he said. “I’ll clear the dishes.”

“I’ll help,” said Ken. 

“There’s not enough room in the kitchen,” said Gillian.

“It’s so small,” said Pam, “compared to yours.”

“You’re right, mom,” said Ken. “Everything that Pam has is bigger and better than ours.”

“Fuck off, Ken,” Gillian muttered.

“Auntie Jilly said a bad word,” said Roxy.

“Will one of you get the pie out of the oven?” said Pam.

Peter and Ken returned to the table with the pie and a carton of ice cream.

“Does anyone not want pie?” said Pam.

“I do,” said Brady. “And ice cream.”

“Please,” said Barb.

“I guess you won’t get anything,” said Roxy.

“Why not?” said Brady.

“She said does anyone not want pie,” said Roxy. “And you said ‘I do’, which means you don’t want any. I’ll have his piece,” she said to Pam.

“That’s not fair,” said Brady.

“Where’s Monica?” said Peter.

“On the balcony,” said Gillian.

“I’ll get her,” said Barb. She stood up and went to the door, opening it just far enough to put her head out and tell her sister to come inside. “She’s not here,” Barb said. She opened the door farther, stepped onto the balcony. “Monica,” she said. 

Ken sprang from his chair and ran onto the balcony. Gillian and Peter hastened after them, followed by Pam and the two children. 

“Take them inside,” Gillian said to Pam. 

“I want to see,” said Roxy.

“Inside,” Gillian commanded.

Ken held Barb in his arms as she sobbed against his chest.

“We have to go down,” said Peter. 

“Call nine one one,” Gillian said to her mother as they slid their feet into their shoes and made their way out of the apartment. 

“What happened?” said Roxy.

Brady started to cry and didn’t stop until two police officers arrived at the apartment, a man and a woman. He couldn’t take his eyes off their guns.

#####

“She wasn’t really my sister-in-law,” said Gillian.

It was a Thursday night. She and Peter were having dinner at the Granite Club with Campbell Sifton and his wife, Clare. Gillian glanced around the room at the other club members, the white tablecloths, the discreet lighting, the uniformed wait staff moving silently across the deep blue carpet. Dining with the Siftons, Gillian felt as if she’d gained entry into a world of comfort and privilege far removed from the rough-edged tacky world that she’d known as a child. The Siftons were third-generation members of the club. Campbell was a corporate lawyer with Norton Rose. Clare had graduated from Wellesley, worked as an investment banker with RBC Dominion and sat on the boards of the National Ballet and the Art Gallery. Having earned their acceptance, Gillian felt a sense of accomplishment. She’d worked hard to refine herself from a suburban urchin into a worthy member of the city’s middle class. Upper middle, she would have said, even though she would never have made the faux pas of using that term to describe herself to people like the Siftons. 

She could see from their expressions that her story had caught their attention. No one in their circle talked openly about death or suicide, especially if it involved the police. If it happened at all in their lives, death happened in private. In families like the Siftons’, people talked about death in whispers, and corpses disappeared out the back door under cover of darkness. But now here was Gillian, rattling on about Monica’s suicide like a TV announcer describing a prize on a game show. Certainly, her story was more compelling than the customary conversations with the Siftons. Campbell usually talked about constitutional law. If Gillian or Peter expressed an opinion, Campbell would challenge it by droning on about arcane challenges to Hunter v. Southam or Mahe v. Alberta, leaving them floundering amidst the debris of their unsubstantiated assumptions. In fact, the Siftons were pompous bores, but Gillian tolerated them dutifully. After all, their pedigree more than compensated for any shortcomings in their behaviour.

“Such a selfish thing to do,” said Clare, when Gillian finished her story.

“I don’t think my sister-in-law will ever recover from the shock,” said Gillian.

“And she didn’t even wait till we’d had dessert,” Peter said. 

The Siftons smiled, thankful that Peter had lightened the mood with his zany sense of humour.

Bruce McDougall has worked in Toronto as an airport attendant, bouncer, taxi driver, social worker, newspaper reporter and freelance writer. He has published two collections of short stories (Porcupine’s Quill), a novel (Owl Canyon Press), a non-fiction novel about pro hockey (Goose Lane Editions), several biographies and a dozen business books. He is a graduate of Harvard College, where he was an editor of the Harvard Lampoon, and he attended the University of Toronto Law School. When Bruce was eight years old, his father drowned in Lake Ontario.