EXPLODED AROUND 2 A.M.; RESCUERS UNABLE TO FIGHT WAY THROUGH FLAMES; PITIFUL SHRIEKS HEARD FROM UPSTAIRS BEDROOM; NEIGHBORS PLACE MEMORIAL WREATHS AT SITE; “A NICE FAMILY,” SAYS ONE, “KEPT TO THEMSELVES BUT ALWAYS FRIENDLY AND WILLING TO HELP.”
Mother checked the Christmas tree frequently for signs of combustion and he tried to tell her that he wanted to quit choir forever as she poured fresh water into the tree stand and snapped off dry branches. Meanwhile Daddy was ranting and raving about money. “I will never understand to the end of my born days,” he said, “how someone can leave a room without turning off the light. How much exertion does it take to reach up and snap off a light switch? You must think we are Hollywood stars made of money to see this house with lights blazing at night.”
Mother heard the word “blazing” and shuddered at the thought. A Christmas tree blazing up and burning down your house. The irony of it: you bring a thing of beauty and magic into your home, and it turns around and kills you. The lights left on too long, the tree not properly watered, the family exhausted from the festivities, and in the wee hours— poof! spontaneous combustion! A deadly conflagration. The family vaporized. She felt weak in the knees and had to sit down. And then felt sick to her stomach.
Daddy looked at the stack of presents under the tree and cried out, “You’ve gone mad! You must think I am made of money! What possessed you, woman? I am only a municipal employee. I am not Santa Claus.”
And that was the year she gave James a dictionary for Christmas that had been owned by someone else. He was hoping for a telescope, a pair of Bass Weejuns, sunglasses, a transistor radio, a pair of cords, but he got a used dictionary. Wrapped up in used Christmas wrapping with old creases in it. A used dictionary and inside you could see where someone had erased the words Monique, Happy Birthday . He showed it to Mother and she said, “Oh.” That was all she said. Oh.
Projectile vomiting was going on upstairs in the little frame house and the smell of Lysol was heavy in the air. Elaine and Benny were sicker than dogs, moaning in their twin beds, feverish, achy, nauseated, a basin by the bed into which they yorked up their Rye-Krisp and ginger ale. James stood in the door and told them to forget about Christmas. “You expect Santa to come and get your germs and spread them to every other boy and girl on this planet so that there is a mass epidemic of vomiting and diarrhea all over the world? What sort of Christmas would that be? Santa coming down the chimney and leaving your germs and the boys and girls wake up in the morning in a pool of green poop? Of course Santa isn’t going to come. Forget about it.” They put their hot little faces into their pillows and sobbed heart-wrenching sobs and he went downstairs and soon began to feel queasy.
And just then, as he heard Mother pour buttermilk into a bowl to make custard, the Dark Angel touched his shoulder and he had to dash to the bathroom—and the door was locked. He knocked. Daddy said, “Go away.” So he had to dash outdoors and there, in the snow, it exploded out of him at both ends. Oh my. Oh dear. Stomach and bowels. Chunks of many colors. He scooped up snow to hide the disgrace but it soaked right in. He took off his pants and heaved them out into the dark, into a deep snowbank, and washed himself with snow, and snuck into the house full of Christmas lights and radio choirs and slunk up to his bed and spent two days of invalidism, lying very quietly, not eating anything or thinking about eating or wanting to hear about anybody eating, feeling like the object of a cruel experiment.
It was very quiet. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you all right?” There was a groan from inside. “Would you like a ginger ale? Some toast and tea?”
“No,” she said. She opened the door. She had washed her face and she looked up at him all beautiful
Mother checked the Christmas tree frequently for signs of combustion and he tried to tell her that he wanted to quit choir forever as she poured fresh water into the tree stand and snapped off dry branches. Meanwhile Daddy was ranting and raving about money. “I will never understand to the end of my born days,” he said, “how someone can leave a room without turning off the light. How much exertion does it take to reach up and snap off a light switch? You must think we are Hollywood stars made of money to see this house with lights blazing at night.”
Mother heard the word “blazing” and shuddered at the thought. A Christmas tree blazing up and burning down your house. The irony of it: you bring a thing of beauty and magic into your home, and it turns around and kills you. The lights left on too long, the tree not properly watered, the family exhausted from the festivities, and in the wee hours— poof! spontaneous combustion! A deadly conflagration. The family vaporized. She felt weak in the knees and had to sit down. And then felt sick to her stomach.
Daddy looked at the stack of presents under the tree and cried out, “You’ve gone mad! You must think I am made of money! What possessed you, woman? I am only a municipal employee. I am not Santa Claus.”
And that was the year she gave James a dictionary for Christmas that had been owned by someone else. He was hoping for a telescope, a pair of Bass Weejuns, sunglasses, a transistor radio, a pair of cords, but he got a used dictionary. Wrapped up in used Christmas wrapping with old creases in it. A used dictionary and inside you could see where someone had erased the words Monique, Happy Birthday . He showed it to Mother and she said, “Oh.” That was all she said. Oh.
Projectile vomiting was going on upstairs in the little frame house and the smell of Lysol was heavy in the air. Elaine and Benny were sicker than dogs, moaning in their twin beds, feverish, achy, nauseated, a basin by the bed into which they yorked up their Rye-Krisp and ginger ale. James stood in the door and told them to forget about Christmas. “You expect Santa to come and get your germs and spread them to every other boy and girl on this planet so that there is a mass epidemic of vomiting and diarrhea all over the world? What sort of Christmas would that be? Santa coming down the chimney and leaving your germs and the boys and girls wake up in the morning in a pool of green poop? Of course Santa isn’t going to come. Forget about it.” They put their hot little faces into their pillows and sobbed heart-wrenching sobs and he went downstairs and soon began to feel queasy.
And just then, as he heard Mother pour buttermilk into a bowl to make custard, the Dark Angel touched his shoulder and he had to dash to the bathroom—and the door was locked. He knocked. Daddy said, “Go away.” So he had to dash outdoors and there, in the snow, it exploded out of him at both ends. Oh my. Oh dear. Stomach and bowels. Chunks of many colors. He scooped up snow to hide the disgrace but it soaked right in. He took off his pants and heaved them out into the dark, into a deep snowbank, and washed himself with snow, and snuck into the house full of Christmas lights and radio choirs and slunk up to his bed and spent two days of invalidism, lying very quietly, not eating anything or thinking about eating or wanting to hear about anybody eating, feeling like the object of a cruel experiment.
It was very quiet. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you all right?” There was a groan from inside. “Would you like a ginger ale? Some toast and tea?”
“No,” she said. She opened the door. She had washed her face and she looked up at him all beautiful
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