12.24.79

“We are all going to midnight mass and that’s all I want to hear about it!” she screamed loud enough for Santa, even Jesus, high in the heavens, to hear. That vein in her temple throbbed, seconds away from losing her feeble grip. Mom dragged us off to Mass because Babchi (Polish for Grandmother) insisted our problems stemmed from a lack of faith.

I passed my brother on the way to get dressed after spending a few minutes fussing over the tree. There was too much blue on the left, not enough green in the center. Babchi’s handmade ornaments glistened. Crystal beads sparkled without a hint of the pipe cleaners that strung them together. Santa’s helicopter flew, Frosty tobogganed, and Rudolph skated on a mirror. The star was store bought, God forbid. Mom hoped that Babchi would craft one like she had for her sisters, but Babchi played favorites. "Maybe if you spent less time in rehab, I could teach you to make your own," she'd remark.

The star stood out like E-Z Cheese slathered on filet mignon, but I didn’t care, too busy with my daily inventory of gifts. Should I pile them or was it taboo?

We staked out spaces under the tree. I took the left, Jess dead center. Kevin, too cool to care, flanked right by default, his gifts eventually flowed there as Jess and I delineated invisible borders.

Thirteen total. I preferred them spread out rather than piled up, tapered. I succeeded in staving off my burgeoning curiosity since that year I found my bounty hidden in the attic crawlspace. Christmas morning lacked the usual fanfare since I had ruined my own surprise. Not this year. I only peeked at one, the soft one, knowing full well it was a throw away, a pillow embroidered with a choo choo.

It was nine thirty. I’d just have to sit through Midnight Mass.

“You’re not wearing jeans to twelve o’clock mass!” she screamed into a cough, thick and robust, a cigarette dangling from her lip.

“Jesus Christ Ma, settle.” Kevin argued back.

“Don’t even. If Babchi sees you in those it’ll be my ass too.” she half joked, the fuck you half, the most endearing half. The other half feared Babchi as much as we did, as much as Dziadzia did. Grandpa was so afraid of her he had his own room in the attic of their two-family home. I'm convinced he’d live in the downstairs apartment, if Wujek didn’t already live there. We called him Uncle Wujek, uncle uncle, but I didn’t discover the redundancy until long after he passed.

The snow piled high on both sides of the road. My stepfather drove maddeningly slow, tired from chasing down shoplifters at the local Richdale he managed. He made the papers the day he chased one into oncoming traffic. The boy was hit, flew thirty feet, and was pronounced dead at the scene. I didn’t see it. I just saw my stepfather stand over the boy’s body, nudging Grim out to collect what was stolen. I hated him long before he proved what a retch he was, so I tried to forget the fact that his blood money probably paid for half the gifts under the tree, that and Dad’s alimony.

Tradition dictated we spend the evening at Cioci Franny’s, Mom’s sister. Babchi waited at the door to criticize each one of us before granting passage to the basement. Laughter reached us as we stood for inspection. Kevin’s hair was too long, shirt untucked, niechlujny (Slovenly). Sneakers over dress shoes would fall on Mom for letting him out of the house dressed like a Plucha (Slob). Being second afforded me the opportunity to tuck in my shirt. Still, I deserved a wallop for my year end report card that dubbed me unsatisfactory in all areas except gym.

Downstairs, I was greeted by Cioci Gladys whose husband, Henry, made a fortune unloading the family plumbing business. It cost him the love and loyalty of his two eldest sons who felt slighted after helping him build up its six figure price tag, only to be left out of the deal. As always, my eyes globed onto Gladys’s three carat ring, the subject of much contention among the females of the family, too showy for Mom, a built in pool with slide, to Cioci Franny.

Cioci Franny’s four boys milled about the room while Uncle Ray’s pickled finger waded through an icy glass of scotch, his hip stiffer than usual. Soon enough Santa would appear with the same stiff hip, slurring Ho Ho Ho’s, and passing out gifts.

After mass, while everyone slept, I crept down to the living room to lay on the sectional. Four more presents appeared, marked from Santa in Mom’s handwriting. The wind blew swaths of snow past the window. Being near the tree felt like standing inside Cioci Gladys’s diamond. Sleep seeds sprouted, weighing down my already heavy lids.

By dawn, the tree’s red hot bulbs threatened to snitch on me. A night away from bed was a major violation. I extinguished it before it could sing. I’d need piping hot coffee to appease the sleeping beast. She lay under a mound of blankets. I exchanged vices, a glass of melted ice and booze for the coffee and made sure her cigarettes were within reach. Jess woke. I left my offerings to join her in the living room, both of us held in limbo until Mom and Kev woke.

It was the one day a year that Kevin magnanimously let me wake him without flack or a beating. He even woke Mom. His imposing size and disposition lent him more and more freedom from her wrath.

I tried to saver opening them, but was weak. While Mom sipped hangover elixir and smoked, I sat amid torn paper and toys: Legos, Clash of the Titans action figures, Godzilla, and Stretch Armstrong, ging tinglers, flu floobers, tar tinkers, and who whobas.

In the end I raked in seventeen presents. Seventeen symbols that proved they loved me.

Only three hundred and sixty four shopping days left until they do it again…