America America (18 page)

It was probably just after six now. But the midwinter darkness made it seem later, and the temperature was well below freezing. In my undershirt I leaned back against the door and waited for the connection. The number I used rang in the long mudroom behind the kitchen, where Mr. Metarey liked to tinker and where Gil McKinstrey did his inside work. I assumed Gil was still out at the tree or putting things away in the barn, but if he answered, I would just ask about tomorrow. And if Mr. Metarey did, as I hoped, I had several new ideas: they hadn’t yet split a pile of walnut behind the barn, and I’d seen a beam in the garage that was starting to rot. I even considered offering to replace the burnt-out bulbs in the tree, despite the fact that I didn’t know how to use climbing spurs and even though I knew it was something Mr. Metarey would never do. I could see my mother watching from inside.

But it was Christian who picked up the phone. “Good,” she said right off, “it’s you.” Before I had a chance to say anything else, she said, “We’re having a dinner tonight. Are you free?”

For some reason I was embarrassed to tell her we’d already eaten. “I thought you were skiing,” I said.

“We just got back. Can you make it over?”

“A dinner?” In all the time we’d known each other she’d never invited me for a meal in their house. It seemed like a line between our two families, drawn by both of us. “What kind of dinner?” I said. I knew they ate late. It was something my mother had commented on.

“It’s Andrew’s birthday.”

“Oh. He’s back, then?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Actually…” she said. She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“He’s been shipped out.”

“He’s what?”

“He left Fort Dix. Day before yesterday.”

“He did? Where to?”

“Where do you think, Corey?”

I was quiet, thinking of him on the sailboat.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s all right.”

Through the door, I saw my mother set down her work.

“Are your parents worried?”

“He’s not going to the jungle,” she answered. “He’s going to a medical base. He’ll be a long way from the fighting.” In a low voice she said, “I think my father did that.”

“That’s good.”

I pushed on the door to make sure it was closed.

“But still,” she said.

“I know.”

“Anyway,” she said after a moment, “Mother wants to have a little party for him.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“He’d want you here.”

As soon as we hung up, I hurried upstairs to my room and put on a pair of corduroys and my good shirt, which I found ironed on a hanger. As it happened, I’d bought a Christmas present for Christian at school, and one for her mother, too. I went to the back of the closet to get them out. I don’t know why I’d bought one for Mrs. Metarey—I doubted I’d have the courage to give it to her—but at the time I’d found it, in a gift shop near the Dunleavy train station, it had somehow seemed right. And now, of course, as I dressed, I saw that it was prophetic: a medallion of Saint Sebastian. The patron saint of soldiers. I took it from the box and shined it between my fingers. Sebastian was tied to a tree, but the arrows hadn’t yet hit him. That was a relief. I thought she would appreciate the fact. Christian’s present was a pumpkin-colored scarf that Astor’s older sister had pointed out to me one afternoon in the same store where I’d bought the medallion.

By the time I arrived at the estate, they were already at the table. Much of the staff must have been on vacation, and at the door one of the cooks let me in. He took my coat, which had the presents in it, and hung it. Things seemed odd immediately. It was a birthday party for someone who wasn’t there; that was one thing. The conversation at the table paused as I crossed the atrium from the front door. I could actually hear my steps on the marble floor. Christmas was only two days away, and still there was no tree in the house. That was another. At least no tree downstairs, and no presents anywhere I could see except for one wrapped box at an empty place at the table, which I saw when I reached the dining room. This I understood was for Andrew. I took the seat across from it, which was set with a dish and a wineglass.

“Hello, Corey,” June Metarey said right off. “You’ll see that my husband doesn’t believe in Christmas.”

“He does believe in it,” said Christian. “Just not the modern version. Hi, Corey.”

“Welcome,” said Mr. Metarey.

“Hi, everybody.”

“Hark the herald angels sing,” said Clara.

That’s when I realized I hadn’t brought anything for
her
.

“I was just saying that Christmas is a commercial profanity,” said Mr. Metarey. “I’ve always believed that.”

“Lovely,” said Mrs. Metarey. “Wine, Corey?”

“And I’m saying it doesn’t have to be,” answered Christian.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Metarey. “It doesn’t. And we all do help out, don’t we? Christian’s going to her cousin’s in New York City, for example.” He filled his wife’s wineglass. “To work in a soup kitchen.” He looked at Clara. “And Clara’s going to volunteer next week at the old people’s home.”

“Volunteer?” said Clara.

“And Mrs. Metarey’s already raised a nice amount for St. Jude’s.”

“To hopeless causes!” said Clara, tilting her glass.

“By the way,” said Liam Metarey. “Thank you for helping with the tree today. I hope Gil appreciated it.”

“You’re welcome, sir. I wasn’t any help.”

I should say that the mood didn’t seem at all caustic, even though it might sound that way. Everyone actually seemed rather jovial—especially considering the circumstances. Except for Clara, who seemed to have keyed herself that night to some mysteriously taut emotional pitch. The others were speaking in something like amused voices, and Churchill sat on the carpet near the door with a red ribbon tied around his neck. Every now and then Mr. Metarey’s fingers reached up behind his wife’s chair to play with the ends of her hair. The cook who had let me in stood just outside the dining room door, in the hallway that led to the kitchen. I could see him whenever I leaned back in my seat.

“Corey, do you drink wine at home?” asked Mrs. Metarey.

“Churchill deems that unlikely,” said Clara.

“Well in either case you’re welcome to have some,” said Mr. Metarey. Then he added, “Or there’s juice.”

“I can bring juice,” the cook said from the hallway.

“I think he’d prefer wine.”

“Then would you pour him some Bordeaux, please, Clara?”

“Here,” she said, handing me the bottle.

At that point in my life, I’d only drunk wine from a jug, at the lime quarry. I must have poured it very close to the rim.

“That’s nice,” Clara said, looking over at me as soon as I’d finished. She lifted her own glass. “To getting your money’s worth.”

Christian cleared her throat. “And Dad’s been working with orphanages in Southeast Asia.”

“To hopeless causes again!”

“In Vietnam and Laos. It’s terrible,” said Mr. Metarey. “Worst for those kids. They need anything we can give.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Metarey.

“This is what we try to do around Christmastime,” he said. “Rather than just buy more things for one another, we try to spread around some of the good fortune we already have.” He looked around the table, and when his eyes came to mine he winked. “And I do give some presents, too,” he said, “despite what they say.”

“Small ones, Daddy,” said Christian.

“Not all of them,” he answered, looking at me again.

Then we ate. It was a prime rib, carved by the cook. There were brussels sprouts, too, and potatoes cut thinly, and some kind of greens I’d never seen before. It didn’t stop me that I’d already had dinner. Whenever I finished something, the cook moved up behind me and placed more onto my plate. He also poured more wine. Near the end of the main course, Churchill rose, strolled over to my seat, and sat down at my feet.

“It’s okay,” said Christian, “you can give him something.”

“He wants his Christmas gift,” said Mrs. Metarey.

“Has he done his volunteering?” said Clara.

“He wrapped all the presents,” said Christian.

I could see the dog looking up at me from next to the chair, his pale eyes troubled by desire. I cut a small piece of meat and held it below the table.

He thumped his tail on the rug but didn’t rise.

“He likes it cooked a little more,” said Christian.

“Two thumps means a well-done slice,” said Clara.

And that’s what Churchill did then: he thumped his tail twice.

Growing up, I’d never had a dog. I didn’t know what to do with the meat I was holding alongside my seat, so I just held it there a few inches in front of his snout. “I’m not sure I have a well-done piece,” I said. With my fork in the other hand I lifted the prime rib on my plate. “I don’t,” I said. “All I have is medium rare.”

“Church,” Clara said, lowering her head, “would you think of taking one medium rare?”

Again, two thumps.

“Oh, well,” said Clara. “You heard him.”

“Church is a little picky,” said Christian. “But I suppose it’s about time you saw what he’s really like.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Metarey, “and at last you see what my two girls are really like.”

I looked over at him. “Sir?”

“Take it, Church,” he said.

In an instant the meat was plucked from my palm. Then the dog ambled over to the door and sat licking his chops.

“Ah,” said Clara. “At last”—she sipped her wine and bumped the glass down on the table—“at last you see what my father’s like.”

Mrs. Metarey let out a laugh like a sneeze.

“Touché,” said Mr. Metarey.

After the main course, the cook brought out a salad. And after that he brought out a tray of figs, which I’d never seen before. The Metareys’ ate them with strange distaste, like vitamins, and when they were finally done, or at least when their haphazard eating seemed finally to have petered out, Christian set down her glass. “Three thumps,” she said, “means it’s time to give And his present.”

“Four thumps means he’d like Corey to do it,” said Mrs. Metarey.

We all looked over at the dog, who did nothing.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Metarey. “Corey, would you be kind enough?”

He pointed at the wrapped box across from me. I’m not sure how much Bordeaux I’d had by then, since the cook had kept my glass full, but I rose from the chair and went around the table to Andrew’s seat. I’m also not sure how I knew what I was supposed to do, but without hesitation I unwrapped the present and set aside the paper. Inside the box was a leather jacket.

“My father’s,” Mr. Metarey said. “He used to wear it crossing the Atlantic.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” said Mrs. Metarey.

“I thought And should have it.”

Again, I knew what was expected of me. It fit, although a little tightly across the shoulders. The material was a soft leather, finely cracked in places but still dark brown and supple, set with rows of tarnished brass snaps. I stood so they could all look at it. Then I took it off, hung it over the back of the chair, and went back to my own seat. The family continued to gaze across the table at Andrew’s place. Mr. Metarey nodded his head.

“Happy birthday, Andrew,” said Christian.

“Happy birthday, Andrew,” we all said.

“May the wind be always at your back, And,” said Mr. Metarey.

“Hear! Hear!”

We sat then in silence. Churchill rose, padded across the room, and lay down next to Andrew’s seat.

“Isn’t Vietnam tropical?” Clara said at last.

Mrs. Metarey said, “It gets cold there at night. He can wear it then.”

Suddenly I said, “I brought something for you, too, Christian.”

“How nice of you,” said Mrs. Metarey.

I wasn’t exactly drunk, but I wasn’t exactly sober, either. I went quickly to the hall for my coat. “For
you
,” I said, taking the slim box from the pocket and sliding it across the table toward her.

Christian looked around. I could see that she was embarrassed. But when she unwrapped the scarf and held it up, I had the feeling that she was happy with it. She held it to her neck.

“Ravishing,” said Mrs. Metarey. “Truly.”

“Beautiful,” said Liam Metarey.

“It is,” I said. She’d wrapped it now so that it crossed in front of her clavicle.

After a moment, Clara said, “Who helped you find it?”

“Clara—” said her mother.

“I don’t know if I’d answer this one, Corey,” said Mr. Metarey.

“Don’t you think I could have picked it out myself?”

“Well, actually—no.” It was Christian speaking now. “Now that you mention it—no, I don’t think so.” She held up her own glass for the cook to refill and looked at me around the side of it. “But thank you anyway. It’s lovely.”

“To a job in the Bonwiller administration!”

“Clara,” Mrs. Metarey said again.

“Let Corey be,” said Christian.

“I could say the same for you, Christian.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clara turned to me. “Didn’t you bring anything for Father?”

“Clara Metarey!”

Clara, strangely, came near to tears then. I don’t know why. I saw them gather in her eyes.

“Both of you,” said Mr. Metarey in a low voice.

That’s when I took the other box from my pocket. I don’t know how much this gesture ended up meaning in my life. “And this is for Clara,” I said, pushing it across the tablecloth.

She looked at me, blinking.

“How kind of you, Corey,” said Mr. Metarey.

“I’d say diplomatic, Daddy,” said Christian.

Clara picked it up. She smiled nervously. The shine was still in her eyes. Then she pretended to weigh the box in her hand. Finally, she opened it. St. Sebastian lay on his cotton bed. But the surprising thing was that when she lifted the clasp so that the pendant slid down the chain into her other palm, the tears welled over and came down her cheeks.

“We’re all tired,” said Mr. Metarey, rising and moving around the table to put his arm over her shoulder. Churchill got up, too, and pressed himself against her. “We’re all worried about And. But he’s going to be fine, sweetheart. And’ll be right back here next Christmas.”

I was still looking at Clara. She wouldn’t look back at me, but the tears were still there. I realized I didn’t know the first thing about her.