Cottage for Sale, Must Be Moved (5 page)

*
IT’S A TWO-PARTY WEEKEND
. On Saturday, my mother and I drive to Worcester for the Big Family Christmas. The family, in this case, is my mother’s family, and the Big Christmas is just two days before the New Year. Sometimes we’re late and sometimes we’re early, but we never aim for the actual day. The location changes annually as well; this year, we gather at Jack’s house. My uncle Jack is the elder of his generation, the keeper of the family history, and the force behind most family reunions. He is also the reigning patriarch. It is a role he seems to enjoy. He likes to gather us together, to stand in the center of our family circle, to tell stories and give small speeches. If my uncle Bob were still alive, he would challenge Jack’s authority, but now it falls to his younger sisters—my mother and my aunt—to tease Jack when he takes the patriarchal thing too seriously.

On this day, Jack pulls me aside early in the gathering. “There are so many of us,” he says to me. “We only get together once a year now, and when we do, it’s hard to talk to everybody here. I think it would be nice if we got everyone in one room and each said a few words about our lives—you know, what we’ve been doing, what’s new. What do you think?”

I am the oldest of my generation, and though it doesn’t look like I’ll ever qualify for matriarch, I am honored that Jack has turned to me for my opinion before he makes the announcement to the larger group. But I am horrified by his idea, and I tell him so. He laughs. There is no dissuading him, and there is no Bob on hand to tell Jack he’s been working in human services too long. Jack has thought about this for some time. No, he doesn’t think his exercise sounds like a workshop-opener. He thinks it is a good way for all of us to get to know each other better. Yes, he’d like me on board, but he’ll go it alone if required. He is determined to host this show-and-tell session.

It’s after dinner when Jack gathers the family for his talking experiment. We are all squeezed into his family room, an addition with lots of windows and a view of the Worcester High School playing field in the distance. It’s time for the grab, the yearly and often controversial entertainment at our family gatherings. We select gifts from a stash in the center of the room, and then we do our best to trade our selections for something we’d like better. According to the rules of the grab, you are allowed to exchange the gift you choose for any gift you prefer, so long as that gift has been unwrapped before you take your turn. Number Nine can trade with Numbers One through Eight, for example, but Number Twenty-one has a larger selection of gifts to steal. Number One makes out best of all. After everything is open and displayed (you aren’t allowed to hide your gift if you like it, hoping no one will remember you have it), Number One gets to re-select from the full array of opened gifts.

There are at least two camps of grab participants: those who would never take a gift away from someone else just to get what they want, and those who are merciless, even going so far as to rob the children in the room. Then there are those who just hate the grab, period, and don’t want to play, and those who would rather give gifts as they wish and forget the grab trinkets, which nobody wants or needs. Finally, there are those among us—interestingly, this contingent consists mainly of cousins—who would prefer to skip the gift giving altogether and just visit. Perhaps because there is no clear majority opinion, the tradition of the grab continues. Year after year, we gather to be entertained by the surprises in the middle of the room and the horse trading that follows. Like many others in my family, I rarely take advantage of the rule that says I can exchange my gift with anyone who has gone before me. But I am always ready to participate in the consensual, often multiple, trades that occur after all the gifts have been selected.

“Before the grab,” Jack begins. He is standing in the center of the sunroom, a politician ready with his speech. “I thought it might be nice if we went around the room and said a few words about what we’re doing these days.” He pauses. “Now, I already know Kate’s opinion.” He nods in my direction and I make a face at him. “But I’ve been thinking how we don’t get to hear from everybody at these parties. And we miss what is happening in each other’s lives. My son-in-law, for example, just got promoted, and I bet he hasn’t mentioned that to anybody here. But we’d all like to congratulate him, and this would be a chance to do that.”

My aunt Rosemary jumps in. Though she works as a buyer for a defense contractor, she is trained as a psychotherapist. This is right up her alley. “Jack, you are so right.” She turns to my cousin’s husband. “Congratulations! That’s great!”

“It isn’t that I hate the idea, it’s only that I feel awkward,” I say.

I’m relieved when Jack does not suggest I go first as a way to alleviate my awkward feelings. Instead, he lets his son-in-law lead. Someone asks him what he does for a living, and we go from there. Even the little kids say something, with a little coaxing from their parents. Jack, who stays in touch with most of the people in the room, asks encouraging questions to nudge people along. To my mother, he says, “And you are active in the town now, too, right?” This leads her to speak about her work with the Cultural Council of which she is the chair, and which she neglected to mention when she mumbled something about being retired and “hanging in there on Cape Cod.”

When it is my turn, I feel nervous. Even as I listened to everyone speak, I thought about what I would say. I always feel a little bit the oddball at these gatherings. Forty-something and unmarried, no grandchildren to contribute, and a job that nobody really understands. Jack’s right in the sense that we know only pieces of each other, small items that are true, but in no way add up to the whole picture of our individual lives. I know my cousin’s husband as a great cook, a pie- and cookie-maker for family gatherings, an ex-Marine, but until a few minutes ago, I had no idea what he did in his civilian life. It is also clear from this exercise that we are a family of second-hand braggarts. None of us are inclined to announce our achievements; instead we let news travel through the family grapevine, mother to sister to son to wife. Today, Jack asks everyone to speak for himself, herself. It isn’t easy for any of us. But the questions people ask, the coaxing and talking, help every reluctant speaker along, and also provide evidence that everyone in this room genuinely cares about every other person here.

“I’m thinking of moving a cottage,” I begin when my turn comes. “I found it in the newspaper, and it is part of a cottage colony they are clearing out to make new homes. I want to attach it to my house and make it into my office. I’ve been looking into it all this week. There are a lot of issues with the town, and I don’t know yet how I’ll finance it.” No one speaks, and so I continue. “I’ve been running my business out of my bedroom for twelve years now.” There is laughter, and I realize that does sound funny. I go with it. “Even if this doesn’t work out,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect, ready to overstate my goal, “I am determined to get my business out of my bedroom this year.” Everyone is laughing again. I smile, and I sense the power of stating my intentions to the twenty-something assembled relatives in the room. Hearing myself speak the words, I realize I am determined, and that I am going to do my best to make this cottage thing happen.

Questions follow, which I do my best to answer, and then we move on to the next family member, and the next and the next. When we finally begin the grab, it is with a new spirit of knowing and curiosity about each other. Jack’s genius is apparent as we help ourselves to dessert and coffee. In smaller groups now, we are quizzing each other, asking more questions, telling stories and laughing, pleased to learn more about the strangers we call family.

“Great idea you had,” I say to Jack, as I give him a good-bye hug.

“Keep me posted about that cottage.”*

*
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY,
Bruce arrives on a midmorning ferry to help with the preparations. I love to cook when I have the time, and Bruce has the patience to act as sous-chef on the long days of cooking madness that precede any event I host. But he is not always comfortable in the chaos I create in the kitchen. Today, Bruce is horrified when I drop dried cranberries next to the pecans on top of the goat cheese rounds. It looks so pretty and festive, and I am pretty sure the tastes and textures will work well—sharp with tangy, rice cracker–crunchy with white-cheese smooth. We’ll heat them later, so they can be served warm.

Tony arrives next, with his significant, Anna. We chat for a few minutes before I ferry Bruce, Tony, and Anna to the bed-and-breakfast around the corner. I am putting up my off-Cape guests overnight. You don’t need to do that, they told me, but I feel rich at the moment. Though I mostly work for independent bookstore owners, I’ve been working almost full-time on a high-tech project for the last three months. My big-business client owes me a bundle of money. In three more months, I’ll be back to making my project-to-project, hand-to-mouth living, but for the moment, I feel the security of a soon-to-be-paid contractor. I want to share the wealth with friends. And I don’t want them driving back to Boston in the wee hours of the next century. Call it a bout of Y2K paranoia.

In the wider world, there are warnings about terrorist plots; the survivalists are in full gear; and emergency workers will be on alert overnight, just in case something horrible happens. There are some who believe the world is going to end tonight, but most people are just worried their computers won’t work tomorrow. I’m pretty sure there will be a world in the morning, but I think I’ll stay off the Internet after midnight. I’ve brought in extra firewood to keep us warm if the power grid fails, I am well stocked with candles, and I’ve made sure we’ll have plenty of leftovers. I’m thinking God doesn’t work on Earth-time, but if lightning or terrorists or electronic madness strikes at 12:01, I’m glad I’ll be surrounded by friends.

Tina calls from the bus stop, and I make a run to pick her up while Bruce keeps his eye on the kitchen. She is a flight attendant for American Airlines. She flew in from London this afternoon, and she is “on reserve” for New Year’s Day. That means Tina could be called for a trip in the dead of the night and be forced to leave the Cape by 4:00 for a 6:00
A.M.
sign-in. We’ve worked this out already. Harry has offered to take her to the airport, whenever she needs to go. “I hardly sleep anyway,” he says. “It isn’t a problem. I’ll just take you on up, and then maybe I’ll go to an early mass.” I am pretty sure that Harry has a crush on Tina, but it is also true that Harry has offered just because he’s a genuinely good guy. An early-morning ride to Boston, I think, will be the perfect way for Tina to find that out. I am hoping for romance.

I am not normally a matchmaker, but Tina is a special case. I want to encourage her to begin dating. She is twenty-eight, and her sweetheart died about a year and a half ago—unexpectedly, prematurely, far away from home. He was my friend and colleague and we were working together on a project in Hong Kong. I met Tina when I picked her up at the Hong Kong airport, delivering her to his side. The sad circumstances of our meeting explain why our friendship, though not old in years, is deep in meaning.

Now Tina sits on the stool by the counter and writes out the Wish Angel names in big block letters. She and Bruce share a passion for the movies, and they are speaking in a language I barely understand, filled with names of directors and actors I do not recognize. I am cin-illiterate. Bruce, I register, as I listen to them, also has a small crush on Tina. Anyone would have a crush on Tina. She is beautiful, with big brown eyes that give a clue to her deeply sweet nature. I know Bruce well enough to believe he probably won’t act on his infatuation. I know Harry well enough to hope that he will.

The 9:30 start of this party means that I have time to change out of my cooking clothes before the other guests arrive. Often when I cook, I end up wearing my garlic-infused clothes to the table. Tony and Anna return, feeling pleased with the progress of their Cape Cod mini-vacation.

We are moving from the kitchen to the living room when Harry pounds his big Harry fists on the front door, not a request to be answered, but only a signal he is about to open the door. He’s just played a First Night gig in Providence. When he sees the spread, he curses himself for eating Burger King on the drive up. I reassure him he can just nibble tonight and eat leftovers tomorrow. Because he calls me the Leftover Queen, Harry finds this an acceptable, even welcome, fate.

We eat and we drink and we talk, talk, talk. We are few enough to talk as a group, but there are enough of us to break into smaller conversations. Bruce and Tony catch up with each other. They know each other from the BU Bookstore days, but aren’t in regular touch. Tina chats quietly with Anna, Tony’s young love. Anna is from Italy and her gentle beauty matches her lilting accent exactly. Tony seems happy around Anna, and we are all happy for that. I watch Harry watch Tina, and I am pretty sure my hunch is right. And I feel good about the Wish Angel thing, too. Everybody is circulating, I notice, and everybody is talking to everybody else. It is a slightly mixed group of old and new friends, and they are all getting along. It is possible to throw a lot of wonderful people (who don’t know each other) into the same room with not-so-great results. So far, so good, I think.

Around quarter to twelve, pens in hand, I remind everyone to write their wishes. People scatter to odd corners of the house, needing privacy for their compositions. “Is this all right for Bruce?” his angel asks me, because she has met him for the first time this evening. With her intuition as a guide, she has wished him well. Tina, too, shows me her wish for Harry, which is more than perfect, and filled with details she has learned from me. Another guest shares her wish for Bruce’s angel with me, and I nod a secret approval just as her wishee walks by. Anna does not check with me, perhaps because we have met only a few times, or perhaps she is my Angel. None of the men ask for advice, either. They write in silence.