My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories (27 page)

She wasn’t sure how to repair things now, either, but as the food sat there untouched, a glaring reproach, she knew she had to. Russell had already rescued the first half of the evening. Not just by making her laugh and getting her away from a possible sweater orgy, but by giving her some space to be herself again. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that. Of all the things and people she missed lately, it was odd to find herself at the top of the list.

She took a deep breath and out of the silence said: “What I was going to say before was that I thought you were like me.”

He looked at her again, which was something, but it was clear from his foggy expression he didn’t get what she meant.

So Sophie told him what she hadn’t told anyone else here, though she knew it was nothing to be ashamed of. It was something to be proud of.

“
I’m
on scholarship. I guess I thought—hoped—that if you were too, it meant you might be like me.”

The silence between them stretched. Sophie wasn’t sure her admission had done anything to save the night, though it had righted something in her. But then Russell said, “Who says I’m not?”

He slid the cheesy pie across the table toward her. She was unsure if this was a challenge or an olive branch. Either way, she picked up her fork, and though the pie looked profoundly unappetizing—the cheese had bubbled into a blister—she took a small, tentative bite.

And. Oh. My. God.

The sharp tang of the cheddar brought out the hint of savory in the crust, and contrasted with the sweetness of the apples. And then there was the collage of consistencies: gooey, crumbly, juicy, all of it warm.

She took another forkful, larger this time. Russell watched her. He seemed amused. She took a third bite. Now he was smiling, a sort of shit-eating grin.

“What?” Sophie asked.

“Thinking I won that bet,” Russell said.

*   *   *

They demolished the pie and most of the hash browns. They weren’t too bad with the cottage cheese, after all. Pretty soon all that was left was a sad lump of ice cream. When the check came, Sophie reached for her bag. Russell shook his head.

“I was planning on paying when I thought you were rich, so wouldn’t it be patronizing to let you split it now?”

Sophie laughed at that. “Wait, you thought
I
was rich?”

Russell quirked an eyebrow and attempted to look bashful.

“So, does that make us even?” she asked.

“Not really keeping score,” Russell said. “But it does make things interesting.” He laid a pair of twenties on the table.

“Thank you,” Sophie said. “For everything. But especially for the latkes. Those will probably be my only ones this year.”

“Why’s that?”

“Tonight is the last night of Hanukkah. The latke window is closing.”

“Aren’t you going home for the holidays?”

“I’ll be home for Christmas and New Years but no, not Hanukkah this year.”

“Why not?”

Sophie paused, wondering which way to answer that. “Two hundred and sixty-seven dollars,” she said finally.

She told him that this was how much the price of tickets dropped if she left next week. Sophie had fought with her mother about this, which was unusual. She was accustomed to frugality. It had always been that way, a matter of necessity with just the two of them and her mother’s slender income. But also because any surplus had gone to Sophie’s college fund. Then last winter, right as Sophie was filling out her applications, Luba had a stroke. She’d lingered in a sort of twilight and neither Sophie nor her mother could bear to put her in one of those public nursing homes (they were so Soviet). When she died, five months later, Sophie’s college savings was history. NYU had said yes, but Sophie’s dream school was suddenly exorbitant, even with a financial aid package. Then U of B came along with its generous offer.

Sophie’s mom hadn’t been able to fly her home for Thanksgiving. And now, this latest postponement. These were the first holidays with Luba gone. Sophie wondered if that wasn’t the real reason for the delay. Maybe her mom wanted to skip the holidays this year. Maybe Sophie did, too.

Thinking about all this, Sophie started to cry. Oh, for Christ’s sake.
This
most certainly qualified as a
What the Hell Have You Done, Sophie Roth?
moment.

“You okay?” Russell asked.

“Holiday stuff,” Sophie said, wiping her nose. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. Hanukkah’s lame. Who cares if I miss it?”

Russell was looking at her. Curiously. Softly. Knowingly.

“Who says you’re missing it?”

*   *   *

Since they’d started this Hanukkah thing, Sophie and Russell decided to see it through, by lighting the menorah she had buried somewhere in her closet. It was Luba’s. The last time they’d used it was a year ago, just before the stroke. Hanukkah had come crazy early, colliding with Thanksgiving, so they’d had a huge feast: turkey and brisket and latkes and potatoes and donuts and pie for desert. But Sophie could only allow herself to think about that for a second. Summoning those memories was like touching a burning pot. She could do it only briefly before she had to pull away.

As they drove back to campus, Sophie realized that though she had a menorah, she didn’t have candles. They drove to the grocery store on the outskirts of town. It was empty, the aisles small, the floors dingy and scuffed. Russell pushed Sophie around in a rickety cart as the tired stock boys watched them warily. Sophie whooped with laughter. Grocery-cart derby. Who knew that would make such an excellent dating activity? (And by now, she was pretty sure this
was
a date.)

The candle selection was unsurprisingly pathetic. A whole shelf of plug-ins, an odd assortment of birthday numbers (4 and 7 were disproportionately represented) and some glass emergency candles, meant for blackouts and other catastrophes. Nothing that would remotely fit a menorah.

Russell had his phone out, searching for stores that would be open this late. But Sophie was already reaching for the emergency candles. “This holiday is about being adaptable,” she said. “My people are notoriously scrappy.”

“I can see that,” Russell said. “So how many we need?”

“Nine,” said Sophie. “Eight for the eight nights of Hanukah, plus an extra lighter candle. If we’re being official about it.”

There were nine emergency candles on the shelf.

“Wow,” said Sophie. “That’s almost like the actual Hanukkah miracle.” She explained the origins of the holiday, the oil in the menorah that should’ve lasted a single night lasting eight. “It’s really only a minor miracle,” she added.

Russell looked at her and cocked his head. “Not sure there is such a thing as a minor miracle.”

*   *   *

They drove from the store back to campus.
Let It Bleed
was still playing, and they put “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” on again. This time, Sophie sang along, quietly at first, then belting the words. If she was off-key, she didn’t care.

*   *   *

Back on campus, after Russell parked his car, they walked through the quad toward Sophie’s dorm. It was empty now, no sign of the reindeer orgy they’d escaped. That all felt like a million years ago.

“Why’d you talk to me earlier?” Sophie asked. “Was it really because of Ned Flanders?”

“Partly,” Russell said, stretching the word out in a way that made Sophie want to scratch it.

“What’s the other part?”

“You don’t remember me then?”

Remember him? She would if there was a reason to. She was sure of it. Except he was looking at her like they had a history.

“Poetry Survey.”

Sophie had only been in that class for a week. She’d
hated
it so much. It wasn’t even taught by a professor, but a TA with a nasal twang who had insisted on very specific interpretations of the poems. She and Sophie had gotten into it about the Yeats poem “When You Are Old.” It was yet another
What the Hell Have You Done, Sophie Roth?
moment, a big one. One that made her question coming here.

“I regretted not going to bat for you when you had your … disagreement.”

Disagreement. More like a war of words. She and the TA had debated about one line from the poem—“How many loved your moments of glad grace”—and Sophie had found herself on the verge of tears. She’d had to leave the hall before the period ended. She’d dropped the class the next day.

“If it makes you feel better, after that, a bunch of us started challenging her,” Russell said. “‘Poetry isn’t math’ was our battle cry.”

It was what Sophie had said to the TA. A sort of retroactive relief—or maybe vindication?—crept over her. She’d had defenders in that class. Wingmen. Even if she hadn’t noticed them. Hadn’t noticed
him.
The truth was, she didn’t notice a lot of things at school. She kept her head down, wore blinders. It was a survival tactic. Only now did she wonder if it was a stupid survival tactic, like wearing a life jacket made of lead.

“I asked about you, after the class. Got some intel, about you being big city and all,” he said with a teasing smile. “But I never spotted you for more than a blur. Until tonight … I was debating saying something. You were looking pretty fierce, not fit for company.” He grinned again, but it was different, less oozy, more shy, and about a thousand times sexier. “But then you mentioned Ned Flanders, and I
had
to say something.”

“What? Is Ned like your spirit guide?”

He laughed. That big, open-chested laugh. “We lived all over, sometimes moving every year. All the places I lived,
The Simpsons
was like this one constant. They had it everywhere, sometimes it’d be English, sometimes dubbed, didn’t matter. It was my comfort food.”

“You make it sound sad,” Sophie said. “Living all those places sounds pretty great to me.”

“Things are not always how they seem.”

The look they exchanged was like a road map of the history they’d already traversed tonight. “So what was it
really
like?” Sophie asked.

“Ever see that movie
Lost In Translation
?” Sophie nodded. She loved that film. “Like that, over and over. But times a thousand because I’m black in places where they just don’t get black. In Korea, they called me Obama.” He sighed. “Before Obama’s presidency, I was Michael Jordan.”

“Is that why you came to school here?” Sophie asked. “Because you knew what to expect?”

Russell looked at her a while before answering. “Yeah. Some of that. Also, to piss off my parents. They thought I was crazy for coming here, but I thought I was making a grand statement. Like, hey, this is how it’s always been for me so I’m just going to go back for more.” He laughed, a little sadder this time. “Only problem is, they never got that and even if they did, being here isn’t really punishing them. Beyond the expensive tuition.” He threw up his hands. “Well, at least they’ve got a good journalism program.”

“And an excellent liberal arts curriculum,” Sophie added.

“And beautiful big-city girls who talk to themselves about Ned Flanders.”

“Right. I read about them in the catalog,” Sophie said, a little flustered by the
beautiful
comment. Also by the fact that they’d reached her dorm. “This is me.”

Russell took her hand. It was warm. “Ready to get your Hanukkah on?”

“Okily dokily,” Sophie said.

*   *   *

The suite was empty. Kaitlynn, Madison, and Cheryl had already left for the holidays, though they’d littered the suite with holiday cheer. Being in here alone with Russell, Sophie was suddenly knee-shakingly nervous, so she started talking in the same rapid-fire
bap-bap-bap
as Madison’s blinking lights. “And here is our fake tree, threaded with the traditional offerings of popcorn and candy canes. And you’ll notice the tinsel everywhere, not sure what that symbolizes, and that Santa balloon is made out of vintage Mylar. And if you breathe deep, you’ll catch a whiff of pine-scented potpourri. Welcome to the land where Christmas threw up.”

She was trying to carry on the joke of the Rudolph sweaters. But maybe it was a testament to how far they’d come tonight that the joke fell flat.

“Show me where you live,” Russell said softly.

Sophie’s quarter of the suite was like that thing on
Sesame Street
: One of these things is not like the other. No posters or corkboards with friendship collages. On her bookshelf she had a framed shot of Zora, an old shot of Luba looking glamorous and kind of mean, and a picture of her and her mother on a gondola in Venice. They’d had the same gondolier a bunch of times and he’d taken to calling her
Sophia,
crooning a song in Italian to her.

Russell was looking at the picture. “That was when my mom was in the Venice Biennale, a really big art show,” Sophie explained. Growing up, there’d been so many times she’d wished her mom could be a lawyer or a banker or a producer, the kind of jobs some of her friends’ parents had. But when her mother had been invited to show at the prestigious Biennale, and Luba had sold a ring so Sophie could accompany her, she’d been so proud of her mother, the artist. Glad that she’d stuck to her guns. It didn’t hurt that the trip had been magical: the gondola rides, the tiny zigzag of canals and alleys, the packed art galleries, and more than any of that, the feeling of some kind of portal of possibility opening. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time. She was feeling that way tonight.

“What kind of art does your mom make?” Russell asked.

“Sculptures. Though not the traditional kind with clay or marble. She works in abstract forms.” She reached to her top shelf and pulled down a small cube, all tangled wires and glass fragments. “Most of her work is on a much larger scale,” Sophie explained. “Like one piece could fill this room. Alas, my roommate Cheryl said she needed a bed so we couldn’t keep one here.”

For a second, she imagined Cheryl’s horrified expression if she
had
brought one of her mother’s larger, stranger installations. But then she remembered that Cheryl had seemed to admire her mom’s smaller piece. She’d held it a long time the first time she’d seen it, much as Russell was doing now. “Your mom makes sculptures,” she’d said. “My mom organizes bake sales.” Sophie had taken it as a veiled big-city comment, yet another sign of her otherness, but only now did she wonder if perhaps she hadn’t missed Cheryl’s droll brand of sarcasm.