Parrotfish (22 page)

“Fine as ever I have been, Father,” Sebastian answered, smiling and leaning on his cane. These two, I thought, belonged on Broadway.

In Dad’s original version, Mom came flying up to him when he entered, gave him a kiss, then took
the coats, hats, and mufflers from Dad and Tiny Tim and hung them up. Fortunately, my new script didn’t call for her to do any flying—the poor woman could barely walk. She read her lines in a tired voice from a chair by the Christmas tree while Dad and Sebastian took off their own outerwear.

       MRS. CRATCHIT: Mind you, Mr. Cratchit, are the reindeer on the roof again? And the singers at the front door? And the dollies still goin’ in circles? And the bears a-smellin’ up the neighborhood?

       MR. CRATCHIT: Yes, my dear. Things are just as they should be.

Dad read his part in a booming voice, although he looked a little confused by the new lines. I stepped forward for my line as Mrs. Cratchit lapsed into a fit of coughing.

       GRADY: And yet, things do change, Father. You need only look at me to see the truth of that!

       EVE: Yes, this year has seen your Angela become your Grady and exchange her long dresses for his sturdy trousers.

       LAURA: And trade her long locks for the haircut of a boy.

       
GRADY: Things as they should be, Father, are not things unchanging.

       [to the audience] We shall see many changes as this magical evening does progress.

I wondered if the audience outside was as stunned as the one inside. I couldn’t hear much noise from the front lawn anymore, and the actors themselves were trying to surreptitiously read ahead to see what other surprises lay in store for them. Sebastian hobbled forward on his crutch.

       TINY TIM: As the sick may become well, so may the unsure become confident.

Sebastian had written that line himself and was quite proud of it. Charlie stepped up next.

       CHARLIE: Perhaps before this enchanted night is through, you too will dance to a tune, Tim!

       TINY TIM: ’Twould be a timely tune that tickled the timid Tim to tap his toes!

Fortunately, Sebastian had had the script all week, so he’d had time to practice this, his favorite line, which he delivered with relish. The audience really laughed this time. They got it now: This was
not the quiet, somber fare of years past. Dad smiled nervously, then bent to light the fire, as he always did at this point in the performance, and the rest of us crowded around the tree, waiting for gifts. I could tell Laura was looking for the directions which would tell her who to hand which gift to, but they weren’t in her script. I stood again when the fire was lit.

       GRADY: Good people, this year the gifts you open are from me. These days past I have been given by you many gifts: foremost of all, the gift of understanding. And so I return what offerings I can to you.

Dad nodded as I handed small packages to Laura and Eve. The only direction in the script for most of the gift-opening part of the show was “Respond however you would like.” Only Dad’s part had scripted dialogue. I knew that that probably made the girls nervous; they hadn’t done any improvising before.

Eve pulled from her box an article I’d clipped from the newspaper. The headline, which she read out loud, was
POLICE TO LEAD SELF-DEFENSE COURSE
.

       EVE: [holding it up for all to see] Why, whatever is this, Grady?

       
GRADY: I thought it would be a good activity for the two of us to engage in together, my dear friend. It has no cost, and yet the benefits for meek ones such as you and me will, I think, be great. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me? I have already set our names down on the scroll at the police station.

       EVE: Oh, this notion fills me with . . . glee. Thank you ever so much.

I nodded to her and waited for Laura’s reaction. Laura took a small silver square from her box and pulled it open. Eye makeup in twelve shades with two tiny brushes.

       LAURA: [confused] I have never seen such a thing, dear brother.

       GRADY: Oh, surely you have, Laura. It’s eye shadow. Your favorite kind.

       LAURA: But, I did think . . .

She glanced out the window, clearly at a loss for words. I helped her out.

       GRADY: . . . that eye shadow was not invented in the nineteenth century? Women have always
found ways to decorate themselves, dear sister. The pursuit of beauty was not invented yesterday. And though it is of little interest to me, I know that it is quite important to you.

And besides, there’s no use trying to change people until they’re ready to change. You pretty much have to do that particular hard work by yourself. Laura whispered a thank-you and sat daintily back on her heels.

Sebastian’s box was larger than the others. He was surprised by it, I could tell, and he began to improvise.

       TINY TIM: You know, dear brother, there is not a worldly thing I need when I have my whole family around me like this. That is the best Christmas present.

Boy, was he laying it on thick—Dad must be ready to adopt him. He kept ripping at the paper, though, and eventually got down to my carefully chosen gift: a T-shirt with a picture of Napoleon Dynamite on it and the words
I’VE GOT YOUR BACK
.

       TINY TIM: Awesome! [then, remembering who he was and where] Thank you, dear brother,
for such a warm article of clothing, which also proclaims my devotion to a true champion!

       GRADY: As Father always taught us, one good geek deserves another.

That got a nice laugh too. Next I handed small boxes to Mom and Dad. Charlie looked pissed off at having to wait for his. Mom smiled weakly and opened the lid on hers.

       MRS. CRATCHIT: Why, ’tis a scroll of paper. A proclamation, perhaps. [reading it] “I, your son Grady, promise to help you cook dinner two nights a week, thereby saving several nights for other persons in my family who might also want to learn the non-gender-specific ritual of preparing the evening meal.” Goodness, this is a gift I am most grateful for, my dearest . . . son.

Mom gave me a wink, and I knew she really was happy. It was an obvious gift, but one I hadn’t come up with until that morning as I was paging through the cookbooks. It cost me nothing but time, and in fact I did want to learn more about cooking. Maybe someday I’d
learn how to make pudding that didn’t come in a box.

       MRS. CRATCHIT: Our son has given thoughtful gifts. I await impatiently the opening of Mr. Cratchit’s box. [another bout of coughing]

Dad opened his box and lifted out the flyer I’d taken from the bulletin board at Atkins Pharmacy the last time I was there. He unfolded it carefully, held it near a candle, and began to read it.

       MR. CRATCHIT: “Buxton Little Theater needs help! We are particularly in need of volunteers who can build sets for our productions. We’re also looking for more talented actors to help us with our spring show,
Oliver
!
If you can use a saw, carry a tune, or project to the balcony, please come to our auditions on January fourteenth.” Well now, does my son think this description fits his father?

       GRADY: I do indeed, Father. Both the sawing and the projecting.

       MR. CRATCHIT: Not the singing?

       MRS. CRATCHIT: Children, your father sang quite a lovely baritone in days of old.

       
GRADY: Well then, he’s a perfect fit! And of course, we know that the original
Oliver
,
Oliver Twist
, was written by our favorite storyteller, Mr. Charles Dickens himself.

       MR. CRATCHIT: [back on script now] It does sound like a vocation I would enjoy. And yet, it could take time away from my family obligations.

       MRS. CRATCHIT: [thoughtfully] Yes. Father might have to give up doing some of his productions around the house. What would you children think of that?

       GRADY: I think Rudolph would miss us more than we’d miss him.

       LAURA: I’d rather see a performance than be in one.

       CHARLIE: It’s time to retire the old bears anyway.

       TINY TIM: Father! Could I go to the auditions with you?

Okay, that line wasn’t in the script. Clearly, Sebastian felt comfortable throwing in whatever he wanted. I was glad he did, though. I think it got my father over the hump of realizing what we meant. He swallowed, then spoke, his voice a bit thick.

       
MR. CRATCHIT: Of course, Tim. We’ll sally forth together. Things do change, as your brother has rightly said, and I’m glad to find this new challenge. Thank you, Grady.

       MRS. CRATCHIT: Yes, we all thank you, son.

Meanwhile, Charlie was getting really tired of waiting.

       CHARLIE: I say, Grady, haven’t you forgotten someone?

       GRADY: No, I don’t think I have, Charlie.

       CHARLIE: I don’t even see another box under the tree for me!

       GRADY: [standing] Of course not. Your gift couldn’t fit under the Christmas tree, dear brother. Let me get it from its hiding place.

I was so excited. I’d been waiting for this moment all day. Nobody but me had gone out to the garage, and, as they’d assured me at the shelter, Betsy was not a barker, so the surprise would be complete. I clipped on her leash and let her out the back door to pee before her introduction to the family. She was so happy to see me again, she leaped up and stuck her tongue right in my mouth. In case you were wondering, French kisses from a dog are not really that desirable.

Betsy had been angelic in the car on the drive home, but I guess being locked in the garage alone all afternoon had driven up her energy level. As soon as we walked through the kitchen door, she began to pull on the leash, her nails skittering across the floor. She yanked me through the dining room and into the living room, as the outdoor audience howled and laughed, and the indoor actors screamed, all of us completely breaking character.

       CHARLIE: It’s a dog! I got a dog!

       GRADY: This is Betsy—she’s a—sit down, girl. Sit down. Betsy, sit!

       CHARLIE: [grabbing Betsy around the neck] Grady got me a dog!

       MRS. CRATCHIT: Grady, are you out of your mind?

       MR. CRATCHIT: You know your mother is . . . oh, what a friendly puppy!

       TINY TIM: I didn’t think you’d really be able to find one—

       GRADY: There’s an Internet site where all the shelters post what dogs they have. You just plug in your zip code and you find out where the nearest one is.

       LAURA: This is why you drove to Connecticut? To get this mutt?

       
MRS. CRATCHIT: [cringing in her chair by the fireplace] What were you thinking, Grady? I’m allergic to dogs! Get her off the couch!

       CHARLIE: [clinging to Betsy’s neck] She’s my dog!

       GRADY: Listen to me a minute. Betsy is a standard poodle. Aunt Gail was telling me the other day that some dogs don’t shed, so I went online and found out that poodles don’t shed, and that some people who are allergic to other dogs aren’t allergic to poodles. I explained the situation at the shelter, and they said we can bring her back if Mom has a bad reaction. But I thought we could at least try it. Charlie wants a dog so badly, and he needs a buddy to hang out with, too.

       CHARLIE: I do, Mom, I do!

       EVE: This is a poodle? It doesn’t look like one.

       GRADY: She isn’t shaved. You don’t have to shave them with those silly puffs of fur around their tails and ankles. This is how they look naturally.

There was actually a moment of near silence as Charlie and Betsy climbed all over each other and the rest of us watched. Then, suddenly, we remembered that we had an audience. One by
one, we turned to look at them. They were staring right back at us, as if we were the newest reality TV show. Dad tried to get us back on track.

       MR. CRATCHIT: Well, Mrs. Cratchit, I suppose we shall see what we shall see. The animal will spend the night in young Charles’s room. And now I’m sure dinner is ready and waiting for us. We mustn’t let it get cold.

       MRS. CRATCHIT: [still staring at Betsy] I suppose so. I have no idea.

       GRADY: Yes, Father and Mother, please take a seat at the dinner table. Your children will serve you your Christmas feast tonight!

With a backward glance at Betsy, Mom heaved herself out of the chair and headed for the dining room. As she passed me, she hissed, “We’ll discuss this later.”

Dad pulled out the chair for her, and she flopped into it. Laura, Eve, and I brought the food in from the kitchen. Tiny Sebastian limped to his chair, and I signaled Charlie to keep a tight hold on the dog, which was clearly his preference anyway. We gathered at the table, a somewhat more disheveled group than usual,
and Dad began his blessing, which I had rewritten for him only slightly.

       MR. CRATCHIT: To have my family gathered together on Christmas Eve, to have them all together at the close of another year—there is nothing in life that makes me happier. It is a joy that no Scrooge will ever understand.

He stopped here to decide if he really had to say the next line. Then, looking out the window, he did.

       MR. CRATCHIT: It has been delightful to include all of you in our festivities these many years, but this evening we must bid you a fond farewell, at least as actors in a play.

There was a groan from outside the window, but it was eclipsed by the slamming of the kitchen door.

       AUNT GAIL: What an ungrateful wench am I to be so late for the holiday gathering! I hope I have not missed the turkey!