Winter Street (16 page)

K
evin says, “Have you seen Mom and Dad?”

“No,” Patrick says. He’s pretending to read, but really he’s staring at the face of his phone, trying to send one of the most difficult texts of his life.

“It’s so weird to even say their names together like that,” Kevin says. “And I know this is going to sound nuts, but I think there’s something going on between them.”

“Confirmed,” Patrick says. “I saw the two of them sneaking out of Dad’s bedroom. They had definitely been going at it.”

Ava plops down on the sofa next to Kevin and Isabelle. “How are we supposed to feel about that? Our divorced parents are having a fling. Does anyone have the manual for How to Deal with Completely Screwed-Up Family Situations?”

“I would choose to be happy for them,” Isabelle says.

“I’m happy for them,” Kevin says.

Ava sighs. “I broke up with Nathaniel.”

“You did not,” Kevin says.

“I did,” she says. “Just now, over the phone.”

“Was it the boots?” Kevin asks. “Because I’m clueless, but even I know that boots are a sucky present.”

“The boots are symptomatic of a bigger problem,” Ava says. “I am not Nathaniel Oscar’s great, passionate love. I’m just not.”

Patrick stands up. He doesn’t want them to think he’s a heartless bastard, but he has actual problems. Forget that he has committed an egregious white-collar crime for a second. He didn’t just break up with his boyfriend/girlfriend. His wife of fourteen years walked out on him, taking his three sons away from him on Christmas. He can’t get any of them on the phone. He called Jen’s mother’s
house
and nobody answered. He, for one, is thrilled his parents are getting it on, because at this point it looks like Jennifer will ask him for a divorce, and Patrick’s only glimmer of hope is that twenty years from now, he and Jen will reunite in a similar manner.

As Patrick heads back to the owners’ quarters, there’s a knock at the door, and Patrick whips around. It’s Scott, the assistant principal. He’s wearing jeans, a tweedy jacket, and a red Vineyard Vines tie printed with bluefish wearing Santa hats. It’s the very same tie Jennifer bought Patrick to wear to the Everlast Christmas party.

Every part of Patrick’s body hurts.

Ava jumps up from the sofa to greet Scott.

Well,
Patrick thinks,
Nathaniel was easily replaced.
And once Patrick goes to jail, he supposes he will be replaced as well.

Jennifer and the boys. How is he supposed to live without them?

Patrick locks himself in Bart’s room; Lindsay Lohan stares him down. He composes a text to Gary Grimstead:
I won’t ruin your holiday, but a full confession will be forthcoming tomorrow. You have my most humble apology, man. I got tripped up. But I will do everything in my power not to take you down with me. Peace, PQ

He hits Send. It goes. It’s done. He will lose his job, accept his lashings from the press; he will go to jail and serve his time.

He feels a big, fat bong hit is in order. He fills Bart’s purple glass bong with fresh water and packs in some weed from the bag in Bart’s top drawer. It’s been a long time since he’s done this (not really: just since that trip to South Beach with the Playboy models, none of whom he so much as talked to, by the way).

He holds the smoke for as long as he can, then releases it.

Ahhhhhhhhh.
His mind-set realigns almost immediately. Leave it to Bart to have some really choice drugs.

Patrick walks back out to the main room, thinking he will stare at the tree until he falls asleep; his mother will awaken him when dinner is ready. The aroma of the meat roasting is
insane!

There’s a knock at the front door—another knock? Patrick tightens the belt of his bathrobe. It’s probably not a bad idea to pursue getting dressed at some point, especially since soon enough he will be wearing an orange jumpsuit. This thought strikes him as hilarious, and he starts giggling.

Ava opens the front door and—Ava screams. Happy? Sad? Scared? Patrick can’t tell.

Happy!

Jen and the kids walk in.

Whaaaaaaaaat? Patrick slaps himself in the face:
Wake up, wake up!
But it’s real; they’re here! Pierce wraps his arms around Auntie Ava, the two of them being favorite friends, and Jen ushers in Barrett and Jaime. Jaime comes barreling toward Patrick—Jaime the baby, the little guy. Patrick scoops him up.

“Daddy!”

He’s Daddy once again—oh, thank God! Tears start building up behind his eyes, but he can’t cry in front of his
children. He is big, strong Daddy—Daddy, Master of the Universe. He
cannot
cry, but, wow—man, is he grateful.

Ava is good, she is brilliant; Patrick will never say a negative word about her again, because she herds the kids over to the Christmas tree, saying, “Guess what, guys, Santa stopped here for you!” This gives Patrick a moment of reunion with his wife.

“Jen…,” he says.

She slips quietly into his arms, right where she belongs. Haven’t they always marveled at how perfectly they fit together?

She buries her face inside his bathrobe. “Have you been
smoking?
” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. “I did a bong hit in Bart’s room. I was feeling… pretty low.”

“God,” she says, “I want a bong hit. Later, though, when the boys are asleep.”

He squeezes her tighter. They are always on the same page. “I missed you so much,” he says. “I nearly died from missing you.”

“We didn’t go to California,” she says. “I got as far as the Hilton at Logan. We spent a couple nights there, which the kids hated. So this morning we went back home and opened presents, and I ate the rest of the caviar, since it was open…”

The caviar,
he thinks. He has so many things to be sorry about.

“Then, in the bathroom, I saw the bottle of Vicodin. I’m so glad you didn’t do anything stupid.”

“I did do something stupid,” he says.

She puts a finger across his lips, and then she kisses him. “Let’s talk about it later,” she says. “Right now, I’m just happy to be with you.”

Patrick wants to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to Bart’s room to show her how happy
he
is. But at that moment, Kelley and Margaret emerge from the owners’ quarters, both of them freshly showered.

“Grandchildren!” Margaret cries with unmitigated glee.

“Your mother?” Jen asks. She runs a hand through her short, dark hair, and Patrick knows she is wishing for lipstick.

“Long story,” Patrick says.

“Where’s Mitzi?” Jen asks.

But he’ll have to explain later, because the room is suddenly a three-ring circus, with kids laughing and wrapping paper flying in the air and Kelley saying, “I didn’t think this day could
get
any better.”

Patrick marvels at how one of the best feelings in the world is finding something precious that he thought was gone forever.

W
e’re all on the same page, right? No one is to treat Mitzi any differently than they ever have. There is to be no judgment. Everything happens for a reason.

Kelley doesn’t want to get into the particulars, but, suffice it to say, he isn’t blameless in this.

Yes, Dad, fine, Dad, gotcha. We know, Dad.

Kelley looks pointedly at Isabelle. Ironically, she’s the one he worries about the most.

“We’re on the same page, right?” he says.

“Right,” Isabelle says.

Margaret holds her palms up. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “I
like
Mitzi.”

“Liar,” Kelley says.

“I do!” Margaret insists.

Mitzi and George arrive at five o’clock on the dot. They both look uncomfortable, bordering on nauseated. George is wearing a lavender argyle sweater that seems like it might have been a Christmas gift from someone—Mitzi?—who hopes George loses thirty pounds in the near future; the cashmere strains over George’s belly and barely meets the top of his pants. Mitzi is wearing a sage-green velvet dress (an Eileen Fisher, Kelley knows, that retails for $375) and a jaunty red suede fedora.

A hat! On Mitzi! A hat George must have made and Mitzi must have gamely agreed to wear to Christmas dinner hosted by the man she has been betraying for twelve years.

“Nice hat!” Kelley says. He kisses Mitzi on the cheek. “Merry Christmas. I’m glad you came.”

“Thank you for having us,” George says. He hands Kelley a gift bag containing a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black.

“Thank
you,
kind sir!” Kelley says. He hands the bottle off to Kevin, who whisks it to the bar.

Mitzi hands Kelley a present. It’s a book; he knows which one. He’ll save it to open at the dinner table, in case there’s an awkward silence.

Patrick and Jen greet Mitzi, Ava says Merry Christmas, then Scott and Isabelle say Merry Christmas and
Joyeux Noël,
then Kevin offers drinks. Everyone puts in an order for something stronger than normal.

Mitzi says, “Do you have any white wine, Kevin?”

Kevin raises his eyebrows. “Wine?”

Kelley says, “You’ve been gone two days, and suddenly you drink wine?”

“It’s Christmas,” Mitzi says. “I sometimes drink wine on Christmas.”

“You
never
drank wine on Christmas,” Kelley says. “You never drank wine, ever. Unless, of course, you drank it in George’s room?”

George says, “If you have white wine, Kevin, Mitzi would like a glass.”

Oh, George, so gallant, making Kelley look like he’s picking a fight.

Mitzi says, “Have you heard from Bart?”

“I have not,” Kelley says. “Have you?”

“No,” she says.

As far as Kelley is concerned, they have nothing else to say to each other. Wow—he is angrier than he thought he’d be.

George says to Scott, “How’d it go as Santa Claus?”

“Great,” Scott says, grinning.

“Scott was a natural,” Kelley says. “I hate to tell you this, George, but you’ve been replaced. Happens to the best of us.”

“Daddy,” Ava says.

Right,
Kelley knows. He gives everyone else a lecture about being pleasant, and he alone is acting abominable.

At that moment, Margaret pops out of the kitchen wearing Mitzi’s Christmas apron, featuring a silk-screened Rudolph with a red sequin nose. “Merry Christmas, everyone!” she sings out.

Kelley has no need for further jabs, because he has just unveiled his secret weapon. The look on Mitzi’s face is
PRICELESS.
There is horror and jealousy wrapped up in complete shock.

Kelley would dance a jig if it were not so indelicate.

Mitzi turns to Kelley with icy-hot eyes, then back to Margaret. “Hello, Margaret.”

“Hello, Mitzi,” Margaret says. She sails over and embraces Mitzi warmly. The woman has the grace of a queen, Kelley thinks. “Merry Christmas. Today must be bittersweet for you, with Bart away. Please know I’m keeping him in my prayers.”

“Oh,” Mitzi says. “Thank you. Yes, it’s been… difficult. Christmas morning at a hotel, everything topsy-turvy.”

Well, whose fault is
that?
Kelley thinks.

Kevin arrives with Mitzi’s wine and a whiskey, rocks, for both George and Kelley. Margaret, Ava, and Jennifer are drinking champagne. Patrick, Kevin, and Scott have vodka martinis. Isabelle has seltzer.

“I’d like to make a toast,” Kelley says. “To all the members of the Quinn family who are present, and to the newest addition.”

“Hear, hear,” Kevin says, and he kisses Isabelle.

“What addition?” Mitzi says.

But nobody answers.

They are seated for dinner. Kelley takes his usual place and Margaret sits at Kelley’s right, which is where Mitzi used to sit. Next to Margaret are Patrick, the three boys, Jennifer, Scott, Ava, George, Mitzi, Kevin, and Isabelle, who is next to Kelley.

Isabelle says to Mitzi, “
Ton chapeau.
Your hat.” She makes a motion indicating Mitzi should take it off.

Mitzi looks flustered and embarrassed, and Kelley’s heart
goes out to her. She never wears hats and hence is unaware that hats are inappropriate at the dinner table.

Kevin pours a nice pinot noir for everyone at the table who is drinking, which again seems to include Mitzi.

“Something smells delicious,” George says.

“Standing rib roast,” Margaret says. “That’s what we used to have when the kids were growing up.”

“And Yorkshire pudding made with the drippings,” Ava says.

Again, the look on Mitzi’s face is priceless. She may be drinking wine, but Kelley will bet a pretty penny she won’t eat beef or anything made with “drippings.” Just the word “drippings” is probably enough to send Mitzi to the hospital for a month.

Everything about the present situation delights him.

When everyone is seated, he reaches out, encouraging them to hold hands for the blessing.

He says, “O Lord, we thank you for the meal before us, lovingly prepared”—pause, let Mitzi consider—“and we are grateful for all of the family and friends assembled at this table. We also remember, O Lord, the ones who are
not
at this table tonight, especially our beloved Bart, who is overseas, defending our freedom. Please, Lord, keep Bart safe from bodily harm and let him know he is in our thoughts and prayers. Let us take a moment of silence to pray for Bart.”

Silence.

S
he’s squeezing Kelley’s fingers so hard, she’s surprised his fingers don’t break.
Please let Bart be okay! Not on that convoy!
Her most recent memory of Bart is from eighteen months previous, when Bart’s senior class came to New York City. Margaret offered the class a guided tour of CBS studios, with herself, “Bart’s stepmother,” as their guide. Bart texted her before the class arrived, saying, “I told everyone you were my stepmom, okay? Hashtag
avoidconfusion.
”

Margaret laughed and laughed at this. She is something of a reverse stepmother to Bart, the first wife of his father, the mother to his half siblings. Why isn’t there a term for this relationship? Surely, there must be thousands of instances. Maybe because an actual relationship between a woman and the child of her ex-husband is so rare?

Margaret has always been fond of Bart. He has characteristics of Kelley’s that her own kids do not—Kelley’s aquiline nose, his golden hair, his sense of mischief. Bart got in a lot of trouble growing up. But then, so did Kelley.

The day Bart came into the studio, Margaret was as motherly as possible; she kissed him hello, she tousled his shaggy hair (all shaved off now, she supposes), she teased him about his excellent grades, or lack thereof. He had glowed from all her attentions, and at the end he hugged
her and said, “Thanks, Mmmmmm.” She hadn’t been sure if he meant to call her Margaret or Mom.

“For you,” she said. “Anything, anytime, always and forever.”

His grin, both sweet and wicked, was
all Kelley.

She misses him, she who honestly barely knows him. How must everyone else feel?