Page 55

A thin white-and-cinnamon-colored greyhound pops up his head from behind the trash cans. He’s trembling, frightened, and he must be very hungry and very, very cold. Evidently suspicious, he won’t come near me, so I put the stew on the ground and try to encourage him to eat.
“Come on, Susto, eat. It’s really good.”
But the dog hides and flees before I can touch him. That makes me sad. Poor little dog. He’s obviously so scared of humans. But I know he’ll be back. I’ve seen him around the garbage cans so many times, and I want to do something for him. Using some planks and boxes, I improvise a shelter for him at the side of the trash cans. I put the blanket inside, along with the stew, and leave. I hope he comes back and eats.
I return to the house and go up to my room to change. I come back down to the living room, carrying the box with the tree. Flyn is at it with the PlayStation. I sit down by his side and drop the enormous, colorful box between my legs. Surely, that will pique his curiosity.
For more than twenty minutes, I watch him play without saying a single word as the goddamned thundering video game music destroys my eardrums.
“Would you like to set up the tree with me?” I say, surrendering.
Finally, Flyn looks my way. He stops the music. Oh ... what a relief! He sees the box.
“Is that where the tree is?” he asks, curious.
“Yes, it has to be assembled. What do you think?” I say, opening the box and showing him a part of the tree.
“I don’t like it,” he says.
I smile; otherwise I’d have to pinch him.
“I thought we should have our own tree. And to be original and do something no one else does, we could decorate it with wishes we’ll read aloud on Epiphany. Each one of us could have five wishes. What do you think?”
Flyn blinks. I’ve managed to get his attention. I pull out a notebook, a pair of pens, and multicolored ribbons. “We’ll put the tree together and then write out our wishes on little pieces of paper. We’ll roll these up and put them on the tree using the ribbon. It’s a good idea, isn’t it?”
The boy glances at the notebook.
“No, it’s a horrible idea,” he hisses, his dark eyes staring right at me. “And, anyway, Christmas trees are green, not red.”
I cringe. What a lack of imagination! If this kid says that, what will his uncle say? He goes back to his game, and the music thunders anew. But determined to put up the tree and enjoy it, I get up to begin.
“I’m going to put it up here, next to the window,” I scream so he can hear. It’s still snowing outside, and I hope Susto has come back and is eating in his little house. “What do you think?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at me. Nonetheless, I go to work.
But that screeching music is killing me, and I try to mitigate it the best I can. I turn on the iPod I have in my jeans pocket, put in my earbuds, and, seconds later, begin to sing along.
Delighted with my music, I sit on the floor, take the tree out of the box, scatter the pieces all around me, and read the instructions. I am the do-it-yourself queen, so I’m finished in ten minutes. It’s a beauty. Red ... a radiant red. I look over at Flyn. He’s still playing.
I pick up the notebook and pen and begin to write out my wishes. Once I have several, I tear out the pages and cut them with care. I draw little holiday doodads all around them. I have to entertain myself somehow. When I’m satisfied with my wishes, I tie them with the gold ribbon. I do that for about an hour until suddenly I see a pair of feet by my side. I lift my eyes and find my Iceman and his furrowed brow.
Uh-oh!
I quickly get up and take off my earbuds.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at the red tree.
I’m about to respond, when the boy sidles up to his uncle and, with the same serious expression, points to the tree.
“According to her, a Christmas tree. According to me, a piece of shit.”
“Just because you think my beautiful tree is a piece of shit doesn’t mean he’s going to think it is too,” I say tartly. “OK ... perhaps it doesn’t go with the living room, but I couldn’t resist. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Why didn’t you call to consult me about it?” says my favorite German.
“To consult you about it?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes, about buying a tree.”