I spent hours doing this. I didn’t say a word, but I wasn’t conscious of my silence. The sound of my own life, my own internal life, was all I spent hours doing this. I didn’t say a word, but I wasn’t conscious of my silence. The sound of my own life, my own internal life, was all that I needed.
It felt like a holiday, but that had nothing to do with Jesus or the calendar or what anyone else in the world was doing.
Before I went to bed, I got back into my usual routine—opening up the (sadly, abridged) dictionary next to my bed and trying to nd a word I could love.
li•ques•cent, adj. 1. becoming liquid; melting. 2. tending toward a liquid state.
Liquescent. I tried to say myself to sleep with it.
It was only as I was drifting of that I realized what I’d done:
In opening the book at random, I’d only landed a few pages long of Lily.
I hadn’t left any milk and cookies out for Santa. We didn’t have a chimney; there wasn’t even a replace. I had submit ed no list, and had not received any certi cations of my niceness. And yet, when I woke up around noon the next day, there were still presents from my mother waiting for me.
I unwrapped them one by one underneath the tree, since I knew that was how she’d want me to do it. I felt pangs for her then—just for these ten minutes, just so I could give her presents, too. There wasn’t anything surprising beneath the wrapping paper—a number of books I’d wanted, a gadget or two to add some diversity, and a blue sweater that didn’t look half bad.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said to the air. Because it was still too early to call her time zone.
I lost myself immediately in one of the books, only emerging when the phone rang.
“Dashiell?” my father intoned. As if someone else with my voice might be answering the phone at my mother’s apartment.
“Yes, Father?”
“Leeza and I would like to wish you a merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, Father. And to you, as well.”
[awkward pause]
[even more awkward pause]
“I hope your mother isn’t giving you any trouble.”
Oh, Father, I love it when you play this game.
“She told me if I clean all the ashes out of the grate, then I’ll be able to help my sisters get ready for the ball.”
“It’s Christmas, Dashiell. Can’t you give that at itude a rest?”
“Merry Christmas, Dad. And thanks for the presents.”
“What presents?”
“I’m sorry—those were all from Mom, weren’t they?”
“Dashiel …”
“I got a go. The gingerbread men are on fire.”
“Wait—Leeza wants to wish you a merry Christmas.”
“The smoke’s get ing pret y thick. I really have to go.”
“Well, merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, Dad. Merry Christmas.”
It was, I gured, at least an eighth my fault for picking up the phone in the rst place. But I’d just wanted to get it over with, and now here it was—very over. I gravitated toward the red notebook and almost started venting there—but then I felt like I didn’t want to burden Lily with what I was feeling, not right now. That would just be passing the unfairness along, and Lily would be even more powerless to stop what had happened than I had been.
It was only five o’clock, but it was already dark outside. I decided the time had come for me to head to Dyker Heights.
This involved me taking the D train farther than I’d ever taken the D train before. After the frenzied crowds of the past week, the city was almost blank on Christmas Day. The only things open were ATMs, churches, Chinese restaurants, and movie theaters. Everything else was dark, sleeping the season o . Even the subway seemed like it had been hollowed out—only a few scat ered people on the platform, a thin row of passengers on the seats. Yes, there were signs it was Christmas—lit le girls delighting in their frocks and lit le boys looking imprisoned by their lit le suits. Eye contact was often met with friendliness instead of hostility. But for a place that had been overrun with tourists, there was nary a guidebook in sight, and all the conversations were kept quiet. I read my book from Manhat an into Brooklyn. But then, when the D train emerged from the ground, I shifted so I could stare out the window, stealing glimpses of family windows as we chugged past.
I still didn’t know how I was going to nd the Nutcracker House. When I got to the subway stop, however, I had some idea. A disproportionate number of passengers had got en o with me, and they all seemed to be heading in the same direction—clusters of families, couples holding hands, old people making pilgrimage. I followed.
At rst, it seemed like there was something strange in the air, giving it a halo of electricity, like in Times Square. Only, we were nowhere near Times Square, so it didn’t make much sense … until I started to see the houses, each one more electri ed than the next. These were not Christmas light dilet antes here. This was a spectacular spectacular of lawn and house ornamentation. For as far as the eye could see, every house was ringed with lights. Lights of every color, lights of every shape. Outlines of reindeer and Santa and his sleigh. Boxes with ribbon, toy teddy bears, larger-than-life dolls—all strung together from Christmas lights. If Joseph and Mary had lit the manger like this, it would’ve been seen all the way in Rome.
Observing it all, I felt such contradictory feelings. On the one hand, it was an astonishing misuse of energy, a testament to the ingenious wastefulness that American Christmas inspires. On the other hand, it was amazing to see the whole community lit up like this, because it wastefulness that American Christmas inspires. On the other hand, it was amazing to see the whole community lit up like this, because it made it feel very much like a community. You could imagine everyone taking out their lights on the same day and having a block party while they put them all up. The children walked around trans xed by the sights, as if their neighbors had suddenly become purveyors of an exquisite magic. There was as much conversation swirling around as there was light—none of it involved me, but I was glad to have it around.