fly on the window. Walking toward the ceiling.
Morley drew the paper back.
“I keep missing,” said Morley.
“Wait,” said Dave.
Dave inhaled deeply, and began to cough. There was a burning rawness in his chest, the feeling that his lungs had been seared by smoke—but no tickle, no buzzing.
“Don’t kill it,” said Dave. “Just open the window. It will go out by itself.”
Morley shrugged and raised the screen. The fly circled the ceiling a few times and then darted out the window. Dave raised his head from the pillow and watched it disappear into the crisp morning air.
I’ve Got You Under My Skin
Christmas Presents
One night at dinner, a Sunday night in late September, Morley pushed the dog’s nose off the edge of the table, looked around and said, “I’ve been thinking about Christmas.”
Dave gasped.
Well, he didn’t really gasp. It was more a hiccup than a gasp. Although it wasn’t a hiccup, and it could easily have been misconstrued as a gasp.
Everyone at the table turned and looked at him.
“Excuse me,” he said. He smiled nervously at Morley. “I said excuse me.”
Morley began again.
“I’ve been thinking about Christmas,” she said.
“Me too,” said Sam.
“And I was thinking,” said Morley, “that it would be fun this year . . .” Dave was shaking his head slowly back and forth, unconsciously, staring at his wife while a confliction of emotions flickered across his face like playing cards—despair, hope, confusion and finally the last card . . . horror.
“I was thinking,” said Morley, “it would be fun this year, and more in keeping with the spirit of Christmas . . .”
Dave was leaning forward in his chair now, staring at Morley the same way Arthur the dog stares at the vet: with a doggish mixture of forlorn hope and wretched presumption.
“I was thinking,” said Morley, “it would be fun . . . if we made presents for each other.”
Morley’s words met dead silence.
Then Stephanie dropped her fork.
“What?” she said.
Sam said, “Everything I want is made out of plastic. Does anyone know how to mold plastic?”
Morley said, “I don’t mean every present. I don’t mean we have to make everything. I thought we could put our names in a hat, and we could all draw a name, and we’d have to make a present for the person whose name we drew.”
Sam said, “I like exploding stuff too. Exploding things are good . . . Especially if they are made of plastic.”
Stephanie said, “Gawd.”
Dave was nodding, a small smile playing at his mouth.
Two nights later Morley wrote everyone’s name onto a piece of paper. She tore the paper up, folded the pieces and put them into a pot.
“No one say who they get,” said Morley.
“What if you get yourself?” asked Sam.
But no one got themselves. And no one said who they got. In fact no one seemed particularly interested in who got whom. Morley had hoped that everyone would be excited. But no one was, at all.
Several uneventful weeks went by, autumn settling gracefully on the city as the family settled into the routine of their lives. It was a beautiful autumn. An autumn for gardening and walks and stock-taking. The days were bright and blue, the leaves yellow (for weeks, it seemed). A forgiving, perpetual autumn. Until, that is, the winds began to blow. One night there was a storm, and it rained and blew, and the next morning the trees were bare. Soon the clocks were turned back, and a gray-ness descended on the city.
It was October and everyone was busy. Only Morley, who was the busiest of all, was thinking about Christmas. The night they had pulled the names out of the pot Morley had waited for the last piece of paper. When she unfolded it, she read her son’s name. She had thought long and hard about what she could make a ten-year-old boy for Christmas that he would enjoy. And she was stymied. She didn’t know plastics. She didn’t know explosives.
Anyway she wanted to make her son something . . .
Morley drew the paper back.
“I keep missing,” said Morley.
“Wait,” said Dave.
Dave inhaled deeply, and began to cough. There was a burning rawness in his chest, the feeling that his lungs had been seared by smoke—but no tickle, no buzzing.
“Don’t kill it,” said Dave. “Just open the window. It will go out by itself.”
Morley shrugged and raised the screen. The fly circled the ceiling a few times and then darted out the window. Dave raised his head from the pillow and watched it disappear into the crisp morning air.
I’ve Got You Under My Skin
Christmas Presents
One night at dinner, a Sunday night in late September, Morley pushed the dog’s nose off the edge of the table, looked around and said, “I’ve been thinking about Christmas.”
Dave gasped.
Well, he didn’t really gasp. It was more a hiccup than a gasp. Although it wasn’t a hiccup, and it could easily have been misconstrued as a gasp.
Everyone at the table turned and looked at him.
“Excuse me,” he said. He smiled nervously at Morley. “I said excuse me.”
Morley began again.
“I’ve been thinking about Christmas,” she said.
“Me too,” said Sam.
“And I was thinking,” said Morley, “that it would be fun this year . . .” Dave was shaking his head slowly back and forth, unconsciously, staring at his wife while a confliction of emotions flickered across his face like playing cards—despair, hope, confusion and finally the last card . . . horror.
“I was thinking,” said Morley, “it would be fun this year, and more in keeping with the spirit of Christmas . . .”
Dave was leaning forward in his chair now, staring at Morley the same way Arthur the dog stares at the vet: with a doggish mixture of forlorn hope and wretched presumption.
“I was thinking,” said Morley, “it would be fun . . . if we made presents for each other.”
Morley’s words met dead silence.
Then Stephanie dropped her fork.
“What?” she said.
Sam said, “Everything I want is made out of plastic. Does anyone know how to mold plastic?”
Morley said, “I don’t mean every present. I don’t mean we have to make everything. I thought we could put our names in a hat, and we could all draw a name, and we’d have to make a present for the person whose name we drew.”
Sam said, “I like exploding stuff too. Exploding things are good . . . Especially if they are made of plastic.”
Stephanie said, “Gawd.”
Dave was nodding, a small smile playing at his mouth.
Two nights later Morley wrote everyone’s name onto a piece of paper. She tore the paper up, folded the pieces and put them into a pot.
“No one say who they get,” said Morley.
“What if you get yourself?” asked Sam.
But no one got themselves. And no one said who they got. In fact no one seemed particularly interested in who got whom. Morley had hoped that everyone would be excited. But no one was, at all.
Several uneventful weeks went by, autumn settling gracefully on the city as the family settled into the routine of their lives. It was a beautiful autumn. An autumn for gardening and walks and stock-taking. The days were bright and blue, the leaves yellow (for weeks, it seemed). A forgiving, perpetual autumn. Until, that is, the winds began to blow. One night there was a storm, and it rained and blew, and the next morning the trees were bare. Soon the clocks were turned back, and a gray-ness descended on the city.
It was October and everyone was busy. Only Morley, who was the busiest of all, was thinking about Christmas. The night they had pulled the names out of the pot Morley had waited for the last piece of paper. When she unfolded it, she read her son’s name. She had thought long and hard about what she could make a ten-year-old boy for Christmas that he would enjoy. And she was stymied. She didn’t know plastics. She didn’t know explosives.
Anyway she wanted to make her son something . . .
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