Page 74 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
Grace walks a bit, leaving the kids at the cart.
“I was kidding about coming here,” she says. “They don’t have the sound playing on the movie, and Costco is basically the seventh circle of hell right now.”
I’m certain she’s right. Still, though, seeing her up close again, Ian and Bella a few paces behind her in their puffy coats, I find that I wish I were there, too.
“The real reason I called,” she says, “is that I have a question for you, but you can’t ask any follow-ups, because it’s a surprise.”
“Okay.”
“What size are you in clothes, like, generally? The kids want to get you something, and I’m terrible at guessing guy sizes.”
It’s cold here on Brynn’s bench—freezing, actually—but I feel warm suddenly. “Oh wow,” I say. “That’s really sweet. Large is usually a safe bet.”
“Large,” she says. “Got it. Cool. I’ll talk to you—”
“Wait,” I say. “When should we watchThe Holiday? I’m hanging out with my brother tonight. What about tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow,” she says. “I’ve got the Edgar Allan’s holiday party.”
“Oh, okay, well—”
I hear Cal’s truck approaching, then I feel it, rumbly under my feet.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “Just text me or whatever.”
I put my phone back in my coat pocket just as Cal pulls his truck into a spot right in front of my house. The driver’s side door opens, and Kelsey lets out a happy little shriek.
“Hey, Griswold!” Cal shouts. “Where do you think you’re gonna put a tree that big?”
“Bend over and I’ll show you,” I say.
There’s no tree in sight, of course. This is just what we do.
He stands before me now carrying a toolbox and wearing his winter fleece, a black stocking cap, and my niece. Kelsey, also in a black stocking cap, holds her hands out and opens and closes her mittens like puppets.
Cal looks up at the house. “You ready?”
“No,” I tell him. “But let’s do it anyway.”
A year of exposure tofour mid-Atlantic seasons hasn’t been kind to our Christmas decorations. Cal and I start with the wreath on thedoor, which crumbles in my hand as I pull it from its hook. Cal brought a ladder. He holds it for me while I unstring the lights from the front of our house. The green plastic casing is threadbare in spots, the tangle of coppery wiring beneath is jagged and exposed. I drop him a strand, which he catches and throws into the bed of his truck.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, looking up at me. And because she’s still in her BabyBjörn, Kelsey looks up at me, too, her eyes getting heavy. “This is big, Henry. No joke, man.”
There’s the masculine urge to downplay emotional progress, but I tell him thanks.
“I love you, man,” he says.
“Yeah, I love you, too.”
Then, from next door and above, a window opens, and now Mr. Ross is looking down on us. Cal and I look at each other. I’m suddenly a kid who’s been caught, like I’m about to be yelled at. But then I remember that I’m an adult and I own this place.
“Hey, Mr. Ross.”
“Hi there.” He’s in a white undershirt, despite the cold. I assume he’s wearing pants, but I can’t tell. “You’re cleaning up, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Listen, sorry about leaving this stuff out all year. I sort of—”
He waves me off. “Nah. Didn’t bother me. Couple of blue jays set up a nest in your wreath a while back. I was gonna chase ’em away, but didn’t seem like they were hurting anything.”
