Page 75 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
Cal and I look at each other again, and he gives me a “maybe he isn’t a shovel murderer after all” shrug. Wonders never cease.
“This is good, actually,” says Mr. Ross. “You can start fresh next year.”
“Agreed,” my brother says. “Hey, Mr. Ross. I’m Cal.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around here. And who’s the little one there?”
“This is Kelsey.”
Mr. Ross watches me take down another string of lights. Then he says, “Maybe I’ll come down and give you a hand.”
“Oh, Mr. Ross, you don’t have to…”
His window slams shut. A moment later, he hobbles out his frontdoor, and I’m happy to see that along with an old parka over his undershirt, he is, in fact, wearing pants. I’m also happy to see that he’s holding three beers. “You guys want a Natty Boh?” he says.
Cal and I say sure.
“Drink ’em slow, though,” he says. “I’ve only got about a hundred. Didn’t bring one for you, missy.”
Kelsey points at Mr. Ross and laughs.
“That’s for the best,” says Cal, “beer makes her mean.”
Mr. Ross goes to the base of the big tree, looks up at the broken lights. “You two keep working on the house,” he says. “I’ll handle this damn thing.”
Something I’ve learned about puttingthings off. Whether you’re procrastinating because of low energy, general boredom, or crushing grief, the thing you’re dreading is never quite as bad as you fear it’ll be. As Kelsey falls fully asleep in her BabyBjörn, just like that, all our derelict outside Christmas decorations are in the back of Cal’s truck.
“Cleans up nice,” says Mr. Ross.
Cal looks at me now. Our plan was to tackle the outside first, then, if I’m up for it, we’ll go inside. “What do you think, man?” It’s flurrying now, so he shields Kelsey’s face with his hand.
I nod but don’t say anything.
“Maybe I’ll get us some more beers,” says Mr. Ross.
When he comes back, fresh Natty Bohs in hand, we head to the front door. I should’ve taken Brynn’s wreath down earlier because it’s left a permanent mark on the wood, like when you take a picture off a wall after years and years.
“You haven’t been inside since you left, have you?” says Mr. Ross.
“No,” I say.
“Well, fair warning. It’s gonna smell like her in there.” He nods over to his house. “Found that out the hard way a long time ago. A place always smells like the lady who lived in it. Even when she’s gone.”
Kelsey is awake again, reaching for the jangly keys in Cal’s hand.
The door eases open, and Mr. Ross was right. A warm plume of Brynn flows out onto the cold stoop.
“After you,” says Cal.
I get why I told him to leave the place as is back in January. I regret that now, though, because the effect when we step inside is like time travel. Brynn’s shoes, her plaid scarf on the banister, the Kindle she bought but complained about because physical books are just better, the fake Christmas tree we decorated while we watchedThe Family Stoneto kick off the season last November.
Cal pulls Kelsey’s stocking cap off. “I popped in a couple days ago to check on things,” he says. “All’s good except that light at the top of the stairs I told you about. Bad socket. It’s on my list.”
Brynn cyberstalked this house for a week before we officially saw it. So, by the time our realtor could get us a showing, we practically arrived with a briefcase full of cash. The exposed brick wall—the one that separates this house and Mr. Ross’s—was her favorite part. I touch it now, the way she used to sometimes when she came in and out.
“I always wondered what this place looked like inside,” says Mr. Ross. “I like it.”
There’s work to do: the tree, the random decorations, endless straightening and sorting. For no good reason, though, I head for the kitchen. Cal broke protocol and apparently cleared out our fridge of anything perishable, which makes sense. The coffee machine could use a cleaning. The sink, too.
