Page 34 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
He leaps happily onto the bed and curls in next to me. Then my phone chirps. It’s a text from Henry.
Have you ever seen A Charlie Brown Christmas?
I laugh, which is something, considering there are tears in my eyes.
“Wow, we really need to work on your booty texts,” says Grace.
“No voice texting tonight?” I ask.
“Nah. I’m opting for voicevoicing. Old-school.”
“I thought about that after I hit Send, by the way. If thathadbeen a booty text, it would’ve been a pretty lame one.”
“You never know,” she says. “People are into all kinds of things. And, yes, IhaveseenA Charlie Brown Christmas. The sad little tree, right?”
“That’s the one.”
I brace for cynicism. After all, even the best holiday movies—or in this case, one-off holiday TV classics—are ridiculous. They’re overly sentimental. They prey on our most basic emotions. They’re a promise made by fiction that reality can’t keep. Grace, though, is quiet.
“What?” I say. “You’re not gonna rip on it? Tell me I’ve been wrong all these years for loving it?”
“Absolutely not. It’sA Charlie Brown Christmas,Henry. It’s perfect.”
“Whew,” I say.
“My sister and I used to watch it together,” she says. “It always came on with the Rudolph special.”
“That’s right. The Grinch cartoon, too, andFrosty the Snowman.Two hours of pure joy.”
“Tim could do the Grinch voice, like the guy in the song.” She sings now, “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch.”
“That’s pretty good.”
“It sounded better when he did it.”
“Our first Christmas tree was utterly pathetic,” I say. “Brynn’s and mine. Just like the one in Charlie Brown. We found it on this sketchy lot in Canton. She said it’d be funny if we got it, like an homage. I think she just felt sorry for it.”
“Aww,” Grace says. Then, after a pause, she says, “Fucking Christmas, right?”
“Right.”
We’re quiet. I’m thinking of Brynn sitting cross-legged on the floor in our row house beside our sad little tree. I assume Grace is working through something equally depressing.
“You wanna watch it?” I ask.
“Now?” she says. “It’s late. Then again, time is a meaningless construct.”
“Do you have Amazon Prime?” I ask.
“You think I’m gonna pay for shipping like a chump?”
There’s probably an easier way to do it—some screen-sharing app or IT wizardry—but the only thing we can come up with is to both orderA Charlie Brown Christmasand push Play simultaneously. First, though, we each get a drink: a Jack Daniels and Diet Dr Pepper for me and a beer for Grace.
“You’re the most random drinker I’ve ever met,” she says. “Diet Dr Pepper isn’t a mixer, you dork.”
I tell her anything’s a mixer if you’re brave, then I say, “On three. One, t—”
“Wait. Does that mean we push Play at the exact second you say three or right after? It’ll be annoying if we’re half a second off.”
