Page 3 of Nutcracker with Benefits
Clara’s hug with Fritz is less comfortable. I suspect it has to do with me: when I moved in with Craig and Uncle D, Fritz was still in high school. He thought I’d be his sidekick and we’d get in trouble together, but I was more interested in the work Uncle D was offering me, and Fritz’s favorite taunts quickly became calling me a suck-up and brown nose.
While he works for Heartly, he’s stagnated the past few years, neither willing to put in the work or strike out on his own. He’s not as close to us, and most holidays are spent with Whitney’s family—except Christmas, because Whitney’s family is Jewish.
And because this is the one reliable time of year Clara is in town.
We’re also not that close because…Fritz is a dick.
“Ricky, you remember your Auntie Clara, right?” Whitney asks.
Last time Clara was visiting, Ricky was going through a shy phase, and while he’d seen Clara just two months prior, little kids’ memories don’t have that kind of longevity at that age. He’d barely interacted with her, and I had seen in the set of Clara’s mouth and the dull of her blue eyes that it bothered her.
“We look at her pictures online?” Whitney presses.
Molly stands in front of Clara and gives her a critical look. Her eyes widen. “MOM! Clara’s not wearing pajamas! You said she would be wearing pajamas!”
“For fuck’s sake,” Fritz mutters under his breath, loud enough to be heard by all of us, and Whitney immediately reprimands him for it. He rolls his eyes. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
“Sweetie, we talked about this.” Whitney bends down over Molly, who’s in full meltdown mode, screaming. “It’s a family tradition, and that’s why you had to wear the pajamas.”
Molly’s screeching is at epic levels, and Clara starts backing toward the hallway.
“I just came in from the airport. I haven’t even put my stuff in my room.” She grabs the handle of her rolling bag. “Don’t worry, Molly, I’m going to go put my pajamas on right now.” She disappears down the west wing hallway.
Craig distracts the kids by showing them his new pajamas—a Where’s Waldo holiday theme. This definitely works, and the kids spend a few minutes scanning Craig’s legs for Waldo. Thankfully the illustration stops at the thighs, so there’s no looking for Waldo in dangerous territory.
“Okay!” Clara’s voice calls out from the hallway moments before she appears. “I’m in my pajamas now. Christmas has officially started. Who’s ready to open presents?” The kids don’t even notice Clara’s pajamas. The bottoms are printed like fishnet stockings, and the fitted white shirt says fra-gee-lay across her chest above a lampshade. It’s even got a fringed hem.
Like they’ve been given pogo sticks, Molly and Ricky bounce up and down, their earlier shyness and meltdown vanished.
“Nice A Christmas Story pajamas,” I say as Clara settles next to me. Her blonde hair is up in a tight ponytail that swishes when she moves her head and is just long enough to brush my shoulder. She’s got more freckles since the last time I saw her; her skin is a little tanner. There’s a dimple on her left cheek that I’ve always loved kissing.
“Thanks. Ordered them a month ago, and Dad’s been holding onto them for me.”
Our attention turns to the kids. The Christmas lights have been plugged in, lighting the tree up with a soft, white glow. Craig has lit the gas fireplace and a few candles, so the smell of fir mingles with the fresh round of coffees that have been poured for the adults.
“Stockings first,” Whitney cries, and the kids’ eyes scan the room—looking first to the glass fireplace and then around the couch—until they locate the stockings. Too full to be held up by any stocking holder, the knitted monstrosities lean against the glass wall behind the Christmas tree.
Three of them are old and stretched, hand knit with names at the top: Clara, Fritz, and Dad. They’re family treasures made by Clara’s mom for her children’s first Christmases. In an album, somewhere, there are family photos of both Clara and Fritz as infants, each bundled into their respective stockings.
Yes, they are that big.
The remaining ones—Rolf, Nash, Whitney, Ricky, Molly, and Benny—gradually grow newer. It’s Benny’s first Christmas, and his stocking, bought by Craig and Uncle D, was made from a knitting shop in The Village.
“Who’s going to help Santa by handing out stockings?” Whitney asks as she unstraps Benny from her chest. It takes some time, but eventually, everyone ends up with the right stocking.
“On the count of three,” Craig says. He and Uncle D are seated next to each other on the couch, stockings in their lap. Molly and Ricky are on the edge of their seats, fingers twitching to grab and rip and consume.
“One, two, three!” the three of them shout together, and we all tear into our presents.
I know what’s in my stocking, or most of it anyway: chocolate oranges, gold-wrapped chocolate coins, pomegranates, and toys and miniatures for the hottest video games. The food I’ll likely share with Clara, but the toys I’ll end up donating. Of course, Craig and Uncle D know this, but they keep it up every year.
Ricky lets out a shriek when he finds one of the toys I picked out for him wrapped up in paper; a wind-up toy mouse. He’s at the age where pranks are hilarious. I just hope Whitney thinks it’s funny; the mouse is disturbingly realistic.
“Well, well, well. Look what I have here,” Clara says next to me. Her gifts are usually food, too, since she travels light. But when I look over, she’s pulling out a glossy cylinder from her stocking.
The magazine unfurls, and I groan. “Oh no.”
“Oh, yes. I heard all about this, and now I get an advanced copy?”
