Sing You Home: A Novel Read online

  “What if he brings them up first?”

  “Zoe,” I begged, “please.”

  And for about an hour, it seemed as if we might get through dinner without a major incident. Liddy served ham and roasted potatoes and a green bean casserole. She told us about the ornaments on her Christmas tree, a collection of antique ones that had come from her grandma. She asked Zoe if she liked to bake, and Zoe talked about some lemon refrigerator pie that her mother used to make when she was a kid. Reid and I talked college football.

  When “Angels We Have Heard on High” played on the CD in the background, Liddy hummed along. “I taught this one to the kids this year for the pageant. Some of them had never heard it before.”

  “The Christmas concert at the elementary school is apparently the holiday concert now,” Reid said. “A bunch of parents got together and complained, and now they won’t sing anything that has even faintly religious overtones.”

  “That’s because it’s a public school,” Zoe said.

  Reid cut a neat little triangle of his ham. “Freedom of worship. It’s right there in the Constitution.”

  “So’s freedom of religion,” Zoe replied.

  Reid grinned. “You try all you want, but you can’t take Christ out of Christmas, honey.”

  “Zoe—” I interrupted.

  “He brought it up,” Zoe replied.

  “Maybe it’s time for the next course.” Liddy, always the peacemaker, jumped up and cleared the dinner plates, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Let me apologize for my wife,” I said to Reid, but before I could finish the sentence, Zoe turned, furious.

  “First of all, I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself. Second of all, I’m not going to sit here and pretend I don’t have an opinion about—”

  “You came here spoiling for a fight—” I argued.

  “Then I’ll happily call a truce,” Reid interrupted, smiling uncomfortably. “It’s Christmas, Zoe. Let’s just agree to disagree. Stick to topics like the weather.”

  “Who’s ready for dessert?” The swinging door to the kitchen opened, and Liddy stepped through, carrying a homemade cake. Written across the top in white icing it read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY JESUS.

  “My God,” Zoe murmured.

  Liddy smiled. “Mine, too!”

  “I give up.” Zoe backed away from the table. “Liddy, Reid, thank you for a lovely dinner. I hope you have a great Christmas. Max? There’s no need for you to leave if you don’t want to. I’ll just meet you at home.” She smiled politely and headed toward the foyer to get her boots and her coat.

  “What are you going to do, walk?” I called after her. Excusing myself quickly, I thanked Reid and kissed Liddy good-bye.

  By the time I got outside, Zoe was already trudging down the street. The snow, unplowed, reached up to her knees. My truck barreled through it easily and stopped beside her. I leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” I snapped.

  She thought twice, but she climbed into the cab of the truck.

  For a few miles, I didn’t speak to her. I couldn’t. I was afraid I might actually explode. Then, when we hit the highway—which had been plowed—I turned to Zoe. “Did you ever think how humiliating that was for me? Is it really too much to ask for you to make it through one meal with my brother and his wife without being a sarcastic bitch?”

  “Oh, that’s really nice, Max. So now I’m a bitch, because I don’t feel like being brainwashed by the Christian right.”

  “It was a fucking family dinner, Zo. Not a revival meeting!”

  She twisted toward me, the seat belt cutting against her throat. “I’m sorry I’m not more like Liddy,” Zoe said. “Maybe Santa could slip a lobotomy into my stocking tonight. That would help.”

  “Why don’t you just shut the hell up? What has she ever done to you?”

  “Nothing, because she doesn’t have a mind of her own,” Zoe said.

  I’d had plenty of discussions with Liddy about whether people like Jack Nicholson and Jonathan Demme owed their success to B movies; about Psycho’s impact on film censorship. “You don’t know anything about her,” I argued. “She’s a . . . a . . .”

  I swung the truck into our driveway, letting my voice trail off.

  Zoe jumped out of the truck. It was snowing so hard now that there was a curtain of white behind her. “A saint?” she said. “Is that the word you’re looking for? Well, I can’t be one, Max. I’m just a flesh and blood woman, and apparently I even suck at that.”

  She slammed the passenger door and stomped to the house. Furious, I spun the wheels in reverse and tore down the street, skidding.

  Between the fact that it was Christmas Eve and the heavy storm, it seemed like I was the only one on the roads. Nothing was open, not even McDonald’s. It was easy to imagine I was the last person left in this universe, because that’s sure as hell how it felt.

  Other men were busy building bicycles and jungle gyms so that their kids could wake up on Christmas morning and get the surprise of a lifetime, but I couldn’t even manage to produce a kid.

  I pulled into an empty shopping center lot and watched a plow go by. I remembered the first time Liddy had seen snow.

  I reached for my cell phone and dialed my brother’s house, because I knew she would answer. I was just going to hear her say hello, and then hang up.

  “Max?” she said, and I grimaced—I’d forgotten about caller ID.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Is everything okay?”

  It was ten at night, and we’d left in a major storm. Of course she was panicked.

  “There’s something I need to ask you,” I said.

  Do you know how you light up a room?

  Do you ever think about me?

  Then I heard Reid’s voice in the background. “Come on back to bed, honey. Who’s calling so late, anyway?”

  And Liddy’s response: “It’s just Max.”

  Just Max.

  “What did you want to ask?” Liddy said.

  I closed my eyes. “Did . . . I leave my scarf there?”

  She called out to Reid. “Sugar? Did you see Max’s scarf?” There was some exchange I couldn’t quite make out. “Sorry, Max, we haven’t found it. But we’ll keep a lookout.”

  A half hour later, I let myself into my apartment. The light over the stove was still on, and the little tree that Zoe had bought and decorated herself was glowing in the corner of the living room. She absolutely insisted on a live tree, even though it meant lugging it up two flights of stairs. This year she’d tied white satin bows to the boughs. She said each one was a wish she had for next year.

  The only difference between a wish and a prayer is that you’re at the mercy of the universe for the first, and you’ve got some help with the second.

  Zoe was asleep on the couch, curled beneath a blanket. She was wearing pajamas with snowflakes all over them. She looked like she’d been crying.

  I kissed her, to wake her up. I’m sorry, she murmured against my lips. I shouldn’t have—

  “I shouldn’t have, either,” I told her.

  Still kissing her, I slipped my hands under the edge of her pajama top. Her skin was so hot it burned my palms. She dug her fingers into my hair and wrapped her legs around me. I sank to the floor and tugged her down with me. I knew every scar on her body, every freckle, every curve. They were markers on a road I’d been traveling forever.

  I remember thinking our lovemaking that night was so intense, it should have left behind some kind of permanent record, like the beginnings of a baby, except it didn’t.

  I remember that my dreams were full of wishes, although, when I woke up, I couldn’t remember a single one.

  By the time Liddy gets to wherever she’s planning on going, my buzz has worn off and I’m pretty much pissed at myself and the world. Once Reid finds out that I was pulled over by a cop for drunk driving, he’ll tell Pastor Clive, who’ll tell Wade Preston, who’ll lecture me on how easy it is to l