by Kiersten Tarr
Upstairs, standing in front of the window in what used to be the guest room but is now my bedroom, I’m painting “dark umber” mascara onto my eyelashes with the aid of a small handheld mirror. Between strokes, I glance up through the trees at the sky. It looks hazy, like there are lots of thin clouds everywhere, but there must be a break in them someplace, because there is bright sunlight kissing the driveway below.
My mother knocks on the door, then opens it a few inches without waiting for an answer.
“I need you to call Grandma and Grandpa before they head over to Jeanne’s.” (Jeanne is her half-sister.)
“I’m half-dressed,” I complain, gesturing to myself in sweatpants and bra, hair wet, mascara wand in hand. She looks me over from the doorway.
“Well, you don’t have to do it now, but if it isn’t soon, you’ll miss them.”
Realizing from her tone that this means I will have to either expedite my primping, make the phone call now, or catch hell, I opt to throw on a t-shirt and trek downstairs with my damp locks and lopsided eyelash thickness. There is a phone in my room, but it’s analog and actually tethered to its cradle, so down the stairs I go.
This is my annual holiday duty—not going to midnight mass, not helping roast or baste or dice anything, not licking envelopes for a few hundred cards featuring a glossy portrait of us wearing matching Santa hats—no, it’s my designated task to call my mother’s parents and make all of the initial small talk so that she can spend as little time as possible on the phone with them, and also just in case her stepfather answers instead of my grandma. I am the ritual sacrifice, the slaughtered innocent, the tender, tasty lamb. I go along with it because I’m grateful I wasn’t raised in the style practiced by my grandparents on their four kids. Running interference is an unspoken thank-you-for-not-doing-that-to-me to my mother.
As I listen to the line ringing, I recall an anecdote my mother told me after I moved to New York two Springs ago. Her stepfather told her that “no daughter of his” would ever be allowed to move to such a place, a filthy hole full of “weirdos.” Weirdos was code for the big bad Other, which for him includes queers, liberal idiots, illegals, and anyone the girls from Prussian Blue wouldn’t date. In turn, I am reminded of the last Christmas we spent with them, at which the most enthusiastic dinnertime conversation was about why it was okay for us to use the n-word. (Because “they” call each other that.)
After several rings there is a short pause before the recording of my grandmother’s very faint voice begins to play. I feel my face tighten into a smile that no one will see, necessary for getting my voice into character.
“Hi, Merry Christmas! It’s your granddaughter! You must’ve left for Jeanne’s by now, so, sorry we missed you, but we hope you’re having a nice time over there, and we’ll talk to you soon. Bye bye!”
As the sigh of relief I’m heaving begins to escape my lips, I turn to find my mother standing behind me holding up her address book, open to the J’s. We exchange wry smiles as I start dialing, and no explanation is needed. Just in case Jeanne picks up.