Christmas

The Keeper of Hours

Chapter 46: Christmas

The family had decided, in October, that Christmas would be small.

Yvonne had made the decision. She had told the family at supper on a Sunday evening — Carl, Tiana, Marcus at the table — that this year she wanted to keep the day very quiet. She had said: Thanksgiving was the threshold. Christmas is a different thing. Mama's last Christmas was the one we had here last year when she could still come downstairs. I have been sitting with that one. I do not want a big Christmas this year. I want a small family day. I want the Hightowers over for an hour in the afternoon. I do not want anybody else coming.

The family had agreed.

Tiana had, over October and November, handled the gentle declinations. Pamela had asked if she and Terry should come. Tiana had said: Pamela. Not this year. Next year. Mom wants quiet. Pamela had said: I understand, cousin. Give my love. Curtis had been invited — he would be in town, his law school on break — and Yvonne had included him because the inclusion of Curtis was not the same as inviting a larger gathering; Curtis was family now, by all their small unspoken votes. Marcus would be in Atlanta Christmas Eve because he was flying in Thursday morning December twenty-third and staying through New Year's.

Dr. Akinyele had sent a card. So had Folake from Lagos. So had Rosa. So had Pamela. So had Stephen from Detroit. So had Patrice from Houston. So had Denise from Frayser — with a small photograph of Brielle on the back steps in a red Christmas dress.

The cards had accumulated on the side table in the front room through December.

Christmas Eve was quiet.

Marcus came over at six with a small casserole he had made at his apartment. Curtis came at six-thirty. Carl had been at the house all afternoon — he had moved in from Cordova on Wednesday for the week, because Yvonne had said Carl, you be in this house Christmas week with me, and Carl had said Yes, Yvonne.

They ate at seven. Small. Just the five of them around the kitchen table. Yvonne sat at the head. The empty chair that had held Mama Tate's plate at Thanksgiving had not been set this time. Yvonne had decided in the afternoon: The plate was for Thanksgiving. It was the specific thing I needed for that meal. I do not need it for this one. I am going to set the five seats we have. We are going to eat. Mama would not have wanted a second plate tonight. She would have said Yvonne, one empty chair a year is plenty.

They laughed, quietly, when Yvonne said this.

Yvonne said the blessing. She said it plainly. She ended: Lord, we lift up Mama. She was here a year ago on this evening. She is not here tonight. The cloud has her. We thank You for her last Christmas with us, which was a year ago on the couch in the front room in the small shape she could still carry. We thank You for all of the years before that one. We thank You for the keeping that has been filling this house since she went. We ask You to hold us on this Christmas Eve, which is the first without her. Amen.

Amen, the others said.

They ate. They did not, for supper, speak much. The quiet was comfortable.

After supper they moved to the front room. Yvonne had put a small tree in the corner on the tenth of December — four feet tall, decorated with the small old ornaments from the box in the back bedroom that had been Mama Tate's since 1971. The tree was lit. The small lamp beside Eldridge's chair was on low.

Marcus, on the couch, had his laptop open. He had arranged, over the last two weeks, a small video call with Naomi and the Hightowers for seven-thirty. Naomi was going to read a small part she had memorized for her kindergarten Christmas pageant, which had been last week and which Yvonne and Carl had gone to. Naomi had asked Marcus on Monday if she could read her part again for Grandma Yvonne on Christmas Eve over the video, because — Naomi had said, over the phone — she wanted Grandma Yvonne to have the reading for Christmas.

Marcus had said yes.

At seven twenty-eight the laptop rang.

Marcus answered. Sheryl appeared on the screen. Reggie was beside her. Naomi was in her green Christmas dress.

"Merry Christmas Eve!"

The family on the Park Avenue end — gathered around the laptop on the coffee table — said it back.

Naomi, on the screen, held up a small piece of paper.

"Grandma Yvonne. I have my part."

"Go ahead, baby."

Naomi cleared her throat.

She read, slowly, in the small careful five-year-old voice she had been practicing at the Hightowers' kitchen table all week: For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you. Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

She lowered the paper.

"That is my part."

Yvonne, who had been sitting on the couch beside Marcus, did not, for a moment, speak.

Then she said: "Baby. That was the right part."

"I know, Grandma Yvonne. It was my teacher's choice. But I asked for it."

"You asked for it?"

"Yes. She said Naomi, you pick between three verses. I picked this one because Great-Grandma Tate used to read me from the Bible. She read me Luke one time when I stayed over. I remembered."

Yvonne closed her eyes.

She did not, for a long moment, open them.

When she did she said, quietly: "Baby. That is a gift to your grandmother."

"I know, Grandma Yvonne."

"You read it well."

"Thank you."

"Merry Christmas, baby."

"Merry Christmas, Grandma."

They hung up.

Yvonne cried for a small moment on the couch. Marcus put his hand on her shoulder. Tiana, from the floor, leaned her head against her mother's knee.

Carl, in his wooden chair, said nothing.

At nine-thirty Curtis rose to go back to his grandmother's house.

At the door Yvonne hugged him.

"Curtis."

"Yes, Yvonne."

"Merry Christmas, son."

"Merry Christmas, Yvonne."

"You come over tomorrow afternoon at three. The Hightowers are coming at two. They will be here until three-thirty. You come at three so you can meet Naomi at her third visit. She wants to meet you."

"She does?"

"She does, baby. She has been asking about you since November. Your name has been coming up at the Hightower kitchen table. They are ready for her to meet you. I have been arranging tomorrow. Be here at three."

"Yes, Yvonne. I will be."

"Good."

He went.

Christmas morning Tiana did the reading at five. Not four — she had, at her mother's insistence, allowed herself the small gift of an extra hour. Yvonne joined her at five-thirty. The reading was clean. Yvonne read the legacy pages. She read her mother's entry without her voice breaking. She had, by the second Christmas, developed the reading muscle for the entry — the small breath she took before the name, the small steady way she said the date.

After the reading they ate biscuits in the kitchen. Marcus came over at eight. Carl made eggs. They opened small gifts at nine — Yvonne had insisted on small, and the family had complied. Yvonne gave Tiana a small green leather notebook, unremarked, that Tiana understood at once was for a second book of her own when the time came. Tiana gave Yvonne a small framed photograph of Mama Tate and Yvonne and Tiana on the porch from 2012, which Tiana had found in the dresser drawer in October and had, without telling, taken to the framer. Yvonne wept for five minutes at the gift. Carl gave Tiana a small wooden book-stand he had made in the Cordova garage from the same oak he had used for Brielle Harper's step stool in March. It fit the composition book exactly. Tiana hugged her father for a long time. Marcus gave Yvonne a small hand-painted wooden pecan — an artist he had found in Atlanta had carved it — and Yvonne had laughed and had said baby, your grandmother would have loved this.

They went to Mt. Calvary at ten-forty-five. Pastor Honeycutt preached on Luke two. The choir sang. Sister Doris took the alto line. Mother Cole's granddaughter — who had become, over the fall, a regular reader in the Sunday lectionary — read the epistle. Yvonne sat in the first pew, where Mama Tate had sat for fifty-two years. It had been Yvonne's pew since January.

After service they came home.

The Hightowers arrived at two-oh-two.

Reggie was driving. Sheryl was in the passenger seat. Naomi was in the back in a small red Christmas dress and small white tights and a pair of Christmas socks she had picked out herself — which Sheryl had shown her in September as a birthday-advance preview, because Naomi's social calendar had been requiring advance preview since October.

Naomi came up the porch with a small wrapped package.

"Grandma Yvonne."

"Baby."

"I have something for you."

"Bring it in, baby."

They came in. They sat in the front room. Naomi climbed onto Yvonne's lap — the lap, not the chair, which was a shift Yvonne noted — and handed her the package.

Yvonne opened it slowly.

Inside was a small drawing — crayon on white paper, the way all the drawings had been since last year. It showed a small house with a pecan tree. In front of the house, four figures — a tall woman, a smaller woman, a man, and a small girl. At the bottom, in careful five-year-old print:

The house on Park. Grandma Yvonne. Me. Cousin Tiana. Daddy. By Naomi Hightower. Age 5.

Below the caption, in the same print, Naomi had written in smaller letters: Great-Grandma is in the cloud. She is watching.

Yvonne, at the couch, could not, for a moment, speak.

She set the drawing down on her lap. She put her hand on Naomi's head.

She said: "Baby."

"Yes, Grandma Yvonne."

"I love this drawing."

"I worked on it for two weeks."

"I can tell."

"Grandma Sheryl helped me write the last line. I told her what I wanted it to say. She helped me spell the words."

"Yes, baby."

"I wanted to make sure Great-Grandma knew I knew she was watching."

"She knows, baby."

"Yes."

Curtis came at three-oh-five.

He came in his winter coat with a small paper bag. He stopped in the doorway of the front room, where Naomi was in Yvonne's lap and the family was gathered around the small tree.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Curtis."

Naomi looked at him. She did not, for a moment, speak. She was, Yvonne could see, assessing.

Curtis knelt on the floor — the instinctive small honoring of a young man approaching a small girl he had been asked to meet.

He said, in his careful voice: "Miss Naomi. I am Cousin Curtis. I have heard a lot about you. My grandmother was your Great-Grandma Tate's oldest friend. I have been wanting to meet you."

Naomi looked at him for a long moment.

Then she said: "Cousin Curtis."

"Yes."

"Grandma Sheryl said you are a lawyer."

"I am going to be, Miss Naomi. I am in law school. I have another two and a half years. Then I will be a lawyer."

"Cousin Tiana said you are nice."

"That is kind of her."

"I drew you a picture. It is in my bag. I did not know if I would get to give it to you today. I brought it anyway."

She slid off Yvonne's lap. She went to the small tote bag Sheryl had brought in for her. She came back with a small folded paper.

She handed it to Curtis.

He opened it carefully.

The drawing was of a small man in a suit with a small gavel. Beneath it, in the same careful print: Cousin Curtis, lawyer someday. By Naomi, age 5.

Curtis, on the floor, had his hand over his mouth.

He said, after a moment: "Miss Naomi."

"Yes, Cousin Curtis."

"This is going on my wall at law school."

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"You are welcome."

She went back to Yvonne's lap.

The room sat for a long moment in the small warm quiet of a five-year-old who had, in her careful sixth-year-of-life way, just performed a small act of family-making that none of the adults had asked her to perform and none of them had expected.

Sheryl, on the couch beside Marcus, had her hand over her face.

The visit stayed small.

Naomi and Curtis talked for fifteen minutes about her dinosaur — Mr. Apatosaurus — which Naomi had brought in her bag but had not taken out until Curtis had been there long enough to be trusted with him. Curtis handled Mr. Apatosaurus with the small ceremony he would have handled a rare document, and Naomi approved.

At three-thirty the Hightowers rose to go. Reggie had a cousin's house to visit for dinner. Sheryl had pre-cooked her contribution on Wednesday. They had to drop Naomi at Sheryl's sister's house for the evening because the two of them wanted the small adult hours of Christmas evening.

At the door Sheryl hugged Yvonne for a long time.

"Yvonne."

"Sheryl."

"You made it."

"I made it, Sheryl."

"First Christmas."

"First one."

"Next year will be a little easier."

"Yes, Sheryl."

"And Naomi."

"Yes, Sheryl."

"She is going to remember this day. The drawing she gave you. The drawing she gave Curtis. The reading last night. She has been — Yvonne, she has been processing. She is not sad. She is making. She is making Great-Grandma part of her life in the way she knows how. I thought you should know."

"Yes, Sheryl."

"Merry Christmas, baby."

"Merry Christmas, Sheryl."

By four the house was down to five — Yvonne, Carl, Tiana, Marcus, Curtis.

They sat in the front room. The tree lights were on. The sun had gone early. The small December afternoon had the specific late-Christmas-Day quietness that families settle into after the midday visit is over.

Yvonne said: "Curtis."

"Yes."

"Sit with us another hour. Eat the leftovers from last night. You can go back to your grandmother's at six."

"Yes, Yvonne."

They ate Marcus's casserole from last night and Yvonne's small ham she had cooked this morning. They drank coffee. They talked about small things — about Curtis's second semester starting in January, about Marcus's work project that was running late, about Tiana's schedule at the unit that was easing up because she had, since October's bad morning, cut her hours by fifteen percent at Yvonne's insistence.

At six Curtis stood to go.

At the door he said: "Yvonne."

"Yes, Curtis."

"Thank you for today."

"You are welcome, son."

"And Tiana."

"Yes."

"I have been practicing at my grandmother's kitchen table every morning since November eleventh. I have seven names now. Two of them I added this week. I will tell you which ones on Saturday when I come over for dinner."

"Yes, Curtis."

"The practice is — Tiana, the practice is harder than I thought it would be. It is also easier. Both."

"Yes, Curtis. Both is right."

"Merry Christmas, cousin."

"Merry Christmas, Curtis."

He went.

The house was four.

At eight Marcus went to his apartment. He was flying back to Atlanta on the twenty-seventh — a work event on the twenty-eighth he could not move — and he had some packing.

Tiana stayed. She would sleep at Park Avenue tonight.

She sat on the couch with her mother and Carl in the front room. The tree was the only light. The cards on the side table — which Yvonne had been accumulating through December — were in a small neat stack. The composition book was on top of the cards. The small framed photograph of Mama Funmi was beside the books. The small framed Christmas gift Tiana had given her mother — of Mama Tate and Yvonne and Tiana on the porch in 2012 — was on the coffee table in front of them, where Yvonne had set it at nine that morning.

After a long while Yvonne said: "Babies."

"Yes, Mom," Tiana said.

"Mama got her Christmas this year."

"She did, Mom."

"Naomi's two drawings. Curtis at the door. The reading on the video last night. The Luke passage. The small plate I did not set this time because I did not need it."

"Yes, Mom."

"She would have been — Tiana, she would have been pleased with today."

"I think so, Mom."

"And the drawing Naomi made."

"The Great-Grandma is in the cloud, she is watching line."

"Yes. That is a six-year-old reading her own life."

"She is five, Mom."

"She is five and eleven-twelfths. She is doing it early."

"Yes, Mom."

Carl, in his chair, said: "Yvonne."

"Yes, Carl."

"Christmas next year."

"Yes."

"Bigger, or smaller."

Yvonne thought. She said: "Carl. I do not know yet. I will know next October. Mama always said do not plan the holidays more than six weeks out, baby. The holiday does not know yet what shape it wants to be. I will wait."

"Yes, Yvonne."

They sat.

The tree lights hummed.

Outside, a few snowflakes were beginning. The December night was mild. Memphis did not get much snow in most years. This year, the forecast had been for a light dusting overnight. The dusting had begun.

Tiana, watching the snow at the window, thought: Grandma. Naomi gave us a good Christmas. The Hightowers made it work. Mom held. Curtis met Naomi. The drawing is on the coffee table. Mom framed the picture of us in 2012. The small things have held. The Lord has been kind. The second Christmas is — Grandma, the second Christmas is quieter than the first, but it is not smaller. It is different. I am — I am grateful.

She did not say it aloud. The thinking was enough.

At nine-thirty Tiana and Yvonne went to bed.

Yvonne slept in her bedroom — which was, still, the bedroom that had been her mother's. Carl slept beside her. Tiana slept in the spare room across the hall.

The small light over the sink burned on.

In Whitehaven, at Sheryl's sister's house, Naomi was asleep in a small spare bed with a small pile of presents she had opened this morning and the small piece of paper from last night's video call which she had insisted on bringing. Sheryl and Reggie were at home with a small glass of wine each and the small Christmas movie Sheryl had been waiting to watch all December.

In East Memphis, Marcus was at his apartment. He was, at ten-oh-four, writing in his own composition book. He wrote: December 25, 2027. First Christmas without Grandma. Naomi gave Mom a drawing that said Great-Grandma is in the cloud watching. Naomi gave Curtis a drawing of a lawyer. Curtis came at three. Grandma would have loved today. The keeping continues.

He underlined The keeping continues.

In Orange Mound two blocks east of Park, Curtis was at his grandmother's kitchen table. He added — to his small composition book — the two names he had been working toward writing all week. One was a first-year classmate he had been mentoring who had been struggling. The other was his mother. He had written his mother's name in November. He was, tonight, adding a small annotation: December 25, 2027. I called her this afternoon in her facility. She was confused but warm. I said I love you, mother. She said I love you, baby. I am the baby. She is remembering that much. I underline her tonight because the Lord is — the Lord is working.

He underlined her name.

In Frayser, Denise Cole-Harper was in bed with Keith, and Brielle was asleep in her blue room down the hall. Denise had read her composition book at eight. Ifeanyi Chukwuemeka and Tamika Wells — whom Denise had been carrying on rotation from Tiana's book since October — had been on the page with the small update that Tiana had texted her last week: Ifeanyi in secondary school, Tamika through the letters. Denise had added a small note below each: Handed back to Tiana's primary care on January 9, 2028. Rotation complete.

In Lagos, it was three in the morning on the twenty-sixth. Folake was asleep. Ifeanyi and his family had spent Christmas Day at church and at a small dinner and were asleep.

In Oakland, Tamika and Diane had eaten a small Christmas dinner. Tamika had, after dinner, written a short note in her own small notebook she had started in October — a notebook for herself, not a prayer book the way Tiana's was, but a small practice of writing something down each day that she wanted to remember. She wrote: December 25, 2027. Box is empty. Letters are read. Mama, merry Christmas.

The snow continued for two hours.

By midnight a small half-inch had settled on the porch of the small brick house on Park Avenue. The pecan tree had a small white outline on its bare branches.

The house held the sleepers.

Tomorrow would be the twenty-sixth. The reading would happen again at four.

Eleven days remained until the first anniversary of Mama Tate's going.