A Job You Mostly Won't Know How to Do by Pete Fromm

Author:Pete Fromm
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781640091788
Publisher: Counterpoint
Published: 2019-02-19T05:00:00+00:00

DAY 144

Taz works every day up until Christmas Eve, Marko riding him like he might vanish any second, Rude stuck in the Tri-Cities. Blizzards, he says, though Taz wonders if his old flame might still be living in Richland. “Feeding off toxic waste,” Rudy’d once said, but the holidays, everything’s forgiven, right? Even Elmo’s one week off has stretched to two, without a word. He’s just lucky Lauren’s there to hold down the fort.

Nobody wants Taz poking around their house on Christmas Day, though, so he stays home, actually even sleeps in a little, then planes the front door, trying to stay out of Lauren’s way. She’s a dervish in the kitchen, making ham, she says, because it’s just too close to Thanksgiving to do another turkey. She covers it with pineapple. Cloves. Those nuclear-red cherries. A festival all its own. She peels pounds of potatoes, cheesy casseroles full of them, scalloped. No tricks missed.

Taz checks in on her once, kind of has to if he wants to catch a peek at Midge. He lets Midge hold his finger as she rocks back and forth in the swing Lauren bought for her, the one Christmas present that just couldn’t wait, and something Taz has to admit is maybe the best baby thing ever. In their new game, Taz sways back, then rushes forward as she hangs onto his finger, laughing. Lauren watches, smiles, says, “Yes?”

Taz turns her way, still swaying, trying to remember the excuse he made to come in. He can’t, so he asks if there’s anything she needs, anything he can do. She shakes her head, but then waves toward the fanged smiley face on the wall. “You know, it might be kind of nice not to have that watching me all day.”

Taz nods, says, “I know, but, it’s Marn’s,” and Lauren only says, “Okay then,” and gets back to work, spinning lettuce in the giant old sink.

Rudy barges in in a cloud of snow and frost, Amundsen reaching the pole, dragging in more champagne than any of them could ever drink, or want to. Rolling out stories of death-defying road conditions, the Herculean efforts involved in getting over the passes, he walks back out to the truck, and staggers in again under the weight of an old box television, fiddles with it and converter boxes, a rabbit’s ear, and finally gets some football. He pulls a ragged red bow the size of a watermelon from somewhere inside his jacket and sets it on top, says, “You’re welcome,” makes one more antenna adjustment, then drops into the swivel rocker, and pops the first bottle of champagne, shouts, “Merry Christmas!”

Lauren looks out from the kitchen, and Rudy jumps up, cries, “Mrs. H., I am smelling some magic in that kitchen!” She just looks at him, and he says, “The Christmas spirit looks good on you, too.” He lifts his bottle, says, “May I pour?”

She rolls her eyes, a look she could have stripped straight off of Marn, and Taz blurts out a laugh, and Lauren turns back into the kitchen.

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