Five holidays that worked out just how they were supposed to, due South
This ficlet was written for the wonderful catwalksalone . Pairings: Bob/Caroline, Frannie/Elaine, young!RayK/Stella and Fraser/Vecchio/Kowalski. Rated: G
December 24th, Canada, 1964.
“I will try.”
Three words, the shortest of all the letters Robert has sent to her. She asked him if he would be home by Christmas, if the sweeping patrols he’s having to do at the moment will bring him back to them. Back home. Benton looks up at her, eyes wide and solemn, old-man eyes. A tuft of hair is sticking up, and one of his socks has fallen down. She feels a familiar warmth, fondness and exasperation tinged with a little sadness when she sees him. His eyes are Robert’s, his hair hers, his face his own.
“Will he be here?”
She puts a hand on his head, cups the side of his face. “Yes, love. He’ll be here.”
She waits by the window, holding a candle. It is Christmas Eve. Just as the clock’s chiming into Christmas, the cabin door opens. He’s home.
December 24th, Chicago, 1974.
Francesca needs a new pair of shoes. Even he can see that, see the slightly awkward way she walks, the way when she sits she shuffles her feet back so no one will see how shabby they are. He’s been saving for months, for a toy gun, like the cowboys used to use, but there’s a shoe shop next to the toy shop, he knows what size she is, because ma took her in here, to try on shoes they’d buy when pa stopped drinking away the money. When. Twelfth of never, probably.
The gun shines.
He puts the box on Frannie’s bed, digs out his old catapult and spends the afternoon aiming at the neighbourhood cat, then puts worms in Maria’s make-up box, just so they don’t think he’s gone soft or nothing.
His ma gives him an extra helping of pudding. Frannie smiles through dinner. Maria won’t come down from her room.
July 4th, Chicago, 1980
They sit on a blanket in front of his car and watch the fireworks over the lake. Stella’s wearing a flowery dress made of thin material that clings. The back of her neck is damp with sweat, the hair curling under a little. He loves her, he thinks.
He made sandwiches, brought a thermos of tea and a bottle of water, and two apples. She told him it was perfect, so it is.
They’re not watching the fireworks any more, not really. He loves her. They watch each other.
December 25th, Chicago, 2000
Her hands are cold, so she puts them on the back of Elaine’s neck, just to hear her gasp. The car’s broken down, the path is covered with snow and she walked early to Mass so ma would stop babbling about hell in Italian every time she went to supper. Elaine, however, is in a vest and sweatpants, barefooted and sleepy looking. “When did you get up?” she asks, accepting the cup of coffee she hands to her with a smile.
“Ten minutes ago. We could go back to bed.”
“Presents?”
Elaine laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “In bed,” she promises, takes Frannie’s hand and leads her into the bedroom, setting her coffee cup on the nightstand. Frannie stands still, lets Elaine undress her, unbuttoning her coat, unzipping her dress. She’s still cold, but she gets into bed in her underwear and they wrap around each other in their warm bed, drink coffee and talk idly about nothing at all. The presents wait.
December 25th, Canada, 2008
They buy each other rocking chairs, and sit in the porch in sleeping bags and thermals. Benny makes them all sing Christmas carols, and whistles the descant every time they get to the last verse. He’s got a bad back, Kowalski’s got a bit of a limp from the time with the third performance arsonist, and all three of them have more grey in their hair than they’d like. But there’s hot water and proper plumbing in the cabin, Kowalski has his cd player, and they dance together every evening as the snow falls and the stars shine. So it’s all just right.
December 24th, Canada, 1964.
“I will try.”
Three words, the shortest of all the letters Robert has sent to her. She asked him if he would be home by Christmas, if the sweeping patrols he’s having to do at the moment will bring him back to them. Back home. Benton looks up at her, eyes wide and solemn, old-man eyes. A tuft of hair is sticking up, and one of his socks has fallen down. She feels a familiar warmth, fondness and exasperation tinged with a little sadness when she sees him. His eyes are Robert’s, his hair hers, his face his own.
“Will he be here?”
She puts a hand on his head, cups the side of his face. “Yes, love. He’ll be here.”
She waits by the window, holding a candle. It is Christmas Eve. Just as the clock’s chiming into Christmas, the cabin door opens. He’s home.
December 24th, Chicago, 1974.
Francesca needs a new pair of shoes. Even he can see that, see the slightly awkward way she walks, the way when she sits she shuffles her feet back so no one will see how shabby they are. He’s been saving for months, for a toy gun, like the cowboys used to use, but there’s a shoe shop next to the toy shop, he knows what size she is, because ma took her in here, to try on shoes they’d buy when pa stopped drinking away the money. When. Twelfth of never, probably.
The gun shines.
He puts the box on Frannie’s bed, digs out his old catapult and spends the afternoon aiming at the neighbourhood cat, then puts worms in Maria’s make-up box, just so they don’t think he’s gone soft or nothing.
His ma gives him an extra helping of pudding. Frannie smiles through dinner. Maria won’t come down from her room.
July 4th, Chicago, 1980
They sit on a blanket in front of his car and watch the fireworks over the lake. Stella’s wearing a flowery dress made of thin material that clings. The back of her neck is damp with sweat, the hair curling under a little. He loves her, he thinks.
He made sandwiches, brought a thermos of tea and a bottle of water, and two apples. She told him it was perfect, so it is.
They’re not watching the fireworks any more, not really. He loves her. They watch each other.
December 25th, Chicago, 2000
Her hands are cold, so she puts them on the back of Elaine’s neck, just to hear her gasp. The car’s broken down, the path is covered with snow and she walked early to Mass so ma would stop babbling about hell in Italian every time she went to supper. Elaine, however, is in a vest and sweatpants, barefooted and sleepy looking. “When did you get up?” she asks, accepting the cup of coffee she hands to her with a smile.
“Ten minutes ago. We could go back to bed.”
“Presents?”
Elaine laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “In bed,” she promises, takes Frannie’s hand and leads her into the bedroom, setting her coffee cup on the nightstand. Frannie stands still, lets Elaine undress her, unbuttoning her coat, unzipping her dress. She’s still cold, but she gets into bed in her underwear and they wrap around each other in their warm bed, drink coffee and talk idly about nothing at all. The presents wait.
December 25th, Canada, 2008
They buy each other rocking chairs, and sit in the porch in sleeping bags and thermals. Benny makes them all sing Christmas carols, and whistles the descant every time they get to the last verse. He’s got a bad back, Kowalski’s got a bit of a limp from the time with the third performance arsonist, and all three of them have more grey in their hair than they’d like. But there’s hot water and proper plumbing in the cabin, Kowalski has his cd player, and they dance together every evening as the snow falls and the stars shine. So it’s all just right.