Dear Eloise,
I could hear Roger’s tears trickle down his cheeks and plop on the floor. I asked him, “Roger, why are crying in momma’s holiday closet?” I thought maybe it was because she had put away all the Christmas decorations- the ones Roger stayed up all night admiring in juvenile, innocent bliss. He loved the lights on the trees that would sparkle with seemingly no rhythm the most. We were so poor, remember El, that momma put every single bulb we owned up on that tree. She’d have sets of lights that would flash in a row, boring lights that just shined blankly, green lights, red lights, strings of lights that had color-identity issues, one string of the lights that shot little bubbles up and down a little prism in the middle (even though they’d been through so much, most of those had devolved in being just sharp, broken shards of glass with a glaring light coming out them), and she even put up lights had burned out years ago all on the same tree. All to make it look like a normal, classy, full Christmas experience. Every year Roger would immediately find his favorite set, and whisper to us, “aren’t they amazing? They look like a starry sky. They look like cheery little stars on the tree. They’re happy to be alive.” You’d think after a month and a half of seeing those celestial Christmas illuminations he would get sick of them, but even on the night of December 26th he would still be up later than our bedtime sitting on the ugly mauve couch and watching his favorite lights abstractly dance around the tree.
“Roger? Why are crying in this closet? Come out of there before the party starts.” It was momma’s famous New Year’s Day party. It started at one in the afternoon and didn’t end until one in the morning. She’d save up canned goods, baking mixes, and triple-value coupons all year long so that she could supply enough food for everyone to continuously stuff their faces for twelve consecutive hours. All the uncles and aunts had to supply the drinks and music, but momma had all the food, and she was so proud of that.
I tried to open the closet, but Roger but all of his weight and strength into holding it shut. Since we were two he’d been twice as strong as me, so there was no way I was getting that door open. “Roger, at least tell me- are you hurt?”
“Is Uncle Freddy coming to the party?
“Uncle Freddy? Uncle Freddy Ford, of course he’s coming to the party- he always brings that bourbon in the red glass and black letters. Of course he’s coming.” Silence, the quick drip of tears, a stifled sniffle. “What? You got a problem with Uncle Ford?”
“Just leave me alone. Let me stay in this closet, sis.” His voice was the most gentle I had ever heard it. It was serene and beautiful, the opposite of everything I had grown to associate with him. He was always wacky and bringing random dead animals into the house. He was not like that smooth, hushed tone he was using from inside the closet.
I was so surprised I didn’t know what to do. Unsure and uncomfortable, I teased, “if you don’t come out of this closet I’m going to get Uncle Ford to come and find you.” I could almost hear the tears fizzle off his cheeks as they warmed to a boiling temperature. He was silent, but not a hidden, sheepish silence, an enraged and intense silence. Not being able to see him, but being able to sense the deep anger resonating from with the closet I took a giant step back. I felt as if in the next few seconds the door could be ripped off the hinges, splatter into splinters of wood, and then a mutant monster form of Roger would jump out and attack me- just like a science fiction movie. Instead, three words shot out through the heavy door. Words so strong and cutting they sliced though the thick wood and the thin air with as little effort as gasp. They landed on my throat and heart making it impossible to breath. They made me run up stairs, trying to forget what just happened…
“I’ll kill you.”
That was the same party that Uncle Ford offered to take Roger on a week long fishing trip, and it was also the party that Roger stabbed Uncle Ford in the calf with a dinner fork. Half the people at the party said Roger was crazy, half the people said Uncle Ford was a guilty pedophile. The party was over, and all I knew was Roger wasn’t crazy, he was just a kid who wanted his Christmas lights back.
Going through these memories alone… trying to figure out stuff. Miss you sis.
Love,
Christina
The LUVly Letters 