A Kind of Flying: Selected Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

all: her husband coming home in his cap and gown last June, saying, “Thanks for law school, honey, but I met Doris at the Juris-Prudence Ball and I gotta be me. Keep the kid.”
    The girl said to me, “You could stay and help.”
    It seemed like two statements to me, and so I answered them separately: “Thank you. But I can’t stay; that’s the best help. Have a good Christmas.”
    And I left them there together, decorating that tree; a ritual against the cold.
    “ HOW DO you like it?” Elise says to me. She has selected a short broad bush which seems to have grown in two directions at once and then given up. She sees the look on my face and says, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Besides, I’ve already decided: this is the tree for us.”
    “It’s a beautiful tree,” Drew says.
    “Quasimodo,” I whisper to Drew. “This tree’s name is Quasimodo.”
    “No whispering,” Elise says from behind us. “What’s he saying now, Mom?”
    “He said he likes the tree, too.”
    Elise is not convinced and after a pause she says, “Dad. It’s Christmas. Behave yourself.”
    When we go to pay for the tree, the master of ceremonies is busy negotiating a deal with two kids, a punk couple. The tree man stands with his hands in his change apron and says, “I gotta get thirty-five bucks for that tree.” The boy, a skinny kid in a leather jacket, shrugs and says he’s only got twenty-eight bucks. His girlfriend, a large person with a bowl haircut and a monstrous black overcoat festooned with buttons, is wailing, “Please! Oh no! Jimmy! Jimmy! I love that tree! I want that tree!” The tree itself stands aside, a noble pine of about twelve feet. Unless these kids live in a gymnasium, they’re buying a tree bigger than their needs.
    Jimmy retreats to his car, an old Plymouth big as a boat. “Police Rule” is spraypainted across both doors in balloon letters. He returns instantly and opens a hand full of coins. “I’ll give you thirty-one bucks, fifty-five cents, and my watch.” To our surprise, the wily tree man takes the watch to examine it. When I see that, I give Elise four dollars and tell her to give it to Kid Jimmy and say, “Merry Christmas.” His girlfriend is still wailing but now a minor refrain of “Oh Jimmy, that tree! Oh Jimmy, etc.” I haven’t seen a public display of emotion and longing of this magnitude in Salt Lake City, ever. I watch Elise give the boy the money, but instead of saying, “Merry Christmas,” I hear her say instead: “Here, Jimmy. Santa says keep your watch.”
    Jimmy pays for the tree, and his girl—and this is the truth—jumps on him, wrestles him to the ground in gratitude and smothers him for nearly a minute. There have never been people happier about a Christmas tree. We pay quickly and head out before Jimmy or his girlfriend can think to begin thanking us.
    On the way home in the truck, I say to Elise, “Santa says keep your watch, eh?”
    “Yes, he does,” she smiles.
    “How old are you, anyway?”
    “Eight.”
    It’s an old joke, and Drew finishes it for me: “When he was your age, he was seven.”
    We will go home and while the two women begin decorating the tree with the artifacts of our many Christmases together, I will thread popcorn onto a long string. It is a ritual I prefer for its uniqueness; the fact that once a year I get to sit and watch the two girls I am related to move about a tree inside our home, while I sit nearby and sew food.
    ON THE morning of the twenty-fourth of December, Elise comes into our bedroom, already dressed for sledding. “Good news,” she says. “We’ve got a shot at the record.”
    Drew rises from the pillow and peeks out the blind. “It’s snowing,” she says.
    Christmas Eve, we drive back along the snowy Avenues, and park on Fifth, as always. “I know,” Elise says, hopping out of the car. “You two used to live right over there before you had me and it was a swell place and only