Afternoon Saturday, October 12th, 2024
Garin and Joseph drove two hours into Pennsylvania to attend a gun and knife show. Joseph was much more talkative and normal this time and came alive in the gun show to get his hands on so many spectacular firearms. Garin thought about it, but not long, how Joseph hadn’t told him a thing about what he’d done with Lyrou in his bedroom. In his mind, he spoke to him: It’s OK, Joseph, but I wonder if you think about telling me. I’d like to ask you just that.
Garin was pleased to find on display and for sale, at a magnificently high price, a historical gun in a glass case. Its seller gave Garin and another patron a biography of this particular weapon: a Brown Bess musket, “Long Land Pattern! Gorgeous and iconic! Far rarer than the later Short Land and India Pattern variants. 1758 Battle of Fort Carillon. How's that for provenance?" He dated it to the French & Indian War, then explained that its first owner to fire it in service was killed in the field, passing it onto an enemy Frenchman before he was also killed in the field, passing it back to another American, and then down through the generations. "Original lock, barrel, and stock with no replacements or restorations."
Joseph was back-to-back with Garin but listening to another seller give a speech regarding his activism “... in our nation’s corrupt capital!” Garin listened to both while keeping his eyes on the centuries-old piece, its owner taking it gently out of the case and showing how it operated.
The activist was midway through a rant: “A gun! What is it for? A gun is so that any man can keep any intruder, whoever that intruder pretends to be, from crossing the threshold into his home. His home! And keeping that intruder from taking what’s his. What of what’s his? His security, his peace, his material belongings, his woman, his life. That is what I mean by it when I stand before our fork-tongued representatives and say a gun is everything. Without a gun, you have nothing the minute another man helps himself!”
The price of the musket seemed cheaper and cheaper as Garin listened to the activist. Having been silent for the whole history lesson, he stepped forward. “I’m buying.”
The seller reached his hand out across the display table to shake. “Yes, sir! First paperwork, ID, and all the requisites.”
Joseph turned, giving Garin a slap on the back as he took a pen to begin filling out forms. “Phuuuuuuh… you’re the right customer for it, but Jesus, the tag. That tall, slender lady will look killer as all shit, Garin, in your office.”
Garin nodded. “Then that’s where it’ll go. May I not be tomahawked in battle and lose it to a Frenchman.”
The seller chuckled and seconded, “Oh!? One can pray not! Don't go as a provincial this Halloween."
⚜
Noon Wednesday, October 23rd, 2024
Alan left his baseball cap lying around just wherever. Garin would sometimes grab it on his way through the house and toss it spinning into Alan’s bedroom as he passed. Today, he checked inside it, plucked out several of Alan’s hairs, and deposited them into a sealable sandwich bag before flicking it onto Alan’s bed.
“Oh, thanks, Dad!” the boy said, poking his head around to see his dad proceeding down the hallway.
Then, in the upstairs bathroom, he stepped on the lever to pop open the trash bin. Therein, among many crumpled tissues and waxed ear swabs, was a colorful adhesive bandage with anime characters that Garin had seen on Penny’s scraped knee and had been checking for in this can and others since. Good timing. He plucked it out and saw inside, on the square white absorbent pad, a red-brown oblong. Into another sealable sandwich bag it went.
He stopped and thought of throwing both baggies in the toilet to flush them. No, he looked at himself standing in the mirror. If he wasn’t meant to have their contents, then why had fortune given them to him? No, he’d take them. He would unlock their secrets, as it was exclusively by these first-class relics, more divine than the Shroud of Turin, that he’d have their hidden knowledge.
⚜
Evening Thursday, October 31st, 2024
Lyrou had dropped Penny off with her friends; she went as a video game princess, perhaps the most well-known, carrying a twirly wand with a star affixed atop it. Next, she’d drop off Alan, who kept the video game character theme. His costume was intricate: a metallic, battle-worn helmet with glowing red eye visors, giving them a fierce, futuristic death squad vibe; a sleek, armored bodysuit in shades of gray and blue with padded shoulder plates; and heavy, rugged, combat-ready boots. He wanted to carry a glowing, futuristic assault-rifle-type model, but Lyrou wouldn’t allow it, citing stories of hair-trigger police officers protecting and serving too zealously. But Alan was content to sport a utility belt filled with various pouches and gear, and also a flowing, stylized blue half-length cape draping his back, giving him a heroic presence.
Lyrou liked his costume a lot and repeatedly told him so, but he seemed unhappy sitting in the passenger seat on the way to his friend’s house. Lyrou sighed. “Tell me, Alan. You don’t like your costume?”
Alan rolled his eyes at her. “It’s not my costume. I can’t.”
Lyrou drove more slowly to have more time to talk. “Whatever it is, I won’t tell anyone.”
Alan took a minute, thinking, then spoke. “It’s your costume.”
Lyrou’s eyes popped open. “Quoi? Hein?”
Alan leaned away from her into his door, head to the window, and looked out. “I hate your costume.”
Lyrou felt his words jab into her heart. “You like aliens?!” Lyrou touched her head tendrils and looked into the rear-view mirror at herself: orange full-face makeup and blue-eyed contacts.
Alan looked over at her before averting his gaze back out the side window. “It’s not your face.”
Lyrou, driving, looked down, back to the road, then down again at her outfit: tight, red leather, high gloves and armbands, all with an outer space aesthetic. She was confused, but then decided to think like a fan of the series, like Alan. “It’s not lore accurate? I tried to match the design, but I couldn’t do it exactly.”
Alan rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. “Never mind.”
She saw Alan’s frustration in his expression; she had to know what it really was. “Please? Maybe I can fix it,” she asked with a smile.
Alan’s expression improved instantly. Lyrou was proud of him that he was about to give her a piece of his nerd mind; for his smile, she’d be happy to revise her costume in unreasonable dedication to a fictional character. Alan blurted, “If you wear your black thermal underlayer, it would...”
Lyrou winced. “Underlayer? The weather isn’t cool enough.”
Alan continued, “...it would cover some of... this.” And he waved his hand over her chest area and midriff like a metal detector.
Lyrou’s mouth fell open. “Alan? Alan? Do you mean this is about... you just want me to cover myself more?”
Alan shrugged, his voice meek. “I guess so.”
Lyrou understood; she got it now. “I never expected you to say something like that to me.” Her tone was disappointed.
Alan slapped his leg in frustration. “Mom! You don’t understand. My friends, they talk smack.” His voice cracked.
Lyrou gripped the steering wheel on a turn, taking it sharply and swaying them in their seats. “I’ll never care what your friends say. Am I clear?”
Alan crossed his arms over himself. “Couldn’t you be... more... trad?”
“What is trad? No, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be myself. Alan?!” She stopped in front of Alan’s friend’s house and gestured for him to disembark, pointing her finger past his face under his nose.
Popping his door open and planting a foot on the curb, Alan said, “It’s less embarrassing than what you wore last year, I guess.” He slammed the door, marching off to his friend’s front gate, his cape blowing behind him like a little invader villain from Mars, her little Alan, not as little anymore in truth as he was in her eyes. Where had that little Alan she knew gone, and who was this big, strange, accusatory imposter? Lyrou drove away alone, her defensive fluster melting into a frown, and then a sad, private laugh.
⚜
Afternoon Friday, November 8th, 2024
Lyrou had completed reading, in one morning sitting, a novella, ‘Al Jinn Wal Khalifah’: a Fatimid caliph acquires a genie from his fallen traitorous wazir with two wishes expended. Well enough, the haunted crown has but one wish: to bring back to life his beloved, wrongly executed Byzantine wife, Theodora. Lyrou was about to start her yoga routine, but she would like to have something else to read by the time she finished. So, she texted Garin while he was at work.
“Answer each with yes or no, only.
If I died, would you be sad?
Would you remarry?
Would you keep in contact with my mother?
Would you visit my grave annually?
Would you keep my photos out in our home?
Would you keep my photos in your phone?
Would you be glad if you could see my peaceful ghost at least one time before I crossed over?
Would you keep some of my stuff unpacked?
Would you tell people who never met me about me?
If you found a genie who gave you one wish, would you wish me back to life?”
Garin replied, “Yes to all,” before she had really begun her bridge pose.
Lyrou sat, legs folded on her yoga mat. She texted back, “If you were remarried, would you still wish me back to life?”
His word bubble appeared below hers. “Yes.”
She’d already typed, expecting that answer, and sent it as soon as she received it. “Would you divorce her and remarry me, then?”
Garin’s text came back so quickly it staggered her. “No.”
She began to text, “Under no conditions?” but deleted it and lay staring into her phone at his “No.” Instead, she sent, “Why not?”
Again, his reply snapped back. “If I married her, then I made an agreement with her. Even if I missed you, I wouldn't divorce her because you'd come back from Heaven.”
Lyrou smiled. “You don't think I'd be back from Hell?”
Garin replied, “For what would you have gone to Hell?”
Lyrou smiled and then frowned. “For everything I did and didn't tell you because I knew it was wrong.”
Now, Garin didn't reply for a moment, but Lyrou lay still, waiting. Then it came: “Down there in the burning pits, a pair of devils clamp iron cuffs about your body and lead you to your depth. Past the health insurance CEO made to argue on the phone for coverage in perpetuity, you marvel and ask him what happens when he fails to convince the company rep. He answers, ‘They make me suck a big dick.’ The devils lead you deeper into the Inferno, past the game developer made to play against pay-to-winners. You ask him what happens when he fails to beat the moneymancers. He answers, ‘They make me suck a big dick.’ The devils take you by your chains and lead you deeper into the Below.”
Lyrou texted, “How will I be condemned?”
“Now to your torture chamber: ‘You! You, my bippity bop, you must go on infinite dates and keep men interested in you without ever putting out, until the End of Time!’”
Lyrou, picturing herself there in Hell, texted, “Oh, devils, it's too horrible. What happens if I fail to keep these men interested in me?”
Garin replied, “You suck a big dick!”
Lyrou exhaled, entertained, and sent her reply. “Then, for a woman, Hell is no different from life on Earth.”
Garin replied, “That explains, better than no woman really believing she’s ever done anything wrong, why no woman fears earning damnation. But then, Lyrou, what good is being wished back to life except that you can also bring Hell on your remarried widower!?”
Lyrou turned it on him. “I imagine Hell for you would be that you've cost everyone a combined billion dollars because you’ve overlooked some ambiguity, revisions impossible, hanging yourself and everyone around you with the same fine print you authored.”
Garin sent a grim-faced emoji. “You’re giving me anxiety; don’t even say that. But revisions are rarely impossible. I want to revise one of my answers.”
Lyrou could guess. “You’d divorce whoever she is and remarry me after wishing me back to life?”
Garin replied, “I would fly us through a loophole to the Pearl of the Gulf, the UAE... and you see?”
Lyrou was confused. “See what?”
Garin sent her the hadith. “See the Sunnah: Choose four of them and separate from the rest.”
Lyrou objected, “I see. But I can't agree to that if I don't know who your new wife is.”
Garin replied, “Who do you think it would be? I’ll confirm if you guess right.”
Lyrou put real thought into it. “I couldn't guess any woman but the undying Lindz.” She was awkward to hit send.
Garin replied, “She’s my best guess also. Would you agree to that?”
Lyrou, feeling clever, replied, “I would owe you for bringing me back to life. So I would leave you two alone in peace and go find my second husband for my second spin.”
Garin replied, “I can't guess who he would be, as your Tommy-Tom is a mercenary who won’t be civilized. But I'm sure you’d have someone to run under the rice with you.”
Lyrou, taking the compliment, replied, “There must be hundreds of millions of eager monogynous suitors.”
Garin texted back with full zeal, “There would be two thousand men named John, three thousand hombres named Juan.”
Lyrou wondered, “Zero named Garin?”
Garin confirmed, “Not this G-A-R-I-N. But if not with my first girlfriend, who would you be OK with me having a triangular marriage?”
Lyrou thought, then texted, “Reine.”
Garin guffawed at his desk. He steadied his hand to type, “I’m not into her, though.”
Lyrou replied, “That’s why she’s perfect for the position.”
After a moment, Garin’s reply came through. “Put up with Reine under my roof to get hot threesomes with my cold-bodied, worm-bloated zombie bride? Worth it? Maybe.”
Lyrou’s mouth popped open in amused disgust. “I would not be a corpse like that! I would be beautifully undead.”
At which Lyrou lay her phone aside and began where she left off, bridge pose, ignoring his incoming texts.
⚜
Monday, November 18th, 2024
Garin stopped by the vacant apartment in Grantwood. The mailbox had a lock so that nobody could open it without the key he kept, not Lyrou. Inside was some junk mail, but then a couple from Denver he'd been waiting for. He went inside and sat on a stool by the window with this pair of envelopes, running them between his fingers and asking himself if he was wrong to have them in the first place. That he had them, or, if not, that he would read them... was to confess it mattered to him.
To open and read them might kill him, but leave him alive, and he would have to go on living a life he wouldn't want, a life of being dead.
He became a statue perched there on the stool, looking out the window onto the street. A house-cat stalked through bushes, a delivery driver left a package at a door and snapped a picture for proof of arrival, a young woman smoked a cigarette out her window, tapping the ash off into the air. He tucked the envelopes in his waistband and went out; he'd stop back at his office.
⚜
Evening Thursday, November 28th, 2024
He’d decided the week before to throw out all of his health- and fitness-conscious “crap” for this special day. It’s OK, he said to himself; he’d go strict and hard in the weeks after to make up for it. And so he gorged, to his family’s happy teasing, Lyrou quipping that she’d need to go out to bring in and prepare a second bird. Garin woke on the couch after eating himself full with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, a corncob, beans, and drinking himself stupid can after can. He woke as if resurrected, and without knowing the time. He saw Penny had also fallen asleep on the recliner with her touch-pad in her lap and her stomach bulging on her wiry frame. He pulled himself off the couch, a throw blanket clinging to him and falling to the floor, his body thanked him for the massive indiscriminate infusion of protein and nutrients. But the sound of him standing and stretching woke Penny briefly before she turned onto her side, curled up, and went back to dreamland.
He went over to the stairway and knocked on the wall where Alan would hear it. The sound of Alan popping open his door and calling down, “Yeah?”
Garin mumbled, “What’re you doing up there?”
Alan pulled off his headphones. “What?”
“Games?” Garin guessed.
Alan, wondering if it was a problem, said, “With Calvin and the bros. Should I come down?”
Garin felt Penny brush past as she skipped up the stairs. “You guys are so loud,” she said, and she went for the bathroom.
Alan repeated himself. “Should I come down?”
Garin took his phone out of his back pocket, finding no messages from Lyrou. “No. Is your mom up there or...?”
Penny shouted through the bathroom door, “Mom went out. She said she’d be back in a couple of hours.”
Alan shouted into his headset mic, “Calvin respawn! Calvin, bro, respawn! Dad, night!” and he closed his door.
Garin took a seat on the stairs. Out for a couple of hours, huh? How would it go if he called? She’d turn on her video to show that she was somewhere innocent. Or maybe he’d call, and she wouldn’t answer. She might wait a bit before texting back nonchalantly, and he’d be left to suspect she was delaying until she could video call in an innocent place. Or maybe she wouldn’t respond but have some story ready to tell him, truth or fiction, for when she returned, with some supporting but inconclusive evidence. Or hey, maybe she’d text openly and honestly that she was with a man. No. He wouldn’t bother. No calling her, not if she was gone for a couple hours, a couple days, a couple years. He went to the kitchen and, finding the sink full of dishes, glasses, and silverware, set to washing it. Maybe he’d have it all cleared into cabinets and drawers when she walked in.
⚜
Afternoon Friday, December 13th, 2024
Reine and Lyrou visited the office of a cosmetic agent, Arthur Chasi. His function was to bring as many people there for a lengthy consultation to determine which cosmetic clinics to refer them to, and to collect for each face and body he delivered under the scalpels and needles.
With Reine and Lyrou seated, he began, pen in his hand like an opera conductor as he spoke, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and there are as many beauty standards as there are people. However, there are sets of features that are more popular than others, sets held in common to look good. Each set represents an ideal; there’s the Māori ideal with ceremonial face tattoos, the Amish ideal with no makeup and hair under a colorless cotton bonnet, the K-drama ideal with blank porcelain skin, a high nose-bridge, and a V-line jaw, the Russian ideal with big icy eyes, full lips, and prominent cheekbones, and so forth. My first question is if either of you are making plans to move to Auckland, Lancaster County, Seoul, or Moscow?”
Reine and Lyrou shook their heads, a bit amused. Reine said, “We mean to remain here or about. Lyrou would never follow me as far as Auckland, as desperately as I want to go.”
Arthur pointed to them both. “Hangi wouldn’t impress a Parisian; the refinement and presentation pale. Good! Then you mean to conform to the Western, cosmopolitan ideal of female beauty.”
Reine nodded. “Putting it frankly, yes.” Touching her nose, she added, “I’d like to...”
Arthur interrupted. “Your nose?”
“I don't like it in profile; it’s concave.” She tapped the space between her eyes as though feeling for a feature not there.
“But how bad is it?” Arthur leaned forward.
“How bad?” Reine froze, unsure how to answer.
Lyrou took her by the wrist, removing her hand from her face. “It’s only a slight concavity, not unusual or unattractive...”
Arthur raised his voice. “She can't trust you. You’re her friend.”
Lyrou, turning a touch defensive, said, “What does that mean?”
Arthur let out a single silent ha. “For one, you care about her feelings and self-confidence, so you won't voice a deep, immutable fault in how she looks. Secondly, you’re familiar and endeared to her face, too much to see any fault in it.”
Reine looked to Lyrou with platonic love. “Same. I think Lyrou looks perfect.”
Arthur, raising his hands in vindication, said, “Exactly. And I’ll admit something... I’ve seen and assessed so many noses, lips, tits, asses, hairlines, wrinkles, and everything else that my brain has become fried. I don’t trust my own judgment anymore. It’s all Cubist art to me.”
Lyrou smiled. “Impossible. You must have such a refined taste in people’s looks after so much practice.”
Arthur shrugged. “Perhaps. But the most refined human eye for beauty is still subjective. What we need is a machine. And what we have is... a machine.”
Reine and Lyrou looked as he gestured to what resembled a dentist’s treatment chair, with a spherical enclosed helmet on a mechanical wall-mounted arm folded beside it. Reine, with foreboding, said, “A computer will call us ugly better than any man could. And we’ll have to believe it because robots can't lie.”
Arthur chuckled. “If you trust the wonders of the future we now live in, you’re invited to take a seat here. I’ll softly lower the 3D laser-scanning helmet, wait a moment, softly raise it, and then our program will give us a reading detailing to mathematical precision all deviations from our society’s beauty standard you possess and to which degree each of them.”
Reine took her place. Arthur did as he explained, placing and removing the helmet covering her entire face and head, and on his computer screen was generated a rotating model of Reine’s face. Reine stood and bent to look closely at it. “Oh, look at my nasolabial lines.” She poked the screen.
Arthur clasped his hands and moved the mouse, click-click-click. “We can do just that, if you like. Your nasolabial lines are 6% more prominent than average for a woman your age.”
Reine gasped aloud. “Oh!?”
Lyrou protested, “What is 6%?! It’s nil.”
Reine repeated the words that alarmed her. “More prominent than average? I never thought... are they bad... I didn't realize.”
Arthur continued, “Nose concavity, since that was your initial interest: your nose is 14% more concave than the average woman.”
Reine slapped her hands at her sides. “Look at my 3D model, Lyrou... I’m a bridge troll.”
Lyrou reframed it. “Your nose and your lines lend you a doll-like expression and...”
Reine pressed and poked her face about with her fingertips. “Like a ventriloquist dummy or a grotesque marionette? Oh my god, what is my face even doing?”
Lyrou sighed. “If you say nonsense like that, ma meilleure amie, then we shouldn't have come here.”
Arthur swiveled in his chair and faced Lyrou directly. “There are no bridge trolls here, and most women would sell a kidney to look like either of you as is. But whoever you are, there’s always room above. Having a true look at oneself is the beginning and most painful step toward self-improvement. You'll go to sleep on our operating table, say good-bye to the old you, and then you'll wake up as a new you with a new life."
Lyrou, scrunching her forehead in raising her eyebrows, said, “Old you? There is a thin line between self-improvement and obsessive psychosis.”
“How old are you, Lyrou?” Arthur asked plainly.
“You tell me,” Lyrou tested him.
“29 to 31,” he guessed.
“The sweetest compliments are least believable. And isn't it bad business?” Lyrou grinned.
“49 to 51,” he fancied himself a snake charmer.
“Oh?! Shut up and take my money!” she said sarcastically.
“My partners could, and you would look like another human being. Are you going into the witness protection program?” Arthur played.
“I fear I wouldn't look like a human being, but like an Angeleno,” Lyrou said dismissively.
“Oh? There’re several songs about SoCal gals, lyrics to the effect of being undeniable, unforgettable, and, if I recall... the cutest girls in the world.”
“Whoever wrote those jingles had never been to continental Europe. And I’m sorry to tell you, but I don’t feel compelled to make any corrections so major.”
“Nothing so major?” Arthur saw light at the end of the tunnel.
“Nothing so major,” Lyrou affirmed.
“Then something quite subtle?” Arthur worked the angle.
“How subtle?” Lyrou kept her mind open, the door to it cracked ajar, even as she drew nearer to closing it and locking the deadbolt.
“Mere tweaks. Let me show both of you. I’ll ask the program to recommend a subtle improvement, correcting your deviations from the average but not altering anything to an extreme.” Arthur took a minute to adjust dials and enter digits in various input fields, then, clicking a final click and sitting back, generated a second 3D model juxtaposed with Reine’s original.
Reine leaned in so close to the screen. “What? It’s me? But different...”
“Small changes make a big difference taken together. You would need four procedures to go from this... to that,” Arthur explained in a tone that it was too obvious, that the picture spoke a thousand words; he rested his case.
Reine, open-mouthed, said, “Four procedures?”
Arthur, cross-armed and nodding deeply, said, “Just four procedures and you would look like that. Still, you, nothing radical, and yet you would de-age several years and pass for a lead-role starlet. Seriously, have a look and tell me I’m wrong.”
Lyrou watched Reine, entranced by the face she could have. She felt he was wrong, but she knew he was right. Or, she knew he was wrong, but felt he was right. What questions this slippery salesman had slipped into her mind. Reine smiled, looking to Lyrou. “Philip wouldn’t complain.” And back to the screen. Sold.
⚜
Noon Wednesday, December 18th, 2024
Lyrou had spent the afternoon with Reine at a funeral; Reine’s aunt had died, leaving a widower. The box buried, the two of them, dressed in black, left the cemetery with the dispersing family and friends to this deceased woman of her community, a retired school principal, a grandmother to many, a bingo and Niagara Falls enjoyer, and some more. Reine hadn’t brought her baby, and together, with Lyrou away from the lot, they were now free to have not-sad faces.
Having salad and hot lattes by a window, Lyrou thought to say what was on her mind. “Your uncle...”
“He didn’t cry,” Reine smirked.
“Oui!” Lyrou said, clasping her hands to her cheeks.
“I’d say he’s a war-weary silent husband, but he might be the most expressive person in my family. He yells, cries, freaks out, and goes berserk over nothing all the time,” Reine explained, warming her hands on her drink.
“Really?” Lyrou was flabbergasted.
“He once cried, with tears, and kicked his little brother out of the house for cheering for the wrong football team and causing them to lose... psychically, I guess... and never let him over for another game day. They watched games together since they were kids. Haven’t done it again one time since the blowup.” Reine shook her head.
“Why was he so... emotionless? He watched his wife of many decades being lowered into the ground.” Lyrou asked with pity for the dead woman.
“I don’t know. Would I be out of line to suppose he didn’t love her?” Reine turned her palm up in a shrug.
“Do you think so? Why not?” Lyrou hoped Reine would reveal some good reason, something that would allow her to see it the old husband’s way.
Reine huffed out a confounded laugh. “Who... knows? If I were a ghost at my funeral and Philip pulled that shit, I would... I’d get back in my body to demand he’s not buried next to me when he goes.”
Lyrou snickered. “And then just re-die.”
Reine grinned. “Put someone else in the plot next to mine.”
Lyrou chuckled and thought about it. Then, remembering a certain time there was, she said, “When I was due with our first child, Garin drove me to the maternity ward and walked me in. I thought how... I was scared, but he’d be there with me. He was the only family I had then, here with me. After meeting my doctor and being attended by nurses, we held hands and talked. He reassured me. It felt... that this day, this hour had come... it was indescribable. But just then, he got a call. What could it be? Oh? He had to fly out to Chicago, and he had to go ‘right now.’ I asked him to tell the firm where he was and say no, no, no. Work it out. He thought about it for a minute. He never told them where he was; he wouldn't excuse himself from his professional responsibility when called into action. It was so early in his career that he thought he should seize every available moment to prove himself and never let someone else pick up his load. He didn't yet have the stature there to decline a big order from the top. He told me he’d go fast, blast past, hook around, and be back in time. In my hospital bed, we kissed. I knew he’d come back quickly. I knew it. The event couldn't transpire without my husband beside me. Could it? No! But as I held onto my hope, I went into labor, and when I lay legs wide apart with strangers, he was in a boardroom or a conference center or on a golf course. He couldn't make it. I gave birth to Alan by myself. Completely by myself.”
Reine had nothing much to say. “Lyrou...”
Lyrou, thinking on fate, on balance, on who Garin was to her, said, “I can't blame him for that. I felt bad for him that he couldn't witness our son’s birth.”
⚜
Morning Wednesday, December 25th, 2024
Garin came into the emergency room, told the receptionist who he was and who he’d come to see, and was told where to go. In a moment, he pulled back the curtain and entered to find Joseph propped up in his hospital bed with an IV in his arm. “Hey!” Joseph perked forward. “How in the hell did you know I was here?”
Garin stood and had a good look at Joseph. “Lindz texted me, ‘Merry Christmas, and hey, by the way, Joey almost died,’ so I replied with a surprised emoji.”
Joey, digesting that Lindz was still texting Garin, said, “Yeah? She sent me a thumbs-up emoji.”
“Sure, sure. How’d you get yourself in here on the Lord’s Birthday?” Garin shook his head.
Joey let out a chuckle. “Maybe he struck me down, or maybe it’s karma. I got called into the docks because the power went out. They were running the diesel backup, but that wouldn’t last all day, so I had to get the main source going.”
Garin took a look out Joey's hospital room window. "You got it going, the power, didn’t you?” Garin took a phone photo of Joey.
Joseph snapped his fingers. “I sure did. Yeah, I sure did. Snow melting, seeping in, underground cable vaults, switch-gear enclosures, junction boxes, aging insulation, cracked conduits, you put it together. Power was back on, but I was out. They say my heart stopped, maybe asystole, but the loaders jostled my cooked carcass around, yelling at it in Spanish, until I came back online. You know you’re not supposed to move a person after an accident, but I’m lucky they didn’t know that.”
Garin nodded. “I think it's a Christmas miracle. You are risen."
Joey raised his hands out, palms up, "You know what? I didn't see Jesus."
Garin shrugged, "He's probably busy, he'll catch you next time."
"I'm going to complain to Father Daniel; Father Daniel, where's the Lord, c'mon." Joey was half-serious.
Garin wondered, “The nurse said you sustained burns. I’d like to have a look.”
Joseph laughed. “My ass cheeks? I got zapped sitting down. That’s lucky too. I didn’t have far to fall and hit my head.”
Garin leaned in, brooding, an LBJ impression. “I said I’d like to have a look.”
Joseph grinned. “Get out of here, you big fruitcake. You should be at home with your wife and kids right now.”
Garin took a seat. “They promised not to open gifts until I get back.”
Joseph sighed. “No, go.”
Garin had a look at the TV mounted up by the ceiling, then back to Joseph. “I’ll hang out here until lunch, make a food run for you so you don’t have to eat hospital slop. Hey, is your hair going to turn white?” Garin took another phone photo of Joey.
Joseph rubbed his scalp. “That really happens. It could. You’re sending pictures of me to my ma?”
Garin nodded. “I stopped by her place before I came here. She wanted to see you, pissed you won’t send her any pictures and won’t let her visit. I told her she doesn’t need to go out in the cold and slip on ice; it’d be the two of you together in the hospital with busted asses.”
And the two shared their Christmas morning in this way.
⚜
Evening Tuesday, December 31st, 2024
Garin and Alan went on a night walk to the riverfront, with what would be a crowd, to view fireworks. Penny was refusing to go out, as she’d had an argument with her friend Carla, neither had yet gotten over, and expected she’d bump into her there. “I’m not going to the stupid river!” And so Lyrou agreed to stay home with the pouting and silent treatment.
Besides, Lyrou had seen enough fireworks, nor was she in the mood for walking, talking, people, and whatever. But in visualizing them there on the cool riverfront, a father and his teenager, she was transfixed by a lost memory; a time when she was a teen girl on a wintry New Year’s Eve night walk with her tata. They were walking hurriedly back to his apartment as she expressed twice to him that she’d like to be back in time to see the festivities on television. Coming to a trail along the Lac de Créteil, Lyrou pointed because she could see his apartment across the pond.
Her father smiled. “Allons traverser la glace tout droit.”
To which Lyrou yelped, “Non. Non. On peut contourner.” And she continued ahead down the path.
Not getting a reply from him, she looked back and saw, to her stuttering objection, that her tata had pushed down the bank and started placing his foot upon the ice, steady. “Alors je rentrerai chez moi avant toi!” And she ran down the bank to stop just at the edge.
She watched as he went, farther and farther, shuffling out onto the ice without looking back. She reasoned that if this man, many kilograms heavier than her, could pass without falling through, then she could too. And, if he did fall through, she should be trailing to reach an arm to save him. Forward she went, eyes down, watching and listening for cracks, wondering if she fell through, would she be able to stay afloat, or would she be taken under by a current, lungs filling with sharp freezing water, would her tata come back and save her, would he cry aloud as she disappeared beneath... mmph! Eyes down, she’d walked right into her tata, and he held her in his arms. They’d both crossed to the other side.
The front door popped open with a chilly gust, and Garin came back in. Lyrou asked, “Where is Alan?”
Garin chuckled. “With Fiona.”
Lyrou was confused. “Fiona who?”
Garin chuckled harder. “Fiona fee fi fo fum!”
Penny, hearing this from the couch, burst out of her sour mood with laughter. “Fee fi fo fum!? Exactly!”
Lyrou smiled but was not in on the joke. “Seriously, who is Fiona?”
Penny answered, “Alan’s crush. She’s like the tallest girl in the school.”
Garin smiled, taking off his coat and sitting on the couch, Penny’s feet resting on his knee. “We ran into her at the river. I told him to forget about his pap and go for the girl. I didn't need to tell him twice. He’s with her and some buds now, calling each other fam and doing skateboard tricks to impress her.”
Lyrou folded her arms, lifted Penny’s foot, and sat between them, laying those skinny legs back down over her lap like a safety bar on an amusement park ride. Garin flipped TV channels until he found one showing the celebrations in Paris. Lyrou, taking his hand, asked, “I’m nervous for him. Is she pretty?”
Penny sputtered, “I guess so. She might be secured, protected, contained, number infinity. Her legs are like...” Penny raised her legs up in Lyrou’s face. “...like two and a half of my legs... that long.”
Garin nodded. “He’s about as high as her shoulder.”
Lyrou, gently pressing Penny’s legs back down on her lap, said, “Oooh, c’est trop mignon. My Alan! So, is that the only thing about Fiona, that she’s so lofty?”
Penny hummed out a thought. “Mmm... oh yeah, she’s in an advanced placement class with Alan.”
Garin gave Lyrou the thumbs up. “Height and brains. If she’s rich, then Alan found the trifecta.”
Penny blurted, “Hey, how’d you know? She is rich. Her mom is rich, and her dad is rich, and her cat is rich, and her neighbors are rich, and her butler is rich, and only her boyfriend isn't rich.”
Lyrou corrected her. “Penny, don’t talk that way.”
Garin teased, holding his hand out at their own home: wide-plank hardwood flooring, porcelain and marble tile, quartz countertops, brushed nickel and matte black fixtures, recessed and cove lighting. “Alan comes from humble beginnings, but if he marries into big money, then he can toss a few coins our way. Right, Penny?”
Penny nodded. “I hope so. He better not forget about us when he’s tony and rich.”
Lyrou sighed and suppressed a grin. “Ma vie.”
⚜
