Truth in Advertising Page 0,38

hate him. At least you know where you stand. It’s the mood shifter who’s the real danger. He’s your friend, the mood shifter. How was your day, dear? Really? No pork chops at the market? Oh, well. Hot dogs and beans is just as nice, isn’t it, Finny? Maura? How’s that homework coming? She tiptoes through a mine field with harmless answers, my mother. She can see the other side, safety. It’s going to be a good night. She can feel it. I’m sitting there. It’s almost dinnertime. Maura is at the dining room table, in the next room, doing her homework. I can see her. We all feel it. All is calm. Except then he opens the cupboard and sees that we’re out of Barry’s Tea. His favorite. The only tea he drinks. No coffee. Never coffee. Tea. Barry’s Tea. Two bags, two sugars, a lot of milk. Big cup. His hands are searching for it, moving packages and boxes, Saltines, Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix, baking powder, peanut butter. The hands moving faster now, violent hands no longer just moving things but knocking them over. He’s mumbling, “Where’s the Barry’s Tea? Where is the . . . it has to be here. We have to have Barry’s Tea. I asked you for the Barry’s Tea, this morning, before I left. What was the one thing I asked before I left the goddamned house this morning before I went to work and put on a bulletproof vest for this family?! I asked you to get some Barry’s Tea!” I turn to Maura, who’s put her hands over her ears, to my mother, who’s trying to say something—that she forgot, that she can go now, that she can be back in ten minutes, that it’s okay. But it’s not okay, he says, his voice louder. It’s not okay. Kevin at the back door, just having gotten home, staring in at the scene.

I try to remember a specific Christmas Eve but it’s a Thanksgiving that comes to me. Him blind drunk, trying to take the turkey out of the oven, falling, the bird skidding across the kitchen floor, Kevin and Eddie carrying him up to his room. My mother putting us in the car, stopping at a convenience store for turkey sandwiches and chips, driving in silence through “rich” neighborhoods west of Boston, big houses set back from the road behind tall old trees and stone walls, no one drunk, no turkeys skating across the floor, everyone happy, heads bowed before the feast, giving thanks for life’s riches.

They’re calling a flight to Honolulu. They’re calling a flight to Tokyo. They’re calling a flight to Sydney. They’re calling my flight to Cancún, where a car service will be waiting to whisk me an hour south to a small hotel on the beach. Twenty rooms. Clean white sheets. Highs of seventy degrees during the day, cool breezes at night. A fireplace in every room. Ocean waves lull you to sleep. Santa comes this evening bearing gifts. And I, in the great Christian tradition, head to Mexico alone. Just a few hours ago this plan seemed cool and independent and exciting. It suddenly seems pathetic, sad, and lonely. It’s time to go. But I don’t move. And it’s then I know I’m not getting on that plane. I don’t know when I decided it. It comes as a bit of a surprise to me as I stand a few yards from the gate, listen as they make the final boarding call, watch a few stragglers hustle past me, hand the gate agent their tickets. The two agents say good-bye to each other, safe flight, Merry Christmas, and one walks down the jetway while the other closes and locks the door with a key. I watch as the plane pulls back from the gate, turns, and taxis out toward the runway, to the line of waiting planes going to wonderful, exciting, exotic locations around the globe, as well as Cleveland, Minneapolis, and Muncie.

I turn to see the empty waiting area. The LCD sign above the check-in desk at the gate has changed from CANCÚN to SÃO PAULO. That flight’s not leaving for three hours, though. I picture Phoebe on the train, a camera dollying down the aisle to find her staring out the window at the Connecticut coastline. She does this thing where she bunches her hair up and pushes it back, but it falls right back to the front of her face again. I picture