“She’s just another Dad horror story in a long line of Dad horror stories,” Anna says.
“Maybe she’s nicer than we think.” My foot slips on a patch of black ice and I go sprawling.
“I think that’s God’s way of telling you no.” Anna laughs.
The shopping bag has ripped open, spilling our gifts onto the slushy sidewalk.
I get on my hands and knees and crawl around collecting the presents. “Help me with these.”
Anna is already fifteen yards ahead. “Leave them. We’re going to freeze to death. We don’t want his stupid books anyway,” she says, and keeps walking.
“Seriously?” I call after her. “Fine. I’ll tell Dad you didn’t want his presents.”
“Be my guest,” she says over her shoulder. “He can give them to Mary instead. Ooh la la, what joy she’ll feel. What laughter. A hardcover copy of Bartlett’s fucking Quotations.”
A woman walking a greyhound clothed in a houndstooth sweater-cape and booties stops, watches as I crawl around picking up the parcels. Next to me, her dog balances on his shivering hind legs and takes a shit in the snow.
I catch up to Anna as she’s entering the lobby of our building. “Nice,” I say. “Thanks for the help.”
The bitter wind follows us in through the swinging double doors, and the new doorman, Mario, rushes to close them shut. A fake fir tree in the lobby twinkles with colored lights. On the marble mantle-piece beside it, a menorah with fat, flickering orange bulbs is plugged in.
“Ladies,” Mario says, ushering us toward the elevator. “Merry Christmas.”
“Happy Hanukkah,” Anna corrects him.
Mario looks confused.
“We’re Jewish,” Anna says.
We get onto the elevator.
“Jewish? What was that?”
“We could be. He doesn’t know.”
“Why are you being such a total asshole?” I say.
“Because he makes me sick.”
“Mario?”
Anna gives me her best “how can you be such a fucking idiot” look. “Dad.”
We stamp the snow off our boots, leave them outside on the mat to drip. The front door to the apartment is, as always, unlocked. The lights are out. Mum is sitting in a chair in the middle of the hallway, backlit by a living room lamp, the tabby cat curled in her lap.
“You look like Anthony Perkins,” Anna says, taking off her coat. “We brought you some ginger cookies.”
“Please don’t take another step into the apartment,” Mum says.
“Do you think she’s being held hostage?” Anna asks me in a stage whisper. “Mum,” she says in her normal voice, “you’re acting weird.” She hangs her coat up in the closet and tries to push past, but my mother blocks her.
“Your father called me after you left. It seems his new girlfriend Mary left a large bag of marijuana in a coffee canister and it disappeared after your visit.”
“Mary smokes pot?” Anna says. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I were kidding. I really do,” Mum says. “I don’t want to do this, but your father made me promise. Please get undressed, both of you, and empty your bags.”
“You’re out of your mind.” Anna laughs. “What am I, five?”
Mum sighs. “I know. It’s ridiculous. But he gave his word to Mary, and he asked that I respect her request.”
“I don’t even smoke pot,” I say.
“Tell her to take her nickel bag and shove it up her vagina,” Anna says.
“Anna.”
“You haven’t met her, Mum. She’s repugnant. She has sharp little pterodactyl teeth.”
“I have no doubt.” My mother dumps the cat out of her lap and stands up. “In any event, I promised your father I would insist you let me search you, and now I have insisted. I didn’t promise him I would do it. I’m going to make myself an eggnog and climb into bed.”
“Wait,” I say. “He really asked you to strip-search us? On Christmas Eve? You know what? Fuck it. Fine.” I take my clothes off, step out of my underwear, and throw them at her.
She hands them back to me with a beleaguered sigh. “I’m too old for this.”
“You’re too old? I’m twenty-three, for fuck’s sake. Tell Dad I’m never speaking to him again.”
“You need to wax,” Anna says, and heads down the hallway.
I call Peter from my bedroom. It’s almost midnight in London, but I know he’ll be awake, trying to finish his piece before deadline.