Sarah, watching from the sofa, sipped a cup of herbal tea and offered the occasional instruction. “Spread them out, honey. You’ve got a whole tree to cover.”
David and Gary took care of the upper limbs, and when David took a silver papier-maché star out of the box, he stopped and showed it to Sarah. It was the star she had made in grade school and that they’d always put on the very top of the tree. It was a little bent now, and he straightened it gently before putting it in place.
“I made that in Mrs. Burr’s class,” she said.
“And I had her four years later, but what happened to my ornament?”
“A mystery for the ages,” Sarah said. It was the same conversation they had every year, but it wouldn’t have been Christmas without it.
Once the ornament supply was exhausted, and the tinsel flung, Gary said, “Are we ready?” and Emme raced around the room, turning off all the lights except those on the tree. The evergreen sparkled in the dark, its boughs giving off a rich, outdoorsy scent. David sat down next to his sister, took her hand, and intertwined their fingers.
“You know how many years we’ve been recycling that star?” Sarah said.
David did a quick calculation. “Twenty-four years.”
“Next year we should celebrate its silver anniversary.”
“Yes, we should,” David replied, eager to endorse any implicit hope for the future.
“When do we put out the presents?” Emme asked eagerly.
“That’s Santa’s job,” Gary said, and Emme made a face.
“I like it better when Santa comes early,” she said, in such a way as to indicate that the Santa bit wasn’t working for her anymore.
“They get so cynical, so fast,” Sarah said, with a rueful smile. “I believed in Santa until my senior prom.”
“Remember the time you got up on Santa’s lap at Marshall Fields’ and wouldn’t get off?”
Nodding, she said, “Remember Marshall Fields’, period?”
They were both nostalgic about the pieces of Chicago history, such as its flagship department store, which had disappeared over the years. Fields had become Macy’s, and as far as David and his sister were concerned, the magic was gone.
But the magic of a lighted Christmas tree, festooned with homemade ornaments and strings of tinsel, was as powerful as ever, and Gary flopped down in his armchair with a sigh. Even Emme lay down on the wall-to-wall carpeting, with her chin in her hands, gazing at the tree. Taking off the glasses she’d just started wearing that year, she said, “Oooh, this is even prettier. All the colors get kind of blurry. Try it, Uncle David!”
He took off his wire rims, said, “Yep, it’s way better,” then cleaned them on the tail of his shirt.
“You’ll scratch them,” Sarah said.
“Only the finest Old Navy fabric,” David said.
“I gave you handkerchiefs for your birthday. What did you do with them?”
David couldn’t answer that one. Presumably, they were somewhere in his dresser, under the pajamas he never wore, or the old track jerseys he had retired. But he liked having Sarah ask, probably as much as she liked nagging.
When Sarah finally told Emme it was time for bed, David helped her up off the sofa. Sarah had always been tall and slender, like her brother, but it was like raising a wraith now. She hugged David with frail arms. “We never asked about your work,” she said. “Weren’t you giving a lecture soon?”
“Yep, and it went fine.”
“Oh, I wish I could have come,” she said.
“Next time,” he said, though the very thought of having family there made him more nervous than ever.
“What was it about?”
“We got a new copy of Dante, very old and very beautiful. I talked about that.” He never went into much detail about his work; he knew that Sarah was proud of his accomplishments, and that was enough. While he had always been the dreamer, the scholar, she had been the practical one. She hadn’t had much choice.
“I’ll drive you back,” Gary said, stretching his arms above his head and rising from his armchair. “You’ll freeze to death waiting for the El.”
“I’ll be okay,” David said, though he suspected Gary wanted the chance to talk in private; he often used these car trips to confide in David about what was really happening with Sarah.
They got into his Lexus SUV, with all the trimmings, and even though David knew the car was politically incorrect—a flashy gas guzzler—he had to admit the ride was great and the heated seat was mighty comfortable. Gary had once explained that he needed to lease a new one every year or two because he shuttled clients around in it, and a real-estate broker who looked like he was down on his luck soon would be.
“You ever going to spring for another car?” Gary joshed as they headed south on Sheridan Road. It was a running joke that David had no wheels.
“Maybe,” David said. “Especially since it looks like I might get a promotion.”