Anna Quinn - The Night Child

“C’mon,” Fiona calls from the living room. “Look, Uncle James!” she says pointing to a plaster of paris decoration near the top of the tree. James plucks it off, obviously delighted.

“What’s this?” Stephen says, laughing, taking it from the palm of James’ hand and holding it up to eye-level.

“It’s Uncle James’ handprint from kindergarten,” Fiona giggles, her face flushed.

“A born artist,” Stephen says, putting his arm around James and placing the decoration back on the tree as if it is the most precious thing. The two sink into the couch with Fiona giggling on top of them while Paul lights the fire. Nora enters the room carrying a wooden tray with bottles of pinot noir and sparkling cider, glasses, and a plate of sugar cookies shaped like stars. She sets the tray on the coffee table and pours cider into a glass for Fiona.

“Mommy and me made the cookies!” Fiona exclaims, scrambling off Stephen’s lap and grabbing a cookie in one hand and the glass in the other. “Whew! I’m thirsty,” she says, and takes a big gulp.

“Honey, slow down. I want to give a toast.” Nora uncorks the wine bottle, fills the glasses, and gives one to each of the men.

“To Christmas Eve,” she says raising her glass, smiling.

“Christmas Eve!” they all say, raising their glasses as if love really will conquer all. Even Paul cheers. He is beginning to relax now, in this moment. He’s untucked his shirt, extended his long legs on the ottoman, kicked off his shoes.

Fiona slams her glass on the coffee table. “Mommy! What time is it?”

“Fiona! Be careful!” Nora glances at the clock over the fireplace. “It’s five minutes to midnight.”

Fiona, her eyes wide and bright, turns to Stephen. “When it’s midnight, everyone opens a present.”

“How wonderful,” he says with a grin. He picks up a sugar cookie from the plate, breaks it in half, and offers the other half to James.

Nora can understand why James is crazy about this man. She thinks about how things can change on a dime, how last Christmas, James sat in that exact place on the couch, his heart aching with loneliness. She remembers too how later that night, she and James had been out on the sidewalk, gazing in the window at the glittering tree, she’d been so comforted to have him there, but then he’d said, “I think we should search for Dad.”

They’d had an argument then. He hadn’t understood her, hadn’t understood how much their father’s disappearance had made her doubt herself. “My God,” she’d whispered to him, even though they were alone on the street, “Who would leave their children and never come back? Especially when their mother had just died! Who would do that? And who lets his wife beat the crap out of their child?”

But James was too angry to hear her. “God, you’re as cold as Mom! You know how the war fucked him up. Can’t you ever just cut him some slack?” And then, out of nowhere, “Jesus, do you and Paul ever touch?” She’d walked away from him then, heard him yell, “Screw it! I’ll look for Dad myself!”

James had gone home the next day, a week early. He’d waited until all the presents had been opened, waited until after Christmas dinner, for Fiona’s sake. Nora and James had acted as if things were okay, they’d arranged their words carefully, sorted and organized their thoughts before speaking. And when he’d said goodbye, he’d kissed her, thanked her, and she’d hugged him back, but up close to him, she’d seen his eyelids, puffed and red, like he’d been crying.

And then, on New Year’s Eve, he’d called her. “I’m not going to look for the bastard,” he’d said. “You’re right. Who the hell would do those things?”

In the distance the cathedral chimes midnight. “It’s time!” Fiona shouts, her face shining, as she rushes to the tree. She goes straight to a large box wrapped in bright red paper, marked “The Brown Family” in purple letters. She brings the gift over to Nora and sets it in her lap.

“It’s for all of us! But who’s it from?” Fiona asks.

“It doesn’t say,” Nora says, turning the box around.

“Delivered yesterday,” says Paul. “It was wrapped in brown paper, so I figured I could unwrap it.”

“Was there a postmark?” Nora asks.

“Didn’t think of looking.”

“Did you keep the paper?”

“Jesus, Nora. No, I threw it the fire last night. What’s the big deal? Probably just from a neighbor or someone.”

“It’s a Christmas mystery! Maybe it’s from Santa!” Fiona says, nervously.

“Go ahead and open it!” James says.

Fiona takes the box from Nora, kneels on the rug, and rips off the red paper. Inside, there’s a white box filled with four smaller boxes, side by side, wrapped in the same kind of red paper. Each is tied with a purple ribbon.

“They have names on them, and there’s one for each of us!” Fiona exclaims, reading each name aloud, names her mother had taught her to read just recently—but in the next moment she is dismayed. “Except there isn’t one for Stephen,” she says, shaking her head.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” James says, “I’ll share mine with him.” He takes Stephen’s hand and kisses it.

“Okay,” Fiona says, soothed. “Then, you two open yours first!” She places a rectangular package on James’ lap. “I think it’s a book,” she says, snuggling next to him. Nora can see she is enjoying every minute.

“And you are right,” James says, lifting a large book out of the paper.

“It’s a Keith Haring book,” Stephen says, sliding his arm around James.

“Who’s Keith Haring?” Fiona asks as James turns the pages of the book slowly.

“He’s an amazing artist, sweetie,” James says. “We went to the same university in New York. I only met him a few times before he died.”

“Probably of AIDS,” Paul says, pouring himself another glass of wine.

“What’s aids, Daddy?” Fiona asks.

“You know what?” Nora says. “Let’s open another present. Let’s see what our mystery giver gave to you.”

“Okay!” Fiona says, jumping up. “But you know what?”

“What?” Nora says, handing Fiona her gift.

Fiona’s eyes are wide and excited. “The mystery person must know James is an artist.”

“Hmmm,” Nora says, thinking Stephen might be the secret Santa.

Fiona pulls off the purple ribbon and unwraps the red paper.

“A princess wand!”

“Goes with your tiara,” James says, smiling.

Fiona twirls over to Paul and taps him lightly on the head with the wand. “Daddy, you gave me the tiara. Are you the mystery giver?”

“I am not, but you will always be my little princess.”

Paul’s spoken these words, “ my little princess ,” to Fiona before, and Nora had heard them as an endearment, but in this moment the words send a shudder through her body which startles her.

Fiona skips back over to the two small boxes left and picks up Paul’s gift. “Here, Daddy, it’s your turn!” She holds it out to him but then wrinkles her nose. “I smell something,” she says, sniffing the box. “This smells like dirt!”

“Hey, whose present is this?” Paul asks, taking the gift from her and unwrapping it. He lifts out a small cedar box. He holds it up so they can see the picture of a handsome military leader wearing an elaborate royal blue uniform, a triumphant expression on his face.

“What’s it say, Daddy? Who is that funny man?”

“That, my darling, is Simon Bolivar, the great Venezuelan warrior.” He lifts the lid. “And these are cigars from Cuba. Our mystery giver has excellent taste.” He selects one, rolls it between his fingers and runs the length of it under his nose, inhaling deeply.