could kick himself for missing it. Yes, he was a rookie, but goddammit.
Through the muttering, smattering of minions, Detective Samuel Barnett wedged his way, whispering in the ear of poor little rich Danek, frightened by the urgency of the cop.
âPlay it again.â
âExcuse me.â Danek wondered if this was some strange form of compliment. Not a request.
âPlay it again.â
Silence.
âBut, sirââ
âListen, kid, all Iâm asking is you close those doors, grab the projectionist, and play it again.â
âRight now?â
Danek didnât know if he was angry or thrilled. What should he be? He was both.
âYes, kid, right now.â
And that was that, cops get their way in little podunk towns, especially with college students with straight Aâs and aspirations toward, what, the Supreme Court, the attorney general, the presidency.
Yes, of course, Danek would replay the documentary . . . a private screening for the detective. How thrilling! Flattering, really.
Let the flicker down, draw the curtain up, make the small room a place of thinking. Danek wondered if this would help him get into Princeton.
ONE
M aybe it was excessive to go over there so much, the day after Thanksgiving, the day before Christmas, to set up the tree, take out the ornaments, boxes from storage, to buy the Douglas fir, to fix the tiny white glitter lights, to string the tinsel, to hang the stockings, and to do so all to a selection, sappy indeed, of Christmas music, carols, chosen by Danek, of course, on this newfangled thing, this iPod, he had exhibited to a chorus of oohs and aahs .
But, somehow, in the first Michigan snows of winter, that last gasp of 2003, it had become obvious to Lars, Danek, Brad, and Katy that the two silver-age people at 2226 Rose Avenue would not be left alone for the holidays but should, from this point forward, be showered with an embarrassment of attention and activity and animation through the arch of holidays from Thanksgiving to Christmas to New Yearâs. Or maybe it was a sense of family, lost, to each of them, family far, far away and somehow estranged.
Or maybe it was the guilt. A collective guilt, never uttered.
They would make it up. They were good kids.
They would fix it.
To meet there, the four of them, Danek with his carols, Katy with those glass-spun ornaments, Lars and Brad with the Douglas fir tree, tinsel, and even a poinsettia bought almost out of the gate of that tree farm down on Flint Ridge, to usher in this new season with a new sense of sentiment, a protective sense of sheltering . . . well, yes, it was new to them. It was new to them all, a unanimous surprise matched, held, trumped by the opening of doors to that spick-and-span ocean-blue living room, a fire, and the smells of pecan pie, pumpkin pie, turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and booze, too, a winter kind of brown booze, poured mischievously into eggnog with sprinkles and cloves and a wink, just this once.
In the background, the Packers game, and the house a buzz of activity, who can help who, what can I do to help, can I get that, here let me hold that for you, falling over one another to help, falling into one another, a frenzy of cinnamon and pecans and pinecones and a thousand gestures, going outward, away from you, what can I give? Let me give more. Let me do more. What can I give?
And strange to them all, Lars, Danek, Brad, and Katy, that somehow this toast, on this day, so many miles away from Mom and Dad and aunts and uncles back home, this time around the table, with the red winter tablecloth in that sky-blue room, somehow meant more, somehow held more, a cling to the heart, an absolution, a deliverance even. A new angel on the tippy-top of the tree, passing yams and chatter at that ruby-set table with the Lt. Colonel and his onyx-haired Dotsy, Packers in the background, 10â7.
So, it was strange then, too, when, in the middle of
Through the muttering, smattering of minions, Detective Samuel Barnett wedged his way, whispering in the ear of poor little rich Danek, frightened by the urgency of the cop.
âPlay it again.â
âExcuse me.â Danek wondered if this was some strange form of compliment. Not a request.
âPlay it again.â
Silence.
âBut, sirââ
âListen, kid, all Iâm asking is you close those doors, grab the projectionist, and play it again.â
âRight now?â
Danek didnât know if he was angry or thrilled. What should he be? He was both.
âYes, kid, right now.â
And that was that, cops get their way in little podunk towns, especially with college students with straight Aâs and aspirations toward, what, the Supreme Court, the attorney general, the presidency.
Yes, of course, Danek would replay the documentary . . . a private screening for the detective. How thrilling! Flattering, really.
Let the flicker down, draw the curtain up, make the small room a place of thinking. Danek wondered if this would help him get into Princeton.
ONE
M aybe it was excessive to go over there so much, the day after Thanksgiving, the day before Christmas, to set up the tree, take out the ornaments, boxes from storage, to buy the Douglas fir, to fix the tiny white glitter lights, to string the tinsel, to hang the stockings, and to do so all to a selection, sappy indeed, of Christmas music, carols, chosen by Danek, of course, on this newfangled thing, this iPod, he had exhibited to a chorus of oohs and aahs .
But, somehow, in the first Michigan snows of winter, that last gasp of 2003, it had become obvious to Lars, Danek, Brad, and Katy that the two silver-age people at 2226 Rose Avenue would not be left alone for the holidays but should, from this point forward, be showered with an embarrassment of attention and activity and animation through the arch of holidays from Thanksgiving to Christmas to New Yearâs. Or maybe it was a sense of family, lost, to each of them, family far, far away and somehow estranged.
Or maybe it was the guilt. A collective guilt, never uttered.
They would make it up. They were good kids.
They would fix it.
To meet there, the four of them, Danek with his carols, Katy with those glass-spun ornaments, Lars and Brad with the Douglas fir tree, tinsel, and even a poinsettia bought almost out of the gate of that tree farm down on Flint Ridge, to usher in this new season with a new sense of sentiment, a protective sense of sheltering . . . well, yes, it was new to them. It was new to them all, a unanimous surprise matched, held, trumped by the opening of doors to that spick-and-span ocean-blue living room, a fire, and the smells of pecan pie, pumpkin pie, turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and booze, too, a winter kind of brown booze, poured mischievously into eggnog with sprinkles and cloves and a wink, just this once.
In the background, the Packers game, and the house a buzz of activity, who can help who, what can I do to help, can I get that, here let me hold that for you, falling over one another to help, falling into one another, a frenzy of cinnamon and pecans and pinecones and a thousand gestures, going outward, away from you, what can I give? Let me give more. Let me do more. What can I give?
And strange to them all, Lars, Danek, Brad, and Katy, that somehow this toast, on this day, so many miles away from Mom and Dad and aunts and uncles back home, this time around the table, with the red winter tablecloth in that sky-blue room, somehow meant more, somehow held more, a cling to the heart, an absolution, a deliverance even. A new angel on the tippy-top of the tree, passing yams and chatter at that ruby-set table with the Lt. Colonel and his onyx-haired Dotsy, Packers in the background, 10â7.
So, it was strange then, too, when, in the middle of
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