Read Online The Mistress's Daughter by A. M. Homes - Free Book Online Page B

thanks. And thanks a lot. And is it returnable?
    After the fourth night my brother refused to participate. “I’ve had more than enough,” he said, refusing to leave his room.
    From my bedroom window I could see the neighbors’ tree twinkling with glass icicles, miniature white lights, colored balls, tinsel.
    On the day after Christmas, my mother took me to the library. Next to the library was a Christmas tree lot. I sneaked over and talked to the guy. It took a surprising effort to convince him—on the day after Christmas—to take pity on a nine-year-old who lived in a house without a tree, but he finally gave me a puny Christmas tree. I dragged it to the car, stuffed it in the backseat, met my mother back in the library. I was bursting with excitement at my ingenious sneakery, beside myself with joy. Back at the house, I slipped out and was dragging the tree from the car, into the house, when my mother started yelling, “What are you doing? You can’t bring that in here, it’s a tree.”
    â€œWhy not, why not? It’s just a tree.”
    â€œNot in the living room, you’re not going to put that in the living room.”
    â€œWhy can’t we be like everyone else?”
    â€œBecause we’re Jewish,” my mother said.
    And so the tree went in my room. I knew nothing about trees, about tree stands; I put it in a Maxwell House coffee can. The tree listed to one side. I propped it against the wall. It was a pathetic tree, scrawny, a tree no one wanted. But it was my tree, my Charlie Brown tree. I loved my tree, I watered it, decorated it with construction-paper loop chains and popcorn on a thread. Despite my good care, the tree died; it went from green to brown and brittle. As I dragged the tree out of the house, the needles, once soft and supple, now sharp like thorns, fell everywhere. I dragged the tree out of the house, across the yard, down around back, and hurled it down the hill. Back inside, my mother already had the Electrolux out and was working the long wand, the power brush, up and down the hall.
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    And now, again, it is Christmas. Waking up in the twin bed of my childhood, I do not jump up and hurry into the living room to see what Santa has brought me. I lie there thinking, it is only one day, there is no reason that today has to be so awful, so different from any other day. I take a breath and tell myself I will make it good.
    The telephone rings. I hear my mother in the kitchen, answering it. She calls my name.
    â€œHow are you? I just wanted to wish you a wonderful Christmas. What are you up to today?” Norman asks.
    â€œNothing,” I say.
    I don’t think he believes me.
    â€œI’m just getting ready to go to church with the family. Just on my way out but I wanted to say hello. Ho ho ho.”
    There is a pause.
    â€œHave you heard from the Dragon Lady?”
    â€œShe’s with friends in Atlantic City; they’re going to a show at one of the casinos, Wayne Newton or something.”
    â€œFine thing,” he says.
    â€œIsn’t it?” I say.
    â€œListen, I don’t know how long you’re in town…I’m not going to be able to get together today, but maybe later in the week, if you’re still around, we can meet.”
    â€œI’m not sure,” I say, thinking that at any minute I’ll spontaneously combust and leave a smoldering heap of ashes on the floor for my mother to suck up with her Electrolux wand.
    â€œWell, listen, you have a nice day and we’ll talk soon.”
    â€œYeah, you too. Merry Christmas.” I hang up. Norman the good Christian is off to church, leaving his “other” daughter trapped like some Cinderella in the house without holidays.
    I go into the kitchen. “Are you all right?” my mother asks.
    â€œFine,” I say, slamming the refrigerator. “I’m perfectly fine.”
    â€œDo you want a bagel?”
    I am picturing roasted