Read Online You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas by Augusten Burroughs - Free Book Online
Authors: Augusten Burroughs
Ads: Link
said, “that he has played us for fools. But everybody knows,” she said, now turning to look me in the eye, “that it’s the fools who always get the gold in the end.”
I was about to drop a ribbon on her head but her beady, angry eyes made me stop. Instinctively, I pocketed the plastic sleeve containing my gold.
For the remainder of Christmas day, I was stuck in my room with Barry Manilow. My Burl Ives and
Charlie Brown Christmas
albums had been confiscated. I had been stripped of Christmas.
I hadn’t minded so much giving up the walkie-talkies, the candy, or even the LED watch.
It had been the gold that hurt, physically, to part with.
My mother was originally going to let me keep the gold as my only present. Until I smart-mouthed, “
Good,
because it’s the only one I wanted anyway.”
That’s when she pried it from my greedy little fingers and locked me in my room.
It made me so mad I wanted to scream and pound my fists against the hollow-core door. Christmas was in shambles. I supposed I was partially to blame. Or perhaps all to blame.
And the more I thought about it, the more horrible it seemed I had behaved.
And then I went from feeling mad to sorry.
I was released for dinner. My mother had made a ham with cloves on top just the way I liked, except I didn’t get to stick any of the cloves into the top of the ham myself, which was my favorite thing in the world.
When I looked up, she was already looking at me. And she was on the verge of smiling. She held out two fists. “Pick a hand,” she said. I looked from her eyes to her fists, then back at her eyes. There was no clue to be seen in them so I picked the right one.
She extended her hand, rolled the fist over, and uncurled her fingers. A single clove was stuck to the center of her palm.
Happy.
I took the clove and I carefully pressed it into the golden rind of the ham that now sat before me on the platter.
Then she presented me with her other fist and I was surprised.
She waited.
I pointed to the fist.
When she uncurled her fingers, gold was there.
Ask Again Later
T HE SUNLIGHT ON the bed was that clean, white light of winter without any tinge of yellow or gold; it was a lensed, glassy light that erased the shadows. So much pure, diffused sun felt like a shoplifted luxury; like sleeping until eleven on a Monday morning. Even without my glasses, I could make out the heavy drapes and see that they were pulled all the way open.
My first thought,
What a spectacular morning,
was followed immediately by,
But I don’t have drapes
.
Even out of focus, a seven-foot armoire was difficult to miss, especially when it was exactly where my beer-can pyramid should have been.
I blinked.
A marble-topped nightstand was on my left. Once again,
Where was my upside-down white plastic laundry hamper bedside table?
The only marble in my apartment was the threshold at the bathroom door.
There was a delicate, pale green china cup and saucer on top of the nightstand. The cup was half-filled with coffee and two spent Sweet’N Low packets lay on the marble beside the saucer.
The handle of the cup faced away from me, and though I noticed this, I did not consider what it implied.
Beyond these few details, I could not see. Though, I did believe I could make out a
form
on the ...
Was it another bed? Right there on the other side of the nightstand.
One might have reasonably concluded I was not alone in that room.
I had consulted the Magic Eight Ball so frequently as a child, that even at twenty-six, the toy’s ominous answers floated to the surface of my internal window, even when I hadn’t consciously asked a question. SIGNS POINT TO YES came to mind.
The bedding had the depth of a snowstorm; I felt buried beneath the richest, most sumptuous mounds of fabric, layers of it: sheet, blanket, duvet, bedspread. All of this, too, was foreign.
There could be no doubt: this was not my futon.
It was with a mounting sense of distress that my eyes
I was about to drop a ribbon on her head but her beady, angry eyes made me stop. Instinctively, I pocketed the plastic sleeve containing my gold.
For the remainder of Christmas day, I was stuck in my room with Barry Manilow. My Burl Ives and
Charlie Brown Christmas
albums had been confiscated. I had been stripped of Christmas.
I hadn’t minded so much giving up the walkie-talkies, the candy, or even the LED watch.
It had been the gold that hurt, physically, to part with.
My mother was originally going to let me keep the gold as my only present. Until I smart-mouthed, “
Good,
because it’s the only one I wanted anyway.”
That’s when she pried it from my greedy little fingers and locked me in my room.
It made me so mad I wanted to scream and pound my fists against the hollow-core door. Christmas was in shambles. I supposed I was partially to blame. Or perhaps all to blame.
And the more I thought about it, the more horrible it seemed I had behaved.
And then I went from feeling mad to sorry.
I was released for dinner. My mother had made a ham with cloves on top just the way I liked, except I didn’t get to stick any of the cloves into the top of the ham myself, which was my favorite thing in the world.
When I looked up, she was already looking at me. And she was on the verge of smiling. She held out two fists. “Pick a hand,” she said. I looked from her eyes to her fists, then back at her eyes. There was no clue to be seen in them so I picked the right one.
She extended her hand, rolled the fist over, and uncurled her fingers. A single clove was stuck to the center of her palm.
Happy.
I took the clove and I carefully pressed it into the golden rind of the ham that now sat before me on the platter.
Then she presented me with her other fist and I was surprised.
She waited.
I pointed to the fist.
When she uncurled her fingers, gold was there.
Ask Again Later
T HE SUNLIGHT ON the bed was that clean, white light of winter without any tinge of yellow or gold; it was a lensed, glassy light that erased the shadows. So much pure, diffused sun felt like a shoplifted luxury; like sleeping until eleven on a Monday morning. Even without my glasses, I could make out the heavy drapes and see that they were pulled all the way open.
My first thought,
What a spectacular morning,
was followed immediately by,
But I don’t have drapes
.
Even out of focus, a seven-foot armoire was difficult to miss, especially when it was exactly where my beer-can pyramid should have been.
I blinked.
A marble-topped nightstand was on my left. Once again,
Where was my upside-down white plastic laundry hamper bedside table?
The only marble in my apartment was the threshold at the bathroom door.
There was a delicate, pale green china cup and saucer on top of the nightstand. The cup was half-filled with coffee and two spent Sweet’N Low packets lay on the marble beside the saucer.
The handle of the cup faced away from me, and though I noticed this, I did not consider what it implied.
Beyond these few details, I could not see. Though, I did believe I could make out a
form
on the ...
Was it another bed? Right there on the other side of the nightstand.
One might have reasonably concluded I was not alone in that room.
I had consulted the Magic Eight Ball so frequently as a child, that even at twenty-six, the toy’s ominous answers floated to the surface of my internal window, even when I hadn’t consciously asked a question. SIGNS POINT TO YES came to mind.
The bedding had the depth of a snowstorm; I felt buried beneath the richest, most sumptuous mounds of fabric, layers of it: sheet, blanket, duvet, bedspread. All of this, too, was foreign.
There could be no doubt: this was not my futon.
It was with a mounting sense of distress that my eyes
Similar Books
