Page 116 of Absolution

Thirty

Kerry

The week is intense. We make Christmas decorations with the kids at the daycare and throw a pre-holiday party for the children and the parents one evening. We comfort the ones who panic at the thought of Christmas, and gifts, and meeting relatives.

Cecilia and I celebrate an early Christmas with Mom the day before she leaves. I’m curious about this man who is suddenly more important than Cecilia and me, and she promises to introduce him later. I’m not sure I’m that curious to be honest.

I barely have time to think and all of a sudden, I wake one morning from Cece jumping on me and not from the clock’s annoying buzzing. I pull her down under my blanket for a few seconds of enjoying her warm, soft skin. It’s the twenty-fourth. Everything stills for a moment. I’ve promised to spend the night with Christian. Well, in his house. But that’s quite enough. Cecilia squirms out of my bed.

“Go Daddy? Santa come?”

I moan. “Yes, sweetie. We’re going to Daddy’s today and we get to sleep there too. Again.”

A few hours later find us standing outside the gates to Christian’s house. Outside the greatness of Christian’s house, now decorated with blinking white lights. He greets us with a wide smile and scoops up Cece before I even have time to catch my breath. They disappear into the house while he shouts back to me. “Make yourself at home. There’s some white wine in the fridge if you’d like.”

I look around me as I stroll after them through the hallway. He hasn’t done as much decorating as I figured. There are three Christmas stockings hanging above the fireplace, and a large number of candles in a wide variety of holders, wood, brass, concrete, real stone which are spread all over the living room. It has a romantic feel I don’t quite associate with Christian Russo.

My heart suddenly speeds up. Right, where was that wine?

Christian plays with Cece in the garden, tossing a ball to her and trying to get her to catch. In the simple game I see some of what probably makes him him: he never seems to lose patience, never gives up. I’m sure he is good at whatever he sets his mind to.

I study him while I take another sip from the glass. He doesn’t move around a lot, and when he has to catch the ball, again and again, he walks instead of running. He really seems to have told me the truth about his condition. I wonder what it means for all of us, the fact he is somewhat disabled. Is it chronic? Will it progress? Should I worry?

Why should I worry?

When Cece shows signs of finally tiring of the games, I’ve downed my glass of perfectly chilled white wine, slouching in one of Christian’s expensive patio chairs that he has put back in place after the storm subsided. Two heaters make the semi-enclosed space comfortable. He’s panting soundly when he comes up to me, sweaty and grinning from ear to ear.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, yeah,” he pants happily. “Did you see her catch it? She’s a future Dan Marino, I tell you.”

I laugh. “Dan Russo.” Then I realize the mistake. “Ehm… Jackson. But Dan was more famous for passing anyway. She’d be more like Jerry Rice or Terrell Owens.”

Christian looks amused. “Really? Shows what I know of sports.” Then he winks at me and turns toward the house. “Time for dinner.”

In the kitchen he hands me and Cece one dish after the other and we put them on the counter next to us. Bread, ham, cheese, a Christmas cake, and pudding. Then comes plates, forks, knives, he hesitates for a moment before handing me the bundle of knives and I scoff. Very funny. There’s more: cranberry sauce, smoked salmon, gravy, salami, mortadella, parma ham.

“Who’s going to eat all this?”

“We are,” he grins. “I’ve had bad experiences from being under the same roof as you and I figured a little excess wouldn’t hurt.”

I almost choke. “You’ve had bad experiences—”

“And the remains I’ll give to the Red Cross charity down at Lawson.”

I stare at him. I don’t know this man anymore. He opens the fridge again and backs away with something heavy. Turkey.

“You made a turkey? Did you make all this?” The doubt must be obvious on my face because Christian bursts into a laugh and pats Cece who looks up at him.

“Nah. I made the turkey and the cabbage, the rest isn’t that much really. I just bought it.”

He hands me a bowl of a greenish substance. I sniff it suspiciously.

“What’s this? It smells like weeds. Like boiled weeds.”

“Green cabbage sautéed with spices and with the drippings from the turkey and then cooked with lots of cream. Put it next to the stove with the turkey, we’re heating it.”

“Cabbage? You made cabbage for Christmas? What are you, vegan?”

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