My mood has gone south by the time I get Callie home. She’s napping in the back again, so I go up to her door and grab her key from under her mat so I don’t have to wait for her to find it in her gigantic purse.
I get the stupid tree off my roof and drag it into the house. Then I wake her and get her out of the car. “Miss Callie, I’ve already put the tree in your living room.”
“What tree?” she asks.
I really don’t want to do this. “Never mind.” I take her to the door and get her inside. Unfortunately, she sees the tree still netted on the floor. “Oh, bless you! I have a stand in the attic.”
I’m ready for this. “No, ma’am, I’m not going to your attic. I have to go. This was supposed to be my day off. I just came over to get paid, and somehow I wound up—”
“Pay you? Yes, I need to pay you.”
I tell her what she owes me for today. As she digs out her checkbook, I say again, “Miss Callie, you’re spending way too much on having me drive you around. You should hire an assistant who can help you at home and drive you. I’m way too expensive.”
“You’re worth it,” she says as she slowly fills in the blanks on the check. When she’s finished, she tears off the check and hands it to me.
I take it, figuring it will probably bounce, along with the other one I haven’t cashed yet.
“My attic door is in the hall.”
“No, ma’am. I can’t go to your attic.”
“But how will I stand it up? How will I decorate it?”
“Ask your granddaughter. I’m sorry, Miss Callie. I have to go now. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Thank you, sweet boy.” She takes my hand and won’t let it go.
“I hope Sydney likes her Christmas present.”
Her face lights up again. “I want you to come for Christmas. I want you to see her face when she opens it.”
“I appreciate that, Miss Callie. But I can’t. I have plans for Christmas Day.”
“What are they?” she demands to know.
I laugh at her pushiness and think of telling her that I’m not going to be Sydney’s Christmas fix-up, that Sydney doesn’t even like me, that she probably doesn’t have any trouble getting her own dates, and that eating with the two of them sounds like the most depressing way to spend Christmas I can think of.
Truth is, I want to spend it watching a recorded UFC fight I’ve been saving and pretending it’s like any other day.
“I have plans with family,” I lie.
“Your mother?” she asks.
“No, ma’am. My mother died a few years back.”
“A grandmother? Aunt?”
I didn’t expect her to get so specific with her questioning. I don’t like lying about a day that’s supposed to be holy. Even though I’m no more than an ambivalent believer in the events that Christmas celebrates, I don’t want to invite some kind of Christmas curse.
But how can it get any worse? I’ve spent Christmas the same way for the last few years—almost as if I’ve been punishing myself for my treatment of my mother, who loved to make Christmas special every year. I don’t deserve anything nice on that day.
Maybe spending it with Callie is just what I deserve. Maybe that is the Christmas curse.
“I’m going out of town,” I say, thinking I’ll do just that to make it true, even if it’s to the next town over. “I’m sorry, but again, I appreciate your thinking of me.”
She just smiles as if she knows I’m ditching her.