December 1976

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Mrs. Turner stared out the window over her kitchen sink. “Looks like your daddy’s home, sugar. How about you pick out some cookies, and you can take ‘em back over with you.”

The Turner’s funny kitchen table—shiny red and white and sparkles, with drawers in it—was strewn with Christmas cookies, cooling on racks and arrayed on trays. It was Christmas break at school, so Jenny spent whole days next door, not just the afternoons until her daddy came and took her to the bar and made her stay in the back.

Ever since her mommy had done the bad thing and gotten herself killed, Jenny had to go to the bar with her daddy when she couldn’t stay next door. She wasn’t sure why she couldn’t always just stay next door, but she couldn’t. When she’d asked Mr. Turner, he’d told her to ask Mrs. Turner. When she’d asked Mrs. Turner, she’d said her daddy had his reasons. When she’d asked her daddy, he’d told her to shut up.

So when he came and took her to the bar, she went. Sometimes, when the sun was out and there weren’t many people there, he’d let her stay up front and spin around on the bar stools or play with the bowling machine. But when it got dark outside, and crowded inside, she had to go in the back and stay there.

She hated being in the back. It smelled funny, and there were long shadows in all the corners. And sometimes there were rats, but she wasn’t supposed to say that. There was an old recliner back there by Daddy’s desk, and she was supposed to do her homework, eat her sandwich from the deli down the street, and go to sleep, but it was hard to sleep when maybe a rat would come out. If she was sleeping, it could get on her face, and they had sharp little feet like tiny, bony hands with claws.

She liked it better when she could stay next door. Mrs. Turner made good food for supper and had little pink glass bowls for ice cream or pudding for dessert, and Mr. Turner let her read the funny pages of his paper. They had a girl named Rhona, but Rhona was a Big Girl, in high school, and she didn’t pay much attention to Jenny—or her parents. She spent a lot of time upstairs, in her room. When the phone rang, it was usually for Rhona.

On this day, Mrs. Turner and Jenny had made pretty green cookies that looked like wreaths and pushed Red Hots in while they were still soft and hot, to look like berries. And Santas with red sugar sprinkles and Christmas trees with green sugar sprinkles. And chocolate balls covered in something like white fur. Coco-nut. She didn’t like those. The coco-nut tasted funny and stuck on her tongue.

Mrs. Turner brought over a big plastic tub that used to be for margarine. “Come on, sugar. Pick your cookies. You want to be ready when your daddy comes over. He don’t like to wait.”

She plucked up the two wreaths she thought were prettiest. The Red Hots were exactly even, and the red hadn’t smeared on the green. She chose some Santas and Christmas trees, too, but not the coco-nut ones. She selected each cookie carefully and set it in the bowl. While Mrs. Turner put the lid on, Jenny went to the front hall and got her coat off the hook.

Her daddy knocked on the back door as she came into the kitchen, and she went and opened it. When she saw him, she got scared. His hair was messy, and his eyes were droopy. It was hard to be good enough when he looked like that.

“Let’s go, Jenny.” His breath smelled like booze. When she was little, she used to think of it as grownup soda, but now she was older and she knew it was booze, like at the bar.

Mrs. Turner came up behind her and set her hand on Jenny’s shoulder. “Jen was a very good girl today, Earl. She helped me bake cookies, and she cleaned up.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look up at Mrs. Turner or Jenny. He just stood on the little back stoop, one step down, and waited, rocking a little. It was cold, but he wasn’t wearing a coat.

“Let’s go.”

Mrs. Turner’s hand didn’t move from Jenny’s shoulder. It squeezed more tightly instead. “We’re happy to keep her the night, if you’d like.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. I want her home.”

“Of course you do.” Mrs. Turner crouched at Jenny’s side and gave her a quick hug. “Merry Christmas, sugar. You have a good day tomorrow. Come on over later, and see what Santa might’ve left at our house.”

Jenny didn’t believe in Santa anymore. Not since the first Christmas after her mommy got herself killed. But Mrs. Turner was nice, and Jenny didn’t want her to be sad like she’d been, so she didn’t tell her that Santa was a damn lie.

Her daddy held out his hand. “Don’t meddle, Elma. I got it handled.”

Mrs. Turner stood up. “Alright, then. Merry Christmas, Earl.”

Jenny’s daddy made a weird noise and yanked her out of the house and down the porch steps.

When they got into their own kitchen, her daddy snatched the big margarine tub from her hands. “What’s this?”

“Cookies. We made cookies today, and I picked out the best ones for you.”

He tore off the plastic lid and tossed it away. It flew across the room like a Frisbee. Rooting through the tub, he plucked out one cookie after another, tossing them away, one by one. They dropped to the floor and cracked into pieces and crumbles. One of the green wreaths landed, and two of its Red Hots fell off and rolled away.

When the tub was empty, he tossed that away, too. Jenny stood, still wearing her coat—creamy fur with a big hood and pretty sewing up the front, the prettiest coat in the world, which her daddy had given her for her birthday—and stared at the cookies all over the floor.

Her daddy went to the cabinet and pulled down a bottle of booze. As he walked out of the kitchen, he grumbled, “Clean that fuckin’ mess up.”

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~oOo~

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“JENNIFER!”

Jenny jumped at the slurred shout.

“JENNIFER MAE WAGNER! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!”

It was going to be bad, but it was worse not to come when she was called. She set her Nancy Drew book aside and left her room.

He was standing in the kitchen. Barely standing. More like slumping. He was barefoot, and he’d taken off his shirt and wore only his sleeveless t-shirt, slouching halfway out of his pants. The buckle of his belt gleamed in the light from the lamp hanging over the table. His eyes were red, and his cheeks were wet, but he didn’t look sad. Maybe he’d been sad before, but now he was mad.

“What the fuck is that?”

He pointed at a little red dot on the kitchen floor. A Red Hot. She must have missed it when she’d swept up the cookies. It was squashed flat; he must have stepped on it.

She didn’t answer.

“I asked you a fuckin’ question.”

“It’s a Red Hot. From the cookies. I’m sorry, Daddy. I thought I cleaned everything up. I tried to do a good job.”

“But you didn’t, did you? You left food on the floor like a fuckin’ slob. Get over here and pick it up. Hands and knees. Get down close and make fuckin’ sure.”

She went and got on her knees. The candy had squished into bits when he’d stepped on it, but she stay on her knees until she had all the pieces cupped in her hand, even the ones the size of a speck of dust. When she had them all, she got up and took them to the plastic trash bin by the door.

She’d done the best job she could, but it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t good enough. She knew that because she heard the faint jingle and the terrible whoosh of his belt being unfastened and pulled from his pants.

“Daddy, I’m sorry. I really did try to do it good. I tried to do what you said.”

“Get over here and touch your toes, Jennifer. It’s time to take your punishment.”

Jenny went and touched her toes. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas Eve. Santa was a damn lie.

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~oOo~

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Later that night, Jenny woke with a start and a squeal.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh. It’s just me, Twinkle.” Her daddy lifted her from the bed, bringing her quilt with her. He cradled her in his arms and tucked the quilt around her. Her bottom was still sore from her punishment, but her daddy was holding her tightly, snugly, and humming, so she didn’t mind the discomfort. “Let’s go outside—it’s Christmas and it’s snowing!”

He carried her into the living room and grabbed the old crocheted afghan from the sofa, and then he carried her through the house, to the back, and onto the screened-in porch. He sat on the rusty metal glider, holding her to his chest, and looked out at the falling snow.

Jenny was cold, but her daddy wanted to hold her, and she wanted to make him happy. She wanted to be good enough that he’d always be like this. So she tried not to shiver, and she snuggled down deep under the quilt that had been on her bed. She tucked her head under his chin. He still smelled like booze, and cigarettes, and his aftershave.

He squeezed her tight. “We don’t need nothin’ else, do we, Twinkle? You and me and nothin’ else.”

Jenny snuggled closer. If they could be like this all the time, she didn’t think they would need anything else.