Elina

The guy from the food pantry hands off my bags with a courtly half-bow. I want to say something, thank him properly, but the doors are already closing. Can’t even wave with my arms full of food. Normally I’d be too tired to care, but there was something sweet about him. Reminded me of Joey, in a way—probably all that talk of Christmas. Never seen a grown man so excited about...what was he even on about? Snow angels? Hot toddies by the fire? Ridiculous....

I shake my head. All right for some, I guess. Me, I’m back to square one.

Well. Not quite. Mrs. Dzhokharova said I could have her artificial tree, and two strings of lights. Must make Joey quit calling her Mrs. Thing. That can be his New Year’s resolution: no more Mrs. Thing.

My phone buzzes with a text—a meme of a laughing toddler in a box: “Latest toy: $200. Box it came in: priceless.” Pff. Can’t picture Joey being thrilled with an empty box. Maybe a box filled with ribbons and glitter and buttons and beads, everything he needs to turn our place into a disaster area?

Yeah. I mean, no. He’d absolutely go for the box of messy crap... And it’s never, ever going to happen.

Maybe I could dig up my old favorites, pass them down as heirlooms. There was some dirty old doll I found behind a dumpster; Mama used to crochet dresses for it. Dozens and dozens of them, each pinker and frillier than the last. That’d be a no. But there was definitely a red bike—what ever happened to that? Maybe Mama still has it. I could fix it up... Would Joey be big enough to ride, if I screwed on some training wheels?

I feel heavy all over. It’s warm in here. I could drift off so easy, miss my stop.

I don’t want to, but I get up. Can’t afford any more screwups.

This’ll be my first time doing Christmas on my own, and the first one Joey’ll be old enough to remember. If I don’t miss a beat between now and then, I might pull it off.

By the time I get home, it’s starting to come together in my head. Which isn’t the same as coming together in reality, but still feels like progress. I’m almost positive I can get my hands on that bike. And I might have a line on a bag of used Legos, plus an extra-large bubble wand. Not exactly the epic haul I’d been planning, but it’s a start.

I find the door cracked open again. Panic floods my veins. I almost drop my bags, almost scream for Joey, but I can hear him already. And he’s laughing. I elbow the door open, to find Mrs. Dzhokharova painting over the graffiti in the living room, and Joey... Well, I guess you could say he’s helping. He’s got his own little brush, the one that came with his watercolor set, and he’s following her around, painting scary blue spiders along the edges of her coverup.

“They’re washable,” she says. “This...the creepy-crawlies. Scrub right off.”

“Thanks for this.” I squeeze around them and start putting the food away.

Mrs. D’s really been busy. I managed to deal with the worst of the mess before Joey woke up—even replaced the goldfish, heaven help me—but this is above and beyond. She’s brought over a TV table, a couple of chairs, a pile of cushions, and hung a colorful tablecloth over the window in place of curtains. It’s starting to look almost homelike again.

“Got to get home in time for my shows,” she says. “But my Emin’s coming tomorrow. Thought Joey might join us for Chuck-E-Cheese and a sleepover? Bed by eight, of course.”

“Yeah, Mommy!” Joey’s practically jumping up and down.

I pull out a bag of Brussels sprouts and dangle them in his face. “Choke down four of these tonight, and you’re on.”

“Aw, Momm-eeee!”

I nod at Mrs. D. He’ll be there.

I’m already planning tonight’s dinner as I unpack. There’s enough here to make spaghetti, Joey’s favorite—that ought to help the sprouts go down easier. Or I could be nice and do a salad instead. Sprouts keep longer than lettuce. There’s a good leafy head of Romaine, and underneath—

—what the hell?

This fancy basket cannot be standard food pantry fare. It’s...it’s an actual, no-fooling picnic basket, woven wicker, with a checkered cloth lining. Inside, there’s cheese, crackers, jars and cans with fancy labels—even chocolate. Nice chocolate, dark and rich, dusted with cocoa powder. And are those...smoked oysters? My mouth waters. Not sure Joey’ll go for those, but I love them.

“Joey?”

He looks up from the cobweb he’s painting into the corner. “Yeah?”

“Wash your hands and get your red blanket.”

“My blanket?”

“Can’t have a picnic without a blanket, right?” I hold up the basket. A scrap of paper flutters loose. Joey’s eyes go wide.

“No Brussels sprouts?”

“Not tonight.”

He runs off cheering. I wait till I hear water running—sometimes, he only pretends he’s washed his hands—and retrieve the receipt. Only it’s not a receipt. It’s a handwritten note, a few scribbled words: Thought you could use a treat. Their stuffed peppers are the best! :-)

I feel my eyes well up. This must be...this must be what that guy ran back for, when he said he’d grabbed the wrong bag. He was probably looking forward to those amazing stuffed peppers himself... And I didn’t even get his name. Wasn’t even that nice to him. Let him ramble all the way to the station, so I wouldn’t have to come up with anything to say. And the whole time...the whole time....

I wipe my eyes. Joey can’t see me crying. Not even for joy.

My stash of emergency candles is still intact, under the sink. I light a couple and arrange them around the room. We’re not eating on the floor in the semi-dark because our lamps are gone and the ceiling light’s down a bulb. We’re having a candlelit picnic, like...like Ratty and Mole, in The Wind in the Willows. Not sure they ever did exactly that, but I’m the mom, and if I say it’s so, it’s so.

“My friend Rick’s dad made these clay things with holes, and you put a candle in, and they make stars on the wall,” Joey informs me, when he spots the candles. He holds out his hands. “All clean.”

“Good job.” I smile. “Isn’t this like Ratty and Mole’s picnic on the riverbank?”

Joey pokes at the basket. “They had cold tongue.”

“Oh, you want tongue?” I stick out mine.

“Ewwwww!”

I lean in like I’m going to lick his face. “Bleh-leh-leh!”

He ducks and curls into a ball. “Mommy, stop!”

“Okay, okay; no tongue at this picnic.”

Joey insists on calling the oysters mouse brains, and dissecting the stuffed peppers to see how the cheese got inside, but most of the food ends up in his stomach, and he doesn’t throw, squish, or spit any of it. As meals with four-year-olds go, this one’s a success. By the time we’re done, every almond crunched, every chocolate savored, there’s barely time for his bath. He falls asleep while I’m picking out a book for storytime.

With Joey safely in the land of Nod, I settle in to check my e-mail. I’ve got a freelance offer: $400 to troubleshoot the UI for some kind of text-to-speech app. Seems low, and I’m not sure how I’m even going to do it, with my laptop on the casualty list from the burglary. I accept anyway. There’s always the library.

The rest’s spam, and a message from Mama, who’s already heard about the burglary. Mrs. Dzhokharova must’ve ratted me out. That’s it: she’s Mrs. Thing again.

It occurs to me that I’m not scared to open my e-mail any more. Haven’t been for a while. Joe Sr.’s been quiet for almost two months: no threats, no pleas, no drunken poetry. Not even an “accidental” mass mailing. My phone’s been silent too. The restraining order must be working.

I glance at Joey’s door. It hurts my heart, seeing him miss his dad. Everything that happened... He doesn’t understand. Shouldn’t have to. But it kills me, knowing his dad’s gone, and I can’t tell him why. What could I say? “Well, sweetheart, your daddy said some things that weren’t true, and Mommy lost everything she had, and—and—”

Yeah—and have him think I’d abandon him, the second he told a fib.

Maybe... “Your father is a selfish, selfish man, who’d see his own family starve, sooner than grow the fuck up.”

No. Not that either.

In a way, it’s better he doesn’t know. Better his daddy’s a hero, and Mommy’s a mean old witch. When he’s a little older; when “Daddy had to go on an adventure” stops working....

There’s never going to be a right time.

And now, I’m doing exactly what I swore I’d quit doing: letting my dumb, lying ex cast a pall over a perfectly fine day.

I plug my phone into its charger. Time to get ready for bed. Got a long day tomorrow, and I think I might swing by that food pantry one more time. That guy should know what his gift meant to me. Maybe I’ll even get his name.

He was kind of cute for a bagboy. Exactly the opposite of Joey’s dad—black hair instead of blond; gray eyes instead of brown. Smile lines instead of frown wrinkles.

Very cute, now that I think of it.