It was just before dessert on Christmas eve, sitting with a few neighbor guests in our living room and our friend, Sophie, who suddenly spoke up. We had just finished our crab cake supper and Sophie, as she stirred her coffee sat up and piped up, “Oh, I hated my aunt, my mother’s sister. She was a witch.”
And Merry Christmas to you, too, Sophie. I don’t even know what prompted her. She sat on the sofa with her brightly colored jewelry of turquoise, choral and cranberry tones, and a necklace that almost jumped out at you—a little chunky—her trade mark. Even her bracelets had pizzazz. Not at all distasteful, her jewelry ,though, was never refined more like a New York artist that you might see at an art exhibit in Soho.
The most I knew of her family was that she grew up in Vermont, not wealthy, a farm family. And after her father died when she was twelve, her mother went a little nuts, and was in a hospital for a bit. Now, as she mentioned her aunt, her front teeth jetted out as if she were ready to bite, looking like one of those old-world fox stoles with the fox head on the ends. “It was right around Christmas, when my aunt killed our cats.” She looked straight ahead.
I knew right then it was not going to be a Night-before-Christmas story when Santa comes down the chimney and eats the cookies you left him and drops off your presents, be you naughty or nice. Was there something in the crab, I wondered, that twisted her mind? She was usually more on the bright side of life. But then again, Christmas can provoke and evoke.
Our other two guests leaned forward in their chairs, Cylus, the Greek New Yorker, who is strident like a leaping Stallion, said, “Really, my God,” and laughed mindlessly, almost egging her on.
“It’s not really a laughing matter.” I touched Sophia’s pudgy hand with her turquoise-painted nails.
“Don’t touch me.” She said, and smiled. But the look on her face was stern and I could see she was replaying the past in her mind. She took off like a locomotive, “My father died right before my twelfth birthday; my mother got severe asthma, a really bad bout, then became sadly depressed. She went to a hospital and I was stuck taking care of my younger sister. And then my aunt tried to take over. She was an evil, mean-spirited woman.”
“Did this all really happen at Christmas?” I looked at our Christmas tree. Sophie snarled.
“Christmas is a season you know—a cold one in Vermont. So not on the precise day!”
Would a Christmas cookie help? I wondered. I knew she loved her sweets, the sweeter the better, so I wanted to shove them her way.
“Well, I came home from school one afternoon; my little sister somehow got home first. We never were great house keepers, so my aunt had come in that day and took it upon herself to toss and turn things around. She went through my mother’s room. She even threw away a few of my dolls. And then the cats were gone—even the food dishes. She didn’t give them away. I just knew. Our neighbors said they saw her with a shovel behind the barn around noon. She also went so far as to rearrange the ornaments on the Christmas tree and pocketed a few vintage ones my grandmother had given us.”
“Oh my God.” I tapped her knee.
“Don’t try to soothe me.” She rattled with a primal fury in her eyes. I knew she was just ramping up. She was known for turning a short story into a novel.
“You are too angry tonight to be soothed, Sophie. You are wearing yourself out, though; so why not give us the abbreviated version.”
“Too many details for you, Andrew?”
“Not for me.” Cylus the Greek chimed in. I ignored them both.
“I am just curious and concerned, Sophie.” I leaned towards her as we sat tandem on the sofa.
“Have you ever talked about this with a therapist? it’s a huge trauma and you are riveted.”
“Are you saying, I’m crazy, Andrew?”
“No.”
“Well once, my mother brought me to a child psychologist after my father died. You know what he asked me. Do you have sexual fantasies about your father? He wanted me to come back the next week. I was horrified. Never seen a therapist since.”
Being a shrink by trade, I kind of knew where that psychologist may have been headed, but I dummied up.
“I know you’re a therapist, Andrew.” She looked at me with a hint of contempt, “But I can’t see myself in your hands. You’re too direct.”
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Sophie.” I murmured.
Then without hesitation, I stood and made a beeline to the kitchen. I had planned to sing I’ll be home for Christmas before dessert, but nixed the idea and quickly doled her out three scoops of expresso gelato, a squirt of dark chocolate and dribbled some crème fresh around it. I withheld the cherry, though. Wanted to put an Ativan on top instead.
Andrew Pelfini has been writing in multiple genres for many years. He is a member of the San Frncisco Intergenerational writers from whom he compiled and published an anthology of their work. By trade, Andrew is a psychotherapist and graduate educator.
