did she say her name was?”
“Giselle. Giselle Carros,” I said. “And no, I’ve never heard that name before. And I don’t believe I have a sister, but I can’t be sure. My mother could have had other children that I don’t know about.”
“So I have a Kristen and you have a Giselle. And we’re off to celebrate Hanukkah in the land of the Pilgrims! Let’s hit the road, my friend. This sounds like a Bing Crosby ‘White Christmas’ show.”
"Maybe more like Chevy Chase's 'Christmas Vacation,' " I said.
"Hey, we should rent that," Michael said. His mood seemed to be improving as we drove up the West Side Highway.
Chapter 3
Michael’s mom lived in a small Cape Cod-style house on a street filled with similar homes, densely but comfortably rubbing up against each other. Yards with swing sets, sleds, and Christmas decorations suggested the presence of children.
“Did you grow up here?” I asked.
“Yep,” Michael said. “See that window, the one near the garage? That’s my room. I used to go out the window, slide down the roof, and climb down the rose trellis to meet my friends at night.”
“Get out,” I said. “You? A bad boy? I don’t believe it. I would’ve thought you were the kind of kid who was studying at his desk every night, then early to bed so he could get up and do his paper route before school.”
“Are you kidding me? I had the record for the most tardies in a single school year. My mother, the sainted Margaret Simone—known to everyone as Peggy, by the way—thought they were going to expel me at one point. All I thought about in high school was wrestling and getting high. And sex, of course. I was a normal teenage boy. I just couldn’t express the fact that I wanted to have sex with the other teenage boys, so I had to pretend to chase the girls.”
“That was tough, huh?”
“Yeah, but you know, a blow job’s a blow job, after all. As long as I wasn’t expected to do anything reciprocal, it worked out. And I was very respectful of their virginity. Ha!” He opened the door. “Come on, let’s go in.”
Peggy was at work when we arrived, but she’d left a large note on the kitchen table with instructions for lunch: Eat soup in fridge. I guess we could handle that.
“What does your mom do?” I asked. We were sitting over steaming bowls of clam chowder, having deposited our bags upstairs and used the facilities while the soup was warming on the stove.
“She’s a baker,” he said. “She took a lot of time off when I was injured, so she’s been working extra to make up for it, picking up some overtime for the holidays.”
“I hope she can have some time off while we’re here,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, she said she will,” he said. “What should we do now? Hey, how about doing what everyone does in the suburbs? Going shopping? There’s nothing like a crowded mall parking lot to put you in the holiday spirit.”
“That sounds perfect. I need to find a gift for my father and something for your mother, and you can help me.”
We cleaned up and headed back down Route 9 to the Natick Mall, where every other non-working person in the greater Boston area had decided to converge that afternoon.
“Drop me off here,” Michael ordered. “I don’t think I can hike all the way from the overflow lot. I’ll meet you inside.”
It took me a solid fifteen minutes of driving and cursing to find a spot and eventually I landed one by following a couple of women to their car and waiting patiently for them to pull out of their spot. I almost had a fistfight with a Masshole who tried to sneak into the space, but I prevailed. When I made it into the mall, Michael was nowhere to be seen. I sent him a text.
“Come to Levenger, second floor,” he replied.
I located a directory and found the store on the map, then made my way there. I had drooled over their catalogues and when I entered the store, I was engulfed in the scent of leather. It was good. Michael was having an intent discussion with a young man and I hesitated to approach, not knowing if it was a sales talk or a hookup I would be interrupting.
“Oh, here you are, finally,” Michael pulled me closer. “This is Niles. He has the most delicious leather goods, and I was thinking that something like this would be perfect for your father. He spends a lot of time at his desk, yes? So, what do you think of this?” He handed me a leather notebook with a Burberry fabric lining. “There are other matching accessories, see?”
“They are lovely,” I agreed. “Good idea, Michael.”
I fingered the goods while Michael and his new friend wandered off to look at briefcases and other “scrumptious” leather things. I closed my eyes while holding the notebook in my hands and tried to imagine my father’s reaction to such a gift. It was hard. He was a man who didn’t scrimp on things, so it wasn’t that, but maybe it was the Burberry that didn’t seem right for him. I wandered to another display, touching various objects and hoping something special would catch my eye.
Towards the back of the store, on a clearance table, I picked up a portfolio. It was darker and heavier cut leather, with a thick zipper around three sides. When I opened it, there was a writing pad on one side, and many pockets and compartments on the other. It was antiqued in such a way that it looked used and the leather softened with age. The portfolio conveyed warmth, and it felt comfortable in my hand. I zipped it up and went looking for a pen to add to the gift.
A salesman materialized by my side. “May I help you find something?” he asked.
“Yes, I would like to see your pens. I’d like something to go with this portfolio,” I said, holding up the leather case.
“Certainly. A classic, then. Would you prefer a fountain pen, or something more modern?” he asked.
“It’s a gift, for my father; he likes a nice fountain pen,” I said.
He led me to a glass display case with dozens of pens and slipped behind. “Let me know what you are interested in looking at,” he said. “We have pens in metal, wood, or glass. Or perhaps we should start with your price point?”
I put the portfolio on the counter. “That’s a good place to start,” I said. “Can you tell me the price of this portfolio? I didn’t see a price tag on it anywhere.”
“That’s not ours,” he said. “I assumed it was something you brought in with you.”
“No,” I said. “I found it on the back table. The clearance area.”
“I’m sorry. Someone may have switched out a product from one of our boxes and left this…item… behind,” he said. “But it’s not our product. You may keep it if you like, or I will discard it. Now, may I show you any of these pens?”
“I, yes, I’d like to see that black one in the second row,” I said, pointing to a classic fountain pen with silver trim. When I held it in my hand, the heft and circumference of the pen were perfect. “I love it. What other colors do you have in this style?” I asked.
I left there with two pens, the black one for my dad and one for my own desk in red. I also splurged on some ink and a fancy blotter to complete my dad’s gift. The salesman was happy to wrap that up for me. I had him place it in a larger bag, along with the portfolio, which I felt had been left on that table just for me to find.
I collected Michael and we went off in search of something appropriate for his mother, since I felt my gift of wine was only the beginning of what I was going to owe the woman for her hospitality.
“Tell me more about your mother,” I said. “Why didn’t she remarry?”
“Oh, I think she was afraid, maybe?” Michael said. “We never really talked about it. Maybe she wanted to protect me,