family ties
This is your grandfather, despite the way he's looking at you—like an Anderson would a liberal, if your father had been so inclined to invite one to the party.
"What's he doing?" he asks with a grunt in your direction, and your father—through the clutter of ornaments and holly, and heavy, mindless chatter—looks at you for the first time tonight. What he sees is confounding—so confounding, he's nearly swallowed his cigar.
"Your son's a fruitcake," your grandfather asserts, scandalized, "a goddamned fruitcake! Well," he shoves a finger at his son's chest, wrinkled and ballooned from years of life and drink, "I won't have it. No son of mine will raise his own as queer!"
Hugh Anderson presses the embers of his cigar into the ashtray beside him. As calmly as he is able to, he replies: "I assure you, I had no idea—the nanny—"
"—oh, don't blame the nanny, Hugh," he derides, patting his belly. "Your sister's raised a manlier daughter than you have raised your own son, and I—"
"—now don't you—" Hugh starts, but stops. He will not make himself a fool. Not here, in his own house, at his own party, as you combs a doll's hair beneath the Christmas tree your mother insisted be decorated as a family—a tradition Hugh tried not to recognize, seldom practiced, and certainly never enjoyed.
"Well fix it, why don't you?" your grandfather sneers, searching the room for looks of similar contempt. His hand grips the glass of rum he's been nursing since his arrival so firmly that its contents begin to slosh. He's nervous—not for you, or for his son, but for how this will reflect himself.
Wordlessly, Hugh brushes past his father and advances toward you. No eyes but his fathers eyes follow, and so he allows himself to exhale. "Now son," he whispers hurriedly to you, crouching down so that you're face to face, "why don't you take your presents upstairs, alright?"
You look around at the cousins who surround you. The few who are of a similar age are playing with their own toys—toys you still believe to be given by Santa. Wrapping paper covers the rug your father finds pride in the price of, and your brother—much older and therefore someone you are of no interest to—jests with the children of family friends, coworkers, and clients alike.
"Is the party over?" you ask, because it's the only conclusion you can come to. You haven't spoken out of turn, cussed as your brother has so often done in front of you, or interrupted any of your parents conversations.
The answer, however surprising you find this to be, is still a "no."
"But I want to stay!" you pout, a trick you've used to manipulate your mother many a time.
"Do as I say, Blaine," he orders, and you know better than to fight him on it. Bowing your head, you tuck your Ariel doll safely under your arm and walk to your room, shutting the door behind you.
Your father returns to the party immediately, but not to his guests. First he finds Cooper, a son he doesn't feel guilty for being proud of, and asks where your nanny is.
"Um—like, the kitchen, I think," he says flatly, careful to show respect, but at the same time to suggest he's not only talking to Mandy because she's his father's bosses daughter, and that his dad's absence is not only encouraged, but requested.
The vacant stare and curt "okay" Cooper receives is enough of a reason to believe his father doesn't care. With brisk steps, he's already finished walking to the kitchen Lucille indeed occupies, munching on one of the surplus cupcakes Mrs. Anderson insists she's entitled to and Mr. Anderson frowns upon her eating.
"Have you lost your mind?" The rage in his voice frightens even him.
"What—I—" she splutters.
Mr. Anderson squints angrily at her. "—you have humiliated me. Your job was to buy my sons Christmas presents, and I arrive at my own party to find my youngest playing with a doll of all things, like—like some fairy, and in front of all my guests, you incompetent little—"
"—Hugh, now really, let's—"
"—let's? Let's? Let's call me Mr. Anderson, for starters. You are not my friend, Ms. Tate," he condescended, "but my son's nanny and my family's maid. I'd fire you, but Claire, who—despite her objections, I insist you address as Mrs. Anderson—would throw a fit if I did. Dispose of the doll and don't make a faggot of my son again, or I'll fire you anyway."
Lucille Tate says nothing, and for Hugh Anderson, this is answer enough. Satisfied, he returns to the party, mingling among guests and avoiding his father from sheer humiliation.
But you're oblivious to all of it.
You spend the rest of your Christmas braiding fake hair and strategizing how to sneak a cupcake upstairs to satisfy both your sweet tooth and hunger; you, however, end up falling asleep before you can put your plan into action.
When you wake up, Ariel is not in your embrace as she had been when you fell asleep. Ms. Tate's room—the tiny one at the end of the hall, with the pretty wallpaper you helped pick out and the homey armchair in the corner—is empty. Your parents, who you know better than to wake, are still fast asleep. Your grandfather occupies the guest room, where you keep the toys you couldn't fit in the chest in your room. And Cooper, although up and about in the backyard playing basketball, would not help you find the doll even if you had asked him to.
You go downstairs where the Christmas tree's still up and lit, and the ground's still littered with wrapping paper and napkins, and from the bottom step, you see her—Ms. Tate, standing by the door, dressed in jeans and a sweater.
"You're leaving?" you ask, hands wringing the hem of your pajama shirt into a ball.
A squeak escapes her, and with a hand to her chest, she asks, "Oh, B, why are you up so early?"
Her eyes are rimmed red, but you're too young, or maybe just too sad yourself, to realize she had been crying all night. "Ms. Tate," you whimper, "Ariel's missing."
This upsets her, you notice, but she's able to compose herself quickly. "Oh, B," she coos, kneeling down so that you're at eye level and she can cup your chin in her hand, "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Do you know where she is?"
She sighs, pets your curls. "No, B. I wish I did, but I don't."
But you don't care. "Where are you going?" is what you want an answer to now, and when you ask her this, there's a crack in your voice. You hadn't noticed the suitcase until now.
She hesitates. "Oh, B...I have to go be someone else's nanny now."
Tears well in your eyes. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye to me?"
"Only because I care about you so much," she explains, thumbing away your tears. "I don't want to say goodbye to you, B."
"Will you visit me?"
"Oh...I don't think that's a good idea, sweetie," she frowns at you, "no."
You rub at your eyes with your tiny fists and try to be strong about it, but you can't. "I don't want you to go!"
She envelops you into a hug. "Me either, B—me either," she whispers, and you relax in her embrace. "But it's going to be okay. Okay?" She retreats so that she can look you in the eye again. You nod for her.
"Now, listen to me, B, because it's important. I want you to promise me that no matter what anyone says to you, you'll never doubt what I'm about to tell you. You promise?"
"Alright," you agree, and she continues: "It's okay that you wanted Ariel for Christmas. Santa gave you Ariel because you are a wonderful little boy and you deserved her, alright? She's not gone because of you. You're perfect," she snivels, "exactly as you are. Don't ever be anything but yourself, okay, Blaine? Can you promise me that?"
You nod.
"You are so brave, baby," she says, and she's crying and smiling at the same time. "Remember that for me. Have courage," she finishes, kissing the top of your head.
She walks out the door with her suitcase in hand, and it's the last time you ever see her. Ariel's not so important anymore, because now Ms. Tate's gone, too, and all you can do is sit on the stairs and cry.
Eventually someone finds you, awake to see if the nanny who had refused to dispose of the dreaded doll had left before breakfast, just as she had been asked to. "What's the matter, eh? What're you 'cryin like some girl for?" comes their voice, not even trying to sound like they care; and they're looking at you in that way again, like they despise what you are, and what you stand for, and everything about you, but you're only five, only their blood, and crying your eyes out on the day after Christmas.
This is your grandfather.