2) Christmas in Massachusetts
The year he turned 18, Rodney was a graduate student at MIT, and well on his way to his first PhD. He had a full scholarship, including a small stipend that was just enough to allow him to live off-campus in a tiny studio apartment. In previous years, his parents had insisted on Rodney coming to one or the other parent's home for the holiday break. By that time, they had split and were in the midst of an acrimonious divorce proceeding that would last for several years.
The year he became a legal adult, Rodney flatly refused to visit either parent. He sent a 9-year-old Jeannie a card and as much money as he could scrape together, and told her to go buy something for herself. He unplugged the phone after a screaming match with his mother on Christmas Eve, sat down to a microwaved TV dinner – he never lost his appreciation for those easy, instant meals – and went to bed.
Christmas morning in Cambridge, as seen from Rodney's windows, was a sparkling scene of pristine white snow, crystal clear blue skies, and the multi-colored hues of Christmas lights. He spent a blissfully quiet and peaceful day snuggled up on the sofa under a blanket, his cat curled up beside him. Schrodinger – quickly nicknamed 'Shmoo' – was Rodney's first pet since the dog that had run away less than a week after being given to Rodney for his seventh birthday. Shmoo was his present to himself on his 18th birthday, rescued from an animal shelter and given every luxury Rodney could afford. It was the first time Rodney had ever come home to someone who was glad to see him, and although he would own a number of other cats in years to come, he kept a photo of Shmoo beside his bed for the rest of his life in remembrance of that first experience of unconditional love.
He ate cheap, pre-packaged cookies; perused the latest scientific journals, amusing himself by scribbling sarcastic commentary and corrections in the margins; and watched a few hours of puerile holiday television. Dinner was a grilled cheese, a dill pickle, and a glass of milk: the most comforting meal he knew how to make.
When he was done eating, he opened the only present he'd received that year. It turned out to be a homemade fruitcake from the wife of the head of the physics department at MIT. It clinked when he set it on a plate, so he left it to sit in petrified glory on the kitchen table.
As the sky grew dark, he settled back on the sofa with Shmoo curled up in his lap and watched the twinkle of his neighbors Christmas lights through the frost-rimed window. He let his mind drift through years of daydreams involving the accolades of the world's scientific community being heaped on his shoulders.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face, and woke the next morning with a crick in his neck from sleeping on the sofa.
