The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(18)

The holiest of all holidays are those

Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;

The secret anniversaries of the heart,

When the full river of feeling overflows;—

The happy days unclouded to their close;

The sudden joys that out of darkness start

As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart

Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!

White as the gleam of a receding sail,

White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,

White as the whitest lily on a stream,

These tender memories are;—a fairy tale

Of some enchanted land we know not where,

But lovely as a landscape in a dream.



Once the ferry docked on Staten Island, I took the S62 bus to the island’s most important destination, Joe & Pat’s, for a most perfect slice of pizza, just as Grandpa taught me. Then I walked over to the gas station on the corner, which is also an auto body shop. Uncle Rocco owns the business. I’ve caught Grandpa and Mrs. Basil E. reading the Yelp reviews of Uncle Rocco’s and laughing. “Crook” is the most common word used in the reviews, but customers also proclaim they won’t go anywhere else, because no other shop does as good a job, even if Uncle Rocco price-gouges them.

Uncle Rocco was sitting on a chair outside the auto body shop, wearing a mechanic’s uniform and smoking a cigar, despite the regulatory signs on the gas pumps stating that smoking was not allowed on the property. “Hi, Uncle Rocco!” I said. His face scrunched, trying to recognize me.

Even though it was warm, I hadn’t been able to resist wearing my favorite red winter hat with the red pom-poms dangling from the ears. I think that’s how Uncle Rocco finally placed my face, because I always wear that hat on the one day of the year the family sees him, November 29, when Grandpa and his siblings go to visit their mother’s grave in Staten Island, on the anniversary of her death. Thanksgiving followed by that annual cemetery trip are what usually kick off the Christmas season for me, but we hadn’t made the journey this year. No one even remembered.

Uncle Rocco frowned. “Did someone die?” he asked me.

“No, but Grandpa had a tough year,” I said.

“Hmmph,” Uncle Rocco said. “There any other reason you’re here?”

“No.”

“Then be on your way. I don’t give discounts, if you’re needing a gas fill-up.”

“I don’t!” I said, exhilarated. “Merry Christmas!”

Finally. The season had begun.

I headed back toward the S62 bus stop to take me back to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal but was overwhelmed by the smell of ginger, cinnamon, and sugary goodness at a corner storefront. The store’s windows were papered over and there was a FOR LEASE sign on the door. There was no actual bakery business, but the door was open, and I couldn’t resist going in. The smell demanded it.

Inside, there were probably a dozen long metal tables, each containing gingerbread houses in various stages of preparation. Half-built churches. Castles needing roofs. Little fairy houses needing retaining walls. On the supply table, there were piles of bags of gumdrops, M&M’s, candy canes and peppermint candies, bottles of food coloring, boxes of graham crackers, bowls of icing, and architectural tools my hands ached to use: pliers, paintbrushes, cardboard cutouts. It was heaven. I have no idea what I want to do with my life, but one thing I do know is that I wouldn’t mind dedicating it to the pursuit of competitive gingerbread house–making. (The guidance counselor at my high school has informed me this is not a viable option. Dream killer. I’ll prove him wrong!)

A young woman wearing a white baker’s apron stood over a table of gingerbread cookies, holding a frosting bag with a pointed tip. She saw me and breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God! Career Services said they were sending somebody yesterday, but nobody showed up and they swore someone would show up today. You’re the student from Pratt?”

“Yeah,” I said. Sure, why not.

She handed me an apron. “What’s your name?”

I don’t know why, but I said, “Jana.” I paused, and then realized how much better my new false identity could be with one simple change. “With an h,” I added.

“Okay, Jahna-with-an-h,” she said. “I’m Missoula. But everyone calls me Miss.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Miss.” She scanned all the tables. “I don’t know where to start you. I only have this space till tomorrow and I have to get all these orders done by then. I’ve been working here round the clock all week, even sleeping here.” She pointed to a futon at the corner of the room. I never realized gingerbread-house makers had to be such workaholics. I reconsidered it as a career and chose it as a sideline hobby instead of a lifetime pursuit.

“What can I do?” Could I put this experience on my future college applications?

“What’s your major?”

“Food art,” I said. God, Jahna was so cool.

“Fantastic,” said Miss. “Can you do church duty first? That table over there needs its stained-glass windows painted in. I already drew the outlines, you just need to paint in the lines.”

“Yes!” I squealed, and then realized: Jahna would never squeal. “I mean, whatever. Sure.”