Anything Is Possible(56)

Walking through the lobby of the Littleton Theater, he saw that he did not have to give anything up, for here it was: the town together as it was each year, little girls in plaid shiny dresses, boys wide-eyed and wearing shirts with collars as though they were miniature men; there was the priest from the Episcopal church—soon to retire and be replaced by a lesbian, which Abel gamely accepted, though he’d have liked Father Harcroft to stay on forever; there was the head of the school board; and there was Eleanor Shawtuck, who had been at the meeting today, now giving Abel a wave with a widening of her smile; they were all getting settled into their seats, murmurs and shushes, the final diminution of sound. A whisper: “Grandpa, my dress is getting squished.” His sweet Sophia, who held her plastic pony with its pink hair tightly in her fist; he moved his already cramped leg and let her shake out her skirt, whispering to her that she was the prettiest girl there, and she said, a little too loudly, “Snowball has never seen a play before,” bouncing the pony on her knee. The lights dimmed, the show began.

Abel closed his eyes and was immediately visited by the vision of his sister, Dottie, two hours away in Jennisberg, outside of Peoria, and what would she be doing on Christmas Day? His concern—his love—for her was genuine, yet the responsibility he felt toward her revolted him in a way he’d admit to no one. It was because she was alone and unhappy, he thought, his eyes opening. But she might not be unhappy, and she might not be alone either, since she ran a bed-and-breakfast and could keep it open, he supposed, for the holiday. He would telephone her from work tomorrow. His wife could not abide her.

He squeezed Sophia’s hand and gave his attention to the show, which was as familiar to him as a church service. How many years had they been coming to see A Christmas Carol? First with Zoe and her brothers, and now with Zoe’s own children, sweet Sophia and her older brother, Jake. Confusedly, Abel’s mind could not quite connect itself either to his sister’s life or to the youth of his children; inside him was a tiny gasp at the ungraspable concept of time going by. From onstage came the hearty and false-sounding “A merry Christmas, Uncle!” Then the slamming of a thin door that seemed as if it might topple. “Bah, humbug!” came Scrooge’s reply.

Hunger descended with a rush. Abel pictured pork chops and almost groaned; fantastical images came to him of roasted potatoes and boiled onions. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, bumping his knee into the woman who sat in front of him, and he leaned forward to whisper, “Sorry, sorry!” He felt that she grimaced slightly; he’d overdone it with the apology. In the dim light he shook his head once.

The show seemed ponderously slow.

He glanced at Sophia, who was staring at the stage attentively. He glanced at Zoe, who cast her eyes over him with a coldness he did not understand. Onstage, Scrooge was scrambling about his bedroom as Marley’s Ghost appeared in chains. “You are fettered,” said Scrooge to the ghost. “Tell me why.”

A thought came to Abel like a bat that swooped from the eaves: Zoe was unhappy. The thought became a dark shape in his lap, as though he was required to hold it there.

But no.

Zoe had little kids who kept her very busy, and this was not unhappiness.

Her husband had stayed in Chicago tonight because he had to work, as a lawyer about to be made partner must do. There was nothing wrong with Zoe. She belonged to the privileged layer of society, to what was referred to these days as the one percent, and this was due partly to the hard work and perseverance of her father. Decency was why he was where he was. People had always known to trust him, and trust in business was everything. Zoe had chosen to marry a man who would keep her in this position, and there was nothing wrong with that, not one thing. He had argued with his son-in-law only once, when the young man suggested ways for Abel to not pay so much in taxes. “I only thought—” the fellow began.

“That I am a Republican and don’t believe in big government—and you are right—but I will pay my taxes.” Recalling this, he never understood the fury he had felt.

Abel now took a deep, unquiet breath and sat up straight; he discreetly checked his pulse and found it to be high.

Onstage, Scrooge was peering through the filthy nighttime window. Then he was on his bed listening to the ding-dongs of the bell, then he was off his bed, agitated, saying, “It can’t be!” Abel recalled—at that moment—how his wife had handed him the newspaper at breakfast a few days earlier, tapping with her finger one column. Linck McKenzie, the man who played Scrooge, might be a favorite with the townspeople, he might be a favorite with the students he taught in the MFA program at Littleton College, but he was no favorite of the critic who wrote that he was a lucky man, this Mr. Linck McKenzie, being the only person in the theater who did not have to watch his own performance.

Elaine and Abel had agreed: The review was gratuitously mean. And then Abel had forgotten it. But now the words affected him. Now it seemed that Scrooge really was ridiculous, that the entire thing was arguably ridiculous. It seemed to Abel that everyone was loudly reciting a line, and this caused him discomfort, as though he’d not be able to leave the theater without thinking that everyone he met was reciting a line. Surely going to the theater should not have that effect on a person. He glanced down at sweet Sophia, and she gave him the compressed, fleeting smile of a polite young woman. He squeezed her knee and she became a little girl again, ducking her head, then holding his hand, with the plastic pony gripped in her other.