See You at Harry's(2)

Humoring my dad means humiliation for us.

The last time my dad had a surprise, it involved the most embarrassing family/business Christmas card in history. My dad and mom dressed up as Santa and Mrs. Claus, and Holden, Sara, and I were forced to be elves. Charlie was Rudolph, but he kept pulling off his red nose so he could pick at the real one underneath it.

Charlie reaches for my ear again.

“Stop it!” I yell.

“Fern, please. He only does it because he loves you,” my mom says.

“I love you, Ferny,” Charlie says in his extra-baby voice.

“Whatever,” I say, looking out the window.

“Whatevuh,” Charlie repeats.

“Please don’t teach him that, Fern. It’s bad enough coming from you.”

I sigh and stare out the window. I can feel Charlie reaching Doll out to dance at me, but I ignore him.

“Whatevuh,” he makes Doll whisper in my ear. Charlie has trouble pronouncing his r’s except when he says my name. My mom says this is the greatest compliment Charlie could possibly give, working so hard to say my name correctly. I guess it’s true, but Charlie is so annoying so often, it’s hard to feel flattered.

“I just want you to know,” Holden says to my mom, “if this has anything to do with the annual Christmas card, I’m telling you right now, there is no way I’m wearing elf ears again.”

Charlie pulls Doll away from me and reaches for Holden’s ear.

“Listen,” my mom says, all serious. “I’m sure whatever your dad has planned will be fine. He loves you. He’s just trying to do what he thinks is best for the business.”

“What about what’s best for us?” Sara asks.

“It’s all the same. If the business does well, then we do well,” my mom says, quoting one of my dad’s familiar lines.

Sara crosses her arms. “Whatever,” she says.

My mom just sighs, and we continue to drive in silence, except for Charlie’s quiet singing of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in Doll’s left ear. I lean my head against the window and watch the neighborhood houses swim by, wondering if all families are as frustrating to live with as mine.





WHEN WE GET TO THE RESTAURANT, my dad hurries over to us with a huge grin on his face. “Finally! What took you so long? The photographer will be here any minute. Quick, kids, put these on.”

We’re still in the parking lot as he hands us each a neon-colored T-shirt. I notice that he’s careful not to unfold them so that we can’t see the drawing on the front. I don’t know why, since he’s sporting his own neon-yellow T. As soon as he hands out all the shirts, his chest is in full view and so is the horrible design — a huge dinosaur sitting on top of a badly drawn image of our restaurant. The dinosaur is eating an ice-cream cone, and drips are slipping down the front window. Little faces peek out the window around the drips. I think they are supposed to be ours.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sara says. “Seriously, Dad?”

My mom gives her a warning look.

“What?” my dad asks as he helps Charlie pull an electric-blue shirt over his head.

“We all have dinosaurs?” I ask.

“What’s wrong with dinosaurs? Kids love ’em. Right, Charlie?”

Charlie nods excitedly and roars.

“What do dinosaurs have to do with Christmas?” I ask. “These are for the annual card, right?”

“Come on, come on, come on. We don’t have time for dillydallying,” my dad says, ignoring my question.

I pull my own bright orange T over my head. It feels bulky over the T-shirt I’m already wearing. Sara puts hers on inside out. My dad is so busy fussing with Charlie, he doesn’t even notice.

“I can’t believe we have to do this,” Holden says, stretching his neon-green T-shirt out in front of him. “And why did I have to get green? It makes me look pale.”

My mom clears her throat in this way she has that means we’re supposed to look over at her without making it obvious. We all look and watch as her right hand, which is in a fist, slowly unclenches and she stretches out five fingers.

Holden, Sara, and I exchange glances. We wait.

My mom sighs and slowly unclenches her other fist. Five more fingers. That’s ten bucks each if we keep our mouths shut and cooperate.

We’re in.

I don’t know when my mom turned to silent bribery to prevent family conflicts, but it seems to work. It’s not that we want to disappoint my dad. We know he means well. But why do his ideas always have to be so lame and humiliating? And why does the humiliating part always have to include us?

We all follow my dad to the front of the restaurant, where he starts to position us under the window just as a van pulls into the parking lot blasting the Grateful Dead. It’s “Uncle John’s Band,” Charlie’s favorite, and he immediately starts shaking his bum.

“They’re here!” my dad yells.

Sara fidgets with her dreadlocks again. “At least they have good taste in music.”

“Everyone, this is Eric,” my dad says when the photographer walks over to us. “And Sky,” he says, gesturing to a woman wearing a head scarf.

“I love your hair,” Sky says to Sara.