I finally turned into the familiar quiet, tree-lined street and then through the familiar gateway in front of the house that Michael’s friend Charlie now owned. An eight-foot fence that in summer would be covered with climbing roses and honeysuckle vines instead of snow and ice concealed a surprisingly large parking lot, a legacy from when the house had been chopped into eight or ten cramped apartments. By the time Michael had come to Caerphilly, a prosperous faculty member had turned the building back into a single-family dwelling, except for the basement apartment.
The twinmobile, our van, was already there. I hurried down the narrow brick steps along one side of the house to knock on the low door, whose bright red surface was half hidden by an enormous green wreath festooned not only with a red bow but also a half-price sticker from the Caerphilly Market. I could hear carols playing inside—a very nice choral version of “Adeste Fidelis.” Josh opened the door on my first knock—clearly he’d been keeping watch.
“Mommy!” he exclaimed. “Come see playhouse!”
It did seem almost toylike compared with our current house. The ceilings were only seven feet tall so that Michael, at six four, had to duck when he went under an overhead light fixture. It was basically one not-very-large room with alcoves for the kitchen and bath and closet. In our time the kitchen had consisted of a microwave, a toaster oven, and a hotplate on top of a mini refrigerator, and we’d done dishes in the bathroom sink. Now it was fitted out with the smallest stove and kitchen sink I’d ever seen, and a slightly larger and newer mini fridge. Of course, the expanded kitchen took up a few more square feet of what was already a pretty minuscule living space, but it was definitely an improvement.
Charlie had replaced the hideous sofa bed I remembered with a nice new futon sofa. But the bathroom was still separated from the rest of the apartment by the same curtain made of a vintage sixties Indian-print cotton bedspread.
Still, it was cozy. And filled with the most delicious smells—turkey and gingerbread and pumpkin pie. And decorated just as extravagantly as our house was, though clearly by different hands. The bathroom curtain had been drawn aside to reveal a skinny six-foot spruce tree occupying the shower stall—one of the few spaces large enough to hold it. The tree, the rest of the bathroom, and the whole apartment were decorated with red and gold paper chains, lopsided stars cut out of gold paper, and garlands of evergreen held together with Scotch tape, from which I deduced that Michael and the boys had picked the vegetation themselves. A papier-mâché Santa and nine papier-mâché reindeer hung from the ceiling. The power cord to Rudolph’s flashing red nose was wrapped in tinsel and taped across the ceiling and down one wall until it could reach a vacant outlet And taped to all the walls were Christmas posters painted by the boys. Wise men riding on beasts that looked a lot more like llamas than camels. Mary and Joseph bending tenderly over a baby Jesus who seemed to be occupying a car seat rather than a manger. Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus, and the elves surrounded by a three-foot-high avalanche of presents—including what I suspected was a giant hamster cage. A giant Christmas tree almost hidden by the wrapped presents piled around it. A mantel from which hung a line of stockings large enough for giants.
“Did you guys do all this?” I asked. “It’s beautiful!”
Josh beamed. Jamie, overcome with praise, buried his head in the sofa cushions with his rump sticking up, ostrichlike.
Just then I spotted a completely unexpected sight.
“Did Charlie actually add a fireplace?” I exclaimed.
“Couple years ago,” Michael said. “He added one onto the side of his living room, which is right upstairs from here, and decided it wouldn’t take too much more to add one down here.”
“We can make s’mores now,” Jamie suggested.
“After dinner,” Michael said.
“Can we hang stockings here, too?” Josh asked.
“No, we’ve already got stockings at home.”
“But Santa could come here, too,” Josh protested.
“Mommy, listen,” Jamie said. “It’s our Baptists.” He scrambled over to the end table where the soft strains of a choir singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” were coming from a portable speaker hooked to Michael’s iPod. Suddenly “Adeste Fidelis” blasted forth at such incredible volume that we all flinched and Michael hurried to turn the volume down.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Jamie said.
“It’s okay,” he said. “He’s learned how to operate the iPod,” he added to me.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “And that does sound like the New Life Baptist choir.”