The Painted Table(87)

They cut across the yard until they are in front of Bill and Gail’s corresponding window. Below it, surrounded by unblemished snow, are the kneeling, life-sized forms of Mary and Joseph keeping watch over Baby Jesus. Saffee stops to brush white flakes from the holy family’s heads and shoulders, and then she and Jack walk diagonally toward the street. She turns to view the tableau again. From this angle, a vigorous flame atop a white candle inside refracts bold rays of light toward the nativity. Jenny Rose’s secret gift now proclaims its surprise. More than a candle—her gift is the radiant star of Bethlehem.




At six twenty on New Year’s Eve, Saffee, wearing a blue quilted robe, removes eight jumbo, prickly rollers and finds her hair more unruly than usual. Winter’s furnace-dry air makes it flyaway, snapping at the brush with static electricity. She puts the brush down in chagrin and glares into the bathroom mirror. She still has about twenty minutes before they need to leave. Maybe they can be late.

She begins to apply makeup, unable to avoid seeing her mother’s resemblance in her reflection, hearing her parents’ voices . . .

“Joann! We’re late! What’s holding you up?” “I’m not going! You and the girls go.”

“Joann! It’s Palm Sunday! Now put yer coat on . . .” Nels dodges the green-handled hairbrush as it flies . . .

Joann is in a nursing home now, only thirty minutes away. The hospital helped Nels make the arrangements two months ago when it became clear that she would not return home after the severe stroke. She has regained partial use of one arm, but the rest of her body shows no sign of recovery. Saffee takes the bus to go sit by her side as often as possible; there is no certainty that Joann recognizes her. The visits bring back the past as Saffee sits there, trying to sort things out. They take an emotional toll on her. Sometimes these emotions, in various forms, spill over at home.

Even though Saffee is twenty-two, some of her teenage complexion lingers. She impatiently dabs eruptions with cover-up. “Glop!” she addresses the mirrored face.

“What did you say?” Jack calls from the living room. He’s watching the evening news on their small black-and-white television, a Christmas gift from his parents.

“Nothing,” she replies.

She plans to wear a black sheath that often brings compliments. Then again, tonight black might look like death-warmed-over.

Saffee begins to cry. What has happened to the modicum of composure and confidence that she had achieved over the past months? The office Christmas party, by no means a disaster, had seemed to set her back. She had been tongue-tied, afraid she reflected poorly on Jack. She crosses her arms and hugs the robe as if to prevent her body from falling apart. Sniffling up tears, she goes to Jack. Surely he will understand why she can’t, they can’t, go. She wouldn’t even mind staying home alone, but she knows he wouldn’t leave her on New Year’s Eve.

Surprised, Jack makes room for her on the love seat. Before he can ask her what’s wrong, the phone rings on the small table beside Saffee. Instinctively, she wills her voice to be normal and answers, wishing she hadn’t.

“Oh. Hi, Daddy.”

Nels says he will be spending the evening with Joann at the nursing home. His drive from Red Bridge takes a little less than an hour. Will Saffee and Jack join him, at least some of the evening? “Unless you have plans,” he says.

Saffee’s mood tempts her to retort that of course they have plans—it’s their first New Year’s Eve since they’ve been married, they’re young, they like to go places. She reddens. Why would she pretend she has become some bon vivant?

“We’re going to a party, Daddy,” she says, “but it doesn’t start ’til late.” She casts Jack an inquiring look. He nods. “We can meet you for a while first at the nursing home.”




“It’s New Year’s Eve, Muzzy. Nineteen sixty-four already!”

Saffee has not heard her dad use that nickname for years. The three visitors sit flanking Joann’s bed in the warm, cramped room, Jack at the foot. Their winter coats drape over the backs of the chairs.

Nels pats Joann’s good arm. “You know what? The world still celebrates this night, the night we met. And that was twenty-five years ago.”

Her head turns. Dim, watery eyes appear to fix on him. It has been determined that Joann is blind in one eye from glaucoma; she had refused vision tests for years. The stroke affected the other eye; her distorted mouth sags to one side.

“Do you remember that night, Muzzy?” He looks with hope into her vacant face, even though he knows there will be no answers to his questions. In spite of his years of matrimonial trials, it is typical of Nels to bring up only good memories.