Christmas in New York stirs up the wintry air, bringing out the humanity – or lack of it – in everyone. The store decorations, the cheery music playing everywhere, and the desperation to be ready on time keep everything rolling along at a nice clip. I can’t say if people are genuinely friendlier, but for the most part they put on a good front.
The nice neighbors in our building seem nicer, and the less nice ones double down on being unpleasant or downright ugly. Our neighbor across the hall remained unfriendly and unpleasant, hiding it behind a coolly suave facade and silkily-voiced insincerities, while the wonderful neighbors down the hall hanged wreaths and cards on their doors and offered me help on those too often days the elevator was down and I needed help getting up and down three flights of stairs.
Ever since my mobility had become a painful ordeal three years before, I had not been in much of a holiday mood, but I was determined to make my children’s first Christmas a memorable one. In turn, their excitement and enthusiasm for the season had energized me. I had explained to Annabelle what I could about the holiday, and she and Thatch had reduced it to the simplest of terms: we’re getting presents!
The week before Christmas was a flurry of activity on West 82nd Street. I had a wreath to hang on the door, and there were stockings to hang and gifts to wrap and ship by December 21. The day after Thanksgiving, I dragged out the holiday CDs and played them continuously as the three of us decked the halls. After some youtube videos and much thought about what Annabelle and Thatch could do to a Christmas tree, I decided we could celebrate nicely without one.
The sound of two kittens mangling “White Christmas” accompanied my giftwrapping. Annabelle knew a lot of the words, but Thatch, being only a baby, made them up, and then I had to listen to their squabbling as she tried to force the correct ones into his memory. Their first Christmas on 82nd Street was a very exciting occasion and they savored everything about the season.
I love these cartons! Annabelle exclaimed as she and Thatch leaped in and out of them.
UPS had just delivered three Amazon cartons. The largest carton contained forty pounds of litter, the medium carton contained kitty toys and fifty Ping-Pong balls for Thatch, and the small one contained a few holiday CDs. As I finished wrapping a few gifts for the friends I would see in town, Annabelle and Thatch sang “White Christmas” over and over at the top of their lungs, played in the cartons, and buried themselves in the packing material. Thatch actually preferred “The Chipmunk Song,” which he had made a participation song; if I did not yell ALVIN! when he and Annabelle reached that point in the song, he sulked.
Play it again, Sam! he yelled when I went to change the CD.
Any other requests? I asked them.
“The Little Drummer Boy?” Thatch asked.
He liked carols about boys, and we had played, sung, and danced to “Mary’s Boy Child” and “The Virgin Mary Had A Baby Boy” a number of times. They have a good Latin beat, and Thatch likes a good calypso when he gets sluggish after lunch. I can’t say it was a good dance. I’m a gimp and he has four legs and stands at most 18 inches on his back legs. We were enthusiastic, and Annabelle refused to join us.
Amateurs, she said.
Nope. I’m sorry, Thatch, I told him. I hate “The Little Drummer Boy.” Can you imagine a poor mother lying in a stable, giving birth, and feeling miserable when this . . . this obnoxious kid starts banging a drum in her ear?
Then I realized the song was very similar to my life on those days I’m in terrible pain and Annabelle insists on tossing things off shelves, creating messes, and tearing through the house with Thatch, leaving wreckage in their wake. Was I being too harsh about Thatch playing the song? Should I play it?
No, I decided.
Play “Jingle Bell Rock,” Annabelle called. I’ll teach Thatch how to do the twist.
While I wrote cards to go with the gifts and played with red and green Magic Markers, “Jingle Bell Rock” started up and two kittens gyrated at my feet. I never should have given Annabelle the remote.
The next morning, Annabelle and Thatch jumped into my bed around 6:30.
Awwww, babies, I moaned, let me sleep a little longer, just a bit. It’s not time for breakfast yet.
We want to open our presents, Annabelle answered.
It’s Christmas! Thatch yelled in my ear as he climbed onto my chest.
No, baby, that’s two days away. You have to wait.
Rats, I heard Annabelle say, as she and Thatch departed,
She went to the window to wait for the pigeons to show up, and I could hear Thatch’s Ping-Pong balls bouncing on the floor as I drifted back to sleep.
Last night, Annabelle and I watched the Christmas special of “The Great British Baking Show,” so she spent the morning singing over an over “O bring us some chickie pudding and bring it right here!” Thatch had discovered the joys of an empty Amazon carton, and he spent the morning singing with Annabelle and leaping in and out of the one I intended to take to the basement with the other recyclable trash. Amazon cartons, like company and fish, stink after three days, and there’s sure to be a new one arriving with different scents from its handlers and the places its been to keep Annabelle’s imagination stirred up and her dreams of seeing Paris alive.
After too many repeats of “Jingle Bell Rock” and twist lessons, the babies were worn out.
Listen to this one, I told them. You’ll laugh.
I played “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer,” and they loved it. They’ve never seen a reindeer, and they had no idea what any of it meant, but it was silly enough to appeal to them. Annabelle insisted that when she starred in Annie Get Your Gun, she would interpolate the song into the score.
We had another Amazon delivery, so Annabelle slept in the empty carton and Thatch lay semi-conscious in the cat tree. I was grateful for the quiet. I knew they would be impossible on Christmas Eve, so I actually accomplished some work; then I called my friend Josh before he left for his family holiday, and tidied the apartment.
While I was re-shelving the CDs the kitties had been playing, I decided that I had too many Christmas CDs that I never played any more. I thought I might get Annabelle to help me pull the ones I could donate to a library for their fundraiser.
Will you help me with this project, Annabelle? I asked her.
Of course, she replied. What are we doing?
Sorting Christmas CDs.
Yes! When?
After we deliver Val’s Christmas gift. I have a card for you two to sign.
Annabelle and Thatch signed the Christmas card with the gift for our building’s wonderful super Val, and Annabelle and I took it down to his apartment. She’s seen the first floor before, but this was her first visit to another apartment. She’s eager to see the world but I’m only letting her see what she can with me within running distance. Val invited us in for some holiday candy and a visit. Val, his beautiful wife Heidi, and I chatted while Annabelle checked out their apartment.
She did them a great favor by checking the windows and floorboards to make sure they were sturdy and no mice could get in. She approved the tree but didn’t try to climb it, check the flimsiness of any ornaments, or redo the lights. Val and Heidi both petted and praised her, which she thinks is her due. I must admit, she is a very pretty cat.
On our walk back to our apartment, she said, I like their sofa. It’s good and springy for jumping.
And you jumped on and off it quite a lot.
Well, I had to check things. It was for their own good.
You behaved very nicely, I told her, and I thought, I’m really glad you didn’t start singing.
We returned to the third floor to find that Thatch had taken over her Amazon carton while she was out, so she needed to reclaim the carton and discipline him. She did try to help me with the Christmas CDs, but it soon became about me sorting CDs and her getting a tan from the desk lamp. I thought I would read “The Night Before Christmas” to them and go to bed.
“ . . . And to all a good night,” I finished the reading.
That was nice, Annabelle said. Did you like it, Thatch?
Is Santa really going to do all that, Daddy? he asked.
Well, yes. He’ll come tomorrow night when you’re sleeping.
No! I don’t want him to! He scares me. Will he come in and hurt me?
He was clearly alarmed. His little body was shaking and I thought I heard the start of a panic in his voice.
No, Thatch, I said. Santa’s a nice man!
I don’t want him here!
He’ll leave presents for you and Annabelle and then go to another apartment.
He began to cry. I’m afraid. Will he take me away to be somebody’s present?
As if, Annabelle said.
Maybe Annabelle will protect you, I suggested after giving her a dirty look.
Well, she said, I’m awfully busy learning “Santa Baby” and getting my audition songs together. I’m counting on Santa to bring me a contract to star in Cats.
Thatch, I said, maybe Santa will leave things in the hall. We don’t have a chimney, and I’ve never seen him in the thirty-seven years I’ve lived here. Maybe Annabelle will let you sleep in the Amazon carton tonight. Would that cheer you up?
My Amazon carton? Annabelle gave me a dirty look.
Maybe, he said.
All right, Thatch, Annabelle said in a certain tone, you can sleep in it . . . tonight . . . but just tonight. That’s my carton.
Thank you, Annabelle, I said. She really tries to be a good sister.
I promised them that I would not play Händel’s Messiah and they could dance to “Jingle Bell Rock” all day and play with the remote. I even promised to yell ALVIN! every time he starts “The Chipmunk Song.” Then I tucked him in with a few Ping-Pong balls for security and sent Annabelle back to the washtub in the bathroom. She likes it. Go figure.
I knew at some point she’d head to the covered bed, the heated bed, or mine.
So, when I got up for some water around 2:00am, she was back in the carton, and he was sleeping on top of the covered bed. It was really chilly in the apartment, and I carried each of them to my bed and wrapped us all up in a nice downy comforter.
Christmas Eve arrived with another 6:30 demand to open gifts.
No, not yet, I told them. Tomorrow is Christmas day. Today we have to prepare.
Are you going back to sleep? Annabelle asked.
Yes, I told her. Breakfast will be in one hour.
Forty-five minutes later I was awakened by two kitties dancing on my chest and singing very loudly “O bring us some chickie pudding and bring it right heeeeere!”
As I prepared their breakfast, I could hear them working on “White Christmas.” They ate their Fancy Feast while I had my first cup of coffee and checked my emails. I looked over the list of things I needed to do before Christmas day. On the fire escape five fat pigeons enjoyed their breakfast of bird seed, dried bread and dry cat food when Thatch and Annabelle leaped onto the windowsill and burst into their harmonized version of “White Christmas.” Scared the shit out of those birds, let me tell you.
Then, Annabelle and I continued our CD sorting while Thatch played with his catnip mice. As soon as I pulled a handful of CDs from the shelf, she tried to climb into the hole left by the missing CDs. She was absolutely impossible, but I like to encourage her curiosity.
Missy, get out of there. You won’t fit.
I want to see the inside of the CD case!
Where are the CDs we’re keeping?
Right here. O bring us some chickie pudding and bring it right-
Alphabetized?
Of course, she answered haughtily. Take a look.
Her alphabetizing was pathetic, as bad as her sense of direction. I think she was color-coding. I fired her. She and Thatch leapfrogged through the apartment while I finished the sorting.
After dinner, I tidied the apartment, although it seemed futile with those two and their messes. My mother used to say, when my brothers and I broke something or created a mess, “I can’t keep nice things with you around.” I finally understood what she meant, but I swore I would never say that to Annabelle and Thatch. I lit some candles in the window, and we watched the crowds going into Holy Trinity Church across the street for the Christmas Eve mass. Then we had a little eggnog while we watched Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol. She and Thatch sang along to every song. They didn’t know the songs, but nothing stopped them.
These songs are good. Is there a musical of this? Annabelle asked when I turned off the DVD player. I want to play Belle some day.
I liked the first two ghosts, Thatch said.
They’re nicer than the ghosts in this building, Annabelle said. I thought the last ghost was scary, but the ghosts in our basement are even scarier. I don’t like going down there.
Well, sleep tight, babies, I told them. Tomorrow’s the big day. I turned off the lights and settled in for a good night’s sleep.
Merry Christmas, babies, I told them. I love you.
By midnight, Annabelle and Thatch had crawled into bed with me.
The first gift they opened on Christmas morning was from their Aunt Ginny in Ohio. She sent the three of us a package of kitty treats, a Starbucks gift certificate, and a Petco gift certificate. Before I could give them my present, they had run to the computer.
Annabelle! Thatch! Get off the computer, I ordered.
Of course they didn’t listen to me. They were arguing over what they wanted from the Petco site.
I want a bow tie! Thatch insisted.
Go back! Go back to the kitty jewelry, Annabelle insisted.
Get off the computer! I ordered again. No jewelry, no bow tie. Not now!
It’s our gift certificate, Annabelle said.
Yes, I know. It was very generous of your Aunt Ginny, and we’ll all decide how to spend it at Petco.
That’s no fun. I wanted some jewelry, Annabelle said as she closed the computer.
More presents! Thatch called as he jumped from the computer table.
They had two more gifts to open. Randy and Jo, my brother and sister-in-law, sent them an Amazon gift certificate, and I gave them a few DVDs, and the premium Kitty Channel on cable. I gave Thatch a remote-controlled mouse that they chased around the apartment for a bit, and Annabelle got a subscription to Backstage.
Christmas day had begun at 6:30 with more raucous cries for chickie pudding, so I gave them chicken paté for breakfast. Annabelle said she felt quite continental eating paté. This inspired her to speak with a disastrous French accent until Thatch’s continuous cries of “what did you say?” stopped it.
After they had opened their gifts, I opened all of the Christmas cards that had piled up since Thanksgiving. So many of them included kitties in their artwork, along with greetings to the babies as well, that they were very pleased. I got a little sentimental and held them and wept, but they cheered me up with “White Christmas” and other songs in their repertoire. Then we all danced to “Jingle Bell Rock” and Thatch giggled because I yelled ALVIN!
I was relaxing in the bathtub. The hot water soothed the pains in my left hip and knee, and I relished the intense warmth embracing my body. I never thought I’d live to be seventy-one, I thought, but I sure wish I were aging more gracefully. I could have stayed there longer, but the sound of giggling kitties broke my mood. Startled, I looked up to see two kitty heads peering over the toilet seat and laughing at me before they ran out of the bathroom.
Around 2:30 I met friends at 86th Street for a wonderful dinner. On my way home, I stopped at the supermarket to find some kitty treats in the cat food section, but the store had closed at 5:00. I was thirty minutes too late, and I returned around 6:00 to face two angry kittens.
About time! We’re hungry! Annabelle whined.
I’m sorry, I said. I told you dinner would be late, and I left you some treats to tide you over.
Thatch ate all the good ones.
Naughty Thatch, I said. Did you? I patted his tummy, and he rolled around the floor giggling.
Yes, he did! Annabelle snapped at me.
Okay, okay, I’ll feed you. What did you do while I was gone?
Played reindeer games. Thatch said.
Ever since they heard about Rudolph “Reindeer games” had been their term for leapfrog, wrestling, and chasing each other around the apartment. The term had also been used to explain why I found water bowls overturned, the rugs askew, and the toilet seat broken. I don’t know how they did that.
And we watched the Kitty Channel! Annabelle gushed. I love “Hollywood’s Hottest Cats!”
When it was time for bed on West 82nd Street, Thatch and Annabelle were still wound up over their first Christmas. Receiving gifts and cards from people they didn’t even know really impressed them.
I want Christmas to come again next week, Annabelle said. Then Thatch and I can go caroling.
I’m sorry, Annabelle, I told her. Christmas only comes once a year. That was today.
Awww, Annabelle and I want to go caroling.
Thatch, I asked him, did you have a nice Christmas?
Yes, I did! That fat man in the red suit didn’t scare me.
Did you see him?
No, but he brought me presents.
When can we go to Petco? Annabelle asked.
Maybe next week after the Christmas rush is over, I told them.
I dropped the subject. Annabelle had forgotten there was no contract for Cats waiting for her this morning and I did not want to deal with her unhappiness; she was so certain. I can be a louse, I thought. I encourage her to chase her dreams, but I’m too cowardly to deal with her unhappiness of not achieving them. I hoped their reindeer games or a few new Amazon cartons would distract her for another week or until she found another role to obsess over in Backstage.
I’ll let her help me do some laundry tomorrow to take her mind off show biz, I thought.
And I woke with a fuzzy throat. Annabelle and I did the laundry, but by noon I had a fever, by dinner my eyes ached, and by the time we went to bed, I was really sick. For the next several days, I dragged myself out of bed to feed the cats and myself. After checking the computer for emails and any signs of Annabelle’s mischief, I spent the days lying down and dozing. My eyes still hurt. Annabelle lay beside me most of the day, and Thatch would occasionally climb onto the bed to check things out before he headed back to the cat tree or his Ping-Pong balls.
Every morning, to Thatch’s rendition of “Are we feeling any better? Are we sitting up today?” from the musical Goldilocks, Annabelle, wearing her Red Cross nurse’s cap, brought me orange juice, a vitamin C, an aspirin, and a cockroach. When her back was turned, I tossed the roach under the bed and Thatch ran to eat it. Then she lay next to me to keep her patient warm until she was distracted by pigeons on the fire escape, a game of tag with Thatch, or the need to prevent Thatch from taking over her Amazon box.
I did discover that she had ordered on Amazon five hundred business cards advertising “Annabelle With the Catt Family Singers,” available for parties and bar mitzvahs, with my phone number “for bookings and available dates.” Well, that explained her nagging me about adopting six more kittens. I decided to furtively cancel the order, go back to bed, and say nothing about it.
While I pretended to doze, I watched her furtively looking over the Amazon site for her order status. Each afternoon, when I dragged myself out of bed to pick up the mail, she insisted on going with me.
Why? I asked her. You never cared about the mail before I got sick.
I guess I’m just curious about the postal system.
You stay here, I told her. I’ll be right back.
Anything for me? she asked when I returned to the apartment.
No. Are you expecting something? I asked, trying to be as casual as possible.
No, no . . . just asking.
By December 30 I felt well enough to see a matinee with my friend Debby at the York Theatre. After the show, we went to dinner, and she gave me a bag of gifts for the babies. I told her about Annabelle’s business cards.
She’s a sneaky one, she laughed.
I can’t trust her on the computer, Debby. She keeps adding things to my shopping cart. I have to check it every day.
Be careful, Debby advised. She’ll bankrupt you.
Thatch and Annabelle loved their gift package from their Auntie Debby! Every gift was wrapped separately, so they each got to open their toys, which were all over my floor. Then, when my back was turned, Annabelle wrapped Thatch, who was not amused when I almost tossed him with the garbage.
Annabelle! I sharply said to her. I almost tossed Thatch down the incinerator chute.
It was a joke. I wouldn’t let you do that.
You let me get to the hall before I heard him yelling for help!
I released him from the paper. Thatch jumped off my lap and ran to Annabelle.
You said this would be a funny joke, he told her.
Well, I was preoccupied. I was checking the mail.
Oh, yes, I said. We need to discuss those business cards!
You know about that? She was shocked.
Oh, yes, Missy. I know all about the Catt Family Singers!
It could make us all rich!
We’ll talk more about this later. It’s time for bed.
I was awakened at 6:30 by two kitties dancing the jitterbug over me while “Jingle Bell Rock” played at a very loud volume. I was immediately awake.
What the hell? I demanded. I jumped out of bed to turn off the CD player.
Oh, good, you’re awake, Annabelle said.
We want to open our presents, Thatch said.
Nope. No presents on New Year’s, only on Christmas.
What kind of a holiday is this? Annabelle demanded.
This stinks, Thatch added.
I felt the same way you did once upon a long time ago, I told them. Let’s have some breakfast and plan our day.
Later, I took Annabelle aside. We needed to address her computer etiquette. I could have been speaking Esperanto to her.
You cannot order things on the computer without asking me, Annabelle, I said.
Why?
Because I am responsible for the consequences of your actions.
Why?
Well, I have to pay for them, for one; you don’t.
Why?
Because you don’t have any money?
Well, I would if the Catt Family Singers worked out!
Oy! I thought. Just promise me you’ll ask me first before you order anything, I said.
Why?
Please? If there’s something you want, put it on my wish list and we’ll talk about it first.
Why?
Just do it. Please? Make me happy.
Well, maybe.
I have to say this about Annabelle: she can drive me up the wall, but I can say to her, “I love you, Missy,” and when she comes over to rub against my leg or lie in my lap, and her purring turns into contented chirping and trilling, my heart bursts with such complete joy that I would give anything in the world to keep her safe.
Just before sundown, I asked her and Thatch what they wanted to do for New Year’s Eve. Annabelle wanted to go caroling, since they are very proud of their “White Christmas.”
Well. I told them. I think you two should stay inside with me. On New Year’s Eve the streets are full of nasty goblins who eat cute little kittens who should be home in bed.
Oh, no! Thatch turned pale. I don’t want to go out.
Annabelle gave him a dubious look.
He’s making that up, Thatch, to scare us.
Thatch started to cry. I’m afraid of goblins!
You are such a baby, she said scornfully, as Thatch cried harder.
Annabelle, I said, he is a baby. He’s very young.
I’m checking this out, she said as she jumped onto the computer table. How do you spell “goblin?”
G-o-o-b-l-i-n-n, I told her.
That word is not on Google. Spell it again, she demanded. Thatch, stop that crying!
Maybe there’s only one “n,” I said, Try this: g-o-o-b-b-l-i, no, maybe it’s an “e” there.
G-o-o-b-b-l-e-n? Really? One “n” or two?
I forget, Annabelle. I’m sorry.
She tried a few more spellings before she gave up in disgust. When Thatch insisted he would not go outside to be eaten by goblins, she relented and we agreed to watch a movie. I prepared our treats and we settled onto my bed to watch Measure for Measure.
Why this? Annabelle asked. Let’s watch The Birds!
I thought you might like a play with a great role for a woman, and this is a Shakespeare play I’ve never seen.
It was a disaster. Annabelle sulked because she wanted to watch The Birds. I warned her the Hitchcock film would scare her. Thatch got lost in the convolutions of the plot and he continued to fret about goblins eating cute little kittens who should be home in bed.
But ya are home in bed, I kept telling him in a terrible Bette Davis impersonation.
So, when the movie ended, I opened the sparkling cider – I lied and told them it was champagne – and we toasted the New Year and danced to “The Chipmunk Song.”
I yelled ALVIN! and Thatch and Annabelle threw confetti.
©2018, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 