Comfort & Joy

Part One

“It’s a dangerous business . . . going out of your door.

You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet,

there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to. ”

—J. R. R. TOLKIEN

C hristmas parties are the star on the top of my “don’t” list this year. Other things to avoid this season: Ornaments. Trees. Mistletoe (definitely). Holiday movies about families. And memories.

Memories most of all. Last year, I celebrated Christmas morning in my own living room, with the two people I loved most in the world. My husband, Thomas, and my sister, Stacey.

A lot can change in twelve months.

Now, I am in my kitchen, carefully packing frosted Santa cookies into Tupperware containers, layering wax paper between each row. On a strip of masking tape, I write my name in bold black letters: Joy Candellaro. When I’m done, I dress for work in a pair of black jeans and a bright green sweater set. At the last moment, I add little wreath earrings. Perhaps if I look festive, people will stop asking me how I am doing. Balancing the pale pink containers in my arms, I lock up my house and make my way to the garage. As I round the hood of the car, I sidle past the row of file cabinets that line the back wall. My dreams are in those metal drawers, organized with the kind of care only a librarian can manage.

I have saved every scrap I’ve ever read about exotic locales and faraway places. When I read the words and see the pictures, I dream of having an adventure.

Of course, I’ve been dreaming of that for ten years now, and since I’ve been single again for almost three months, and separated from Thom for eight months before that, it’s safe to say I’m a dreamer not a doer. In fact, I haven’t added to my files or opened one of the cabinets since my divorce.

I ease past them now and get into my sensible maroon Volvo. Behind me, the garage door opens, and I back down the driveway.

It is still early in the morning on this last Friday before Christmas. The street lamps are on; light falls from them in cones of shimmering yellow through the predawn shadows. As my car rolls to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, the headlights illuminate my house. It looks . . . faded in this unnatural light, untended. The roses I love so much are leggy and bare. The planters are full of dead geraniums.

A memory flashes through me like summer thunder: there and gone.

I come home from work early . . . see my husband’s car is in the driveway. The roses are in full, riotous bloom.

I remember thinking I should cut some for an arrangement.

In the house, I toss my coat on the maple bench and go upstairs, calling out his name.

I am halfway up the stairs when I recognize the sounds.

In my mind and my memories, I kicked the door open. That’s what I told people later. The truth was, I barely had the strength to push it open.

There they are, naked and sweating and rolling, in my bed.

Like an idiot, I stand there, staring at them. I thought he’d feel my presence as keenly as I’d always felt his, that he’d look up, see me and—oh, I don’t know, have a heart attack or burst into tears and beg for my forgiveness or beg for forgiveness while having a heart attack.

Then I see her face, and a bad moment rounds the bend into horrific. It is my sister.

Now there’s a “For Sale” sign in front of my house. It’s been there for months, but who am I kidding? A wrecked marriage scares everyone. It’s like a rock tossed into a still blue pond; the ripples go on and on. No one wants to buy this house of bad luck.

I hit the gas too hard and back out into the street, putting the memories in my rearview mirror.

If only they would stay there. Instead, they’re like passengers, crowding in on me, taking up too much air.

No one knows what to say to me anymore, and I can hardly blame them. I don’t know what I want to hear, either. In the school library, where I work, I hear the whispers that grind to a halt at my entrance and notice how uncomfortable the ensuing silences can be.

I make it easy on my friends—or try to—by pretending that everything is okay. I’ve been doing that a lot this year. Smiling and pretending. What else can I do? People have grown tired of waiting for me to get over my divorce. I know I need to glide onto the track of my old life, but I can’t seem to manage it; neither do I have the courage to form a new one, though, in truth, it’s what I want. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time.

At the corner, I turn left. The streets of Bakersfield are quiet on this early morning. By the time I reach the high school, it is just past seven o’clock. I pull into my parking space, gather my cookies, and go inside.

At the main desk, the school secretary, Bertha Collins, smiles up at me. “Hey, Joy. ”

“Hey, Bertie. I brought some cookies for tonight’s faculty party. ”