Merry Cherry Christmas

A swift punch of loss hitched Jeremy’s breath as he nodded. He stared at the TV, one of the crooks falling down the stairs with a huge shout and sound effects. His hand rested on his curled leg, and his breath stuttered again when Max covered it with his own, tugging it down hidden between them, although Meg definitely noticed. Max still watched the TV, laughing, but he rubbed Jeremy’s knuckles with his thumb reassuringly until John returned and told Max it was his turn.

When Max came back and told Meg she was up, he flopped down on the love seat. He folded his hands in his lap, and Jeremy tried not to miss that small touch Max had bestowed. Papy didn’t get up to talk with his in-laws, but shouted greetings, his feet up on an ottoman.

When Meg returned with Valerie, they paused the TV and everyone laughed about something to do with aunties and uncles that Jeremy didn’t quite follow. He didn’t mind, though. It was nice just being with a family, even if it wasn’t his.

“The monthly phone call is always stellar when they’re in Goa,” Meg said.

“The airing of grievances is next level,” Max agreed. He added to Jeremy, “They winter in Goa now. They have a house near the beach. It’s amazing. We all went a few Christmases ago. Dad and Valerie are going for a few weeks in January.”

Valerie asked John, “Think they’ll try to make you and your sisters go to confession?”

John laughed. “My father will probably try.” To Jeremy, he said, “When I was a teenager, my dad packed me and my three sisters into the car and drove us to church in Scarborough. Marched us inside and stood there with his arms crossed while we went into the confessional one after the other. I was last, and I told the priest my father was making me do it and I had nothing to say. The poor priest shook his head and asked, ‘How many more of you are there?’”

Jeremy laughed. “Did you just sit there in silence for a few minutes?”

“Nah, we talked about the holes in the Habs’ offense. Father Rossi didn’t think prayer would be enough to get past the first round of the playoffs. He was right.”

They cleaned up the rest of the plates, and Jeremy jumped up to help. In the kitchen, Valerie asked, “Can one of you take out the composting, please?” She took a green bucket from under the sink and plunked it on the counter by the back door.

“Max can do it,” Meg said.

Of course, he replied, “You can do it.”

“No. You can.” She tossed a mini pine cone at him from a holiday potpourri in a bowl on the kitchen island.

Max tossed one back. “You.”

“You.”

“You.”

They pelted each other back and forth, and Jeremy laughed, missing Sean. Valerie heaved a dramatic sigh.

“How old are you two?”

Meg shrugged. “We’ll never be too old to throw sh—stuff at each other.” To punctuate her point, she aimed a cinnamon stick at Max. “You do it.”

“I’ll do it!” Jeremy offered, sticking his socked feet into the big pair of rubber Crocs sitting by the door, which he assumed were used for this very purpose. He opened the main door and unlatched the glass screen door.

Max came around the island with a smile. “No, I’ll do it. Go sit down.”

“I’ve got it!” Jeremy was pleased to be helping, and he grabbed the green bucket.

“Thank you, and careful, hon,” Valerie called. “It might be slippery.”

The back porch wasn’t covered and hadn’t been cleared that day, but it was only a few steps. Jeremy crossed to the composter, dumped the bucket, and then closed it with a flourish.

Too much of a flourish, as he momentarily lost his balance, shuffling backwards. On cue, the worn Crocs slid out from under him as he wiped out, landing on his ass on the snowy porch.

Again, seriously?!

“Shit!” Max bolted outside, dropping to his knees before Jeremy. “Are you okay?”

“Uh-huh! Just the clumsiest person ever.” His face burned, and he tried to push himself up, still holding the bucket.

“Oh my goodness!” Valerie exclaimed from the doorway. “Are you hurt? John, you were supposed to salt the back porch!”

Max’s hands were strong on Jeremy’s waist as he lifted him to his feet—and almost off them. “Your tailbone okay?”

“Yeah.” It smarted, but the snow had cushioned his fall a bit, he thought. He looked down. “You’re in your socks,” he said to Max. Max’s feet must have been freezing, but he ignored him, leading Jeremy back into the kitchen, where the rest of the family crowded around.

“I’m fine!” Jeremy insisted.

Meg took the bucket from him. “Are you sure?”

Pierre said, “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

Jeremy had to laugh. “I don’t have much, so that’s good.”

“Papy thinks everything unpleasant puts hair on your chest,” Max said, rubbing Jeremy’s arm.