The Christmas Dinner I Drove Across Town

The Front Steps

Renae’s house is about four minutes across town, past the Casey’s and the elementary school and up the hill on the north side.

Old snow lay in patches on the lawns, and the sky was flat and gray.

Her drive was shoveled. There was a wreath on the front door, a nice one, real greenery.

The porch light was still on from the night before. For a moment I sat in the car and just looked at it all.

It was a beautiful house. It always was. I remember thinking that, and I remember thinking that I had never once been invited inside it for a holiday.

I got out and opened the hatch. The towels had done their job. Everything was still warm, and steam came up off the foil in the cold.

I took a breath and lifted out the roasting pan, heavy as a baby, and started across the yard.

I was halfway to the steps when I saw the door was already open.

Renae stood in the doorway in a black dress, her highlighted hair done up for company, her good earrings on.

She had a coffee cup in one hand and her phone in the other, and she was staring at the roasting pan in my arms like it was a snake.

“Mandy,” she said. “What is this?”

“It’s your ham,” I said. I kept my voice nice. I’d practiced. “The sides are in the car. All eleven. The rolls are wrapped in the blue towel. Where do you want everything?”

“You can’t bring it here.” She came out onto the stoop in her stocking feet, on the cold concrete. “Mandy, you cannot bring it here. Everybody’s coming to your house at one.”

“No,” I said, “they’re coming here. It’s your party, Renae. You’re the hostess. I sent the text at ten fifteen.”

She looked down at her phone. Her face changed. And then, while I was standing there with an fourteen pound ham, her phone started buzzing in her hand, and it didn’t stop.