Happy Happy Happy

The house is dressed for the holidays but inside the joy is tempered as Mr. and Mrs. Hand grapple with their recognition of daughter Susan’s dependency issues. They decide for a confrontation upon her arrival home, a prospect they struggle to reconcile with the Christmas spirit.

We must, Mrs. Hand says. Besides, tomorrow is a day of rebirth.

That’s Easter dear, Mr. Hand says. You’re confusing tomorrow with Easter.

Well, she says. Didn’t Our Lord die for our sins?

Yes dear, he says. But he waited until Spring.

Mr. Hand makes drinks at the dry bar, a little something to keep them company while they wait for Susan. A vodka tonic for Mrs. Hand, and a half tumbler of bourbon for himself. Mrs. Hand inserts a CD into the little box she purchased online.

The last argument she had with Susan centered on Susan’s disapproval of CDs. Nobody owns CDs anymore, Susan had said. You should be streaming, she said. Mrs. Hand, who took her daughter’s derisive comments for a symptom of not just substance abuse but also a moral breakdown, said, Well I’m sorry you feel that way but I’m old fashioned and believe in the concept of private property. Mr. Hand ended the discussion by saying, I guess this house isn’t quite ready for streaming.

Mrs. Hand’s CD is a compilation of carols, performed by folk musicians. Each track has a mournful quality, as if the birth of the Savior might be an event that called for keeping one’s expectations in check.

They stand before the lighted Christmas tree, a magnificent ten-foot tall Fraser Fir, Mrs. Hand’s arm through her husband’s. The Sunday afternoon the tree went up, Susan explained how Fraser Firs are not native to their region.

Why does she drink and carry on so? she says.

To feel ordinary, he says.

Really?

Really. It makes me feel ordinary.

That’s interesting. I find it makes me feel extraordinary.

Mr. Hand pulls away from his wife to give her an appraising look. It surprises me to hear you say that, he says.

Yes. It makes me feel very special.

But you are special.

That may be. But it makes me feel special.

He prepares a second round while she rolls a joint. They smoke the joint until it burns their fingertips, something they haven’t done since Mr Hand’s last promotion. They enjoy a third drink.

They walk about the house, admiring family photos — particularly the ones of Susan when she was a sweet nubbin — as well as Mrs. Hand’s watercolors, and the cans of processed food in the pantry. They haven’t been so wasted since Thanksgiving.

Mrs. Hand gently gropes Mr. Hand’s crotch. You’re not so ordinary, she says.

Ordinary as hell, he says.

They climb upstairs and terrorize the bed. He jumps up and down on the mattress. She winds herself in sheets.

Susan comes home to a lighted house. She listens to the commotion upstairs while lounging on the sofa before the Christmas tree, first pouring herself a healthy bourbon and raiding her parent’s pot stash. She hasn’t been so wasted since…since Halloween.

When she thinks it safe to go upstairs, she remembers to shut down the decorations, lock the doors, and turn off the lights. Mounting the bottom stair she stops to smile tenderly at the photograph on the phone stand, the one of her parents on their wedding day.

These same parents lie in bed, listening to their daughter walking up the stairs. Mrs. Hand bites Mr. Hand’s shoulder. He squeezes her left breast. Ouch, she says.

Susan pauses outside their door, wondering if she has just heard her mother say ouch. I am so fucking wasted, she says.

Mr. and Mrs. Hand hold their breaths, wondering if they have just heard their daughter say I am so fucking wasted.

Susan finds her bedroom, her parents straighten their bedclothes, and soon all are asleep. Mrs. Hand dreams of the chairman of the Board of Assessors and of his mulling over granting them an exception; Mr. Hand dreams of islands in a huge lake that could only be reached by seaplane, islands in a chain that uncoils like Mrs. Hand did their first night together, so many nights past; Susan dreams about her high school gym class and sneakers that are too small. When they wake, it is Christmas morning.