THE X-MAS FILES: Freeze Frames

Tiny snowdrifts clung stubbornly to the window sill and Claudette set off a miniature avalanche as she brushed them to the ground.  Our warm breath left a dense fog on the lower pane which I quickly erased with my Winky sleeve.  Our old kitchen reappeared, and when we saw our mother’s transfixed expression we could tell that she was deeply engrossed in her favorite opera, La Boheme. (“An Eye-talian tragedy, with emphasis on the eye,” as we’re fond of slurring).  Mother painstakingly frosted a white beard on a Santa cookie and we watched her mouth move as if in conversation.  With an exaggerated Italian accent I whispered to Claudette.  “It’s the end of Act One, Paris, Christmas Eve, circa 1830.  The lovely heroine Mimi is singing the part where she drops her key in the snow, and the poet Rodolfo and she search for it, and their candles are blown out.”  I grabbed Claudette’s mittened hand and place it over my heart,  “This is where Rudolfo takes Mimi’s hand and in the frigid moonlit night sets the wheels of their fate in motion.”  We know the story well, and we’ve witnessed our mother before act out with preternatural precision her silent version of the scene.  I tugged on Claudette’s braid, “As I bring the curtain down, on cue another tear will weave a weary trail down Mimi’s, I mean mother’s, luminous cheek.”

My sister pulled my hat down over my eyes.  “Paulette, you are such a big jambon.”   I pushed up the tip of my nose to make a pig face and together we squealed with laughter.  As a purple dusk settled over the old neighborhood we returned our attention to the illuminated window.  Our mother had disappeared from sight, but we can see her enlarged shadow as it flickers past the Christmas tree.  Claudette put her arm over my shoulder and hugged me. “Can we go home now?”

I hugged her back, “Hey silly, we are home.”

My old Volvo has a great heater and it keeps us warm as I drive down the avenues away from Ocean Beach. I take a circuitous route south toward Claudette’s house trying to avoid a sea of red stop lights. She’s sleeping quietly in the passenger’s seat, her La Boheme CD sounds distant and muffled as it filters through the back speakers.  I swabbed the windshield with my forearm to remove clouds of condensation.  These motions of mine are mechanical as my mind is not on the road, but on Claudette’s recent fixated dreams of Minnesota.   I turned the music up a notch and catch the part where Mimi sings to Rodolfo about dropping her key in the snow.  The opera makes me think of our mother and how she always insisted that we “consume a little culture,” and she didn’t mean yogurt.  She gave us great freedom to do as we pleased as long as we set aside time for the Metropolitan Opera Hour on the weekend. 

On wintry Minnesota Saturdays Claudette and I played in the family room and pantomimed l’ opera du jour.  We would drag out our box of dress up clothes and in full costume, stagger and swoon dramatically in time to operatic histrionics.  Mother baked most of the day and the smells from the kitchen were divine.  This may explain why the aroma of fresh baked cookies always makes Claudette and I want to break out in song. 

I stopped in front of Claudette’s house and gave her a nudge, “Wake up Mrs. Van Winkle, you are home.”  


She unfurled herself like a waking cat, and yawning loudly looked at me with mock suspicion.  “Hasn’t Mimi passed yet? It seems like she’s been singing that part forever.  Aren’t you tired of that same old opera, Those Darned Bohemians?”  


I reach over and tug her imaginary braid.  “Act One is over and the curtain is coming down. E’ Finita!”  


As we get out of the car we both look up and see her husband staring down at us.  He leaned over the deck railing and yelled, “Hey Coquettes, where’ve you been all day, Tahoe?” I see his brows knit as he pointed.  “Paulette, is that snow on the back end of your car?” 


 My sister and I turn around at the same time and do a twin double take.  It was true.  A layer of snow mixed with evergreen needles clung to my bumper.  With a quick scoop I made a small snowball and tossed it at Claudette's head, “Sis, is this a dream?”