Facts of Life -- iv

That was Monday, a week ago, and Verona didn't say a word to me in all those days together. Everybody in this kitchen knows we aren't speaking—and they know why, too, even though I never told a soul, and neither did she. We're all grandmas here.

It's not easy living in silence. You go about the day‑to‑days and even laugh and joke with the others, but the whole Mandy business—and she's such a sweetheart herself— sits in your craw. It hovers over everything, every minute on the job, every last minute. But I wasn't about to break the silence because it wasn't my problem. Maybe that's pig‑headed of me, too, I don't know.

On Saturday, Kelly was back at my house with a big box in her hand, fighting mad. "I took the jumper," she said, "but I'm not taking this—Christmas or no Christmas. " She flung the box over to the couch, where it slipped off the pillows and fell to the floor. "It's got to stop. I told you to tell her, Mom. I told you."

When Kelly gets angry, her face sets hard as cement, almost like Verona's. She tries to mask her anger as if its only determination.

"What is it?" I said.

"She must have paid a fortune for it. Look."

I put down my coffee, walked over to the couch, and picked the box off the floor. "Whyn't you stay awhile?" I said.

But she turned around and walked right out, leaving the door wide open. What was in the box was magenta ski jacket with corduroy trim and a snap‑off hood, polartec, light as a feather— plus a matching hat and mitten set tucked into the hood. The price tags were all neatly cut.

Now they were both mad, I thought.

Kelly showed up at the door again with another box she set down on the step. "Take the whole mess," she said. "I've had it. You talked to her, didn't you?"

"I mentioned it—"

"Then nothing's worked. She's pushed me too far now. I didn't want to do it this way. I tried to avoid it, Mom, you know I did. But she's driven us to it now—she has. It's her fault what happens."

"What's in there?" I said, pointing at the other box.

She gave the box a little kick. "Matching boots and a bib pants. She doesn't even need it. We just got her the whole winter outfit ourselves in November. "

I hadn't seen her so angry since she was thirteen when I told her eleven o'clock was late enough, county fair or not. She spit then too. She's spit quite a bit in her years.

"Let me try once more," I said. "You just hold your horses awhile longer. You don't want to be Scrooge. Let me try again." Sometimes I think if Kelly would just cry, I'd feel less scared about her myself.

"All right, " she said, "but once Christmas is passed, it's got to stop. " Mad as a wet hen.

"Don't you ever forget who she is," I told her. "Don't you ever forget."

"You're her grandma, Mom," she said. "I won't hear it."

"Then you won't hear the facts of life," I told her.

All she came for was to yell about the presents, that's all. "See you tomorrow at church," she says, and then she leaves again, just like that.

I tell you, I'd do anything for that girl, I swear, but she can grieve me no end— always could.

There I sat on the floor with my coffee up on the table, that cute little jacket all in a bundle, half out of the box. I picked it up and held it by the shoulders, then flipped the hood back. It was pretty, so little‑girlish. I couldn't help thinking that Verona must have held it up before her eyes the same way. She must have pulled it out of the box it was shipped in just to hold it in her hands, to feel it, let the whole sweet outfit inflate with Mandy's imagined body.

I got to my feet, kept a hold of the jacket, and kicked the other box over to the coffee table beside the one Kelly had thrown. Then I sat on the edge of the couch and opened it up. I shoved my hand up into one of the boots, probably the same thing Verona did, imagining Mandy's feet, warm inside against January cold.

The hat had stripes, with little tips like fingers. I put my hands into the mittens and that's when I found the little brown bag. I opened it up and a smaller bag fell out, a tiny plastic bag holding the thinnest gold necklace.

O, my soul, Verona just couldn't stop herself, I thought. Even if she tried—even if her conscience told her that what I'd said was gospel truth, she just kept on buying because she couldn't stop. Giving those presents was all she could do for Mandy for eight years. I could just see her paging through J. C. Penney's—"this, and this, and this, and, oh yes, this too." She probably already had the whole outfit when I'd spoken to her a week ago. She probably took it all out that afternoon and laid it on the dining room table, the whole outfit—jacket over pants, hat tucked into the hood, mittens snuggled up into the cuffs on either hand, boots down at the bottom. And then she probably laid that gold necklace beneath the collar. She probably had it all in her closet since October already, two weeks after the winter catalogue first showed up in her mailbox. I know Verona.

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Tomorrow: the cooks annual Christmas party.