Green Beans and Reminiscent Things

We had currently stopped at an intersection, the red lights illuminating our faces and some of the interior of the truck. It was almost nine-thirty at night and the sun had long since abandoned the city skyline. The radio was on, but it only served as a filler in place of the silence. The Christmas song ended and a commercial came on, prompting Tempe to turn on the CD player to a random track on her Christmas mix tape. This time, David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s duet of “Drummer Boy” silently churned through the speakers.

“Ah! Remember this song?” She smiled wide, turned up the music, and started silently singing along. “You got me the vintage vinyl and a CD copy last year for Christmas, remember?” She reached over the console as the light turned green and squeezed my hand. “I never got to thank you then, but thanks, John. It meant a lot, even though you weren’t there.” I squeezed her hand back, recalling the apologetic letter I’d sent with her package as she turned her eyes back to the road.

I bit the end of the ball point pen in my mouth and lazily scratched my head. Only the dim passenger light from the ceiling of the van let me see what I had written in my spare time on the drive to northern California. I huffed and smoothed the torn notebook page as a measly attempt to make the letter seem more important to me for Tempe. I found the nearly unused page crumpled in my cup holder with an address scribbled on the back; it was the best I could do under my current circumstance of quick van drives all around the west United States.

I wearily rubbed an eye and read the short letter one last time.

Dear Temperance,

First off, I’m sorry. You out of all people tell me not to apologize for my “job,” or whatever, but I have to. One year not home is understandable, but two years in a row is just an outrage. I apologize.

Secondly, this was supposed to be for your birthday, but – surprise, surprise – I missed that too. So this is your Christmas present. I hope you enjoy it like Iimagine (I had crossed out “imagine” with a few bold strikes of ink) know you will.

Thirdly, I swear I’ll be there next year for Christmas.

I skipped the usual “sincerely,” “love,” or “yours truly” one finds at the ends of letters to home and replaced it with a platonic dash. It wasn’t sincere enough, it definitely didn’t feel full of love, and I wasn’t truly hers.

And in my messy scribbling, I simply signed the end of the page.

- Jcov

I read over the notebook page once more before creasing it in thirds and slipping it into the plain white envelope. As our van dipped on the edge of a pothole, I nicked my thumb sliding it over the sticky substance that sealed the note. I stifled a gasp and furrowed my brow in frustration. I immediately stuck the small cut into my mouth and sucked on any blood that threatened to squeeze out. Kennedy sent me a sideways look that may or may not have been surreptitiously attempted, but I couldn’t tell with the random streaks of highway lighting that seeped through the van’s windows and onto his face. I couldn’t care less. All I really could think about now was getting to the first U.S.P.S. stub of a mailbox we could find to send the letter and small package to Temperance before Christmas.

I outwardly sighed at the memory.

“You okay Shrimp?”

“Hm?” I quickly gave her a glance and stared back out the window. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Shrimp… the nickname that had stuck on me since we’d met in sixth grade. I hadn’t hit puberty yet, but Temp had and she was quite a few inches taller than me and everyone I knew. She started calling me Shrimp to annoy me, but after we’d been partnered for a project on sea otters in science, we became great friends; she was one of the few that I made in school opposed to outside of my educational career. Of course, now everyone had caught up on growing and she was shorter than most women her age. I didn’t let her forget it, even in my mail or phone conversations.

I turned to look at her as the street lamps continuously shed a few strips of yellow light over her body. I let myself smile even though my mood felt quite the opposite, and I started to sing along. “I am a poor boy, too, pa rum pum pum pum.” Temperance just smiled and kept her hand in mine the rest of the car ride.

It took about twenty minutes to finally arrive at Tempe’s parents’ house. It was just the same as it was two years previous, including the blue and white Christmas lights that were loosely draped and stapled on the shingles. The same bare lawn of dust and rocks and cacti; the same fading white-washed door lighted by the same lonely porch light.

We entered the warm house, kicking off our shoes in the foyer. We were soon confronted by a few logs burning in the fire place and stockings lining its metal frame: Mom, Dad, Mark, Temperance, and Avary. Mark was also home for the holidays from college; he was occupying one of the easy chairs with his knees curled near his chest and a fleece blanket covering his feet. The family cat Pepsi stretched himself near Mark’s legs.

“Back so early, Temperance?” he called as we neared the kitchen.

She just wrapped her arm around my waist and called back, “John wants some casserole. You better have left some!” He yelled back his assurance as we both found solitude in the kitchen - with Temp’s mother.

She had her hands in a soapy sink of dirty dishes and her auburn hair was tied back in a wispy bun with a few gray and white hairs showing up here and there. When she noticed us standing near the entryway, she wiped her wet hands on her apron and smiled a wide smile similar to Temp’s.

“John! You’re home for the holidays!” She briskly walked over and gave me a motherly hug, complete with a miniature back rub and a kiss on each cheek. “Avary’s in bed right now, and so is Mr. Satriani, so if you want to say hello to them, you’ll have to come visit another time. Oh, how you’ve grown!” She smiled once more and turned to Temperance. “But why are you back so early? I thought you said you’d be heading home around midnight.”

“John’s been dying to eat some green bean casserole,” she simpered, lightly elbowing my ribs. “Do we have any leftovers, or did Mark eat it all?” In the distance, you could hear Mark’s facetious protest.

“Yes, Tempe. It’s in the fridge.” She stretched her arms and pulled out her bun, letting her hair fall on her shoulders. “Just put whatever’s left back.” She turned to leave, but stopped short of the entryway, setting a hand on the wood paneling and turning to face us. “And watch for mistletoe. Your father’s stashed it all over the place,” she warned with a look of resentment on. “He thinks he’s so funny, doesn’t he?”

“Bye, Mom.” Tempe gave a juvenile wave. “See you in the morning. Ti amo.” Mrs. Satriani smiled her return of well wishes and left the room. As soon as she was out of ear-shot, Temp turned to me with a smirk planted on her face and her arms folded. “You look for stray mistletoe. I’ll warm up the food.”

As she skipped the short distance to the fridge, diffidence swept over my actions once more and I stuck my hands in my pockets. I turned in place, assaulting the kitchen with my eyes. I took a few steps here and a few steps there, but I couldn’t find any plastic or real kissing leaves. As I made my silent search, Tempe hummed “White Christmas” and stuck the refrigerated leftover casserole in the oven. She quickly brushed past me and into the living room, calling over her shoulder that she was going to watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas with her brother.

And that’s when I spotted the natural mistletoe leaves her father had stapled on the corner of the wood paneling of the kitchen’s entryway.