the Mennen Musk just before Dad says Son. Blinks hard and gives his head a shake and there’s Dad. Uniform on. Speck of styptic on his top lip.
That you away, Dad?
Eh, not just yet. Good thing, too. The old boy was a bit late this year.
Huh?
There I am, shavin away, and look who’s at the window. Cut meself. Sorry, he says to me and hands me this.
In Dad’s hand is a big present. Shiny green paper. Perfect red bow.
Here you go, kid.
Jacob just looks at it. To: Jacob. From: St. Nicholas. Dad’s handwriting.
What you waitin on, Christmas?
Jacob tugs the bow. Then rips the paper with both hands. A sketchbook! And Prismacolor pencils! Set of sixty!
Dad gets down on one knee, pats the back of Jacob’s neck. Their foreheads kiss.
Merry Christmas, son.
Holy jumpin Merry Christmas, Dad! Wish I got something else for you.
Don’t you worry ’bout that. But see you put they pencils to the use they’re meant for.
Jacob nods and nods. I’m gonna colour all day.
You’ll no be seeing the Hollingsworths at all?
Nope, says Jacob, picturing himself over there watching while Graham and Bobby show off all their presents. No way, he says.
Right then, says Dad, there’s Chunky Soup in the cupboard, wee bit o’ bread left. Should do you for lunch.
You on first turkey shift this year?
Will be whether they like it or no.
Five o’clock then?
Yepsir. Don’t be late or we’ll miss the mincemeat pie.
Okey-doke.
Okay then, I’m offskee. Gather up that paper, now.
Jacob listens to Dad thump down the stairs. Whacks back the curtains of the living room window, watches Dad brush snow off the Torino, back it out, and off he goes, fishtailing through fresh snow that sparkles under the streetlights.
What a good Christmas.
Jacob sticks his tummy out, and in his best Pavarotti voice he sings Tanka-YOO, and props the cassette beneath the tree and scoops up the wrapping paper. Makes a big ball and slams it on top of the spaghetti scraps. Flicks the cupboard door closed, steps right foot over left and disco spins to the fridge. Slugs back orange juice straight out the bottle. And spills it down his pyjamas when the phone rings. He watches it for another ring. Another.
… M’lo?
Ain’t you up yet … sucka?
Hey, Cracker.
What did you get?
What did you get?
GI Joe, Kung Fu Grip –
Neat.
New pair o’ skates. And Evel Knievel. His car crashes. Has a parachute.
I saw it on TV.
You should come over, brotha. Guess what my dad got?
What.
Brand-new Ski-Doo. Rips. Him and Spielman’s old man are taking us for rides.
Think I’ll just stay in. Play with my new stuff.
So what did you get?
Prismacolor pencils, set of sixty. Best kind. Huge big sketchbook, too. And The Anatomy Coloring Book.
Colouring book?
Anatomy colouring book. You colour the body. The inside. It’s dyno-mite.
Should come skidooing.
Maybe tomorrow.
Goin to Peterborough. Boxing Day.
Next day.
Maybe.
’Kay.
See ya, honky.
Jacob leaves the phone off the hook. Last year, Mum cried. And Dad grabbed the phone and said like a hiss Lissen to you, you daft bitch, into it on Christmas bloody mornin.
It’s just postcards now, with pictures of grizzly bears, or High River, but if Dad sees them first they get torn up and Jacob has to sneak the pieces out the garbage, put them back together.
– ark is very beautiful –
– ill love you and your fath –
Hard to square how she sounds in her writing now with back then. Screaming and teeth and nails. The ashtray zing by Jacob’s ear and smash against the wall. Are you out of your head, woman? I do no want this anymore. Then get the fuck gone with you – you hear me? – get the fuck gone with you.
Dear Mum,
How are you? I am fine.
That’s as far as Jacob gets usually. Son, have you any idea the size of the hole your mother left us in? Have you? And that’s what the paper looks like when Jacob tries a letter – a hole, and words just disappear down it.
But he turns to where he thinks west is and says Merry Christmas, Mum, from your son, Jacob.
After a lie-down Jacob wedges his pillow in the corner, sits with the sketchbook, the colouring book and the pencils stacked in his lap. Pops the clasp of the pencil case, slowly pushes the lid open.
Holy jumpin. Look at them all.
Blendable, water soluble, says the leaflet. Unique pure pigments. Ideal for the professional artist.
Jacob takes out a few pencils, twirls them between his fingers, holds them up to his nose. Whispers names of colours. Viridian Green. Cobalt Teal. Burnt Sienna. He wants to draw – Iron Man, crimson, gold, invincible. Cyclops and his crackling radioactive eyes. But then he remembers Dad’s eyes – See you put them to the use they’re made for – and sets the sketchbook aside. Tells himself he’ll colour one, just one bit. Heart starting to thump, he opens the book. Sees, eyes wide, a mouth spread like Hustler legs, with clips holding back the lips, baring the teeth and gums. The tongue, it looks alive.
Jacob swallows, turns pages. Cells. Muscle fibres. Nerves. The pelvic girdle.
A boy.
Half a boy. Dissected. His mouth, hanging open. Child, says the caption under him,
