Apparel

BY JEN BRUBACHER

The hat was better than snug, throttling Marge’s temples so she wondered if she’d make it to the party before the headache took over. But the beard was loose, and hung off her chin in a weary sort of way.

Patricia giggled. “Now try the boots.”

“I need to get the blasted trousers and stuff on first. Where’s the fake gut?”

“No, try the boots. I want to see you in the boots.”

Marge shuffled into the black felt shoes and glared. Patricia’s giggles became a fit of laughter.

“Har. Are you finished your amusement at my expense? If my stupid brother would just man up for one year, but no, he thinks the kids would recognize him…”

“Oh, love. I just think it’s wonderful.”

Marge could think of a lot of things more wonderful than dressing up as Santa Claus for a few snotty cousins, in a clearly well-used and rarely-washed outfit that belonged in a bin. She said as much.

“Not that.” Patricia stepped nearer and stroked Marge’s woolly beard.

Marge batted her hand away, then grabbed it and kissed it. She was very aware that she was standing in nothing but her underwear, a Santa hat, boots, and the damned beard. She watched Patricia’s cheeks flush a beautiful pink. “What is it then?”

“It’s just… Your family is all for cross-dressing, sure, but when it comes to…”

Marge lost what little good humour she’d gathered. Patricia saw it go and stumbled over her words, fading into a mumble.

“Never mind.” Marge kicked off the boots and grabbed at the red suit. “Let’s just get this over with.”

***

Christmas at Marge’s family home was chaos, but Marge had always figured that was how it was supposed to be: Children underfoot, their names and ages a blur since last year; Crabby uncles and tipsy aunts; The smell of spiced cake and roast animal wafting from room to room; Pine needs stuck to stockinged feet. This was how she’d grown up, and hadn’t realized the holidays could be any other way until she’d gone home with Patricia one year and seen her traditions: Just Patty and her parents, baked salmon and Bailey’s, and a little television before bed. That was the way to do it.

And at least there they were allowed to share the double bed in Patricia’s old room.

Marge scowled into her mulled wine, then watched it spray an arc over her blue cashmere sleeve as one of the younger cousins smacked into her thigh and went twirling off across the living room. She bit back a curse that would surely draw a glare from a tipsy aunt. It was her favourite sweater, and it was ruined. She decided it had actually been better when she was dressed as Santa. At least then the little terrors had been a bit afraid of her.

Marge’s mother Alice slid up with Grandma Betty in tow. “Sweetheart, say hello to your grandmother.”

“Hi Grandma.” Marge leaned and allowed a papery kiss on her cheek, and gave one in return. “How are you? Are you keeping well?”

Two toddlers sped between them, chasing each other towards the kitchen.

“David’s kids are turning out so well!” Grandma Betty shook her head and pursed a smile. “Your brother has a lovely family. Don’t you think?”

Marge felt cold. “Yes, Grandma.”

“It’s never too late you know, dear.”

“I know, Grandma.”

Alice absently brushed at the spilled wine on her daughter’s sleeve. “I see you brought your friend Patricia again, Margie.”

Marge stiffened. She stared at her mother, who looked back with detachment.

“It’s good to have friends,” Grandma Betty said. She tottered after the children.

After a chilly moment, Alice went too.

***

Marge’s hands shook. Her bare ring finger felt itchy and weird. She wished she still smoked so she had something to hold on to, some excuse to be out heel-deep in snow while her family soaked in its own cheerful ignorance.

“I was wondering where you’d got to.” Patricia appeared around the side of the house. “Brr! What are you doing out here?”

“I can’t stand it.”

“Then come inside where it’s warm.”

“I can’t stand them!”

Patricia stared for a moment and then went to wrap her arms around Marge. She glanced at the bright windows and stopped mid-hug. “I’m sorry.”

“The rest of the year, I can take it. The rest of the year at least I know everyone knows, and they’re pretending it doesn’t matter. But it’s Grandma Betty. Everyone expects her to drop dead if she found out and of course that would be my fault. And if she’d just die already without my help—”

“Hush, now. You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Of course she didn’t. Before she’d gone away to school, before things had gotten confusing in Marge’s life, she’d been Grandma Betty’s favourite. They’d had a lot in common—black and white classic movies, rhubarb pie recipes, The Beatles—until Marge had figured herself out and realized that no matter what they shared, she could never share that. Not with her Grandma.

Her mother had warned her. “It might seem like a good idea in a modern kind of way, but all you’ll be doing is making an old woman’s last few years miserable.” And how could Marge do that?

“Christmas is a lie,” she muttered. Patricia gave her a look so loving and exasperated it was all Marge could do to keep herself from bawling like a child. “I’m going back in.”

***

One more afternoon of festivities. A few more hours dressed in lies, Marge thought. Presents had been opened, tried on or eaten, and there was just the big afternoon feast to go before she and Patricia could reasonably claim bad weather was coming and flee for home.

They’d been sat at the table in Betty’s traditional way: boy, girl, boy girl. The only odd one out was Patricia, sat right next to Betty due to a surplus of females. Marge was next to her brother.

When David finally got his kids calmed down, Betty tutted and smiled at the lot of them. “It’s just wonderful knowing that you have such a family, David.”

Marge’s brother smiled and reached for the mashed potatoes.

“You don’t want to end up alone.” Betty muttered. “Nobody should be alone, if they don’t have to be.”

“Oh, mother.” Alice rolled her eyes.

For a peculiar moment, Marge saw her grandmother glare at Alice. Marge had never seen such an angry expression on the woman’s face before. Not even when her husband was taken from her before all the kids had even left home.

“Grandma,” Marge said suddenly. “Are you lonely?”

Alice laughed out loud. She stared at her daughter like she’d grown an extra, even uglier head. David cleared his throat and shoved potatoes into his mouth.

“Grandma?” Marge persisted.

Alice began to interject again, but Betty raised her hand. “Let me talk to my granddaughter, woman.”

The awkward silence grew around the table. Even the kids stopped chattering.

With all attention on her, Betty seemed to lose her nerve. “Well anyway,” she said. “I just meant… We should talk later, sweetheart.”

Conversation began to move on.

“I’m not lonely, Grandma.” Marge said loudly.

“She was just talking about you getting married, dear. That’s all she meant and you know it. You can let it go, can’t you?” Alice brushed at the air like she could brush away the conversation.

Betty looked like she wanted to say something else to her daughter, but Marge interrupted.

“I am married, Grandma.”

Conversation stopped again.

Patricia made a funny noise.

Marge reached for her pocket. All the stupid things she’d worn that weekend: the Santa outfit, the ruined cashmere sweater, and her current outfit—a new blouse from her mother that she didn’t even like, but it was Christmas, you had to wear whatever came to you—All those things and nothing had felt at all comfortable, nothing had felt right, because of the empty spot on her ring finger. She dug into the pocket of her skirt and scraped her knuckles feeling for the little gold band. Drew it out and put it on, high over the table, in front of everyone.

“I’m married to Patricia. My best friend. I love her.”

David coughed on his wine. Alice made a strangled noise and looked at her mother.

Patricia sank a little in her chair, but Marge saw some pride in her face anyway. Patricia couldn’t help but smile, just a little, because Marge was smiling back at her. Even naked in front of her family, Marge smiled at her wife like she had the day they’d married.

The family waited for Grandma Betty’s reaction.

The old woman frowned at Marge. She frowned at the gold ring, and she turned slowly in her seat to regard the woman beside her. Her granddaughter’s wife. Betty squinted one eye and then she frowned again at Marge.

“You’ve been hiding your lovely family from me?”

Marge stared. “Yes, Grandma.”

“Enough of that.” Betty grasped Patricia’s hand where it lay, slightly shaky, next to her plate. “My dear, you’re a lucky woman. Have some mashed potatoes. You too, Margie.”

So they did. And although Marge continued to be the one stuck in the Santa suit each year, later Christmases still felt like a much better fit.

Jen Brubacher is a librarian who believes there aren’t yet enough books in the world. She writes mostly mystery and suspense, and loves discussing the writing life, but becomes dizzy with excitement when someone mentions folksonomies.

Contact her at jbrubacher.blogspot.com or twitter

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