“Get your coat, Bernice. We’re going.”
“Oh, no, Lonnie. Not like this.”
“Get your coat,” he repeated, and Grandma let Andy go with one last squeeze. His grandfather had knelt down with a grunt. Andy heard his knees pop. His face was red and his eyes were watery as he put his arms on Andy’s shoulders. “Andrew,” he began. Then Lori had been in the room, throwing the door open so hard that it slammed into the wall with a sound like a gunshot.
“Get away from him,” she’d said. “You don’t get to speak to my son ever again.”
When they were gone, his mother had stood with her hands braced against the front door, red nails vivid against the white paint, as if they might come back and try to push their way back through. Finally, she’d turned to Andy and in that terrible, low voice had said, If they call, hang up the phone. If they ever come, you shut the door in their faces. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t have any grandparents. We don’t need them. We have each other. That’s enough.
But now Lori was gone and they were here. Andy could see the wrapped and ribboned boxes in their hands.
“Honey, please,” his grandma said. The heavy gold earrings that she wore had stretched out her earlobes, and her red lipstick was smeared on her front teeth. He remembered how she always smelled good, and her soft sweaters, and cookies with sprinkles, and how he’d felt when she’d said, “Of course he’s mine.”
Andy’s throat felt thick and his eyes were burning. “I can’t,” he said again.
His grandfather stepped forward until his chest was almost brushing the door, and Andy could smell him, Old Spice and cigars. He was a heavy man with iron-gray hair combed straight back from his deeply grooved forehead. He’d been a pipe fitter and worked in the Navy Yard, but now he was retired.
“Andrew,” he said, in his deep voice. “We know we’re not welcome here. But please, son. Whatever’s going on between the two of us and your mother isn’t your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong. We just want to give you some Christmas presents. We love you very much.”
Andy felt like something was ripping at his insides. “I can’t,” he repeated, his voice cracking. He shut the door and locked it, and walked, as fast as he could, all the way through the apartment until he was in his mother’s bedroom, with the bedroom door shut behind him. He rested his burning forehead against the wall, ignoring the knocking, and made himself take deep slow breaths and count to one hundred before he opened his eyes.
His grandparents were gone, but they’d left the presents on the steps, wrapped in red paper that showed reindeers pulling a ho-ho-hoing Santa’s sleigh through the starry sky. Andy looked left, then right, before scooping them up and bringing them inside. He locked himself in the bathroom, even though Lori wasn’t due home for an hour, and tore through the paper. There was a bottle of perfume for his mom, and a hardcover Guinness Book of World Records that he’d asked for on his list to Santa, and a package of new socks for him. The biggest box was from Strawbridge’s. In it was a winter coat, a blue-and-red one, exactly what Andy would have picked out himself.
He looked at it for a long time. Maybe if he left it in his locker at school, and wore it only at recess? Or if he told Lori that one of the neighbors, maybe Mrs. Cleary, had given it to him because it didn’t fit Dylan? Or that it was the gift coat from Ryan Peterman?
Except his mother would thank Mrs. Cleary, who wouldn’t know what she was talking about, and the Petermans would probably have Ryan bring the coat over and make a big show of his generosity, his Christian charity. Andy could tell the truth, could stand in front of his mom and say, “My grandparents gave it to me and I don’t want to give it back.” Except then her face would get still and pale and she’d turn away, propping her hands against the back of a chair like she couldn’t even stand up on her own. Maybe she’d even start crying again, and Andy didn’t think that he could take it. We’re a team, she always said. It’s us against the world.
His mom kept the garbage bags underneath the sink. Andy pulled one out and put everything inside, the coat and the book, the socks and the perfume, the boxes and the wrapping paper and the ribbons. He inspected the bathroom to make sure he hadn’t left a scrap of tape or wrapping paper behind, and then ran out the door. We love you very much, he heard his grandfather saying. “No, you don’t,” he muttered. “No, you don’t.”
Outside, more snow was swirling down, and an icy wind was scouring the streets, stirring up grit and trash. Andy pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and started walking fast, head down, with the bag in his arms. Mr. Sills’s rattling pale-blue pickup truck pulled to the curb, and Mr. Sills climbed out, dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt, with his big belly pushing at his belt, his white curls under a gray knitted cap. He, too, had a wrapped box in his hands.