Christmas Interruptus

by Laury A. Egan

Being alone was Kay’s normal state. She had no family and only a few friends living nearby. Most had moved away or were gone. Seriously gone. Like dead. At seventy-three, dealing with an avalanche of medical issues, Kay was fast approaching the same black-hole fate. And Covid still scared her—dare she say it?—scared her to death and had heaped isolation on top of a widowed lifestyle.

It was Christmas. A holiday shared with others. But to Kay’s mind, it was part of the gauntlet between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve, during which Kay was bombarded by the sight of pumpkins and Indian corn and then the sounds of tinny carols and ho-ho-ho Santas when she went to the store. In addition to reminders of her solitariness, there were other painful memories: her mother’s last days and those of her husband. All Kay wanted was to close her eyes and awake on January 2.

Still, it was Christmas and she had a mid-day dinner invitation, for which she was grateful. Kay tied a red-and-green scarf around her neck. A bit of holiday spirit and a way to hide her sagging chin. A scarlet cashmere cardigan, green silk blouse, and Black Watch plaid slacks completed her falsely festive ensemble. Sighing, Kay slipped into her winter coat and left, glad she would be home before dark, before her cataract-clouded eyes translated oncoming headlights into haloed UFOs.

She wore her KN95 mask and was greeted at the door by Alisha, one half of a handsome couple—the other half being Kembe, neither of whom were masked. Kay had met them ten years ago when she volunteered her advertising skills to support their start-up organization, Black Entrepreneurship Endeavor. Both hailed from Georgia and spoke with a soft southern accent. They had tightly curled black hair spritzed with gray, large brown eyes, and ready smiles.

“Merry Christmas! Come on in,” Kembe said, giving her a hug.

Because of Covid, Kay was anxious about physical proximity, but she leaned in. “How are you both?

“We’re fine,” replied Alisha, as she took Kay’s coat and the platter of appetizers and bottle of wine Kay brought and then escorted her into the large, airy kitchen. It was modern in design, with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, recessed lighting, light-oak cabinets, and swirly gray-and-brown countertops. Alisha and Kembe were excellent cooks. Alisha baked elaborate desserts; Kembe was accomplished in main-course cuisine. They purchased the finest cookware, which hung on hooks, the pots’ copper bottoms shining.

A couple in their late sixties, John and Christine, stood between the pass-through and the kitchen table. They were architects, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife. Like Kembe and Alisha, they had children and grandchildren, who apparently had chosen to spend the holiday with their in-laws. No masks for them, either. Beside the two were the other Christmas orphans: Clifford, a retired librarian, and Susan, an attorney who still worked despite being seventy-one. They also had eschewed masks, which made Kay feel awkward. Slowly, she removed hers and hid it in her pocket before greeting the foursome.

Kembe gave Kay a flute glass bubbling with pale yellow prosecco. She was relieved to have something in her hand and for the socializing effect the alcohol might induce. Since the guests had congregated near the kitchen table, Kay pulled out a chair and sat, grateful to silence the demanding pain emanating from her feet. Yet being lower than all the other people evoked unpleasant memories of sitting in a wheelchair in the midst of a standing crowd. On the pretext of snaring a warm stuffed mushroom cap—prepared by Alisha—Kay rose again. And then, noting that the other guests were engaged in talking or cooking, she ate a wedge of Saint-André cheese on a cracker, both of which she had brought.

Conversations swirled around her. Catch-up chatter until the group migrated to heated commentary about Trump and the right-wing horrors he had engendered. Kay added remarks, pleased to be knowledgeable about the current travesties. A few minutes later, when the interest in politics faded, she saw that Clifford was sitting at the table.

With relief, she joined him. “So, what are you reading?”

He straightened his red-and-green bowtie and gave a fulsome answer involving philosophy titles about Heidegger. When he completed his mini-dissertation, Clifford didn’t inquire what books she enjoyed. Wishing to keep the flickering flame of dialogue alive, Kay described a Kate Atkinson novel, but he hadn’t read it, saying he didn’t like fiction very much.

“But you were a librarian, Clifford,” she said.

He shrugged and turned toward John, as if needing rescue from talking about books, despite it once being his profession.

Slowly, cell phones began appearing in hands. Ostensibly to check information online, but Kay—who owned an ancient flip phone, one she used only for emergencies—was hoping the damned things would be turned off when everyone took their places at the table.

After the appetizers had been demolished, Kembe ushered the guests in to dinner. Kay noticed that two of the phones were tucked in their owners’ pockets, but four were laid to the right of knives and spoons, as if part of the place setting. This did not bode well, she thought. Alisha instructed her to sit in the middle chair, between Susan and Clifford, opposite Christine and John. The hosts commandeered the heads of the table and began passing a platter of halved Cornish hens and bowls of wild rice, Brussels sprouts, candied carrots, cranberry sauce, and biscuits. The ivory candles in the two brass candelabras had been lit and were augmented by the glow from the dimmed chandelier and the wall sconces. Sprigs of holly branches festooned with red berries were arranged in an Art Deco vase. Gold satin napkins matched the tablecloth. Everything looked elegant and smelled wonderful.

No prayers were said, this being a secular group, which suited Kay, who had never been a churchgoer. Without the delay of a long-winded “we give grateful thanks,” everyone began eating, drinking her white wine, which Kembe had opened, and speaking with his or her neighbor as well as to those across the table.   

Then Alisha stood, cell phone in hand. “Hey, guys. Can I take some photos to send to my kids?”

Each person dutifully set knives and forks on plates, turned, and smiled while Alisha crammed herself in the corner of the room and shifted left and right until the composition was perfect. Click. Click. Click.

Then Christine rose to her feet. “Hang on…let me take a few,” she said, moving to the opposite corner.

Kay and the others faced her and smiled as she snapped four pictures.

Alisha and Christine sat, fiddled with their phones, their long fingernails ticking against the screens as they texted greetings to accompany the photos. Then they began answering incoming messages. Kay observed Susan and Clifford, wondering if it was polite to resume eating while the two women were busy. She decided it was when Clifford began cutting a slice of his Cornish hen and Susan buttered a roll.

Dialogues and some laughter once again flourished until Kembe’s phone began playing an insistent, pulsing tune. He checked the identity of the caller and answered.

“Merry Christmas, Doug! How are you?”

Doug was one of his two sons. They talked for several minutes, during which Doug apparently related joyful reactions to various presents that Alisha and Kembe had sent. This exchange snuffed all the conversations, and then the phone was passed along Kay’s side of the table to Alisha, who spoke for several minutes more. When she finished, Kay hoped this would be the end of cell phone hell, but it wasn’t. Susan was next with an incoming message. And Clifford, who Kay believed was a tech dinosaur like she was, noticed his phone was buzzing. Like a hive of bees had congregated in the pocket of his sports jacket, Kay thought, as Clifford reached for his phone, read the screen, and tapped on the tiny keyboard.

After Alisha gave Kembe’s phone to Christine so she could see the photos, Kay took this opportunity to speak with Alisha. “So, are you and your husband doing anything else over the holidays? For New Year’s perhaps?”

Alisha sipped some wine and launched into a list of excursions to visit both sons and their families, including trips to the ballet and a museum. “Of course, New Year’s Eve we’ll attend the party at the club. Should be a blast.”

Kay was expecting Alisha to ask about her own plans, though she was averse to replying since nothing was going on and next week wasn’t peppered with lunches and dinners with friends, but as she was preparing an answer, Alisha’s phone rang.

“Oh, sorry, Kay.” She held up her hand in a “wait” signal. “Just a sec.”

It wasn’t a sec. More like five minutes. Unsure what to do, Kay continued to eat. The food was excellent, and she extended compliments to Kembe, who smiled, but whose eyes were glued to his phone, where another message had arrived. Kembe proclaimed that it was his other son, who had sent Christmas videos of the new baby. Kembe laughed and began circulating the phone around the table, which meant one and all had to relinquish utensils and oh and ah. When the phone reached Kay, she thought the pink-swaddled infant looked ready to explode, her round face growing dark red, presumably caused by the tight bindings. A full-throated wail ensued. Baby was not ecstatic about her first Christmas.

Gladly, Kay handed the phone to Clifford and returned to the food, though her plate was approaching empty whereas everyone else’s was half-full. No surprise when their attentions had been elsewhere. Even Kembe, the chef, who had labored over the meal, had made little progress on his dinner. Seeking to appear occupied, she ladled more cranberry sauce beside the carcass of Cornish hen and reached for another biscuit, all the while wishing she had friends and family members who wanted to chat on the holiday. Sort of she wished that. Then Kay reminded herself why she had been invited tonight: so she wouldn’t be lonely. A generous gesture, well-meaning, but oddly enough, she felt more alone sitting with six people than if she had remained at home reading a book. In fact, Kay felt subtly ostracized, unconsciously shunned, and very old, even though she was only a few years older than the others. Perhaps she should remove her flip phone and fake a transaction, but its battery was likely dead and to expose such a woeful antiquity would cement the fact that her technical skills were appropriate for the Middle Ages.

Eventually, there was a brief respite while plates were removed to the kitchen. A short while later, a pecan pie, a chocolate torte, and a French press full of coffee were arranged on the pass-through. After everyone chose their desserts and filled cups, they regained their seats.

Kay asked Clifford about his recent trip to Spain and what places had fascinated him.

He waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “An absolutely horrible vacation. Got food poisoning on the third day. God, it was awful! I just want to forget the whole thing.”

Kay had been prepared to relate two of her own travels to Madrid and the Costa del Sol, which she had loved, but Clifford had put the kibosh on the subject.

She turned to Susan, on her right, and admired her jacket, an Indian design spangled with gold. Susan glanced at Kay in surprise, as if she’d forgotten she was seated beside her, and offered thanks. Then, perhaps remembering Kay’s interest in opera, she began speaking about a recently attended concert featuring Joyce DiDonato. Kay had subscribed to the Met for decades but had been forced to cancel her seat because she had no one to accompany her, and her walking disability made the trip into the city impossible. However, she had been impressed by DiDonato in the Met production of The Enchanted Island, which she enthusiastically related to Susan.

“Oh, you must see this YouTube clip,” Susan replied, clasping her cell phone. After impatient whisks across the screen with her index finger, she located whatever she was looking for. She attempted to hand the phone to Kay, who was lifting a fork piled with torte.

“Oh, here let me hold the phone for you,” Susan said and did just that.

Kay observed the singer’s miniscule figure, which was difficult to see clearly because Kay’s reading glasses were in her purse. The sound was also low so that identifying the aria was a challenge, until Susan announced it was a contemporary work, one unknown to Kay.

“Do you want to see another one?” Susan asked.

Kay smiled. “No, thanks. I’m really enjoying this torte. Delicious, isn’t it?”

Susan stared at her plate, put down the phone with a sigh, and picked up her fork. At the far end of the table, Kembe and John were comparing phones and discussing their individual technical attributes. Alisha had turned toward Christine, and throughout the room, sporadic chats broke out, none involving Kay. She attempted to enter in with Alisha and Christine, but because the topic was grandchildren, Kay had nothing to share from her experience, nor was she a baby person.

She had imbibed a glass of prosecco and two of wine. Her self-imposed limit. Patience, normally one of her virtues, was waning. After scraping the last remnants of chocolate from her plate and finishing her coffee, Kay waited while people talked on phones in between bites. Then she glanced at her watch, exclaimed in surprise, and told Alisha that a college boyfriend, who lived in London, was calling in half an hour.

“It’s fine if you want to talk to him in the living room,” Alisha said.

Kay shook her head and lied again. “Sorry.…He’s telephoning my landline.”

Everyone looked at her. Although they made no comment, their sentiments regarding archaic landlines were obvious.

Kay apologized for leaving early and thanked the hosts. She came to her feet; wished the group a merry Christmas; gathered her plate, glass, silverware, and napkin; and carried them into the kitchen, where she placed some items in the dishwasher.

From within the dining room, she heard Christine say, in a lowered voice, “How rude to interrupt dessert.”

Her husband, John, agreed. “It is. But no loss. She didn’t add much to the conversation.”

“Kay should have scheduled her call to avoid interfering with your party,” Susan said, presumably to Alisha and Kembe.

Others murmured agreement. Then two cell phones rang.

Kay grabbed her coat and purse and hurried out the door. As she turned on the car’s ignition, she wondered if she would be invited for Easter and whether she would go.

“Not without a new cell phone,” she muttered.