Diabetic Halloween presages Christmas in prison
There is a rumor going around that I will be attending Christmas in Racine this year. My sister Karin called me up the other day.
“I talked to Mom,” she said. “She wants you to start thinking about coming for Christmas.”
“It’s October,” I said. “If I start thinking now, I’ll definitely decide not to come by Christmas.”
“Well, start thinking whenever you want. But you’re supposed to come.”
“Why didn’t Mom call me herself?”
“Probably because she didn’t want you to say nasty things to her.”
I considered that for a moment, then decided to say, “Why would I do that?”
“Come on, Jack,” Karin whined, “remember last time you came out here. All Mom’s brothers and sisters came for the first time together and you got drunk and insulted all of them. You can see how she’d be a little nervous to bring up Christmas.”
I considered that too. “But now she wants me to come?”
“Yeah. Her siblings have other plans. And you know Mom. You haven’t put in any time with the family. Now it’s time.”
That’s how family works. No one wants to see each other, but that’s not an option: you’re family.
“All right, I’ll start thinking about it.”
Karin said, “Well, call me back soon.”
“All right.” We hung up.
I sat around the apartment a lot this week thinking about it. Weighing the cons. I didn’t know. Finally I called Karin back yesterday, just to get more information. Would there be gifts? I hate gifts. Would there be ceremonial dining in the middle of the day? The phone was answered by her seven-year-old son, Fred.
“Hi, Fred. It’s Uncle Jack.”
Fred tentatively said, “Hello, Uncle Jack.”
“Is your Mom around?”
“She’s in the bathtub taking a bath.”
“Aha.” I decided to stall for time. It’s hard to know what to say to old Fred. At seven years old, it is already all going to shit. This is tantamount to the Task Family Curse. “Well, what’s new, Fred?”
I could hear him thinking about what might be noteworthy enough for a long-distance call. “I went to the Halloween party.”
“Really? Already? It isn’t Halloween yet.”
“It was a special party. At the hospital.”
“Really? Why at the hospital?”
“It was for kids who are diabetic,” Fred explained reasonably.
I thought about that for a moment. “But I still got a whole bag of candy,” Fred said.
“Are you really allowed to eat candy, Fred?” I asked.
“Mommy lets me eat one piece a day, if I ask her, and she gives me an extra shot. But most days I save them.”
The thought of a diabetic eating some candy and then doubling up on insulin was reminiscent of speedballing. Shoot a bunch of cocaine and then some heroin to take the edge off. This didn’t seem to be Karin’s usual parental style.
“Well, old man, get your pleasure where you can, I say.”
“I’m not an old man, I’m a little boy,” he pointed out.
“Sort of,” I said. “Well, it looks like your Mom is having a long bath. Let her know I called, okay?”
“Okay,” Fred said, and we hung up.
I don’t know, should I go for Christmas?
by Jack, October 29, 2004 8:51 PM | More from The Damned Human Race
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