Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2019-12-17 10:42 am
white_oleander) wrote2019-12-17 10:42 am
Hollywood, California, 1993. [Tuesday, 12/17 FT].
Claire waited for Ron to come home again, so they could all buy the tree together, like a real family, and they went after Astrid got out from school. In the car, she described just what she wanted. Symmetrical, soft-needled, six feet at least. The tree man tried to help but gave up after pulling out and untwining dozens of trees.
“I don’t get any of this,” Ron said, watching Claire’s desperate search. “Jesus grew up in Bethlehem. High desert. We should be buying an olive, a date palm. A frigging Jerusalem artichoke.”
Astrid walked along the side with the spray-painted trees, some in white like a starched chemical snowfall, others painted gold, pink, red, even black. The black tree, about three feet high, looked like it had been burnt. Astrid wondered who would want a black tree, but she knew maybe a few people who would.
There was no limit to the ways in which people could be strange. Someone would buy it as a joke, a belated Halloween, to decorate with plastic skulls and tiny guillotines. Or it would become someone’s Yuletide political statement. Or someone would take it just for the pleasure of making their kids cry.
Astrid joined Claire, where she was agonizing over a tree that was almost right, except for a bit of a gap in the branches on one side. She pointed it out with anxious hands, and Astrid assured her she could keep it to the wall, nobody would ever notice it.
“That’s not the point,” she said. “If something is wrong, you can’t just turn it to the wall.”
Astrid knew what she meant, but convinced her to take it anyway.
At home, Claire instructed Ron in the hanging of lights. Originally she wanted candles, but Ron drew the line there. They wound strings of chilies and popcorn round and around, while Ron watched a big soccer game on TV. Mexico playing Argentina. He wouldn’t turn it off so Claire could have Christmas carols. A man’s world. He could barely pull himself away long enough to put the gold angel on top.
Claire turned out the room lights and they sat and watched the tree in the dark, while Mexico overran South America.
[[ one last little glimmer before the light on this goes out. Taken from Chapter 20 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. NFB, but open if anyone'd like ]]
“I don’t get any of this,” Ron said, watching Claire’s desperate search. “Jesus grew up in Bethlehem. High desert. We should be buying an olive, a date palm. A frigging Jerusalem artichoke.”
Astrid walked along the side with the spray-painted trees, some in white like a starched chemical snowfall, others painted gold, pink, red, even black. The black tree, about three feet high, looked like it had been burnt. Astrid wondered who would want a black tree, but she knew maybe a few people who would.
There was no limit to the ways in which people could be strange. Someone would buy it as a joke, a belated Halloween, to decorate with plastic skulls and tiny guillotines. Or it would become someone’s Yuletide political statement. Or someone would take it just for the pleasure of making their kids cry.
Astrid joined Claire, where she was agonizing over a tree that was almost right, except for a bit of a gap in the branches on one side. She pointed it out with anxious hands, and Astrid assured her she could keep it to the wall, nobody would ever notice it.
“That’s not the point,” she said. “If something is wrong, you can’t just turn it to the wall.”
Astrid knew what she meant, but convinced her to take it anyway.
At home, Claire instructed Ron in the hanging of lights. Originally she wanted candles, but Ron drew the line there. They wound strings of chilies and popcorn round and around, while Ron watched a big soccer game on TV. Mexico playing Argentina. He wouldn’t turn it off so Claire could have Christmas carols. A man’s world. He could barely pull himself away long enough to put the gold angel on top.
Claire turned out the room lights and they sat and watched the tree in the dark, while Mexico overran South America.
[[ one last little glimmer before the light on this goes out. Taken from Chapter 20 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch. NFB, but open if anyone'd like ]]