The White Queen and her King had three White Princes, all of whom dutifully married handsome women. Two of the three successfully produced offspring at regular intervals, over the years, thereby doing their part to keep the Christmas spirit bright. Likewise, the Red Queen and her King had a son and a daughter, both of whom had multiple marriages and small armies of children of varying vintages. Thus, I expected to find a full house.
The front door of the the White Queen's side of the split-level duplex was flanked with multicolored lights, which did nothing to illuminate the many steps leading up to it. My mother, looking like a Christmas elf in her red fleece jacket and stompy knee-high black Ugg-like boots, grabbed my hand in a death grip. She has a healthy fear of stairs after a fall down some last year landed her in rehab with a busted pelvis. I gritted my teeth and steadied her as we clomped our way through the shadows to the front door.
We were right on time (because we are nothing if not punctual). I pressed the glowing door bell and heard a voice yell, “Come on in,” so I pushed the door open and led my mother inside, where we found five more steps leading up to the living room. Luckily these were carpeted, with a hand rail, so I left my mother to navigate them herself and went ahead to bear our potluck contributions (Mom, cookies, me, salad) to the kitchen. I scanned the room and found mostly familiar faces and a lot of empty chairs. Were we early? I commenced to socialize (which for me consists of annoying people by taking pictures with my crummy digital camera).
The place soon filled up with sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren. The White Queen assisted by her minions (daughters-in-law) spread the table with a buffet of dishes. “Finger food,” she said. “No forks.” I looked bemusedly at my big green salad, thinking, How come I didn't get that memo? The wine flowed at a moderate pace. (About an inch of red wine flowed to me over the course of the evening, along with at least five of my favorite sugar cookies. Another story.) I busily insinuated myself into conversations, camera in hand. The children did their best to entertain, while two perfectly coiffed pure white standard poodles took turns sitting around with perfect posture, then surreptitiously nosed the snacks on the coffee table when humans weren't looking.
After we'd been there for about an hour, the smallest baby had urped all over the couch and the poodles had nudged the brie onto the carpet. The party was really taking off. That's when I saw my mother come in from the smoker's area on the back balcony. She said, “The rest of the party is next door.”
Huh? Next door? I looked around and realized that the people I saw milling around were all related to the White Queen and King. No one from the Red kingdom was present! I was dumbfounded. This had never happened before in my memory of Christmas Eves stretching back over the 16 years I've been back in Portland. The Red and White Queens had never hosted separate events! Was this a case of Hatfields and McCoys, two 60+-year-old queens, I mean, sisters, living in the same building but not talking to one another?
“We need to go next door,” I told my mother. She agreed.
“Are you leaving already?” shouted the White King as we edged toward the door.
“No, we're just going next door,” I said.
“To say hi to the other half,” my mother added.
“Can we come back later?” I asked, thinking of my salad, which I had not yet eaten any of. And my glass of wine sitting forlornly on the counter top.
The White King escorted us down some steps to the lower level, through a door, and into the garage. He pressed a gizmo on the wall and his garage door opened. Out in the foggy dark, he keyed in some numbers on a keypad by the other garage door, which opened, revealing a red Kia Soul. “My son has a green one of these,” my mother said (referring to my brother, Godot, for whom I am still waiting as I write this). The White King ignored her and pounded on the door leading into the house. He was smiling, I saw. Was it an evil smile? The door opened. There stood the Red King, wearing a Santa hat. The White King handed us off to the Red King. We trudged up the stairs and just like that, entered the Red kingdom. Duplex. Whatever.
Instead of watching entertaining young children, the inhabitants of the Red kingdom were watching football on a big screen TV. Instead of finger food, they were enjoying Chinese. About a hundred white paper take-out cartons were arranged on table in the kitchen. The Red Queen and her daughter were looking at something over the sink. Instead of white poodles, the Red Queen and Red Princess stepped over and around a fat brown and black dachshund named Gunny, who spent a lot of time laying on his side in the kitchen doorway.
I looked around and tried to figure out who was who in this new land. “Hi! Have some Chinese!” It was my younger brother. He was taking time out to wave to me while watching the game with the Red King. On the couch sat the Red Prince, a 30-something who seemed to have blossomed... bloomed? No ballooned is the word I'm looking for. It took me a moment to recognize him. He spent the evening on the couch watching the game and eating from white cartons with the other potatoes, I mean, teenagers, who seemed to be a lusty bonus from his new wife's former marriage.
Eventually I got tired of the chemical smell of artificial Christmas that hung like a fog over the group. Or maybe it was the smell of sweet and sour pork. I eased on out the front door and stood outside looking up at the duplex from the sidewalk. In the Red kingdom, I could see the flicker of the television. In the the window of the White kingdom, I saw a tranquil, tastefully decorated fake tree. Fog in the air condensed on my camera, but I took a picture anyway, an image of two kingdoms, two Christmases, through a fine dusting of mist. I went up the dark steps to the White kingdom, entered the door like I lived there, ate salad and cookies, and took pictures as though I'd never left.
How utterly bizarre that two sisters living next door to one another should be so close yet so far apart. Of course, I understand that both families couldn't possibly fit into one living room. And a standing-room-only forest of adults wouldn't be much fun for the kids or probably even very safe. Oh, was that your little leg? I'm so sorry! No, I get it. But the solution is obvious, or at least it was to my mother.
“They need a door,” she said. Yes, I agreed, a door from one kingdom to the other. A bridge between two worlds. And some outside lighting wouldn't hurt either.
The phone just rang. It's my mother, calling to tell me my mysterious brother has arrived. I must fly, before he disappears. More later! Happy Christmas.
