Variation One

Our knees press together in our attempts to crowd around Abuelo’s legs. I am pushed behind my cousins, forced to listen from a wake of dark hair. I don’t mind as long as I can hear my abuelo’s voice echo across the tiled rooms, as though god were speaking; as long as I can hear him as he tells us the story of Christmas. Not the American one, the correct one with los tres reyes.

We’ve heard it before, but we like the way he pretends to be the animals. He points with a knobby finger at the tree, where separate portraits of Mary, Joseph, and the donkey, hang between candy canes. His purple veins protrude from his hand; the way my father’s does, the way mine will someday, but for now they are only blue and pucker slightly at the knuckles.

Abuelo pauses as a cry echoes through the house. Abuela appears. She shrieks in Spanish about something I cannot understand because I am not Cuban enough. My cousins nod. They are allowed to understand.

“The rooster,” my cousin Elisa explains. “The one from next door got out again.”

“That rooster took out my eye once,” my brother Javi mutters. Javi always lies. “It’s at least five feet tall.”

“Ten feet,” says a cousin.

“Twenty,” says another.

The cousins nod. Javi always lies. Abuela points at a tia to handle the rooster. Christmas dinner cannot happen if that rooster is in the yard, making a mess of the landscaping. Tia Primera leaves. I stare at the twinkling lights on the tree, the fake one that had been pulled from the dumpster of Unspecified Cathedral for the Patron Saint of ----. Abuelo had said it was a miracle. But we aren’t allowed to tell anyone at the church we took it. Not that I go, anyway.

In the distance, we hear screaming. I cannot tell if it is human or animal. Abuela knocks on the window glass and shouts curses. These words I know. She points to another tia. Handle that damn chicken, according to Elisa’s translation. Tia Segunda goes outside. Again, there is screaming, and shrieking, and Abuela is wrapping her knuckles on the glass again, shouting words I know.

“That rooster killed our dog,” my brother Javi says. “He was playing by the lake, and it got out and attacked.”

Tia Tercera and Tia Cuarta rush outside. A flurry of feathers swirls into the house before the door is firmly sealed behind them. Abuelo grumbles under his breath about drama. He shakes his head when the screaming begins again. The loose skin beneath his chin wobbles.

“All I wanted was a nice Christmas,” Abuela collapses onto a couch. She fans herself with her hand. “Those girls are never any help.”

Elisa leaves the circle and presses her face against the window. We cannot see beyond the dark glass. We only hear screams.

“Do you see it?” we ask Elisa. She nods.

“All I wanted was a nice Christmas.” Abuela fans herself with her shoe.

“Fine,” Abuelo stands. His knees crack like a wooden spoon over a head if the head deserved it. He mutters about women never listening to simple directions. “I will take care of it.”

Abuela fans herself with a cup of espresso.

We gather around the glass, smushing Elisa in our attempt to see into the dark lawn. The flood lamp switches on when Abuelo walks outside. His silhouette grows the further he goes into the yard.

At first, we see no rooster. Our eyes adjust to the darkness and only spot familiar things: an orange tree, a swing set. On the ground lay tias Prima through Cuarta, missing eyes and limbs, gashed in the legs and chest. Even through the shadows, I can see the tias have stained the grass in halos of blood. Javi says they look like they fought a blender.

This time, I think Javi is telling the truth.

Elisa spots the rooster. Our eyes move together to the darkest part of the yard where Elisa is pointing. The rooster pushes over an orange tree as it nears. Its eyes are red. The kind of red when the sun sets after a storm or when a baby tooth is yanked too soon. I shrink in terror. For a moment, I don’t think we are safe. The rooster will come into the house, take Abuela fanning herself with a picture of the Pope, eat our Christmas dinner.

Its talons are larger than Abuelo, larger than the tias’ cars, or Javi’s lies. When its wings spread, the sky is blacked out so we can no longer see the moon where Santa will fly past, or the swing set, or the lake where I’d once pushed Javi into because he said I was adopted and that’s why I can’t know Spanish. My eyes won’t adjust to the oily murkiness.

The floodlight resumes. The night pulls back, and we see Abuelo covered in feathers. The rooster’s neck is bent in his hand. He shakes it triumphantly and we cheer from the window. He brings it in, blood and feathers dripping behind him. Briefly, I wonder if Abuela will be angry that her spotless tiles are marred with gore.

Dinner is served. We crowd around the table, hands stretching to fill the gaps of missing tias as heads are bent in prayer. Abuela leads a speech about the Lord, and the blessings He has given us this year, and for this great feast of ham, and paella, and now a chicken.

I do not bend my head like my cousins. Maybe it’s because I’m not Cuban enough, but I do not bend. My eyes are tethered to the window, to the shovel in Abuelo’s hand as he digs four holes in the yard.

“We are so blessed,” Abuela says.

A tia is rolled into her grave.

The cousins nod. “Amen.”

Variation Two

Abuela sits beside the Christmas tree, a nativity scene in her lap. The baby falls out of the manger, and she mutters a string of curses. No one bothers helping her pick up the toy. We are all too afraid of being touched. Abuela resumes telling her story but has grown so exasperated she’s resorted to finishing it in Spanish.

“I feel bad for Jesús,” Elisa giggles. “He’s so close to the hair.”

Abuela’s raspy voice has taken on a high, squeaky quality as she pretends to be a camel. I am not looking at the camel or Kings, or the cute baby that keeps falling out of its crib. I can only stare at the hair protruding from the mole on her cheek. When Abuela lifts Mary, the toy brushes against the strand. The cousins shudder.

“I can’t stand looking at that thing anymore,” Javi whispers.

“It’s good luck,” I say, even though I am repulsed at the way it waves at us. “It does seem like it’s gotten longer.”

Elisa shivers. A cousin dry heaves.

Abuelo smacks the closest cousin on the head. “Listen to Mami!”

We momentarily wither. Abuela continues talking. In her hands is the entire barn. The mole hair has lifted the star above the thatched roof.

“I’m going to be sick,” I choke. “I’m with Javi. Luck or no luck, that thing has to go.”

The cousins gasp. Javi grins.

“What are you going to do?” He whispers. He eyes Abuelo briefly before continuing. “Pull it?”

“Pull it?” Elisa shouts. She clasps her hands over her mouth too late. Abuelo’s hand descends. Elisa rubs her head with a pout.

Javi mouths pull it, and the cousins nod with varying degrees of excitement. A knot forms in my stomach. I chew my lip at the thought of taking our family’s luck away. I bite my fingernails at the possibility of stripping away our family’s fortune.

“You can do it!” Javi hisses.

“Why don’t you do it?” I say.

Javi shakes his head. The cousins shake their head. No one will do it. I swallow the lump in my throat, and my tongue goes with it.

“Fine,” I whisper. “But I’ll need help.”

Javi applauds. The cousins kiss my feet and pat my back. Someone puts a crown of laurels on my head. I duck Abuelo’s swinging hand as I stand. I point an accusing finger at the mole hair.

“Abuela!” I announce. She stops voicing Mary. The hair slightly wilts. “Abuela, we’ve decided. The hair has to go.”

Abuela clamps her hand over her mole. Her skin pales. A cousin steps forward.

“It is good luck!” Abuela cries.

Tias nod in agreement. It is the reason our family has good fortune, and food on the table. We have been blessed with mole hairs. But I have been chosen and I will not let down my cousins, or Elisa, or Javi standing beside me with a genuine smile.

A cousin surges forward. She seizes Abuela’s shoulders, while other cousins rush to restrain Abuela’s arms. She thrashes in her grandchildren’s arms, shouting fluidly between English and Spanish.

“It’s got to go, Abuela!” I say again.

I slowly walk forward. Abuela’s legs recoil, sending a cousin crashing into the cabinets. My face is set, firm, decided. The cousins cheer my name. They cheer even as Abuelo tries to silence them. Tias cross themselves in prayer. I take Abuela’s face in my hands. I ignore her trashing, and pleading, and the velvet feel of her skin. I grasp the flapping hair at the root and pluck it from the mole. The not-so-lucky-anymore-mole.

The room is filled with shrill whistling, like when a balloon is punctured. The cousins release Abuela as she deflates. Her skin becomes loose. Her breasts sag and wither. She falls to the floor, and the last of her air escapes in a hiss.

I look at the hair in my hand with surprise. It flutters to the ground.

I am no longer surrounded by cousins. They have all retreated, into the arms of tias, behind the Christmas tree, to Abuelo shaking his head in disappointment. Elisa is weeping. My laurel crown slips off my head. Somewhere Bing Crosby sings.

Variation Three

Abuelo sits beside the tree, reading psalms from a book I’m not allowed to read. I try to listen but find it hard to focus as gifts are plucked from the pile beneath the boughs.

“Who’s next?” I say when a thin box is revealed.

“This one is to Elisa,” reads a tia.

The gift is passed to Elisa, and we watch as the fine wrappings are shredded. Inside is a delicate gold chain, with little gems in the shape of stars. The next present is pulled. A box the size of Javi’s head is handed to him, and he tears into it with his teeth. We collectively gasp when a Nintendo is revealed. I clench my fists until my nails break into my palm. My toes curl from my contained excitement while each gift opens: a scooter, Tamagotchi, a computer. The tree withers as each present is cleaved from the pile. A My Size Barbie; every Power Ranger toy. The tree’s needles turn brown and fall off.

I hold my breath as the last gift is dragged from the back of the tree. The small box is crumpled. The slapdash wrapping is peeling at the corners. The gift is handed to me.

“This last one is for you.”

I hold my breath. Sticky residue, from what might have been a note but is no longer there, pulls at my fingers. With careful attention, I pull back the paper to find a coloring book no bigger than my hand. Taped to the cover is a box of crayons.

No one pays attention to my gift. There are no oohs or awes when my present is exhumed. Each cousin has migrated to enjoy their new toy trains, to install video games, to play with their new puppy. I open the crayon box. Broken bits of rainbow pour out.

“That’s nice,” Elisa says as she tries on her gold rings. “Is that Snow White?”

We can’t tell. The pictures are blurry and drawn to almost resemble the cartoons we know. Almost. The Snow White we know never had a drinking problem or lived with seven muscular men in a duplex. When I try to color, the wax won’t stick to the pages. The color slides off Snow White’s martini glass and onto my shoes. A prickle bites my chin and crawls into my belly. I try to push it away, but each time I see the other gifts my lips quiver.

“That’s the ugliest coloring book I’ve ever seen,” Javi laughs. He steps on one of the crayons. The color bleeds into his shoe. “You know why Santa only gave you that, instead of something good? It’s because you don’t go to church.”

“That’s not true,” I snap. The tree droops, and the star placed at its peak clatters to the floor.

“Yes, it is,” a tia chimes in. “We told your mother to take you, but she’s too good for church.”

I look for my mother but cannot find her in the crowd of tias and cousins and new toys that are piled to the ceiling.

“I’ve been once.” I grip some of the crayons so hard they turn to powder.

“But you don’t pray,” Javi says. “You have to pray. And you don’t, and that’s why you have the ugliest coloring book I’ve ever seen.”

I remain under the shriveled tree as the rest of the family converges at the dinner table. They hold hands, bow their head in prayer. I watch them gorge on ham until their lips shine from the grease. They speak with mouths full of yucca and bread. Dessert is revealed in the form of a tower of cookies, and cake, and the tallest flan I’ve ever seen. Despite their protruding bellies, everything before them is consumed. Silverware is forgotten.

I stare at my coloring book. Snow White reflects my frown. It’s not her fault she is so ugly, but I hate her all the same. I squeeze my eyes shut. I block out my family enjoying their meal, their company, their lavish gifts. Instead, I bow my head and pray.

“Dear Santa,” I begin. “I’m sorry I haven’t done this before. I thought you were supposed to know what I wanted. Because that song says you know.”

I crack an eye to make sure no one is watching. My family has grown so fat they cannot get out of their seats. Someone’s chair groans. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Santa, I just want something nice for Christmas. If it’s not too late. I like the crayons. Sort of. But one more gift would be nice. Something really special. Just for me. Something that will make everyone jealous.”

I open my eyes and look around. My family has fallen asleep at the table, some with food dripping from gaping mouths. The tree has turned black. All its needles have fallen to the floor. I spot a small box hidden under discarded wrappings and needles. I brush it all away to see my name in unfamiliar cursive on a little card.

“For me?” I whisper.

I run my finger along the edging of the wrapping. I kiss the golden bow tied in a perfect swirl. When I tug on the bow the box unfurls like a budding flower. A frown pulls at my mouth. I lean closer, trying to understand what I’m seeing. Instead of a new toy, I see a bathtub plug anchored to the ground.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I wonder aloud. I try to lift it, but the plug won’t budge.

A tia lets out a snore.

I wrap my hands around the plug and tug. It gives slightly. My legs brace, and I yank as hard as I can. With a small pop, the plug detaches from the floor. I topple over, the rubber stopper still in my hands. When I sit up, I find that water has started bubbling from the drain. It covers the floor in seconds.

I seize my crayons and coloring book before they are ruined. The water swallows the shredded paper, forgotten ribbons, tinsel, and the book I’m not allowed to read. Small ripples follow me as I stumble away from the freezing torrent pouring into the house.

A tia suddenly wakes. She begins to scream. More tias wake. Heads pop up and burst into squeals of terror. The frigid water laps at the table. The adults cannot free themselves from the chairs, their bodies too swollen from their meal. The water swallows the plates.

I run outside with some of the cousins. We run into the dark. Our shoes make wet squishy sounds through the grass.

“Where is Javi?” Someone shouts.

“Where is Abuelo?”

I stop running and turn to the house. We can still see the glow of lights, like a spotlight illuminating the water splashing against the windows, and the family stuck at the table, screaming. The blackened tree void of any decoration floats past a window.

I sit, unbothered by my wet shoes or hard ground. I place my book on my lap and dump my crayons on the page. Some cousins cry when they realize their gifts are still in the house.

A sucking sound drowns out the rushing water, and screaming, and cousins crying. The sucking grows louder. The house trembles. The cousins tremble.

I am still drawing.

First, the roof caves in. Then the second floor. And the next. I brace myself for the water to rush towards us, but the house collapses inwards. The water swirls in a vortex that sucks down the roof, the presents, the remains of Christmas dinner until all have been swallowed. With a hollow gurgle, everything disappears down the small drain hole. In the silent wake, only the sound of my crayons grating against the paper makes any noise.

The remaining cousins crowd around me.

“What are you drawing?” Elisa asks.

I lift the paper. Drawn over the prince taking a body shot off Snow White is our house, flooded and sinking into the ground. Some cousins nod in approval.

“That’s really good,” Elisa comments, leaning closer for inspection. “I like the way you captured the tias faces.”

“Can I use your crayons?” asks a cousin.

“Me too, please!”

I give a pious nod. I allocate my gift until everyone has a broken crayon and paper. As one we draw, or color in the pictures, or make tic-tac-toe in the corners of the paper. When someone completes a picture, we all agree it’s a masterpiece and should be hung from the refrigerator, if we still had one to hang anything from.

We stuff our work into the drain instead.