Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

132 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Terez Rose
continued, faces growing flushed with wine and good cheer. No one
noticed when Kate grabbed her jacket and escaped outside.
Silent night, black night. The frigid air hurt her lungs when she
breathed in. Frozen puffs of rage rose and dissipated. Inside, Rebecca
began playing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” on the piano and the
others joined in singing. Kate’s chest heaved as if she’d been running
a race. “I’m getting out of here,” she said out loud.
She thought back to Dad’s words, a few weeks earlier when
she’d first mentioned the Peace Corps teaching job. “I’ve thought
of applying,” she’d said. “But the thought of leaving, with Mom and
all…”
“The assignment would begin six months from now?”
“Yes. In June.”
A flash of pain, then something akin to impatience crossed his
face. His voice, when he spoke, was brusque. “If you’re offered it, take
it.”
Carmen’s back door creaks open and Kate hastily wipes her
face. Henry joins her. He is silent for a moment, hands tucked into
pockets as he glances up at the studded sky. “So Minneapolis is
freezing as always,” he says. “I hear they had thirty days below zero
and for seven days straight it didn’t get above fifteen below. My Aunt
Bess probably has ice on the brain, so I’ll forgive her, but you know
what she sent me for Christmas?” He looks over at Kate and she shakes
her head. “A scarf, she sent me a goddamned scarf.”
It is impossible to be in a gloomy mood around Henry. A snort
of laughter escapes her and then they are exchanging “can’t beat this
one” Midwestern winter stories. By the time they return to the living
room, she feels better. Homesickness has its advantages, she reflects.
She is away from family and she misses them. Easier than being
with them and hating them. And easier than being there this year,
acknowledging the one other person missing.
“Anyone game for midnight mass at the Catholic mission?”
Carmen calls out.
“Sure,” Kate says, “let’s do it.”
Christmas Eve Midnight Mass at the mission turns out to
be nothing short of theater. By eleven-thirty, every bench in the
church—a dignified, airy, wooden structure—is occupied and an
overflow crowd spills out into the humid night. Glossy palm fronds