Dear Valentina [The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel]

☆ Chapter Sixteen: It's a Wonderful Life

"Make the world go away
And get if off my shoulders,
Say the things you used to say
And make the world go away."
― Make the World Go Away, Eddy Arnold

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.      IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE.

☆

December 24th, 1958.

      Eggnog or mulled wine?

      Eggnog or mulled wine?

      Hmm.

      Valerie contested her two options, green eyes narrowed, before finally deciding and grasping the premade drink of traditional eggnog, the alcoholic beverage topped off with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles, from the kitchen counter. She took a timid sip as she turned back around, leaning the crease of her lower back against the edge, arms crossed over her chest as she took in the party unfolding rapidly in front of her. There wasn't enough eggnog in the world to make the somehow functional chaos of her family reunion more digestible. 

      It was Christmas Eve, and as per annual tradition, the twenty-six year old arrived at her childhood home in Boston a few days ago with a packed suitcase and a disgruntled attitude. The first few days of her visit went perfectly fine ― all of her nieces and nephews were practically climbing over one another to catch a whiff of her spare time, her siblings were in (relatively) good spirits, her father was healthy and excited for the holidays to kick off. She played her part of the good daughter quite well, never complaining about how much she missed New York already, how being back in her hometown made her feel trapped in a shrinking cage, or how her step-mother's fine-drawn insults towards her was thinning her patience. No matter how miserable she felt, she wasn't going to spoil her father's chipper mood.

      Like all other years, the Christmas party was held in her father's (and by technicality, her step-mother's) house, the very same one that Valerie had grown up in. The house itself was two-stories high, the slat roof rising to a sharp triangle, shutters lining the windows, and clapboard walls shuttling them inside. There were wide eaves, plus a gabled porch that narrowly stretched the entire front of the building with two Greek columns. Underneath the wear-and-tear, and the general depreciation due to a lack of upkeep, the establishment was Victorian-esque and almost replicated to a tee with every other house on Mercer Street. By no means was this neighborhood, this belt of land that Valerie has grown in since she was a newborn, the classic imagery of white suburbia, but instead, a presentation of the working-class Irish. Houses and duplexes was nestled so close together, there were no alleyways, and backyards were practically shared. Every car had to side-street park, and it was so narrow that you could only drive in one direction. Almost every street in Southside was like this, and somehow this was where Valerie had learnt how to survive the world.