Somewhere was a gigantic Victorian house on a hill, in the wealthy west end of the Northside, out in Town. Far removed from the dirty slushy streets in The Mines, where the air was permeated by the smell of gas and coffee and the sounds of people yelling, “Hey dere buddy, how she goin’?” Even distant from the nice parts of Town, the land of tidy split levels, with honeysuckles on trellises and stone bird baths in the yard. That was where the ordinary rich people lived. People who called the likes of Mama when they needed their house cleaned for a dinner party. But the somewhere we visited that night had a sprawling lawn edged in cold, naked oak trees. Rhododendron bushes wrapped in red and green lights. A life-sized nativity scene with hand-carved and painted wise men, angels, and animals, each under their own bright white spotlight.

Mama murmured, “Don’t worry about paying the power bill here, now do they?” as we drove up the driveway. That was the first time I realized that Mama did have to worry about paying the power bill.

Inside, somewhere smelled like oranges and cinnamon and baked ham. An enormous ostrich feather fan hung on the wall. Glittering crystals dangled from a chandelier. Delicate horse figurines and tiny tea sets were carefully arranged on the shelves of two giant glass cabinets. Nothing here came from the Bargain Store. A fire roared in a big stone hearth, making the whole place too hot for my comfort, but clearly not for the small throng of unfamiliar adults. Men in blazers and sweater vests sipped amber drinks from little glasses, while women in velvet dresses held wine glasses in jewelled hands. Beneath the layer of chatter and guffaws, Bing Crosby crooned “I’ll be Home for Christmas.”

Mama marched me through the crowd until we stood in front of an older couple. The woman leaned against the man, clutching the sleeve of his suit jacket with her diamond-laden fingers when she saw us. Mama introduced me with ice in her voice and fire in her eyes, and said we didn’t come to make a scene. We just came for some hot chocolate and a plate of cookies, like the boys got.

At a table in the corner sat two boys, both younger than me. A tall, thin woman with long blonde hair and a porcelain face ignored me completely, but dusted crumbs from the fronts of their navy blue suits as they nibbled cookies and sipped hot chocolate. The older man simply raised an eyebrow at me, shook his head, and walked away laughing to himself in a way that wasn’t really laughing, and wasn’t really to himself. The older woman stood, staring a hole through Mama for a long while. When it became clear that my mother wasn’t going to budge, the woman flashed me a dagger of a smile, bit her bottom lip as she thrust out a furious “Fine,” and waved us toward the table.