1893 eighty-two lana standing by the living room window , staring through frosted glass at the crowd of carolers come to serenade her this christmas night , their faces awash in candlelight , silent night , holy night , a figure stumbling up the alameda toward the front door , darkness flies , all is light , the choir faltering , feel free to get the f**k off my yard , the carolers dispersing , lana retreating to the steinway , seating herself at the piano bench , thinking , my playing soothes him , perhaps some brahms , the keys tinkling icily as the front door opens , slams , the meter quickening with her heartbeat as his boots pound the hardwood floor , his footsteps and the piquant waft of cactus juice moving toward- the stillness shook her from the dream .