band, a big one, with his two brothers and three sisters. Called themselves the Starlights, played all over Florida. Coming back from a Christmas Eve show in Tampa five years ago, a drunk driver ran into their tour bus, flipped it over…”
Her eyes are misty, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
“Did… anyone survive?” I ask, voice soft to match her own.
“Arturo,” she says, turning slightly away. “Hasn’t played anything but Christmas music since.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, putting my half-eaten plate on the seat next to me. “What… why would you tell me that? Tonight, of all nights?”
She looks at me as if I’m speaking gibberish. “You think that’s a sad story?” she asks, nodding back toward Arturo. “Imagine what’s in his head every night, especially during the holidays. I just… you’re right, that was shitty of me.”
“No it wasn’t,” I sigh, clutching her forearm. “It’s a shitty night, for a lot of people. For a lot of reasons…”
She nods, silent for once. “And Grover?” I ask, nodding toward Arturo’s porch. “What’s his story?”
“He had a wife and kid,” she says, and I literally gasp.
“What? He looks fifteen.”
She chuckles humorlessly. “He’s 31, dear,” she says, looking at me closely. A little too closely. “Only a few years younger than you, in fact.”
“What happened to them? And please don’t tell me anymore sad stories.”
She waves her ketchup stained napkin around the courtyard. “Like you said, we’re all sad stories. But Grover, well, his wife left him, took the kid, hasn’t seen them since.”
“Because of his drinking?”
She nods, both of us watching him watch Arturo play. “They just got sick of it, and the rehabs, and the back to rehabs, and the lies. Been sober over three years, but she still won’t have anything to do with him. He hasn’t seen his daughter since the divorce…”
Her voice trails off as her eyes fall on Mabel, then she gets up quickly.
“Listen,” she says, nodding toward the picnic table, the fire, the setup and getup. “Do you… can you and Grover break this down? It’s late and Mabel won’t get to sleep if I don’t put her down myself.”
“But… Christmas?” I say. An hour earlier, I was cursing her, but now all of a sudden, it won’t seem like Christmas without Dotty.
She winks, nodding toward Grover as he shuffles back, plate empty, smile sad. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Grace.”
“Dotty,” I call after her, watching her pause, then turn, a half smile on her face. “Thank you, for… for everything.”
“Merry Christmas,” is all she says, before sitting next to Mabel and gathering up her knitting from the grass at the old woman’s feet.
“I feel like I should help,” Grover says, taking Dotty’s place in the lawn chair next to mine. “But Mabel gets upset if anybody else touches her knitting.”
“Dotty seems like she can take care of herself,” I say, innocently enough, but the look he gives me, we both blurt out laughing.
It feels good to laugh, real good, and I haven’t seen anything as marvelous as Grover’s smile in years.
“What about you?” he asks, straightening his ski cap nervously. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Why do you care so much?” I ask, because I’ve wasted too much time hiding from life to be shy now that I’m alive again. “I mean, look at us, Grover. You, me… why do you care?”
He shrugs. “It’s Christmas, Grace. I’m tired of being alone on Christmas.”
I cluck my tongue, because truer words have never been spoken. Four years it’s been, since I woke up in Detox, not knowing how I got there, or who brought me in. When they let me out, my house was empty, cleaned out by my ex-husband, Jim.
I didn’t blame him, only wished I could get the last six years of our marriage back. My family had given up on me, my friends, so I moved. From Wisconsin to Maine, where I waited tables and drank, to Vermont, where I gave ski lessons and drank, to Virginia, where I tended bar, and drank, to South Florida, where I somehow got a loan to go to rehab.
For the first time. Three rehabs, and 60 grand in debt later, here I am, in Frostbite, Florida, the newest resident of the Manchester Arms, sitting in a lawn chair, drinking dollar store orange soda and staring back at a surfer boy in a Bob Marley shirt.
“You… you don’t want this,” I croak, sounding more like Dotty than ever. “I’m not there yet, not where you are.”
“You think I was where I am three years ago?” he asks, a vehemence in his voice that dares me to challenge him. “I was a mess. Angry, defensive, just like you are…”
He lets me mull that over, waiting for me to dispute him, but I don’t. I can’t.
“Who helped you?” I ask, struggling for the third or fourth time not to dissolve into a puddle like Frosty himself.
“Lots of people,” he says, nodding toward Dotty as she finally gets Mabel out of her chair and shuffling toward her apartment. “Dotty, Arturo, the guys at the surf shop where I work, the ocean, the waves, Marley, I’m… I’m not as far along as you think, Grace. And we never stop needing help.”
I nod; that much is true. “I’m not proposing,” he chuckles, sliding his fingers against mine until they mesh and, amazingly, we’re holding hands. “I just… it’s Christmas.”
As if on cue, Arturo’s saxophone moans, long and low, the opening strains of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Ten seconds later, there is a faint flicker, a spark and… the power goes back on. Our apartments light up, one by one, but neither of us move an inch.
Hands clasped, the grill still crackling, Arturo playing Christmas music, we sink deeper into our chairs, skin warm against one another, smiles bright, futures uncertain.
And I smile at the sparks crackling in the fire, blurred by fresh tears, and I realize that Christmas isn’t about things, or routines, or habits, or even places.
It’s about people. It always has been.
All those Christmas songs, every one, is about people. Spending time with people, in a white Christmas, in the North Pole, when Santa Claus comes to town, with Frosty and his friends, every song, every one, is about people sharing a special night together. Parents, kids, elves, strangers, couples… lovers.
Aren’t I worth that? Finally, in the end, aren’t I worth at least that much? Grover seems to think so, and every time his fingers move, or he blinks, or he smiles, he shows me what I’m worth; how important I am.
I may not believe him yet, but isn’t that what faith – and Christmas – are all about? Believing what you can’t see, whether it’s Santa Claus, Jesus or, in Grover’s case, a woman who’s just not there yet, but might be some day?
“You’re crazy,” I tell him, voice ripe with emotion. “You know that, right?”
He smiles, and something softens in him, like he knows I’ve given in. With relief in his voice he jokes, “I thought you hadn’t noticed.”
I shake my head, eyes watering, so that he squeezes my fingers with his own and helps me up from my chair. “Christmas is crazy,” he says, breath warm on my face, hands warm on my waist, eyes warm in their sockets. “Right now, it’s Christmas, and you’re the only place I want to be.”
I know it’s cheesy, I know he probably read it on a Christmas card somewhere, or a fortune cookie, hell. But it gets me, right where it needs to, and I gently take his hands, away from my waist, and into my own, as I guide him back to my apartment.
“The table,” he says, as we pass it, making no move to resist me. “The food…”
“You’ve got about three minutes before I change my mind,” I lie, opening the sliding glass door, the Christmas tree blinking again, the fiber optic snowman winking once more. “You want to risk it cleaning up our picnic?”
He chuckles, suddenly nervous, hands moist in my own. “It’s been awhile,” he warns as we drift back to my room. “It probably won’t take long anyway.”
I
chuckle; he’s probably right. “Then again,” I warn him, “there’s always the chance of a Christmas miracle.”
But I can feel it, too, the excitement gurgling over, the anticipation, the joy, and know it won’t take much for me, either. We drift into my bed, unmade, sheets clean, thank God, but twisted from another restless night. We lie there, for a minute, in our clothes, hearts pounding, skin on fire, out of words, out of time.
Lying there, in the dark, Arturo’s saxophone pauses, as if studying us, then I hear, clearly, the opening strains of “Merry Christmas, Baby.” We chuckle and he leans up on his elbow, looking down at me, studying me, before leaning down to kiss me.
And the world melts away, as I thought it never would again. And I receive his gift, because I’m worth it. Because we’re both worth it…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Rushing the Season, www.rushingtheseason.com, where you can read more FREE stories and collections, most about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina. Happy Holidays, whatever time of year
Christmas Music: A Romantic Holiday Story Page 3
