by Billy Coffey
Elizabeth didn’t look tired, not even weary. She appeared as fresh and ready to go as she had been when she first told me my hair would grow back (if I wanted it to).
“No, actually we don’t. But I can’t very well talk to you while you’re sleeping, can I? And that’s what you’ve been pretty much doing the past few days, according to the nurses. I’m sure Kim won’t mind as long as you’re awake and we keep things to a dull roar.” She winked. “I get a little leeway around here.”
I smiled. “You like the company, huh?”
“Yes,” she said. “And I like your stories most of all, Andy. That’s no snap judgment, by the way, which I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“I can,” I said. “Gotta watch those snap judgments. Those can get you in trouble.”
A sly smile appeared on her beautiful face then, making it even more beautiful. “You sound like you know that from experience.”
She set the box down on my lap and opened it.
“Which one?” she asked.
I reached in for the Santa letter and the bundle of pine needles inside, careful not to grip it so hard they would turn to dust. Their ends looked like tiny spears, more weapons than lessons.
“This one,” I said. “Happened back right after September 11. It was Christmastime. Usually my favorite time of the year, even though until recently I didn’t have anyone to buy gifts for. The Old Man, he’s all about Christmas, too. Or was, I guess. He helped me stay up from the end of November to the end of December. That can be a tough time if you’re…”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Lonely?” she asked.
“Yes. Lonely. Anyway, he made sure I always had a tree up. He even prods me into making peanut butter balls, even though he can’t eat them. I usually just bring those down to the gas station and give them out. People like them. He makes me put lights up, too. Nothing extravagant, just a few strands around the evergreen by the garage and some candles in the window. And my letter to Santa. He’s all about that.”
“Wait,” Elizabeth said. She leaned forward and held me by the knee. “He makes you write a letter to Santa?”
Too much, I thought to myself. You’d better start paying attention to what you’re spilling to this lady.
“He said it’s important for me to know what I want,” I said. “And I’m trusting that little admission falls under the protection of counselor/client privilege.”
“Of course,” she said. Elizabeth tried to swallow a chuckle and almost choked instead. “That sounds like fun, actually.”
“It wasn’t that year. That was a tough year for everybody. Things turned around, though.”
“How so?”
“I found Rudolph,” I said.
14
The Pine Needles
The big deal in Mattingly during Christmas revolved around the massive evergreen that stood guard in front of the rescue squad building. For as long as I could remember, a few firemen would gas up the ladder truck in the first few days of December and drive it the hundred yards or so from the fire department down the hill to the squad house, where they draped the big pine with thousands of multicolored lights. Aside from the summer parade season, this was the sole purpose of that particular piece of firefighting equipment; there wasn’t a building in Mattingly anywhere near large enough to require a few hundred feet of ladder in an emergency. But to the townspeople, keeping the Christmas tree lit was well worth the eighty thousand dollars spent on the ladder.
The firemen took their time with this task and trimmed the tree with all the attention and care it deserved. They strung and restrung, carefully wrapping and tucking the strands of tiny lights around every limb. If they did it right—and they always did—the end result would be a delicate but perfect balance between National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and something on the Home and Garden Network.
A notice would then be posted on the marquee beside the squad building that the tree would be lit on December 5 at five o’clock in the evening. It was always December 5 and always at five o’clock, though no one knew exactly why. It was as good a time as any, I suppose. Mattingly was always the sort of place where time never mattered much. The whole town was invited, and usually most of the town came. From the time my grandparents brought me to Mattingly until now, I never missed the lighting of that tree.
But I almost did that year. September 11 had happened just two months earlier, and the economy was going south. Everything just seemed…heavy. Like there was a thick blanket over the world that tried to smother everything instead of keep it warm. It was twenty days until Christmas. My decorations weren’t up, my Christmas cards weren’t written much less mailed, and I had yet to even write my letter to Santa. The Old Man was going nuts. He said I was an emotional corpse.
It was he who convinced me to go for the tree-lighting ceremony, further proving that his philosophy of When You Can’t Convince Andy, Wear Him Down never failed. I grabbed my hat that night and got in the truck just to shut him up.
The crowd was a bit sparser that year. Like I said, everyone was feeling a little dead inside. I got there just after the tree had been lit and hello’d and good evening’d my way to the front to get a good look. Never, not once, had all that glowing majesty failed to inspire me. The tree had that effect on people. (Not even my Mennonite grandfather was immune. I remember him telling me on one long-ago December 5 that those lights were what guided Santa’s sleigh to Mattingly.) Yet as I stood there feeling the heat from the bulbs, the very energy of the season, I felt nothing.
That’s it, I thought. I’m terminal.
A few firemen were still milling about, dressed to the nines in their navy blue Mattingly Volunteer Fire Department coats. They were explaining to a group of serious-looking men how they managed to “get things just right” and pointing to a “very tricky place” high up in the tree. My eavesdropping was interrupted by the sounds of footsteps crunching the frozen grass to my left. I turned, and beside me was an older gentleman who had decided to get a close-up view of the tree himself. Late sixties, by the look of him. Dark khakis, darker button-up shirt, and a fedora. A pea coat was draped over his left arm, and in his right hand sat a half-eaten cheeseburger from the Dairy Queen around the corner.
I’d never seen him before. That was why he stood out. I knew most everyone in Mattingly, even the ones who weren’t much worth knowing. But this man was new and therefore strange. I nodded and said hello. He wished me a good evening in a distinct German accent.
I turned my attention back to the tree and noticed a bare spot about a foot wide that had been passed over by the decorating committee. Instinct took over. I rearranged the surrounding strands of lights to cover the hole, then took a step back to admire my work.
The Old Man eased up behind me. “Not bad,” he said. “But you’d better take your eyes off your own handiwork and pay attention. You can start with that fella beside you.”
I turned and saw the German take a step forward, switch the burger from his right hand to his left, and slip something into the tree.
Now I know this is going to sound pretty ridiculous, but I have to say it anyway. You know what everyone was feeling back then. September 11 might be a distant memory now to most folks, and I think that’s a shame, but it was fresh in my mind then. So I don’t mind saying my first thought was that the man beside me in the snazzy clothes and the German accent was a terrorist. Never mind that this was Mattingly, Virginia, and not New York City or Washington, D.C. Never mind that this was a tree and not the Twin Towers. All I could think was that this was some sicko’s jihad against Christmas. And it wasn’t going to happen. Not on my watch.
I made sure my chest was adequately pushed outward and stepped toward him as he stepped back.
“Whatcha doin’ there, buddy?” I said.
He looked at me, embarrassed that he’d been caught doing God knows what, and said, “Nothing.”
It came out Nothink, and looking back I supposed I should have taken that as a literal
translation of my current mental state. But I didn’t.
“Yeah?” I asked. “I saw you put something in the tree there.”
He chuckled like he’d just been caught picking his nose. “Ah, I see.”
“You think it’s funny?”
A few of the firemen gave me a look. I waved them off.
“It was nothing,” he said. “Really.”
“Well then,” I said. My chest was still out, and that was making it hard to breathe. I relaxed it just a bit. “If it was nothing I wouldn’t think you’d mind sharing it. What’d you do?”
“I could tell you,” he said through a smile, “but you would not understand.”
Yeah, I thought, there’s a lot about you people I don’t understand.
I glanced over to the Old Man. His arms were folded in front of him and he was squinting. I couldn’t tell if he was studying me or the German.
“Try me,” I told the man.
“It is an old German tradition,” he said. Then he bent his head toward me and whispered, “We put a pickle in the Christmas tree.”
Oh, I thought. And then, What? Suddenly the unlikely possibility of a bomb in the tree was replaced by the very real possibility of a pickle. I felt the thought punch me in the gut. I let out a squeaky exhale.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, and a little too loudly. I had to give another wave-off to the firemen. “Yes, you did something wrong. You just stuck the pickle from your burger into our Christmas tree.”
I could almost see the mental gears turning beneath the man’s hat as he tried to build a bridge across the cultural gap between us. The only problem was that every brick he tried to put down I picked right up and tossed away. Not the nicest thing in the world, maybe. And not the right thing to do at all. But I justified it by reminding myself that he’d just violated my Christmas tree.
“I am terribly sorry,” he said, “but I did nothing wrong.”
“What’s your name, sir?” I asked him.
“Rudolph,” he answered.
I looked backward to the Old Man. “Are you kidding me?” I whispered to him. He said nothing and lifted his hands in a “Why not?” gesture.
I turned back around. “You mean like the reindeer?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
“You puttin’ me on?”
“No.”
“Well Rudolph, I don’t know how y’all do things over in the Fatherland, but around here we don’t stick pickles in our Christmas trees.”
“You do not?” he asked.
He seemed genuinely surprised at that little tidbit, and that only served to make me angry. It wasn’t enough that I was depressed at Christmastime, but to be dragged out by my best friend to witness the blatant vandalism of the town Christmas tree was too much to bear. To think that something so pure and right should be defaced by a condiment made me sick to my stomach.
I moved toward Rudolph until my nose was an inch from his. He didn’t back away. To him, this was all a simple misunderstanding. To me, it was an affront.
“Rudolph,” I said, “let me tell you something about this town. Around here we feel a certain responsibility to ensure things are thought of, approached, and cared for in the manner they deserve. Which means you take your hat off when the anthem is being sung, you respect the flag, and—now listen, because this one’s important—you do not mess with our Christmas tree. We’re serious about our Christmas tree, Rudolph. We love our Christmas tree, okay? We know what goes on it and where. And nowhere, nofreakingwhere, is there a place for a pickle. You got that?”
It was one of the most eloquent tirades I had ever offered, and Rudolph ignored it completely. I suppose that’s the way it is with people. Everyone is more concerned with trying to convince than to understand. “You are okay?” he asked.
I stared at him and then the tree. “Where’s the pickle, Rudolph?”
“In the tree.”
“I know that. I want to know where in the tree.”
Rudolph took a bite from his burger and then bent down to peer into the branches. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you should look for it?”
My back arched. “I ain’t gonna look for it, Rudolph. You got that? I don’t want to play any games, either. Now take that pickle out of our tree or I swear on all that is holy and good I will…”
What? What would I do? I didn’t know, so I left that part off.
“I do not see it,” he said, still peering. He gave up and looked at me. There was apology in his eyes. Apology and hurt. I felt baby pains of guilt. “Why are you so angry at me for this?”
His question gave me pause, not because I didn’t know the answer but because I heard the voice behind the words. Kind and grandfatherly, and with it was a sincerity that embarrassed me.
“Because,” I said, no longer exactly sure, “It. Is. A. Christmas. Tree. Not your tree, either. The town’s.”
“Yes!” he said. He raised his burger as a toast and a show of satisfaction. “All the more reason!”
We stared at one another for a few seconds, him still trying to build that bridge and me now thinking that letting him do so would not necessarily be a bad thing.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Andy.”
“Well Andy, I cannot find the pickle. I try. But my mind…” Rudolph made a circular motion next to his ear with the cheeseburger. “…not what it used to be. I’m sorry to anger you. Perhaps if you find it, you can take it out?”
There lay before me two courses of action. I could hit him, which despite my proper upbringing and my Christian guilt I was still prepared to do. Or I could look for the stupid pickle. The latter would surely bring me some sort of moral and spiritual distress. The former would likely land me in jail; even as friendly as Jake and I were, he wouldn’t have a choice but to lock me up. The decision between damaging my pride and being arrested was a difficult one, but after a few moments I agreed to his terms. I stepped to his left and reached into the limbs, combing over the general area where I had seen him hide it.
The tree was alive with lights—blues and greens and reds that melted into one another to form a pale yellow. I peered past them, thinking the pickle had to be near the outside of the limbs. I glanced back to Rudolph, who other than making a waving motion for me to go to the right maintained his stoic expression, and then to the Old Man, who merely offered, “You’re on your own, Sport.”
Five minutes passed. I was getting nowhere. I didn’t understand why it had to be a pickle. Pickles were green. Christmas trees were green. The whole thing was ridiculous.
“Find it?” Rudolph asked.
“No.”
“Perhaps I put it deeper in than I thought?”
I shook my head, sighed, and bent closer. The needles formed a weblike maze that protected the inner limbs from most any disturbance. A few tiny drops of water remained there, evidence of the morning frost. They fell like a miniature rainstorm when my hand brushed against them. I found a perfectly circular robin’s nest that had been untouched from last summer. A closer inspection revealed the remains of several eggs and a small beehive. And as I began to look for more of the same, I actually forgot to look for Rudolph’s pickle.
I began to forget about other things, too. Things like my sadness and frustration and the hole in my heart I feared God would never let anyone fill. For one small moment, I was alone with the present. The universe shrunk into the small inner world of that tree, and it was a world that was just as beautiful—perhaps more so—than the lights that hid it.
“Well?” Rudolph asked.
I stood up and faced him. “Can’t find it.”
“Ah. That is too bad.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender and said, “Fine, I give up. What’s the deal with the stupid pickle?”
Rudolph shrugged and said, “I do not know.”
“What?” I asked. “Are you kidding me? We just went through all that and you don’t kno
w why you put pickles in your Christmas trees?”
“Do you know why you put lights on yours?”
He had me there. Other than the fact it just looked nice, I had no idea.
“I suppose sometimes the reasons we do things escape us,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason. No?”
“No,” I said. “I mean…yes.”
“Well,” he said, “I must be going. My child and her new husband are waiting. They just move here from the city. And I apologize again, Andy. I suppose looking at your beautiful tree just reminded me of times past. I was, as you say, caught in the moment.”
I nodded. He turned to leave and then paused.
“Meddy Christmas,” he said.
“Merry Christmas, Rudolph.”
Rudolph walked into the darkness of the parking lot beyond. A sudden thought slammed into my head as I watched him leave.
“Sorry,” the Old Man said. “Not an angel. Don’t get greedy.”
I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, be quiet.”
9
I sat in the recliner that night under the watchful eye of a full moon with pen and paper in hand. I had decided it was time for my letter to Santa. For a while I didn’t think I wanted anything, if only because I felt nothing would make me better. But then I started thinking about what Rudolph had said. About how things that seem to have no reason to them still might. Somehow, someway, they still might. Mine was a good life, but there was plenty that had no reason in it. I had always wanted some sense of clarity, but maybe clarity was overrated. Maybe I didn’t need a lot of the new; maybe I just needed more of the same. It was a wish, yes. One I desperately wanted fulfilled. But Christmas was all about wishes fulfilled, and so I wrote:
Dear Santa:
I’ve been taught since I was a boy that Christmas is a time of possibility. There is magic in the air, and miracles abound. For one month the world seems to move a bit closer to where it could be. To where it should be. There are gifts and joy and peace abounding.
