“Dad still thinks that people should actually be in the same room with each other to have a conversation,” Amy laughed. “Can you imagine?”
“Well, that is the way things used to be,” the older woman sighed. She absently pushed the heavy plastic glasses up her nose and then dropped her gaze to the tablecloth, instantly undoing the adjustment. “There’s something to be said for real human contact. Can’t make babies without it.”
“Well, isn’t that exactly the problem?” Amy countered, warming to the discourse. “I mean, if your generation hadn’t made so many babies, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now.”
Barbara pursed her lips and passed the platter to Al.
“That was only part of the problem, honey,” Barbara said. “Remember the rampant salmonella outbreaks of the teens. And then the double helix livestock virus after that. It’s not so much that there were too many of us, it’s more that the viruses got smarter and our food supply started drying up. Dying down, really.”
“We could’ve just become vegetarians,” Al grunted, passing the plate to Mrs. Holzman.
Barbara laughed derisively and reached out to pat her husband’s ample middle.
“Yeah, I can see you giving up meat for good.”
Mrs. Holzman cleared her throat faintly as she picked a thin bit of white meat and passed the platter on to Amy. The wrinkled jowls under her chin wobbled as she spoke. “If the laws had been the same when I was younger, I wouldn’t have been allowed to keep my Jenny. Not that it matters now. She and Rog won’t ever come back to this country. They’ve each gone and had three kids.”
Her pale blue eyes fogged up and she avoided the stare of her hostess. “The one-child laws didn’t keep me from having my kids then, but they’ve sure taken ’em both away now.”
Barbara dropped her silverware to the plate with a clink that made everyone at the table look up. That was the last straw. She had gone down to the supermarket, picked out a good plump 10 pounder (a pinch on the thigh and she knew this one would be tender) and slaved all day in the kitchen to make this a special dinner. She would not have her family pull the gloom down over their heads and spoil the meal.
She stood up, put a hand on her hip and raised a stern finger at all of them. “Now look. We can’t live on potatoes, rice and beans all our lives, and people are threatening to outnumber the ants on this earth. The one-child laws are fair and necessary.”
“And dreamed up by some freak in a computer somewhere,” Al mumbled. “Nobody could have come up with it if they’d been in the same room eye-to-eye with a mother.”
Barbara ignored him and turned her attention to the older woman, who sunk deeper into her chair. “I’m sorry Mrs. Holzman, but nobody needs more than one child and it’s a shame Jenny and Rog can’t see that. It’s dangerous for all of us on this earth, whether they live here – or in Quebec – to have more than one child. We have to cut our population and conserve our resources or we will all starve. This is the best way. It’s the most humane.”
Mrs. Holzman looked chastised. Al stared down at the half-cut strips of meat on his plate. Amy rolled her eyes.
“Now we are blessed today, on Christmas, with this bountiful feast. I’ll remind you that Mary only had one child. The least we can do is enjoy this dinner in her honor. Somebody put in nine months to bring it to us. We will not let it go to waste.”
She looked at Amy’s meatless plate overflowing with potatoes and gravy and thrust the steaming platter of tender baby roast, still redolent with the marinade of oregano, sherry and garlic, back at her daughter.
“Arm or leg?”
Maria Alexander
COMING HOME
MY MOUTH IS sour with whiskey and the loaded shotgun lays heavily across my lap in my sofa chair. This is my Christmas Eve ritual.
I hate Christmas. The holidays. The time for families to gather to share love and good cheer. Bullshit. I try hard every year to forget there is a Christmas precisely because it reminds me of my family, but this fucking world won't let me. They've romanticized a nightmare.
Now a major industrialist, my father can list many crimes to his name, some commercial, some social. But the greatest are against his family and me, his oldest son. When he first started, he made me and my younger brothers and sisters work in the "family" business on our country estate. Sometimes through the night. Once when I nodded off—I was probably ten at the time—I'll never forget how he made me stand outside in the snow. Barefoot. I caught a severe cold and almost suffered frostbite. Only then did my mother intervene. She sternly lectured him that she didn't have time to wipe noses and rub feet. She had charities to run...
Because of his charm and rapidly advancing position in society, he frequently escaped the inquiry of the law. So he starved us, he beat us, he deprived us of sleep. Out of pure malice. Or to manipulate us. And he got away with it all.
On Christmas he strangely thought he could make it all right. By lavishing us—and everyone he knew—with mountains of gifts, he thought he could atone for the foul, frightful being that he was the rest of the year. How sadly wrong he was. Yet I realize now he was not unique. Guilty of what so many people are to some extent, buying the right to inflict pain.
I ran away one winter when I was young enough to forget exactly when, yet old enough to have the strength. I tried three times. The first time, he caught me and locked me in the stable for a fortnight. The second time, he raped one of my brothers in front of me. I wasn't daunted by the threat, only quickened by it. The third time, I escaped into a heavenly indigo night, lungs heaving painfully and legs plowing heavy and wet through the snow.
And I never looked back.
My lips kiss the mouth of this Jack Daniels bottle and I take another long drink. Coughing as the liquor spikes my throat. Funny how parts of the gun remain so cold, yet my hands are sweaty and warm. When I can't douse the pain with the alcohol, I sometimes think of using it. But so far I haven't. Not on myself (obviously) or anyone else.
My black slacks wrinkle and crease from sitting so long. The stereo radio crackles with late-night music from a modern rock station. At least it isn't Christmas music. It's Nine Inch Nails. Black as your soul. He had a strange aversion to the color black, and would never let us wear it. Perversion drives me to wear nothing but that now. Contrasting with my pale skin. And faded grey eyes…
The whiskey is making my head heavy. I shift in the chair, the heat of the roaring fire gently licking my face and bare arms. For many years, I wouldn't even have a fireplace in my home. Even that reminded me of his annual hypocrisy. For who doesn't look at a fireplace and envision stockings nailed into the mortar? Who doesn't think a mantle is naked without them?
As my eyes close and my chin dips to my chest under the cottony weight of the whiskey blanket, I recall the letter I received from my father three years ago. Your mother and I are getting on in years. We're sorry for what's happened. Let's put our differences behind us. We want you to take over the family business. And we miss you. Please come home.
Manipulative bastard.
Please come home…
Hark how the bells
sweet silver bells
all seem to say
throw cares away
Smoke belching from the cold fireplace steals my breath. I jerk awake as the gun quickly slides out of my hands and smashes against the lamp, leaving the room utterly dark.
Except for their eyes. My brothers and sisters. Faded grey orbs in the light…
…and luminous in the night. How else could we see as we worked?
Christmas is here
bringing good cheer
to young and old
meek and the bold
Their fishhook claws and teeth gouge my arms, face, legs—barbs in my flesh pinning me to the chair like an insect specimen. The modern rock station has succumbed to Christmas music at the midnight hour and the stereo indicator lights wink. Green. Red.
Skin cracked and thickened with age, blood v
essels bursting under the surface, hair white and tangled. Ruddy lips wet with whiskey as he crouches before me, larger than even I remember. Father.
"Well, well, well," his voice rumbles resonantly before he takes another drink of the Jack Daniels. The liquor sloshes in the bottle, and he dangles the bottle neck in his bloated fingers. "If it isn't my son. My wayward fucking son."
My brothers and sisters laugh like squealing rats. Heart pounding, I silently watch him with that childish fear.
"For years your mother and I looked for you." Of course he couldn't find me. I'm the only one besides himself not on The List. He wipes his mouth on a white fur cuff. His eyes have their own luminosity, a subtle fire of contempt for humanity. "Then we found you and thought about visiting, just to check on you. But no," he says, eyes narrowing, "we decided, Son, that this Christmas you're coming home for the holidays."
One seems to hear
words of good cheer
from everywhere
filling the air…
Screams from my throat as their hands tear me from the chair. Punctures and scratches raise red, blood welling on my skin as my arms desperately flail through the smoke.
…On on they send
on without end
their joyful tone
to every home…
…songs of good cheer…
Christmas is here.
Cinders scatter onto the carpet as they force me into the fireplace. My head strikes the mantle as I struggle and I slump, blinded with electric pain under the flue. Soot rains softly over my body and blood from my ear trickles down my neck as small, strong hands heave my limp form to the roof above. Hooves pounding. Clattering.
And he laughs. That terrible laugh.
Merry merry merry Christmas…
Merry merry merry Christmas.
Bruce Jones
THE WAITING GAME
ROBERT WILKES PUSHED through lethargic exit doors into chill December night, sucking the cold into his lungs with a gasp.
“Jesus, it’s freezing out here!”
His wife burrowed deeper in her fur-trimmed coat, hunched lower with a trembling nod. “Amen.”
Her way of reminding him not to take certain individuals name’s in vain so close to the season. They walked briskly across the parking lot, tracking through icy rivers of slush–filthy from endless parades of chained tires–squinting against sudden rude blasts of stinging wind. “Holiday spirit or no holiday spirit,” he grunted, “I’m glad that’s over with. Christmas is for the young, the very young.” He shifted heavy store packages in his arms.
She turned abruptly, made a stricken face. “Damn!”
He stopped, icy vapor fluttering, dread building. “What is it?”
She gave him that look he dreaded most at times like this, one of sheepish apology. “I forgot someone!”
“Oh, Lindy, no!” His toes were already beginning to lose feeling.
“It’s Kim Jameson down the block! She gave us that beautiful dish last year, we can’t just forget her!”
He groaned, cast his eyes heavenward. “I can!”
“You go on to the car,” she told him, shivering violently. “You can turn on the heater, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He looked down the long, darkened parking lot and shook his head. “We’re almost out of gas and you won’t be a few minutes, you’ll be tied up forever in line with other last minute Yule-tiders brimming with holiday spirit.” And sighing regret: “I’d better go with you.”
A gust of wind pushed them back the way they’d come. He held her arm, guiding her around frozen lakes and pot holes, asking himself for the hundredth time that evening why in hell he didn’t do his Christmas shopping in August. It was the same thing every year, as if he deliberately planned this agony for himself—some guilt-edged form of self-punishment. For sleeping late on Sundays, he thought; this is the way I do penance with the Lord.
For a moment, the warm rush of store air from within was a relief as they reentered the stampede, but within the space of two minutes someone jabbed him hard in the ribs, a child stepped on his already screaming toes, and the all-too familiar din of scurrying humanity gave new life to his once-fading headache. He heaved resigned breath as they approached the cattle chute at the escalator. If you squint your eyes, he thought, it’s like that scene from the silent classic Metropolis: soulless workers trudging to mechanized doom.
His wife must have seen the look on his face. “There’s no need for you to fight this, honey,” she said with endearing sympathy. “Somewhere there’s a book department on this floor, why don’t you browse around there while I look upstairs for Kim’s present? It’ll give you a chance to put the packages down.”
He had to love her. “What if we get lost?”
“We won’t. You just stay with the books. I’ll finish up and come to you!”
And he had to admit it sounded good. Better than watching her search through feminine apparel or dishware or whatever she was after. Christ. He didn’t even like Kim’s husband. “All right. Make it quick as you can though, huh Lindy?”
She gave his arm a patient squeeze, proffered that smile that said I love you despite all this mess. Just before she got to the escalator, he saw her point across the store expansively, silently mouth: Books—that way! Then the crowd swallowed her like a living thing.
He strained above the sea of bobbing heads to see where she’d indicated, saw only more bobbing heads, shrugged and struck off in what he hoped was the general direction.
Somewhere above the shuffling turmoil overhead speakers broadcast an ancient rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen by an Irish tenor whose name he couldn’t recall, though he’d heard the song a thousand times over the years. Christmas classics. Right. The old speakers—or maybe the undulant crowd—made the song sound tinny. The way his brother used to tell him he sounded at choir practice. He chuckled under his breath. It was impossible to think of those days without a little rush of nostalgic warmth. And with it, an edge of guilt. Where along the way had he managed to lose his faith? The dealership? The mortgage? No…long before that. Maybe around the time he knew his wife knew they weren’t going to be rich after all…
His faith. His church. He could still see his father’s powerful frame from where he, as a child, had sat in the front row of pew, gazing with unending awe and fascination at the strong hands gripping the pulpit, listening with unswerving love and reverence to the voice that drove out all fear and worry. And later, that same commanding voice, reduced to a gargled whisper by the cancer eating his throat, instructing him from the strange-smelling death bed to take care of Mommy and little brother Jim. He’d prayed to God that night with all his might not to take his father away, not to leave him alone with those terrible responsibilities, the dark, featureless future. But God, it seemed, wasn’t home that night. In the pale stillness of early morning light his father had slipped away…and with him taken the church…
A line of squirming children and bored mothers blocked his path. His weary eyes followed them down the aisle to the bright, hand-painted sign hanging above: Toyland—Visit Santa Here! He shook his head and skirted the slow-trudging line and zombie faces, picturing in his mind this year’s version of Santa: another sad-eyed old man in a padded suit of crimson and white trim, dutifully hoisting each recalcitrant youngster to his lap for $3.50 an hour, hiding, no doubt, a fifth of bourbon somewhere in the cardboard workshop behind him.
Just after entering Sporting Goods his nose was assaulted by a sudden noxious odor. Good Christ, he thought, what in the world…?
He made a face, craned about for the source. Did some kid vomit? Crap his little skivvies? The whole department reeked. He pushed past a burly, blue-haired woman and hurried to get out of there, watching where he stepped as best he could.
He rounded a corner and found himself in Hardware. He hesitated, looked right and left. “Books, books,” he mumbled, “where the hell do they keep the damn books…” The packages were be
coming lead in his arms. A growing numbness crept to his left shoulder. Heart attack. Nice.
Then he saw the sign: Books—Stationery.
He grunted satisfaction and moved ahead, forging path like a wide receiver.
In twenty minutes he’d seen all the books he wanted to see.
He found himself leaning against a table heaped high with remainder volumes, packages at his feet, arms folded, back muscles resenting him, listening to—how many times was it now?—God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. The Muzak loop must have been stuck. Or maybe the store was just too cheap this season to up the variety. Right now he’d settle for six straight renditions of Jingle Bell Rock. Maybe even a chorus or two of Little Drummer Boy. Yeah, he thought, shifting his weight to his other aching arch, and a partridge in a pear tree.
He consulted his watch. It had been an hour since he’d left his wife at the escalator. Where the hell was she? Come on, Lindy, I’m slipping away here…
A woman shoved by and kicked the packages at his feet. Merry Christmas and fuck you very much.
He was hot under the heavy coat, had been hot for over half an hour now with no way to remove it. Should have left it in the damn car. Should have stayed in the damn car as Lindy had suggested. He knew she’d be late, they both had known she’d be late, she’d been trying to warn him. Shit.
He shifted his weight to the other leg, sighed. Wondered how many times he’s sighed that night. Why do people sigh, anyway? Just boredom or some necessary bodily function? Hadn’t he read somewhere it was caused by improper breathing or posture? That, by sighing, your body saturated the lungs with oxygen and thereby helped clear the brain. But was it voluntary or involuntary? Hadn’t he seen something on TV where–
–oh who the hell cares! Think about something else. Like a nice cold beer. Or six.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 10
