Memory Tree

by Pittman, Joseph

  At last Brian’s day brightened, as Trina cautiously slipped inside the tavern, her arrival as stealthy as that of his Secret Santa gifts. Which meant he took quick notice, and, with a smile on his face, made his way over. Was she wearing more makeup than he usually saw her with, or maybe her cheeks were just reddened by the cold air outside? Had she walked over again?

  “I’m sorry to be so late . . . ,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” he said, “as long as you’re here now. Where’s Richie?”

  “In one of his moods. After two hours of trying to convince him to come, waiting for his inevitable change of heart, I gave up. But my goodness, I don’t think you’d even notice if someone was missing, this place is so crowded. I trust no one has finished my scotch?”

  “They haven’t,” Brian said, “and just an FYI, I do notice.”

  Taking her hand, he walked her over to the bar, feeling the eyes of his friends on him like snow sticking to the ground; they weren’t going anywhere. He took her coat and hung it on the rack in the corner, returning to pour her a drink but finding Mark was already on it. She chatted with her cousin briefly, and then excused herself to see if Sara needed anything. Brian let her go, getting back to work with more than a spring in his step. He felt like paying forward his happiness, so, noticing his friends’ drinks were running low, he poured a fresh round and brought them over, setting them down in front of them before clearing out the empties.

  “You guys do know this is a celebration, not a wake?”

  Bradley thanked Brian for the refills, took a healthy drink from his while the others went untouched. “I’m afraid we’ve got a somber crowd here,” he said, pushing his blond locks from his forehead while offering up a sheepish smile. “Cynthia’s acting like she’s already in Texas, and these two . . . I don’t know what’s going on. But it’s nice to see you and Trina . . . uh, getting along.”

  “Yes, Brian, tell us more,” Cynthia said. “Give us some happy relationship news.”

  Brian ignored the gentle poking, turned his eyes to Nora. Nicholas was looking away.

  “You two okay?”

  “It’s nothing. We’re fine,” Nora added. “Go and have fun, Brian.”

  “I’m working. It’s you four who should be having fun.”

  Cynthia looked aimlessly toward her son while Nicholas acted like a newcomer who had sat down among strangers. Brian needed a quick fix, and so on his way back toward the bar he whispered into Thomas’ ear, and the old man grinned, he too gazing over at the forlorn folks at the table. When the current song ended, a rousing version of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” took over, encouraging a few folks to dance. Brian watched as Bradley coerced Cynthia to the designated dance floor, and soon he had her twirling around, a smile beginning to spread across her face. When Janey joined them with baby Jake in her arms, the four of them looked so natural, like a family should at the holidays. Even Nicholas had somehow persuaded Nora to get up, and soon the two of them were locked together, enjoying the dance if not eye contact.

  Mission accomplished for now, Brian told Thomas to keep up the festive tunes, and soon enough the joyous atmosphere had spread throughout the tavern. The dance floor became the most popular area, with even a few happy couples sneaking kisses under the mistletoe. His regulars, though, remained glued to their bar stools, knowing the moment they got up they would lose them, and so Chet and Chuck and the twins did their best to groove to the music while sitting. Their best move was a finger indicating that a refill was desired. As one song ended, clapping filled the room, only to be drowned out by the sudden shattering of a glass. Chuck had knocked over his beer, it landing on the wood floor in splinters and shards.

  “I’ll get it,” Mark said, coming around the bar.

  Brian slid a fresh one Chuck’s way and said, “You may want to slow down, Chuck.”

  He responded in the form of a sneer, followed by the downing of half his beer.

  “I’ll drink what I want, when I want, Windmill Man.”

  Brian just shook his head and walked away. He’d been dealing with the many moods of Chuck Ackroyd for as long as he’d been in town, the two of them far from best friends. Some people were just not happy until they’d made other people miserable.

  “Keep an eye on him, Chet,” Brian advised.

  The next song was “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” and for a moment Brian’s mind took him back to his own childhood, thinking about his parents and how his father had been the jokester in the family, dressing up as Santa on Christmas Eve and eating the cookies they’d set out, even as his older brother, Philip, and his sister, Rebecca, watched with knowing amusement. Brian had been the youngest by several years, and at the time, he still believed in holiday magic. Which meant he wanted to sneak onto the stairs and see what happened when he was supposedly asleep. What he witnessed was his mother sneaking a kiss under Santa’s flowing white beard, but hearing the familiar laugh of his father. He’d dashed upstairs and under his covers, his mind reeling. It was one of his first memories of the disappointment that can accompany life, and he was feeling it now, knowing it was once again his parents’ fault. As if on cue, the front door of the tavern opened and in walked Didi and Kevin Duncan, she in her uniform of smart skirt and sweater, her pearls clasped around her neck, he in slacks and a cardigan sweater over a dress shirt. She was in reserved mode, keeping her distance, while his father seemed to be embracing the laid-back spirit Linden Corners represented.

  “You’re here,” Brian said, walking toward them.

  “We apologize, Brian . . . time got away from us,” Didi offered.

  “Where were you?”

  “Don’t ask questions so close to Christmas, young man,” his father advised with an easy smile. “Well, this is quite the party, Brian, wonderful turnout, near about the whole town, it looks like . . . Say, I could use a whiskey—got anything good?”

  “Kevin . . .”

  “Geez, Didi, one isn’t going to kill me.”

  Brian knew his remark was intended as a joke, but the echoing words didn’t sit well with his mother. As he escorted them deeper into the bar, he made introductions to Father Eldreth Burton from Saint Matthew’s Church, who was sipping wine while talking with a woozy Marla and Darla, trying in vain to get them to come to church on Sundays. He noticed Trina helping Sara get up from her chair, leading her to the door to her apartment; he guessed Sara needed a respite, and he was glad to have Trina vacate the bar, at least for now. He nodded her way, she smiling back as though she understood.

  Brian got his parents settled on a pair of recently vacated stools. He poured his father his desired top-shelf whiskey—a Dewar’s, just like Trina put up with—and served his mother a glass of red wine, watching the downward turn of her lips after the first sip.

  “I’m sure it’s an acquired taste, dear,” she said.

  “Just like Linden Corners itself,” Kevin said, raising his glass.

  The party grew busy again with the arrival of more people, so Brian had to return to his post behind the bar, and only occasionally could he sneak a look beyond the buildup of bodies at the bar. Outside, the snow continued to fall, thick flakes that showed no sign of stopping. A bunch of the kids gave up on the cold, finding the hot chocolate stand in the kids’ corner at the far end of the tavern. Cookies and punch were set up too. Brian noticed that Janey had tired of caring for Jake and had joined the younger set, hanging with Travis Connors and her old friend Ashley, whom she rarely saw, since she’d moved to a new school in a neighboring town. He was glad to see Janey fit in so well with anyone she encountered, whether it be the toddler Jake, the adults like Sara and Cynthia and Gerta, or just kids her own age.

  This was his favorite part of the party, taking a backseat to the action and watching who talked with whom, and what new connections in this tiny town were made. He saw his parents engaged in conversation with Gerta, she obviously filling them in on some of Brian’s travails in town, as evidenced by smiles both
tight and broad, from Didi and Kevin, respectively. He heard her telling the story of his taking Janey by sled halfway across town to make sure Gerta was okay that one Christmas morning. Noticing their drinks were low, Brian wandered over with a bottle.

  “For me, yes,” Didi said. “For him, he’ll have seltzer.”

  Gerta caught Brian’s eye as he returned with the drinks.

  “I knew there was something special about him from the moment he arrived,” Gerta was saying now. “I mean, one night my husband, George, comes home early from tending bar, unusual for him, and when I ask him why, he says he thinks he’s found someone who will help him out. I had to find out for myself this man George was raving about. And while my George was the gentlest soul I’ve ever known, he could see a con coming a mile away. He had one rule when he ran this bar: no tabs.” She paused and looked over at a familiar face at the bar and said, “Yes, I mean you, Chuck Ackroyd.”

  Brian thought Chuck looked bleary-eyed and whispered to Mark that he was cut off.

  “Let him build back his tolerance,” he advised.

  “Anyway, Brian Duncan was a godsend at an awful time, and I count my blessings he came into our lives.”

  Didi was clutching her pearls when she said, “Brian was always conscious of others.”

  While Brian waved off the compliments with modesty, he’d sooner have heard more than witnessed what happened next.

  “Brian Duncan is a self-serving jerk and I wish he’d never come to this town, damned Windmill Man,” came a fresh voice to the conversation. They all turned to find Chuck, unsteady on his feet, facing them. Clearly he’d drunk more than Brian had noticed, and this didn’t bode well. Perhaps being cut off had set him off.

  “Chuck, why don’t you and I get some fresh air,” he suggested.

  “Don’t touch me. I don’t need your help, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through . . . hmph, if only. You and that windmill and your precious Annie Sullivan, who you think was some kind of saint, but if she was, why then did her husband go straying with my wife? Those Sullivans, both of them hypocrites who didn’t care about anyone but themselves . . .”

  Brian shot a fast look Mark’s way, and the muscular Mark was on it, coming up behind Chuck faster than the storm had arrived. Grabbing hold of him, Mark began to lead him outside into the cold—maybe throwing him to the snow would sober him up. But before he could get him out the door, Chuck turned around and said, “It’s all Dan Sullivan’s fault; he ruined everything. He was the biggest fake in this stupid town . . . hey, get off me . . . hey . . .”

  His words were cut off when he was thrown to the ground.

  He lay there silently, snow falling on him.

  “Let him be for a few minutes,” Brian said. “I’m sure he’ll come to.”

  When Brian came back inside, he noticed that all eyes were on him. The bar had grown silent and the mistletoe hanging above his head seemed like a joke right now. Chet slid off his stool and said he’d see to Chuck and get him home, and as he left the music started up again thanks to Thomas, who was still manning the jukebox like a DJ. In a few minutes’ time the party was back in full swing. Brian felt relief wash over him, glad to have nipped that problem in the bud, glad too that his mother seemed to have let it pass. Last thing he needed today was to get into the complicated history of Annie and Dan Sullivan, and that’s when he noticed that maybe he hadn’t escaped unscathed. Janey was staring straight at him, and while she didn’t appear to be letting Chuck’s words affect her here, he knew she’d overheard them and would no doubt bring them up sooner rather than later.

  Damn Chuck Ackroyd, stealing Janey’s perfect notion of her father.

  It was everything Brian had tried to avoid. Now it was something he’d have to face.

  “Brian, why don’t you take a break? I’ve got the bar,” Mark said.

  “No, it’s okay, I think work is good for me . . .”

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said.

  “And if things get busy, I’ll help out,” Kevin said. “Just like the other day.”

  “Excuse me?” Didi asked.

  Brian realized now was the perfect time to escape, and so he made his way outside to the front porch, where he saw only the imprint of Chuck’s body in the snow. He’d have to comp Chet a few drinks some night in thanks for taking care of the problem. Appreciating the bracing cold against his skin, he watched with a settling sense of calm as the snow continued to fall on a land that had already seen about eight inches. He noticed that the wind had picked up big-time, now howling in the dark night. With the village adorned in bright lights that lined the main street, it was as perfect a scene as he could have envisioned: a winter postcard that Nicholas Casey’s relative might have painted a century and a half ago. What continued to amaze Brian after so many years had passed was how unchanged was the human desire for the ideal Christmas, with only the people changing, traditions living beyond generations that time had claimed. His only worry was the people still inside the tavern, and he wondered if it might be better if he got them all home before the storm worsened during the long night.

  Part of him pictured the bar empty save himself and Trina, and the music continued and the mistletoe finally earned its reputation.

  The sound of fun and frivolity won out, and Brian decided not to play Scrooge tonight.

  Someone else was already trained in the role.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, her familiar perfume announcing her presence.

  Didi Duncan had put on her warm coat, which indicated to Brian that she wasn’t here to bring him back inside.

  “It really is quite lovely here, Brian. Just as you’ve always described it.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said.

  “Your father is quite taken with this village.”

  “Sorry about putting him behind the bar, but he enjoyed it.”

  “And he’s enjoying it now; it’s a change of pace for a man like him.”

  Brian paused, still concentrating on the snow, looking like rainbow-colored flakes as it drifted past the Christmas lights, dotting the sky with fireworks gone cold. He was glad for another white Christmas, and glad too to have family at his side. Christmas had always been an important holiday for the Duncans, from his mother’s memory tree to the story of his brother, Philip, whose final gift to them had been the giving of the same name ornaments that continued to define their holiday. At last Brian turned and looked at his mother.

  “I’m glad you and Dad are here,” he said. “For Christmas.”

  “Duncans should be together at such a time.”

  “Speaking of, any word from Rebecca?”

  He heard a sigh of dissatisfaction. “Your sister is, I believe, in Paris . . . no, Nice.”

  “International, huh?”

  “Apparently she’s run out of unsuitable American men,” she said.

  “What’s this one’s name?”

  “Hard to keep track. I think Gustave. Or maybe Flaubert. Claims to be a writer.”

  Brian laughed at his mother’s joke. “And Junior?”

  “With his father, full-time,” she said, her tone sounding like she didn’t want to discuss it.

  What Brian said next was an abrupt transition, but he didn’t see any other way to force the conversation. “So why didn’t you tell me about Dad?”

  “You know I don’t like discussing unpleasant topics,” she stated.

  “Mom, you could have told me up front rather than dropping hints,” he said. “Don’t let him on the ladder, no heavy lifting, don’t let him use the ax . . . don’t let him drink whiskey. I’m not sure you’re aware of this, but Kevin Duncan doesn’t take lightly to being told no.”

  “I’ve been married to your father for nearly fifty years,” she said, as though such a statement said it all.

  “He didn’t go into details,” Brian said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “It was all quite unexpected, as these . . . things usually are,” Didi said, a rare vulnerability fillin
g her voice. “He wasn’t feeling well that one morning back in September but he went to the office anyway. Far be it from Kevin Duncan to take a sick day. What kind of message did that send to the employees? Well, the message of being carried off by ambulance has a far bigger impact.” She paused, as though her mind was taking her back to that day. “I’ll never forget when the phone rang, the chill I felt when I realized it was his secretary on the other end. Of course I raced to the hospital as fast as I could and . . .” She paused, wrapping her arms around herself. “When I finally saw him, he was so pale . . . unlike himself. You know your father, so big, so full of life . . .”

  “And he still is, Mom.”

  “Linden Corners has been good for him,” she said, “the fresh air, the change of pace.”

  “I’m glad I could help. I still wish you had told me.”

  “You have enough on your plate,” she said.

  He had a feeling that was her way of tackling the Trina subject, but he never got to find out. From his view on the porch Brian noticed a spark of light against the sky, a sizzle in the air. The flash made him blink, and then he stepped off the porch to investigate. Had it been thunder and lightning? Not terribly uncommon with such a fierce storm, and the idea of it sent shivers of fear throughout his body. He thought of that summer storm two years ago and the burned shell of the windmill, their precious Annie. Storms like that were rare, and he hadn’t seen another like it in all these subsequent months. Until now. The wind had picked up in the last fifteen minutes, and the snow was falling sideways, blowing across the road in willowy sheets. He stole another look to his left and he thought he could see the horizon come alive with an orange glow. It was faint at first, but then he smelled smoke.