by J. J. Murray
“And now I’m bringing it back. Will you be there, say, around three?”
This can’t be happening! “I know you want a safe car for your grandson. I understand that. What I don’t understand is how you’re not being a man of your word. I told you I would hold on to the check until your mechanic checked it out. I’m doing my part—”
“I got the law on my side, young man.”
The law? What law? “The lemon law?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Williams, that law doesn’t apply to this situation at all. That’s only for car dealerships.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Geez! “Can you do me a favor, Mr. Williams? Can you take the car to your mechanic first and have him check it out like you said you would, and if your mechanic, whom you obviously trust, finds major problems, then we’ll—”
“My grandson says he doesn’t feel safe in it, and neither do I. We’ll see you at three.”
“Sir, you’re taking the word of an eighteen-year-old driver who had difficulty finding the reverse gear during the test-drive.”
“He was just nervous.”
“I know he was nervous, but he was giving us all whiplash. And legally, you have the title, signed by both parties—”
“You know that isn’t really a legal document, Mr. Browning. You had to forge your own wife’s signature!”
I can’t catch my breath. “Because she’s…dead that’s why, and I told you why that day, and you said you understood.”
“I don’t want any trouble, Mr. Browning, and this car has trouble written all over it.”
I sigh. Noël would have already said “Cool, Mr. Williams, bring it back. We understand.” And Noël wouldn’t want me to sell her “baby” to anyone like Mr. Williams or his gear-stripping grandson. “Okay, Mr. Williams, bring the car back, and don’t forget to bring the title. I’ll be here waiting.”
I turn off the phone, tossing it onto the sofa. “Unbelievable. I should have deposited that check the second I had it.”
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away—and on Christmas Day.
Maybe you’ll need that car, and this is God’s way of saying—
Don’t bring God into this.
Oops. Sorry. I forgot. You and God aren’t speaking.
I have never had any luck with any vehicle. I broke the grille of my mother’s AMC Spirit, pushing it out of a snowdrift two months after getting my license. A few months later, I backed my father’s Buick Regal into another car in a parking lot. The first car technically “mine” was an Oldsmobile something-or-other.
It was an Omega. They don’t make those anymore.
That’s why I blocked out the memory.
The Omega died outside Dayton, Ohio, on a sunny, below-zero day. Fixed, it lasted only a few months more, finally coughing up oil in Marietta, Ohio. My next car, a Toyota Corona, purchased from a mechanic in Charleston, West Virginia, was a bucket of rust, yet it served me well, despite losing the muffler on some train tracks in Indiana and having only an AM radio and a pretzel-shaped antenna that, for some reason, would only bring in stations that had nonstop farm reports.
“Wheat futures are looking good….”
I still don’t know what a wheat future is.
After selling that rust bucket to a man who planned to race it—
He was spooky. He actually thought he could get a 350 engine in there.
—I bought my first “brand-new” vehicle, a Nissan Sentra. It was a beautiful car until two fifth-grade boys decided to wrestle on it in the parking lot. There were a hundred other cars to choose from, and they chose mine. Two months later, I “won” a game of chicken with a pregnant deer outside of Elliott’s Creek, Virginia, denting the brand-new hood.
She shouldn’t have hesitated.
Two months after that during an ice storm in Boones Mill, Virginia, an ancient tree branch decided to fall on the roof of the Sentra—and the second hood—destroying forever its once aerodynamic design. I barely got a thousand for it on the trade-in for the van.
We’re not thinking about the van today, remember?
Right.
A few minutes before three, Mr. Williams shows up with the Mustang, the grandson driving, Noël’s Mustang bucking like, well, a mustang. I dig the “FOR SALE” sign from the kitchen trash can, smoothing out the strips of masking tape, then go outside.
And Mrs. Williams is with them again in…a Buick Regal? My luck.
Life has a way of making circles.
More like spinning wheels.
You’re so negative.
I’m just full of positive negativity these days.
That made no sense.
I walk by Mr. Williams, who rests beside the Mustang and leans heavily on a metal cane, to Mrs. Williams in the Buick. I open my wallet and take out the check, handing it to her.
“Dry run,” she says.
“Yeah. I guess so.” I turn to Mr. Williams. “You have the title?”
Mr. Williams fishes in his pocket for the title, and then holds it out to me. I take the title, rolling it into a little scroll.
Now you’ll have to go to the DMV to get that fixed.
I can’t wait.
You’ll have to get Noël’s name taken off it.
I know. I’ll have to find the death certificate.
If you sit in a DMV long enough, everyone you have ever known will eventually show up.
Yeah, the DMV is one of the only true melting pots left in this country.
I can’t blame Mr. Williams for losing his nerve, but what did he think he was buying? It’s a used car with close to 100,000 miles on it! I was practically giving it away!
If he really wanted a safe car for his grandson, he would have bought him a Volvo or something.
“I filled up the tank,” Mr. Williams says.
Oh, that makes everything better.
I nod. “Are all the records in the car?”
“Yeah,” the grandson says.
I don’t look at the can’t-drive-a-stick grandson. I open the back driver’s side door and press the “FOR SALE” sign into the window, using my fingernails to smooth out the strips of tape.
You should trim them.
Yeah.
They look like claws.
They do, kind of.
And get a haircut. You look like a hippie.
Thanks for the compliment.
Mr. Williams takes out his wallet. “What can I give you for your trouble?”
Well, you gave me your word, and look what happened. “I don’t want anything from you. This is a solid car, and I don’t want you to think I was trying to put one over on you. The gas is enough.”
Mr. Williams looks at his wallet. “I’m going to do some more investigating on this car. I might still buy it.”
How can you investigate the car without the car? If I don’t see you or your no-driving grandson again, I’ll be a happy man.
Mrs. Williams can come, though. She seems apologetic.
I nod to Mrs. Williams, close the door, and take the key from the grandson. “Good-bye,” I say, and I walk back into the house.
“Merry Christmas,” Mr. Williams says.
I don’t return the phrase.
Why not? It’s Christmas Day!
It’s a rotten thing to say.
On the day after Christmas while others are standing in line at the malls returning gifts, I’m giving slightly used toys to the Salvation Army, and I’m not the only one waiting in line at the loading dock. There are other dads and moms with boxes of “last year’s” toys and clothes. I guess they’re making room for the new load while I’m just…making room.
When it’s my turn, I hand Stevie’s toys to a stranger, a young guy in jeans and a red flannel shirt.
Let go of the box.
The man tugs a little on the box, saying, “You need a receipt?”
Let go.
I release the box, my hands shaking. “Uh, no.” I look past him
and see huge piles of clothes inside. “Um, do you need women’s and children’s clothes?”
“Sure do, especially boys’ clothes.”
You have some of those.
“I’ll, uh, see you later today.”
“Sure thing, chief.”
I get into the truck, but I can’t take my eyes off that box, still in—Oh! He’s just thrown it down! There are years in that box! There’s a little boy in that box!
Get a grip on yourself.
“I’m sorry, Stevie,” I say, starting up the truck. “I’m so sorry.”
Back at the house, I wander around upstairs for a few hours, avoiding Noël’s door. The toys were hard enough. But her clothes?
You can’t possibly wear them.
I know that.
Though you’re certainly skinny enough now.
Very funny.
They’ll make someone happy.
Not me!
This isn’t about you. It’s Christmas. It’s about others. It’s about giving gifts.
I go to the door to Noël’s—our—room and extend my hand.
Just turn, pull toward you a little, and push. You’ve been doing it for years.
“Not today,” I whisper.
Go in.
“I just…can’t.”
The furnace chooses this moment to whirr to life in the basement, and Noël’s—our—door rattles. I had replaced the doorknob, and it had never worked right after that.
Open the door.
I grab the knob, turn it slowly, pull back, push gently, and then hear the familiar creak as it swings inside. The curtains are still pulled back, light filtering in through the miniblinds, to reveal dust on the TV, on the mirror on Noël’s vanity, and on the candles resting on the headboard. I look up at the ceiling fan and see more dust.
You need to dust this room.
I know that.
On instinct, I tiptoe between the bed and the dresser, knocking a knee into a drawer that never would fully close.
When are you going to fix that drawer?
As soon as I dust; now be quiet.
I lift and push in the drawer, but it stays put. I never got around to fixing much in this house, and I never got around to building Noël that closet organizer she wanted. They make it look so easy on the box, proclaiming “simple, easy installation with only a few household tools.” It’s still in the box next to the washing machine. Maybe I’ll—
One step at a time. Dust and fix the drawer first.
Right.
I open Noël’s closet and see…twenty or more bags from various department stores, some with flattened white boxes.
Merry Christmas, Jack.
Most of them are for Stevie.
But some of them are for you.
I pull out all the bags, and arrange them on the bed, the receipts folded neatly in the bottom of each bag.
She always saved the receipts.
Stevie would have gotten a new wardrobe complete with four pairs of new shoes, a new church outfit, and…a belt. He used to take my belt and wrap it around him twice. He was such a good mimic of me. I remember one time—
Look in your bags, Jack.
I’m having a memory.
We are having a memory, but you have work to do.
I open the first bag and see some brightly colored “teacher shirts,” collared knit short-and long-sleeved shirts, with matching pants.
So colorful.
Before I met Noël, I only wore gray, blue, and brown Oxford shirts and corduroys. She said my outfits made me look “dispassionate.”
You did. You looked more like a funeral director than an elementary school teacher.
I wasn’t in a fashion show.
But the kids noticed the change.
Yeah. They did. They didn’t make as much fun of me.
Except for that Baxter kid. He could probably find something wrong with Jesus.
The second bag contains a new belt, two packages of underwear, and an economy pack of brown and black socks. The last bag contains…a watch.
She knows I don’t wear a watch! This has to be a gag gift.
You’re rarely on time.
I like being fashionably late, and now that I have new fashions…
But when I open the box and take out the watch, I flip it over to see an inscription: “Ecclesiastes 3: 1–8 I love you, Noël.”
There is a time for everything.
A time to be born and a time to die.
Still so negative! Why not “a time to mourn and a time to dance”?
All this…this is a mourning dance.
Put it on.
I put on the watch. I don’t fiddle with setting the time. There will be a time for that. Just not now.
I pull out a bright red and green shirt and put it on, wiping dust from the mirror.
Now you’re in tune with the season.
I look like death warmed over.
With claws, Mr. Claus.
I need a haircut, a shave, and about thirty pounds added just to my face. How did I get so skeletal?
You’re an anorexic Santa.
And wrinkled? Only my eyes are unlined, those hazel-blue eyes Noël liked so much. “Drink to me only with thine eyes,” she used to say. She liked that old-fashioned poetry. But would she like this old man in the mirror? Would anyone?
Get to work.
I’m getting, I’m getting.
And take off that wedding band.
Not yet.
You’re not married anymore.
I spin the ring around my finger, a nervous gesture I have been performing ever since we got married. I had never worn any jewelry before, and I’m constantly losing things, so I check often to see if it’s still there.
It’s still there, and it shouldn’t be there.
Lots of…widowers—what a crummy word—wear their wedding rings.
Lots of old widowers. You’re not old.
I feel old. I slide the ring up to my knuckle and see a calloused circle. I wouldn’t even take it off to do the dishes or work in the yard. Why would I take it off now?
You used to call it “the world’s tiniest handcuff.”
That was before I got married.
And you’re not married now, so…
I slide the ring back down, spinning it. I still feel married, so as long as I feel married, I’m keeping it on.
At least you feel something.
Yeah. At least I can still feel.
I hoist Noël’s clothes from the closet onto the bed, and for a moment, I feel guiltier than I’ve ever felt before. These are her clothes. These are clothes she spent hours shopping for, finding the best sale, getting the best deal, even waiting for the price to come down. Do I have the right to just…give them away? She would give them away in a heartbeat if she thought it would brighten someone else’s day, but—
It has to be done.
It has to be done.
I rip open all her drawers, tossing her clothing behind me, trying not to think of her wearing any of it…and failing. The tears won’t stop. Noël used to be inside these clothes, and I used to take these clothes off her, tossing them up into the ceiling fan, and they would shoot around the room while we—
She’s in a better place.
And where am I?
You’re here.
Yeah, I’m here crying over some clothes.
I leave the dresser, clutching a silk red robe Noël used to wear after a shower, and it still smells faintly of Dove soap and herbal shampoo. I look out the window at the backyard, clutching that robe. God, that swing set looks as if it’s going to fall down. I was never mechanical.
The backyard isn’t level.
Stevie didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t even mind sliding down the slowest slide ever built while Noël and I sat in the wooden swing and watched him…grow before our very eyes. One of his shoes would just…fly off, and it was next to impossible to get it back on again. His feet grew so fast!
He’s
in a better place, too.
I know, I know. But—
A single snowflake dances by the window. Snow? I wonder if it will stick. Even a thin blanket of snow would be nice. Stevie’s snowsuit, which swamped him last year, would have fit just right this year. We would be running around in the snow, Noël would be in the kitchen making hot chocolate for us, and then we’d eat grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. Stevie would say something like, “You know, Daddy, drinking hot chocolate is like drinking kisses.”
Drinking kisses.
I rest my head on the windowsill.
I miss that boy. God, how I miss that boy.
You’ll see him again.
I look out at the yard, as more snowflakes drift down.
That’s the problem. I can’t stop seeing him now! He’s right there, trying to get a snowflake to land on his tongue! And over there, he’s chasing after a firefly! He’s running through the sprinkler and pushing that plastic bubble-making lawn mower on the other side of the yard!
Then don’t stop seeing him. See him as the happy, healthy boy he was, and get on with your life.
How? By boxing up my wife and son and giving their memories to someone else?
It’s a start.
I don’t want to forget them.
No one’s asking you to forget them.
I don’t want to…put them on the shelf somewhere to dust off and look at every once in a while. I want them back!
Then give them away.
I can’t, and I won’t.
They aren’t yours to keep anymore. They belong to God.
They belong…to God?
They belong to God.
Yeah, God can be greedy that way. Only the good die young, right?
Nothing gold can stay.
Right. Nothing gold—or golden—can ever stay in this overcast world.
Except you.
I’m not golden.
You could be.
I’d rather be overcast.
God moves in mysterious ways.
Well, sometimes He doesn’t move fast enough or at all.
The snow is starting to stick. The roads will be slick, but the truck ought to do fine. I wonder if I have enough boxes for all these clothes. I could use garbage bags…. No. That wouldn’t be right. They deserve better than garbage bags.
I’ll just have to make a couple trips and get my boxes back each time. Geez, the four-wheel-drive vehicle I bought to replace the van that cost me my family is going to be used to safely deliver their memories to the Salvation Army. What could be more ironic?
