A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  And I remembered the night, just the two of us sitting out back on the deck, watching a meteor shower, when he put his beer down and turned to me and said:

  “Don’t ever lie to yourself, Bobby. People lie to themselves all the time. To survive. To get by. But you look those people in the eye—even the toughest of the bunch—and you ask them, ‘What do you think about when you see a shooting star in the night sky? Better yet, who do you think about?’ Because that right there is their truth, and in that moment even they can’t deny it. Maybe the saddest thing of all is those same people are usually the ones who stop watching stars that fall from the sky. They learn to just turn away from the magic.”

  It was beautiful and poetic and maybe the wisest thing anyone had ever said to me.

  And none of it was real.

  Tuesday, Dec 24

  Surprisingly, Christmas Eve turned out to be a wonderful day for all of us.

  Despite the latest news reports about Jimmy and my trip downtown to the police station the day before, it was almost as if the three of us had made an unspoken family agreement to wake up fresh and not allow any of it to interfere with us having a great holiday.

  Katy and I had been worried at first. Grant had slept in late, and we’d feared that he was still hanging onto his dark feelings from the day before.

  But he’d shocked us by bounding down the stairs starving for a big breakfast and already dressed to go get a Christmas tree.

  When Grant was still living at home, we would always pick out our tree the first weekend of December and set it up the second weekend. Now, that he was away at college, it had become tradition to buy it on Christmas Eve morning, and set it up after dinner and a nighttime walk around the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights.

  We’d decided to skip the walk this year—after a quick discussion confirmed that none of us were particularly anxious to see or talk to any of our neighbors—but dinner had been amazing, as usual (Katy’s homemade lasagna, rolls, and salad), and the tree took us until almost ten o’clock to finish decorating.

  We’d watched the end of White Christmas together on television, and then hugged Grant goodnight as he went up to bed. Once we were sure he was asleep, Katy and I had made love in the comforting glow of the Christmas tree and dozed in each other’s arms afterward.

  For just a moment, everything had felt okay in the world again.

  I listened to Katy’s footsteps climbing the stairs, and finished rinsing our wine glasses in the sink. I turned off the kitchen lights and returned to the den to close up.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the Christmas tree. It’s twinkling lights and wintergreen smell brought back so many pleasant memories. Grant, as a boy, leaving cookies and milk and a handwritten note on the mantle for Santa; chopped-up carrots on the floor for his reindeer. Katy and I sneaking presents under the tree once Grant had fallen asleep.

  I bent down and rehung an angel ornament, which had fallen down through the branches—and another memory washed over me.

  Every Christmas Eve as a boy, after evening mass, my brother and I would walk hand-in-hand to the top of Tupelo Drive. Once we’d reached the crest of the hill, we would stand at the crossroad and look down Juniper Street at the carnival of twinkling lights decorating the houses along both sides of the road. Jimmy always used to say that it was like our own personal Christmas parade—and he was right.

  After taking our time on Juniper, Jimmy and I would return home to change into pajamas, drink Mom’s hot cocoa, and open one early Christmas present each. Then Mom would tuck us in, and we would whisper to each other across our cramped bedroom until we finally fell asleep.

  It was the clearest and most favorite memory I had of my brother—and it filled my soul and made my heart hurt, all at once.

  I unplugged the Christmas tree lights and walked upstairs in darkness.

  Wednesday, Dec 25

  I gawked at the huge present wrapped in Frosty the Snowman gift paper. “I have no idea what it is!”

  “And that’s enough to drive you crazy, isn’t it?” Katy beamed.

  Grant laughed, and high-fived his mother.

  “Whatever,” I said, sounding very much like a pouting child.

  I was notoriously difficult to surprise when it came to gifts, and that was somewhat of an understatement. If constant badgering—“What’d you get me? What’d you get me? C’mon, just give me a hint.”—didn’t work, then I usually resorted to sneaking around the house, searching high and low for hidden caches of presents or store receipts.

  One year, I even snuck downstairs and used an exacto knife to carefully slice open the wrapping paper of one of my gifts under the tree. Once I had determined the gift’s identity, I’d used scotch tape to reseal it.

  I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for Katy being such a light sleeper. Suffice to say, she no longer put presents under the tree until late on Christmas Eve.

  “Go ahead, open it,” she said, still grinning.

  I didn’t have to be told twice. I tore open the wrapping paper with a couple quick swipes of my hands—and my mouth dropped open in surprise.

  “You got me a snow-blower!” I tilted the box for a better look at it, and then gave Katy a big thank you hug and kiss. I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Well, well, better write it down on the calendar, folks. Bobby Howard has finally been punked!”

  Still smiling, I took something from the pocket of my flannel pjs. Handed it to Katy.

  “What’s this?”

  “You’re not the only one who likes surprises.” I looked at Grant and winked.

  Katy slowly unwrapped—My god, who takes their time opening Christmas presents?!—the narrow box and lifted the lid. A string of pearls shined like miniature angels in the morning light coming through the windows.

  She held them up in one hand and put the other hand to her mouth. “Oh…oh…oh my God…” And then she squealed and practically tackled me in a bear hug.

  “And mark those calendars again, folks. Katy Howard has just been rendered—surely for the first time ever in her life—speechless.”

  And then it was my turn to laugh and high-five Grant.

  After the three of us fawned over our gifts some more—Grant was especially enamored with his new iPad—and cleaned up the wrapping paper mess on the floor, we had just enough time to enjoy bagels and coffee and get dressed before Katy’s parents arrived for the day.

  Her parents were never late, and today was no exception. Within minutes of their arrival, Katy’s mom was buzzing around the kitchen, helping with dinner preparations, and her father was camped out in front of the television in my recliner with his shoes off.

  A short time later, Katy’s sister, Anne, and her husband and two little girls arrived from Ohio. We had kept their trip a secret from Katy’s parents, so after a brief and tearful reunion, we all retreated to the den for an afternoon of catching up, food, college football, food, board games, food, more gift opening, and more food.

  The only time I heard Jimmy’s name was during a local, television newsbreak at halftime of one of the football games. Pennsylvania State Police had arrested a former employee for the murder of the florist. Here in Maryland, a trucker thought he’d spotted Jimmy driving a late model Mustang on I-95 south of Baltimore, but he’d been unable to get a license plate. And that was it—back to football.

  By seven o’clock, I felt more like a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey than a Christmas elf. I dozed at the end of the sofa, my swollen belly hidden beneath a pillow.

  By nine o’clock, Katy’s parents had left for home and her sister and family had gone back to their hotel for the night. We were alone again, and happily exhausted.

  Katy walked into the bathroom as I was brushing my teeth. I rinsed my mouth and spit into the sink. “Today was nice, wasn’t it?”

  “Today was perfect.” She lifted herself up on tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, hone
y. Thank you.”

  Another kiss, this time on the mouth. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Should I feel guilty reacting the way I did to your surprise this morning?”

  I looked at her, confused.

  “I mean, with everything going on. Jimmy. The poor families of the victims. And I was so happy…”

  I took her gently by the shoulders. “No, no, no, you should not feel guilty, and either should I. We’ve worked hard to get where we are. We deserve to be happy once in awhile.”

  “Okay, good,” she said, and I could tell she was relieved.

  I walked into the bedroom and climbed under the covers. “It was nice to see your mom and dad today. They were actually a little better than I thought they’d be.”

  “They both stopped watching the news and reading the newspaper. That’s helped a lot.”

  “Mark offered to lend me a gun, can you believe that?” Mark was our brother-in-law, an avid hunter and outdoorsman.

  “I hope you told him no,” she said above the water running in the bathroom.

  “Of course, I did. Told him I’d probably shoot myself in the dick the first time I tried to use it.”

  Katy laughed and turned off the water. “Well, then I’m glad you told him no,” she said, appearing in the doorway wearing her new string of pearls—and nothing else. “Because I really like your dick.”

  She turned off the light and came to bed.

  Friday, Dec 27

  “There you are,” Grant said from inside the garage.

  I was kneeling at the top of the driveway, trying to assemble my new snow-blower. It was slow going, parts scattered everywhere, and I couldn’t help but think of Jimmy and how he would usually be the one helping me do this.

  “Mom wants to drive by the mall to return the sweater Grandma gave her—of course—and then we’re meeting Uncle Mark and the girls at Chili’s for lunch. You wanna come?”

  I stood and brushed dirt from my jeans. “Sure. Give me ten minutes to finish here and wash up.”

  He glanced at the mess I had made and flashed me a skeptical look.

  “Okay, okay, maybe twenty. But they’re calling for snow tomorrow night, and I want to be ready.”

  “I’ll tell Mom a half hour,” Grant said with a shit-eating grin and walked back inside.

  “Nobody likes a smartass,” I called after him, and just like that, I was blindsided by an unexpected surge of fatherly love and pride. For reasons I couldn’t even begin to explain, I felt sudden tears in my eyes.

  A dog barked on the street behind me, and I turned around just in time to see my neighbor, Aaron, picking up his newspaper and walking into his garage with his old German Shepard, Sarge, in tow.

  I wiped a tear from my eye and walked down the driveway to my own newspaper box. I needed a moment to compose myself.

  I grabbed the rolled-up newspaper from inside the box and opened it while I walked back to the house.

  Halfway up the driveway, I stopped in my tracks, my heart skipping a beat. I stood perfectly still, the rest of the world melting away to nothing around me, and stared down at the paper. I read the words again, slower this time.

  Then, I carefully refolded the newspaper and slid it into my back pocket—and went inside.

  Sunday, Dec 29

  It was just after midnight, and I was sneaking out of the house like a teenager.

  Katy and Grant had been asleep for almost an hour, and the house was dark and silent. Snow was falling outside and had already blanketed the lawns and streets. The forecast called for six to nine inches by morning.

  Dressed in dark pants and sweatshirt, I crept down the stairs, made my way through the den, and out the kitchen door into the garage.

  I grabbed a heavy jacket and Grant’s keys from the workbench, where I had left them earlier in the evening, slipped into my freezing cold boots, and eased open the door to the side yard.

  Snow and wind lashed my face, and threatened to yank the door from my hand. I tightened my grip and carefully pushed the door closed. If the wind had slammed it shut and awakened Katy, I was a dead man with an awful lot of explaining to do.

  I marched around the side yard, through a couple inches of fresh snow, to the driveway and Grant’s Subaru. I would have much preferred to take my own car or even Katy’s, but Grant’s car was parked in its usual spot, blocking the garage door, and with snow in the forecast, I hadn’t been able to think of a single good excuse to ask Grant to park in the street.

  I had spent the past thirty-six hours doing my best to not raise any suspicions, and it had been an exhausting task. Saturday had passed like an eternity. So many thoughts ricocheting around inside my head—and heart—and I had changed my mind a half-dozen times before finally settling on my decision.

  I used my bare hands to clear snow from the Subaru’s windshield, then climbed inside and eased the door closed. The interior of the car smelled like old pizza and dirty socks. I inserted the key in the ignition, unlocked the steering wheel, put the car in neutral, and released the parking brake.

  Holding my breath, I drifted silently down the driveway and into the snow-covered street. The slope of Hanson Road carried me most of the way clear of my house, and only then did I attempt to crank the engine.

  It wheezed and sputtered several times before it finally caught. I strapped on my seatbelt and drove carefully out of the neighborhood.

  At least this piece of shit has four wheel drive, I thought, turning right onto Edgewood Road and cruising past the all-night Dunkin’ Donuts and Texaco station.

  The note had been hidden in the Friday morning edition of the Baltimore Sun.

  It had been scribbled on a sheet of torn-out notebook paper, and I had recognized the handwriting before I’d even had time to digest the contents of the note.

  After I’d read it the first couple times in the driveway, I’d hidden the note in the pocket of my jeans and read it twice more at the mall when Katy and Grant had been off on their own. I’d read it again a short time later in the bathroom stall at Chili’s.

  Later that Friday evening, after everyone had gone upstairs, I’d read the note one final time—and then I’d burned it in the fireplace. Once I was certain there was nothing left but ashes, I’d gone upstairs to bed and lay awake for hours.

  The streets were empty—except for the occasional snow plow lurking past me like some kind of prehistoric monster—and once I hit Route 22, I was surprised by how quickly I got there.

  Not even twenty minutes after drifting down my driveway, I slowed and pulled to the side of the road—at the exact spot where Jimmy and I had once chased a baby deer into the woods, laughing and carrying on like carefree teenagers. It seemed like a lifetime ago, now.

  I swung around and did a U-turn, so the car would be parked on the correct side of the road, and as I did, my headlights swept across a snow-covered field, exposing a staggered line of boot prints in an otherwise pristine blanket of fresh powder. The prints disappeared into the distant treeline.

  I OWE YOU ONE FINAL TRUTH, BOBBY. PLEASE MEET ME.

  I adjusted and zipped up my heavy jacket. Pulled on a winter hat. Took a couple deep breaths to calm myself. Then turned off the car and got out.

  The snow was coming down harder now, the flakes fatter and wetter, and the wind had picked up. I adjusted my jacket collar and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

  SUNDAY. 12:30AM. BABY DEER WOODS. I HAVE SOMETHING I NEED TO GIVE YOU BEFORE I GO AWAY FOREVER.

  I started across the field, following the quickly disappearing boot tracks in the snow. I felt bulky and sluggish, like an overdressed snowman. The wind slowed my pace even more and stung my eyes. I squeezed them shut for a moment and saw Lisa James’s bloodied face—just as she had been appearing in my dreams—the seventeen-year-old, Dartmouth-bound beauty who had been killed in the utility shed at her swimming pool.

  PLEASE MEET ME, BOBBY. PLEASE DON’T BE AFRAID.

  That’s right,
Bob, nothing at all to be afraid of, I thought, as I lowered my head and kept on walking.

  Hell, I wasn’t afraid. I was scared shitless.

  I crossed a small creek, using ice-slippery rocks as a pathway, and slowly stepped into the woods, my eyes moving everywhere. Most of the wind was blocked here, but it moaned even louder high above me in the treetops. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the deeper darkness.

  “Jimmy?” My voice sounded like a stranger’s.

  I walked deeper into the woods. It felt like I was watching someone else in a movie. Someone very foolish.

  “Jimmy?”

  I thought I heard the snap of dead branches to my right, and I stopped moving, listening.

  “That you, Jimmy?”

  Nothing, but the wind.

  I started walking again, and—

  “I’m right here, Bobby.”

  From directly behind me.

  I jerked like I’d been hit with a taser and spun around—and there was my old friend.

  Standing next to the tree I had just walked past.

  He was wearing dark pants and a sweatshirt with the hood up. No jacket. I couldn’t see his eyes at all, and could see just enough of the rest of his face to see that he hadn’t shaved in awhile. I had never seen him with a beard before.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, Bobby.”

  We were maybe fifteen feet apart.

  “Just an old pair of underwear. I can throw them away when I get home.”