A Lowcountry Christmas

by Mary Alice Monroe

  A sound. A feeling. Moist. Comforting. It took me a minute but gradually I processed that it was Thor’s licking my face, whimpering in worry. His paws were on either side of my legs, his chest braced against me as he stood guard over me. Slowly I realized where I was and my breathing returned to normal. After a few minutes my hand was still shaking but I could move it.

  “Good dog.” I reached out to pet Thor. I took a few more deep breaths, then moved him a few steps back from me and felt the wintry air enter the space. I gulped mouthfuls of it.

  “Are you okay?”

  I looked up to see Miller standing near, watching me with those fearful eyes again. I felt a stab of disappointment. He clearly didn’t know what to do with his crazy brother crouched on the sidewalk. Nor did I. I thought I’d been doing so well, and bam! One loud noise and I was back in Afghanistan. I was a walking powder keg.

  A couple walked past me, looking over their shoulders with suspicion.

  With a hefty grunt I rose to my feet, using Thor’s strong back as support. Then I leaned against the building while my nerves settled. I was still shaking and dizzy. Meanwhile Miller went about collecting my packages.

  “How’s the painting?” I was worried I’d torn it.

  “Feels okay.” He shrugged.

  “Good.” I felt embarrassed. I looked at my feet. “Sorry I freaked out.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I sighed and met his gaze. “No. It isn’t okay. But I have to deal with it.”

  “Yeah. It’s that PTSD, right?”

  My brows rose. “Right.” In truth, it was nice to talk about it with his knowing the facts about the disorder and accepting it.

  “I thought Thor was supposed to make that go away.”

  “He’s trying.” I patted the dog’s great head. Thor was still watching me intently, worry shining in his beautiful eyes. “But it takes time. I mean, without Thor I’d never have come with you to town. I’d still be hiding out in my room. Hell, without Thor I’d still be a shivering mess on the street.”

  I tried to make a joke of it and looked at Miller. His blue eyes, barely visible beneath his fringe of brown hair smashed down on his forehead by his knit cap, were serious. He was mulling over what I’d said. That wasn’t disgust I saw in his eyes. It was sadness. For me and my troubles, I realized with a pang of affection. I was humbled and thought I was damn lucky to have such a brother.

  “What do you say we go home?”

  Miller was more than willing.

  Without further stops we made our way home through the small village, a man, a boy, and a dog, past houses now aglow with holiday colors, a biting breeze at our faces, our arms filled with our purchases. I looked down at Thor, walking by my side, nose in the air, alert. He was working. I understood now what my Marine brother in the hospital meant when he’d said his dog had changed his life. All the reports I’d read online from servicemen with PTSD claiming their dog had helped them rebuild their fractured lives I now knew were true. I’d tried so many different therapies, but it was this dog, Thor, who gave me back hope for a normal life.

  “If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”

  —A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 18

  Taylor

  With the shopping expedition under my belt, on the twenty-third we tackled the next outing—the high school play. Miller had just begun his Christmas vacation and complained that it was grossly unfair that he had to go see a school play, but it was A Christmas Carol and for extra credit he obliged, putting on his thick corduroy pants, a navy sweater, and his new boots. I teased him that if I could go to the play with my PTSD, he had to man up and go, too. It was good to talk openly about my PTSD. It didn’t feel any longer like some dirty secret I had to hide behind a closed door.

  Unspoken, however, was a strange new bond we’d formed over the book, A Christmas Carol. Knowing we were both reading it, we frequently checked on each other’s reactions to different scenes or carried on a running debate about which ghost was the best. I preferred the Ghost of Christmas Past—the distant past. I found comfort remembering times when I was as young and carefree as Ebenezer was when he’d danced with the pretty ladies at Fezziwig’s party. Miller was behind the Ghost of Christmas Present. The ghost’s feast cinched it for him: turkeys, geese, game, poultry, prawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch. But also because he liked Tiny Tim. That gentle-hearted character had a lot in common with my little brother.

  I put on my best jacket and a freshly ironed shirt. Thor had a good brushing and his fur was gleaming. Mama wore her best red wool dress, which set off her cap of chestnut hair, and the green silk scarf decorated with holly that she’d received from Daddy several Christmases ago. She always brought it out for the holiday parties. Mama never wore much makeup. She didn’t need to. Even with all the extra hours of work she’d taken on this past week, her green eyes glittered with the expectation of a night out. I thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Daddy was unable to join us because he was once again working late, getting a house job finished by the Christmas Eve deadline. I had to respect him for that.

  When I came downstairs, I paused at the landing to sniff the air. Ecstasy! Mama had a pork roast in the slow cooker, and the delectable scents of garlic and rosemary permeated the house. I knew there’d be roasted potatoes, too. My stomach growled. Thor gave me a piteous glance, then turned to the kitchen, clearly wanting to head in that direction.

  “Soon, pal.” I stroked his fur.

  We put on our winter coats, gloves, and scarves and loaded into Mama’s car for the short drive to Lincoln High School. I went to this high school years ago, and from the outside, it looked exactly the same. We piled out of the car and waited in line at the front entrance, where a few students were collecting tickets.

  A young girl of about seventeen looked at Thor, then at me, with a worried expression. Here we go again, I thought, and felt my stomach tighten.

  But this time Mama stepped to the front. “Merry Christmas, Melissa,” she said in a friendly yet firm voice. “Have you met my son Taylor? He’s a Marine,” she said with pride. “And that’s his service dog. I’m sure you know it’s the law that people with service dogs can go anywhere, right? Yes, I’m sure you do. Now here are our tickets. Thank you. And Merry Christmas!” Mama concluded with a cheery wave and led us all past the stunned girl at the door into the school auditorium.

  “Mama would make a great drill sergeant,” I said to Miller as we followed her in.

  I gawked like a tourist as I followed my mother through the halls that I would have been able to navigate in my sleep. I’d spent four of the happiest years of my life in these halls. It seemed like a lifetime ago since I was that kid who didn’t have a care in the world. How much had changed since then, I thought. How much I had changed.

  “Hey, Taylor!” came a shout from across the hall. Thor sensed me startle and stood in front of me, blocking.

  It was Jack, my old friend. He was wearing the lowcountry man’s uniform of tan Dockers pants and a navy blazer. I nodded and waved. I was getting more comfortable being out in public with Thor, but I wasn’t ready to start talking at length with anyone.

  The school band mercifully began making noises.

  Mama said, “We’d better hurry and get some seats.”

  “I’ll call you again after Christmas,” Jack shouted with a parting wave as he guided a petite blonde carrying an infant past the double doors.

  We found seats in the back which allowed Thor to sit in the aisle. Miller wanted to sit by him and hold his leash, but I held firm. I needed Thor tonight. I didn’t want to make a mistake and cause a scene o
r have Thor bark and interrupt the play. As the curtain went down and the room darkened, I clutched the arms of my seat and knew a moment’s panic. But when I felt Thor’s muzzle on my knee, I took a deep breath and began petting him repeatedly. The dog and I were connected at an almost cellular level. Thor could sense my needs and I his. I was beginning to understand what Clarissa meant when she said the leash was more an umbilical cord. Thor had faith in us. I needed to have faith, too.

  I relaxed more and enjoyed the program. I didn’t hear a peep from Thor. He could’ve been asleep for all we were aware. The young players did an admirable job with their roles, especially old Jacob Marley when he rattled his chains and moaned for the soul of old Scrooge. I nudged Miller in the ribs when we heard the familiar lines, and he glanced back at me with a smirk. He’d received an A on his book report. I wished our father could have joined us. He always enjoyed these special family occasions. And I wanted him to be proud to see me getting out more.

  When we drove home, we were all hungry and in good moods. The night had been a success on many levels. As usual, Mama turned on the station that only played Christmas carols. This time I didn’t mind. When we pulled into our driveway, we saw that Mama had turned on the exterior Christmas lights before she left. The house looked festive, and Miller and I complimented her.

  “Yes, sir, our best Christmas Forage yet,” Mama said, looking at Miller.

  The house was still dark when we entered, and the smell of garlic was mouthwatering.

  “Your dad must still be out,” Mama said. “Well, let’s go ahead. It’s too late to wait. Take off your coats and we’ll eat our dinner.”

  I was starved and my stomach growled for the savory pork. We pulled off our heavy coats and boots, and together we set the dark wood dining table that had been in the McClellan family for generations. It still gleamed, and the scratches and nicks in the wood “gave the table personality,” Mama always said. In short order Mama had warmed a crusty loaf of bread and set it on the table beside a dish of butter and some hard cheeses. She served the sliced roast and gravy on heaps of egg noodles with a green salad on the side. We feasted happily on our late dinner, talking about the play. Thor sat quietly at my feet and only once lifted his head to look woefully at me and then let his gaze shift to my plate in an obvious beg for some meat.

  After we finished dinner, Miller brought out the ornaments we’d purchased at the Arts Council. We watched as Mama opened each one, taking great care. She oohed when seeing them: a delicate wooden carving of a shrimp boat, an acorn made from the paper of road maps, two red felt birds decorated with sequins, and a blown-glass dolphin.

  Mama held each one up to let it hang from her finger as she admired it. Each was pronounced “lovely” and “perfect.”

  Miller looked over to the corner of the living room where a few cartons labeled CHRISTMAS ORNAMENTS and XMAS LIGHTS were stacked against the wall.

  “When do you think we’ll get our tree?” Miller asked.

  “Pretty soon.” Mama reached for her coffee cup.

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve!”

  She took a sip and set it back on the saucer. “We’re waiting on Daddy to finish that house job,” she explained in a tone as if she’d given that explanation many times before. “He’s been working so hard. Why, you know how he loves going out to cut the tree. It’s tradition.”

  “All the good ones will be gone,” Miller muttered with impatience.

  “Does it matter?” I asked “Once we get the ornaments and lights on, it’ll be beautiful.”

  This appeared to appease Miller because his face softened and he nodded with a half smile. “Yeah, I reckon.”

  Mama glanced at the clock and frowned. “It’s awfully late. I wonder what’s keeping your father.”

  “He must be earning a lot of money,” Miller said, clearly relishing the prospect.

  Mama smiled wistfully. “I hope so. Well”—she stood—“these dishes aren’t going to do themselves. How about we get started? The sooner we get done, the sooner we can go to bed.”

  “I’d better walk Thor once more,” I said, lifting my plate.

  “I’ll walk him,” Miller volunteered. “It’s my turn.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I teased. “I know you’re just trying to get out of KP duty.”

  We all laughed at that. Miller bolted out of the room to grab his coat and gloves and returned with Thor’s leash.

  “Come on, boy,” he said after he hooked up the leash. “Let’s go.”

  I watched as Thor trotted happily beside Miller. It was comical but I didn’t dare laugh. Thor’s head was almost as high as Miller’s.

  “Mutt and Jeff,” I said.

  Mama, catching the reference, laughed and shook her head as she carried plates to the kitchen.

  Mama and I made short work of clearing the table and washing the dishes. We didn’t talk much; we were both tired and eager for bed. We were just finishing when we heard the front door swing open. We hurried into the front of the house and saw my father standing at the door, wide legged, arms out. Or rather, teetering. The door was wide-open and the cold wind was blowing in. He weaved from side to side, his coat open and his cheeks ruddy, as much from drink as the cold.

  “Oh.” Mama’s voice rang with disappointment as she hurried to his side.

  “What?” he said in a belligerent tone.

  Mama pushed him out of the way so she could close the front door. “You’re drunk,” she said accusingly.

  “I’m not drunk!”

  “I thought you were working.”

  “I was! Then me and Bill, we went out for a few drinks. It’s Christmas, right?”

  “Yes! It is Christmas! And you should have been with us at Miller’s play. It would have been nice to have you with your family. But instead you got drunk!”

  “I’m not drunk,” he slurred back with less arrogance, weaving with the effort.

  “You are drunk. And to think we were worried about you.”

  “No need to be. I deserve to enjoy the holidays a little, too.” He staggered farther into the front room.

  Something in the way he said that, angrier than anything else, convinced me trouble was afoot.

  “Sit down, Alistair. I’ll get you something to eat.” Mama took hold of his arm to guide him to the table.

  My father lifted his arm from her grasp and turned away, giving her his shoulder. “I’m not hungry.”

  Mama slammed her hands on her hips. “Did you eat?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, great.” She rolled her eyes. “Sit down, hear? I’ll get you some water, too.”

  “I don’t want any damn water. I need a drink.”

  “You’ve had enough to drink.”

  He shook his head and lifted his arms to ward her off. “I haven’t had near enough,” he said.

  I moved forward to help my mother, but she waved me away firmly.

  “No more drinking,” Mama said, going toe to toe with my father. “Now stop it, hear?” She was mad now. “We were having a perfectly lovely evening, and you had to come in here and ruin it. Getting drunk . . . You should be ashamed of yourself. It’s Christmas!”

  I watched as his face mottled and he worked his jaw as if he were going to really fire off some choice words. My hands formed fists at my sides, ready to intervene. I could feel my heart rate zooming.

  “Christmas, huh?” my father said angrily. “Let me tell you about Christmas.” He said Christmas like a sneer. “I killed myself to make this deadline. You know I did. And I made it, too. Only a few piddly-shit things left on the final checklist to finish.” He waved his hand so hard he teetered. “Not important. But is she satisfied? Nooooo.” He drawled out the word. “She says she won’t pay until the job is done. When I say I’ll come back tomorrow to finish up, she gets all uppity and says it’s Christmas Eve and she doesn’t want any more work done until after the holidays. How it wasn’t her fault the job wasn’t done on time. The hell it wasn�
�t!” he bellowed. “She changed her mind on the tile three times! Do you know how long it takes to get tile in?” He shook his head, then put his hand on his forehead.

  He weaved a bit with his eyes closed and I thought he might stumble. Then he lowered his voice and said almost in a cry, “She’s not going to pay me until after the holidays.” He looked at Mama with his eyes red from drink and, though I shuddered to think it, crying. “I don’t have the money I was counting on for Christmas. She stiffed me.”

  I felt for my old man. He had always been the rock that his family counted on. The Captain. He was the best out there and never disappointed. This final insult had to come as a crushing blow. My father had his disillusionments, too. I knew how much he’d sacrificed year after year, spending long hours on the sea doing backbreaking labor, to see it all go up in smoke. Sometimes, I thought grimly, hard work doesn’t pay off.

  Mama put her hand on his sleeve and was about to say something when the front door swung open again. Miller and Thor walked in. Miller was pink-cheeked from the cold night. With the dog at his side he never looked more like the innocent child.

  “Daddy, you’re home!” he exclaimed happily.

  Daddy merely cast him a hooded glance, nodded brusquely, and ran his hand through his hair.

  Miller unhooked Thor’s leash. The dog trotted to my side, giving my father wide berth.

  “I see that mutt is still here.”

  I frowned and put my hand on Thor’s head in a protective gesture.

  Miller sensed the tension, and I knew he’d do what he always did when Mama and Dad were fighting. He’d try to make peace.

  “Hey, Daddy,” he said in a cheerful voice, full of enthusiasm. He slipped off his hat and looked at our father, his eyes shining. “When are we going to get the tree? Tomorrow, right?”

  It was a defining moment, and we held a collective breath. The voice of Christmas Present sang out in Miller’s voice, full of possibility. The Christmas tree! It felt as though our entire Christmas was held in the balance. Mama, too, sensed the importance of this moment. She looked to Alistair, a silent plea in her eyes.