A Lowcountry Christmas

by Mary Alice Monroe

  My father looked at my brother for a minute, processing Miller’s words in his drink-sodden brain. Then his face wrinkled in scorn and the die was cast.

  “We can’t afford no damn Christmas tree!” he shouted. He slammed his arm down like a guillotine.

  I saw my little brother’s face fall, crushed in bewilderment.

  “I’ll buy the tree,” I shouted at my father.

  My father swung his head to look at me. I don’t think he knew I’d been in the room until that moment. I saw shame flicker in his eyes, replaced too soon by a red-blooded fury fueled by alcohol. “No one gets a tree for my house except me,” he shouted, taking two steps toward me in a threatening move.

  I bowed up, springing to defense mode. I felt Thor licking my hand, whining softly. Looking down, I could see him watching me with a worried look. He wouldn’t take his eyes off me. I loosened my fist and began stroking his head nonstop.

  “This is my house,” Daddy shouted. “What I say goes. Got it? And I say we’re not getting any damn tree!” He tottered on his feet, then swung his arm out in emphasis. “Christmas is a sham anyway. No one really gives a damn about anyone!” He scanned the room, going from face to face, his eyes glowering. He reared up and said with belligerence, “You can all forget Christmas.” His eyes bulged as he dared us to argue. “We can’t afford Christmas!”

  “You’re worse than Scrooge!” Miller shouted back at him, his hands in fists and his eyes glaring. “I hate you!” He turned on his heel and ran up the stairs.

  Daddy ran after him, bumping my shoulder hard as he passed.

  I felt a knee-jerk reaction, fight or flight, and I was gearing up for a fight. My head began to throb and buzz. I closed my eyes. I heard my father shouting . . . I heard men shouting . . . crying out. “The Carol of the Bells” was playing, mocking me as the pace went faster and faster. Anxiety . . . anger . . . danger . . . threat. I staggered forward.

  Thor moved his big black body to block my path.

  I felt my mother’s hand on my arm. She caught my eye and shook her head firmly. “Stay out of it,” she said in a low voice.

  I blinked several times, focusing on her and where I was. I nodded yes, then took a deep breath. I looked down at Thor. He was watching me, assessing my anxiety. It was flight, I decided, and I grabbed Thor’s leash. I retreated, following my brother up the stairs. Once again, the sound of doors slamming reverberated in our home.

  Inside my room I felt the comfort of the cloaking darkness. With explosions going on in my head, light pierced like glass through my eyes. I slumped back against the door and took several more long breaths, letting my hand stroke Thor, finding comfort there, as I tried to stall the pressure building up in my head. In time I opened my eyes a slit and saw in the dim shadows the shapes of the Christmas packages I’d set on the floor by my desk. Among them I recognized the large rectangular shape of the painting I’d purchased for my father. I released a short laugh, thinking how many Christmas trees I could have bought for the price of that one small painting.

  My skull felt as if it were splitting in two. I’d done too much. Tried too hard. I lay down on the carpet and covered my eyes with my arm. Thor came to lie beside me. I felt the power of his muscular body and the rhythm of his breathing. It soothed me, and as I wrapped my arm around him, I couldn’t help but think of Miller and the night he slept here and also found comfort in Thor’s presence.

  We lay on the floor as I tried to gauge the power of this onslaught of pain as any surfer would an oncoming wave. This was a big one, I realized. It could last for two days. Right through Christmas.

  I somehow managed to remove my shoes and belt and then crawl to the bed. As I lay in the darkness, I knew that somewhere in the room Thor watched and waited, listening for my cues. Knowing that, the knots of tension slowly released. Hours passed like this, and in time the pain lessened enough that I could process thought. I remembered my father’s shameful drunkenness. I knew in the morning he’d be ashamed of his anger, his pettiness, but he’d never be able to take his words back. What he said came back to me now: “Christmas is a sham. No one cares about anyone.”

  For all my bitterness, I knew that wasn’t true. I recalled my experiences in the shops. How many people had said, “Thank you for your service.” I saw again the light in Miller’s eyes when he said, “I think Mama will like this!” I felt again my pleasure buying my father that painting. And even more, the delight of stepping into the house and inhaling the scents of rosemary and garlic, feeling it was a home. And Mama’s joy at receiving the simple ornaments.

  Christmas was not a sham. My spiraling emotions were not triggered by anything that was done to me. Quite the opposite. I hurt because my brother hurt. I felt Miller’s disillusionment. His disappointment. The loss of his innocence. I ached because I couldn’t protect him from growing up.

  Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home’s like heaven! . . . I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said “Yes, you should.”

  —Fan, Scrooge’s sister, A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 19

  Miller

  I opened my eyes and knew immediately today was different. It was Christmas Eve. A day I looked forward to almost more than Christmas. I think it’s because I liked the anticipation of Christmas as much as the day itself. I lay tangled up in my blanket. Usually I jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen to see what treats my mama was cooking up. She liked to start her baking early. There would be cinnamon buns, my favorite. And scones, her favorite. She’d make bacon, too. I sniffed the air. I didn’t smell anything at all coming from the kitchen, even though the sun was coming in through the window. That was odd. Then I had a terrible thought. What if she was doing what Daddy said and there would be no Christmas?

  I felt a wave of cold wash over me. One that felt like fear. Could there really be no Christmas?

  I already knew it wasn’t going to be a great Christmas. I knew that the day I found out I wasn’t getting my dog. But in the past few days things had started looking up. Taylor was beginning to be a bit more like his old self. Mama was cheering up, too. And then there was Thor. He was making everyone feel a bit happier. It was like he was some sort of Christmas angel.

  Then Daddy had to go and ruin everything. He was worse than Scrooge. He was mean! I wished he would’ve just stayed away all Christmas. We were better off when he wasn’t here. It made me mad to remember what he’d said last night. Telling us there was not going to be a tree. And no Christmas! Who said he was the boss of Christmas?

  I could feel my blood boil just thinking about it. By saying we weren’t going to have Christmas, Daddy made today feel worse than any ordinary day. It was like something was missing or taken away. Something important.

  My heart felt heavy and I rubbed my eyes. They were dry and crusty from all the crying I’d done the night before. But it made me feel calmer. And hungry. Very hungry, especially thinking about all the food I didn’t smell baking downstairs.

  After a long while of listless lying in bed feeling sorry for myself, I was bored. I couldn’t figure out how Taylor could stay in his room for so many hours. I pushed back my blanket, deciding I might as well get up. I rose and padded down the hall to the bathroom, noticing Taylor’s bedroom door was still closed. That made me both sad and mad. He’d kept the door open the past few days so I could see Thor first thing when I woke up.

  Downstairs, the kitchen was empty. My parents’ bedroom door was closed. Wasn’t anyone getting up today? I wondered. Was everyone just going to sleep through Christmas?

  I went into the living room and saw the ornaments that Taylor and I had bought for my mother lying on the coffee table. The boxes filled with lights and ornaments for the tree were still in the corner, unopened. Mama had moved the easy chair out from the corner to make room for the Christmas tree. That was over a week ago. Every time I saw that empty space in the corner of the room, it made me feel bad. I mean, who didn’t get a Chri
stmas tree?

  My lips tightened and I felt a surge of renewed anger. Daddy wasn’t going to ruin Christmas, I thought. Not for me, not for Taylor, and, most of all, not for Mama. He didn’t buy me my dog. I couldn’t do anything about that. But I’d show him. He wasn’t the only one who could get a tree!

  I hurried upstairs, feeling like a man on a mission. I dressed warmly—long underwear, hiking socks, my thick boots—while my mind formulated my plan. I felt my blood racing. I was actually getting excited. I’d be the hero. I’d bring home the tree all by myself. I’d save Christmas for my family.

  Maybe not all by myself, I thought again. I’d never been foraging in the woods by myself. Mama had always come with me. Then it occurred to me that I’d be safe with Thor.

  With that thought in mind I quietly walked down the hall and pried open Taylor’s door, cringing when the hinges creaked softly. When I stuck my head in, Thor was already sitting up and watching me with those big dark eyes. Taylor was still sleeping on his belly, snoring.

  “Thor,” I called out in a loud whisper. I waved my hand. “Come.”

  Thankfully he came right away. I patted his head and guided him outside the room.

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  Thor understood that, and he pranced in joy down the hall, excited at the prospect of going out. The kitchen was cold, even at this late hour. Not even the smell of coffee. I moved quietly but quickly, pouring out kibble for Thor, adding extra to the bowl because I knew we’d be going for a long walk. While Thor noisily chowed down his kibble with relish, I made myself a bowl of cold cereal and wolfed it down, too. I kept an eye on the door and an ear cocked in case someone woke up and came into the kitchen. I wanted to sneak out before anyone could stop me. I put my bowl in the sink, then went to fetch my backpack from the hooks by the back door. I emptied the contents, a bunch of end-of-semester notices, onto the floor. Then I went to the pantry and filled it up with cookies, a box of peanuts, some raisins, and, with great luck, a stick of beef jerky. I tossed in a bottle of water, then, remembering Thor, added another. The backpack was getting heavy so I stopped there. We would only be gone a few hours.

  That done, I donned my parka, hat, and gloves. Knowing I’d be in the woods, I wrapped a scarf around my neck. I was already hot and eager to get outside. Thor was watching me with happiness in his eyes, knowing we were going out. I often took him out for his morning walk, so he was used to me putting his leash on. I grabbed my backpack, opened the back door, and we slipped out.

  The sky was a grayish blue and filled with fat white clouds. The air tasted sweet and moist, a bit like rain. I didn’t think it would and picked up the pace. Thor and I had made good time, dragging behind us the red wagon filled with my backpack and my father’s ax. It was heavy but I could swing it. I was strong enough. I’d be able to cut down a tree, I felt sure. We were already at Mama’s path—our secret path—into the great Marion National Forest.

  “Come on, Thor. Let’s find ourselves a tree.”

  Excitement thrummed in my veins as we made our way through the forest, following the well-worn path my mother and I had marched upon only weeks earlier. It seemed much longer ago since we’d gone for our Christmas Forage. On that trip Christmas had loomed as bright and rosy as all the holly berries we’d collected. Mama had said it was going to be our best Christmas ever, and I’d believed her because that was back when I still held hope I’d get Sandy. Back before Taylor had returned home with that awful PTSD. Back before Daddy ruined Christmas. I spotted several holly trees laden with rosy berries that my mama would surely have stopped for. I didn’t want to go near their prickly leaves. It had been unseasonably warm that day, not cold like today. But I was warm in my heavy parka and dragging the wagon alone was hard work. The ground was covered with rusty longleaf-pine needles and a thick covering of damp, molding leaves. I was stupid not to think that Mama had dragged the wagon most of the way. My arm was getting sore and I worried a bit how I’d manage once the tree was in the wagon. But it was too late to chicken out now. Thor and I were on a mission, I thought, putting one foot in front of my other while dragging the rusty wagon behind me over the ruts and roots.

  “We’re going to find the most beautiful tree in the world,” I said to Thor, bolstering my own resolve. He looked at me quizzically, wondering what I was asking of him. I laughed and reached out to pat his head. “Never mind. We’re almost there.”

  At least I hoped we were. We’d been walking for what must’ve been hours. I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t have a watch. The deeper into the woods we went, the thicker the overhang of branches and needles and the darker it grew. I could hear birds calling from high up in the trees, and once I heard the high-pitched kreeee of a hawk and, looking up, saw one soaring over the tops of the trees. Daddy had told me that even from way up there, the hawk could spot a mouse running along the forest floor. As we hiked, I’d sometimes hear the sharp crack of a branch caused by something bigger than a bird. Much bigger. A deer, maybe? A coyote? I was glad I had Thor by my side.

  “I reckon I won’t try to find the grove of trees Mama was telling me about. We’ve been out here too long already, and I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a mite cold.” I looked up beyond the long stretch of towering pines to the bit of sky showing above. It was ominously gray, miserly with the sun. “We should head back. Keep your eyes open for any tree that would do for a Christmas tree.”

  Thor looked at me and I swear he looked a bit anxious, like he was waiting for me to take him home. He stretched back, his long legs sticking out like logs before him. When he came back up, he gave a soft woof, as though telling me it was time to get going.

  I was disappointed that I’d not found the famous grove of trees where Mama said the picking was ripe. But I wasn’t discouraged. The Marion National Forest had lots of trees, and my tree was just sitting there waiting for me.

  I just had to find it.

  I continued down the forest path for what seemed like miles dragging that wobbly, rusty wagon behind me; then I saw the tree. It wasn’t a great tree, I knew that at first glance. Its branches were spindly and few. But little acorns were on some of the branches and it was taller than me by half. It stood straight in an open bit of earth. Suddenly a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone smack on the tree, as if God Himself was pointing it out to me.

  “That’s good enough for me,” I told Thor, and reached for my father’s ax. It took more whacks than I thought it’d take to fell that puny tree. I was sweating by the time I’d dragged it onto the wagon. I put my hands on my hips, breathing heavily, and inspected the situation. The top half of the tree fell out of the wagon and dragged on the ground. I scratched my head, worried now. How was I going to get it home? I wondered. I hadn’t planned on how to keep the darn tree in the wagon as I pulled. I should’ve brought a bit of rope. There was nothing for it but to choose—the tree or the wagon. I couldn’t pull both.

  “I can come back for the wagon,” I told Thor. “But we need to get the tree home today. Tomorrow’s Christmas!”

  I dragged the trunk of the tree off the wagon and let it fall to the earth. Then I grabbed my backpack and slipped it over my shoulders. I wanted to eat more of those nuts, but I didn’t want to waste any more time. Taking a deep breath, I bent to grab hold of the base of the tree. Suddenly Thor gave a loud bark and, like a bolt of lightning, took off into the woods.

  “Thor!” I called out, dropping the tree. “Thor, come!” He didn’t return. I could no longer see him, but I heard his barking fainter, farther in the woods. He’d probably cornered a squirrel or a raccoon, I thought as I took off after him into the deep woods. Please, God, don’t let it be a bear. No matter what it was, I couldn’t lose my brother’s dog!

  I am sorry for him; I couldn’t be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself always.

  —Fred, Scrooge’s nephew, A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 20

  Jenny

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nbsp; I couldn’t remember when I’d last slept so late. I was up most of the night staring out the window while Alistair slept it off. I only went to bed in the early hours of the morning.

  Alistair had been a handful; he usually was whenever he got drunk. Which wasn’t too often, thank heavens, but when he did tie one on, it was a doozy. I finally got him soaking in a hot tub while I supplied him with aspirin and glass after glass of water. I would have been furious except that he’d wept. He felt so desolate, so worthless, coming up short at Christmas. I watched as he sat slump-shouldered in the steaming tub as all his sorrow, frustrations, and disappointment drained out into the water. When he was spent, I’d helped him from the tub, dried his wet skin, buttoned his pajamas, and brought him into our bed.

  I couldn’t sleep. I sat on the edge of my bed in a kind of stupor, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. I was sad for my husband. He’d been treated shabbily by the woman who’d hired him. No doubt the woman was using the checklist as an excuse to stingily hold on to her dollars until after Christmas. It was unforgivable. Coldhearted. Cap didn’t deserve that treatment. No one could have worked harder, and with more pride in his work, than Alistair McClellan. Ask anyone.

  I thought about all this and more in those angst-filled wee hours of the morning when all seems bleak. Only the bad thoughts, the worries and regrets, emerge in the middle of the night, like snakes when the sewers back up. I grew cold and my eyelids drooped heavily. I sighed wearily and lay down in my bed. I only knew that if I didn’t get sleep, I’d face the new day less able—tired and cranky.

  It was late when I fell asleep, and late when I awoke. The sun poured in from the open curtains and I had to use a hand as a shade while I opened my eyes.