10 Holiday Stories

by Dara Girard

  He just stared at them, hardly hearing their excuses as they tumbled out of their mouths like rice spilling out the bottom of a bag.

  “We were going to tell you.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “It hurt us too.”

  “Look, we didn’t mean it to happen.”

  He couldn’t even remember who said what; he was just afraid he was going to be sick. Since grade school, Leonard had been like a brother to him. He looked chagrined, but nothing more. Sarah had tears shining in her eyes, her dusty skin red from embarrassment, guilt or exertion. Considering what they’d been up to, he wasn’t sure.

  What hurt most was that she’d made it clear he hadn’t been worth waiting for. She couldn’t even wait two years for him. The woman he’d planned to marry, to spend his life with, had traded him in for his best friend and his six-figure salary.

  “We got involved around the time when…when we feared you were dead,” Sarah said. “I turned to him for comfort.”

  “And after you found out I was okay?” Brett managed to say, his tongue feeling like a lead weight in his mouth.

  “It was too late,” Leonard said.

  “We couldn’t tell you,” Sarah added.

  He felt like such a fool. All those online talks, texts, emails. They’d been lies. He’d stayed true, when lots of his other pals hadn’t, and this had been his reward.

  After paying Leonard what he owed, Brett had two hundred dollars left and decided to catch a bus.

  “Where are you heading?” an older man with an island accent asked him in the bus depot while they both stood in line.

  The man’s voice was soft, like a whisper, but Brett could hear it despite the sound of a baby crying, wheels of luggage carts dragging along the ground, and discordant conversations. “Doesn’t matter, I just want to be away.”

  “Then you should go to Hamsford.”

  Brett met the man’s eyes, a little surprised by their intensity. He was a large, dark-skinned man with a trim white beard. “Is that where you’re going?”

  “No, but you just look like a man who needs some peace.”

  How right he was, Brett thought, but he still hesitated.

  The man nudged him with his elbow. “Go nuh. What you haffi lose?”

  Brett took a deep breath, then impulsively bought a ticket. He left without any luggage or even an overcoat. He just needed to get out of the city, to get away from the memories, from his failed plans.

  Hours later he got off in Hamsford, a place he’d only known vaguely about because of a store his father used to talk about here. Brett walked around in the cool air, listening to the different accents, many reminding him of the stranger and his own Jamaican parents who’d left him too soon. He briefly thought about his father, who was a foot shorter than him, and who’d liked to pat him on the back and affectionately say, “How’s my little boy?” It was a silly joke that had always made him smile; his mother would just shake her head. She was as small as his father. Whenever they stood on either side of him, they looked like the perfect bookends. And before their passing, he’d wanted to scoop them up and carry them around with him. With them he’d never felt alone, he’d always felt loved. Now he had no one to keep his loneliness at bay.

  He missed them. He missed them so much it ached. He felt the sting of tears. He’d hope to come home to Sarah, but now knew he’d spend the holidays alone.

  Alone with the bitter crumbs of dashed hopes. He walked around the streets of Hamsford as a cool evening sun painted the sky in pastel hues. He passed a food market, the scent of vegetable patties and cumin wafting towards him, reminding him that he’d left without eating anything. He shuffled by a row of small stores, children riding their bicycles, and a man chasing after a rooster that had no business being there. He made his way onto a residential street, the sights of the neatly lined homes twisting a knife into his heart. He’d hoped to have a home like this with Sarah. He decided to keep his head down and block out the sights around him. He didn’t want to see the well-manicured lawns, or the holiday decorations. That’s when he’d stepped into the road.

  After being struck, his first instinct was to be angry. He wanted to be mad, he wanted to get into a fight and had a man gotten out of the car, he probably would have. He’d felt like smashing his fist into someone’s face. A violent, primitive rage seized him, but it quickly disappeared when he saw her.

  A woman who stared down at him as if she’d run over a family of ducklings. For a moment that annoyed him because she cared and he didn’t want her to. He wanted her to go away and leave him alone. Instead, he found himself drawn in by her warm brown eyes. People didn’t usually look at him like that. They usually saw a threat, but not her. No matter how cutting or surly he seemed, she wouldn’t leave, forcing him—to his annoyance—to notice how pretty she was. And then she’d asked for a crazy favor and he’d said yes.

  With a shake of his head, Brett wiped his dirty face and large, cold hands with the fragrant scented soap and warm water.

  Minutes later he sat at the head of a table, which seemed to groan under the weight of many dishes, while three women stared at the man he was supposed to be—Staff Sergeant John Washer. He’d run away from one woman and ended up in the presence of three. Fate had a funny sense of humor.

  4

  She wouldn’t have recognized him, Eva thought as she stared at John. He didn’t look anything like the boy she’d used to run from. And where had his vanity gone? Her mother used to call him Mr. O’Jay referring to a polished singing group the O’Jays from the past. ‘Look it up,’ she liked to tell him. John would never have worn a uniform that didn’t fit him before. But perhaps the years overseas had changed him. That was possible. Although she doubted it. There was something she didn’t trust about him.

  “Remember when we used to play that video game and every time you scored you’d punch me in the arm?” she asked him.

  “What’s past is past,” Miranda said.

  “I remember it clearly,” Eva said, helping herself to another roll. “Just wondered if he did.”

  “I guess I wasn’t the nicest kid,” he said without apology.

  Eva frowned. Even his voice didn’t seem to match what she remembered. Although she didn’t know how John sounded now, she’d never imagined his dark, sarcastic edge. John was always about charm. That’s why he got into trouble with little consequence. However, this large, grim man looked as if he’d spent half his life facing the corner. “Think you’re better now, soldier?”

  “I hope so.”

  “We weren’t even sure you’d make an appearance,” Mary said, giving Eva a stern look. “So that’s an improvement.”

  Eva stared at her mother, surprised. She usually was more suspicious of people than Eva was, but she’d smiled with pleasure when John gruffly complimented her spicy rice. However, Eva wouldn’t be as easily swayed no matter how handsome he was. She sensed something off—something wrong. Ms. Miranda was too dear to her for her to ignore her instincts. She hoped John wouldn’t stay long. That he’d spend one night in the little guest room Ms. Miranda so lovingly put together—newly painted, aired, scented with a fresh bouquet of flowers—and then disappear out of her life.

  5

  “You’re doing great,” Miranda said when Brett offered to help her in the kitchen ‘Like you used to,’ she’d added so that Eva and Mary wouldn’t offer. Although they all knew that John rarely helped her and only did so reluctantly.

  “Eva doesn’t like me,” he said.

  “No,” Miranda agreed with a laugh. “So you must be doing something right, she didn’t get on well with John either. Unless…”

  Brett raised a brow at the sudden worried look on her face. “Unless what?”

  “Unless you wanted her to like you. I’m sorry, I never saw this from your point of view. Eva is a very attractive young woman and she’s single. I had thought maybe she and John, but with you here maybe—”

  Brett shook his h
ead. “Nope, I’m not interested. I’m off women for now.”

  “You’re too young to be off women.”

  “I’m not interested.” He took a bowl and placed it on a high shelf.

  Miranda pointed at it. “That doesn’t go there.”

  “I know. Promise you won’t try to set me up with Eva.”

  “Why would I—”

  “Promise.”

  A sly grin touched her mouth. “I could just get a stool.”

  “I’m warning you, Auntie.”

  She laughed. “I know. Stop looking so fierce.”

  Brett blinked surprised. Usually his tough expression put people on edge, but Miranda looked amused. He couldn’t understand why he didn’t frighten her, but her response helped his tension ebb. She felt comfortable with him and he was starting to feel the same with her. “Did John ever have an uncle?” he asked, briefly wondering why there was no sign of a man around.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said feeling stupid. Just because there was no man in the house, didn’t mean she was single. She could be dating. He silently swore. He had no business thinking about whether she was in a relationship or not. He wasn’t interested in Eva and he wasn’t interest in her. “You haven’t promised me yet.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “I promise.”

  He frowned, feeling his heart pick up pace and not knowing why. “How come I don’t trust you?”

  Her smile widened. “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t believe her, but Miranda got him wondering about something he didn’t want to. Eva was attractive, smart, and clearly cared about her friend. But she rubbed him wrong. Reminded him too much of Sarah. Plus, he didn’t like how she looked at him, no—studied him—assessed him. He didn’t want to ruin Miranda’s evening and hated Eva’s questions trying to trip him up. He wouldn’t fail for Miranda’s sake, although he wanted to give Eva a piece of his mind. He also wished he had a chance to meet the nephew who didn’t deserve the aunt he had.

  “What do you find so amusing?” he asked instead.

  “You’re cute when you’re shy.”

  He took another bowl and put it on the high shelf to annoy her, feeling his face burn. “I’m not shy.”

  “Okay. I promise I won’t say a word.”

  And to his relief, Miranda kept her promise and let him endure Eva’s biting tongue and wary glances without trying to match them up. Then the evening was over and the two women were gone, leaving him alone with Miranda in her living room with coffee and cake. They sat in front of an unlit fire, the lights from her Christmas tree and garlands lit with an assortment of colors.

  “What brought you to Hamsford?” she asked.

  He didn’t want to tell her about something that was still too painful to admit. “My father liked to order stuff from a hardware store around here.”

  Miranda sat up. “Simmonds Hardware?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “That’s my store,” she said, tapping her chest in excitement. “It was started by my father. He always loved fixing things. Your father was a client?”

  “For years,” Brett said, then told her his name.

  “That’s wonderful! I’ll have to look him up in my father’s notes. Your father liked building things too?”

  “Yes,” Brett said with a groan. “Badly.”

  She laughed. “How is he?”

  He sighed. “Gone.”

  She refilled his cup. “Mine too.” She stood. “Wait here.” She left the room, then came back with an oversized, green journal. “These are my father’s notes,” she said, taking a seat beside Brett so she could show him. “He liked to write down things about clients so that he would remember them because each one was important to him. I think I remember him mentioning your father’s name.” She flipped through the journal’s yellowed pages then stopped. “Your father was a tool addict.”

  Brett couldn’t help a laugh. “Yes, anything new and he’d buy it.”

  “Good man,” Miranda said, reading her father’s notes. “Loves his wife and son, a boy named Brett. Remember birthday.”

  Brett nodded. “Yep, it’s your father’s fault that I’d get a gift card every year to buy something that my father would use to make a horrible mess.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, it made him happy and I learned early on how to make repairs. If you have anything broken,” he tapped his chest, “I’m your man.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Miranda said, suddenly wanting to remember everything about him. She soon became aware of how close they were, felt the heat of his leg as it touched hers. Before she hadn’t noticed the size of his hands, the breadth of his shoulders, the dark brown of his eyes that reminded her of rum cake.

  Miranda hastily shifted her gaze and looked at the clock. “It’s late. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

  “No,” Brett said, looking at another note her father had written. “Just drop me back at the bus depot.”

  Miranda licked her lips, wishing she wasn’t so aware of how his body pressed against her side as he bent to look at the journal. “I don’t think the buses are still running.”

  He shrugged, his gaze still focused on the journal. “That’s fine. I’ll stay there until morning and then I’ll—”

  She briefly closed her eyes, gathering her courage. “I have a room already made for John, but you can use it instead.”

  Brett’s head shot up. “You don’t even know me.”

  Miranda tapped the journal. “My father did. You’re practically family,” she continued when he hesitated. “And I owe you for hitting you with my car.” He stared at her for a long moment, until Miranda grew uncomfortable. Did he think she was crazy? Maybe she was, but for some reason she didn’t want to say goodbye yet. “What?”

  “You’re too trusting.” He held out his hand. “Give me your cell phone.”

  Miranda handed him her phone, confused. “Why?”

  “I’m giving you my full name, phone number and address,” he said, putting the information in her address book. “If anything happened to you, they’d know the last person you were with.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Miranda said, surprised by his serious tone.

  “You don’t know with strangers.” He handed the cell phone back to her. “I am trustworthy, but not everyone is, so promise me you won’t make an offer like this to someone else.”

  Miranda folded her arms amused. “You’re really big into promises, aren’t you?”

  “Especially when they’re kept.”

  She affectionately patted him on the shoulder. “You can relax. You’re the first and last strange man I’ve asked to stay in my guest room.”

  “Good.”

  “Does that mean you’re staying?”

  He sighed. “I shouldn’t.”

  Miranda grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  6

  What am I doing? Brett wondered as he paced the small guest room. Why did he keep saying yes to her? This wasn’t like him. He should be waiting at the bus depot or staying in some motel somewhere, not in a cozy little room with freshly laundered sheets.

  He heard a light tap on the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, glancing down at the pajamas she’d given him to wear. It was a pair of her father’s that fit surprisingly well. He’d never been able to borrow anything from his father.

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I just need to sleep,” he said, climbing into bed, hoping he’d be able to.

  He slept better than expected and woke up the next morning so rejuvenated that he offered to chop vegetables for the omelet Miranda planned to make for breakfast. For some reason he felt a slight anticipation of something, but he didn’t know what. He focused on his task, thinking of what ingredients Miranda would add, then his mind drifted to Sarah. She’d been a master in the kitchen, chopping fast and efficiently. She’d once made him a dish
he couldn’t pronounce. Some French dish. Or was it Spanish? She spoke both languages fluently. He’d learned Portuguese from his maternal grandfather. Sarah used to tease him about why he had such a dull English name when he had such a rich ethnic heritage. He’d never told her his mother had named him after a hero she’d read in a novel.

  Hero. Sarah would laugh at the word. He wasn’t her hero and there’d be no happily ever after ending. He’d stopped believing in those.

  He was so lost in thought that when he sliced through his finger, right down to the bone, he didn’t feel the pain at first. He just saw the blood and felt anger at his own stupidity. Some soldier. He couldn’t even handle a damn knife in a kitchen.

  Brett quickly grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding. As he held the towel he saw a red stain slowly come through and spread and he thought about his friend Jin Lee and his dirty jokes and acne-scarred face. His Burmese parents wouldn’t be having him over this holiday, and Brett briefly thought of the son Jin would never see. Brett quietly raged against the injustice. Jin had people who wanted him home, who cared about him. Brett had no one. He’d fooled himself into believing he had someone who cared. Someone to come home to. He’d fought to survive for nothing.

  He watched a blood droplet fall and land on the cream tile floor and his mind turned to Roger Beal, who’d been found swinging in his girlfriend’s basement. And for a moment he understood the quest for peace. The desire to escape oneself, one’s mind. To escape the twin demons of anger and sorrow with no in between. Pain, pain, pain. Pain of loss, pain of betrayal, pain of guilt. Would the pain end? Should it?

  “What did you do?” Miranda said when she saw him.

  “It’s nothing.”