Remembering Christmas

by Dan Walsh

  He set everything back in the wooden box, slipped the box back inside the drawer. He walked out into the hall, then turned around and flipped the light switch off in his bedroom. He wished he’d never gone in there. But then, maybe he was supposed to. How else would he have found out his father had died? Didn’t seem like his mom had any intention of telling him.

  As he walked across the short hallway, he reached for the hall light switch, then froze in his tracks.

  “What? No.”

  The light was much brighter here. He lifted the driver’s license up to catch a better angle. It can’t be. No, it can’t be. He shook his head, refusing to accept what first his eyes and now his mind were telling him. He stared again at the face of his father. Here in the light of the hallway, it was coming clearly into focus.

  Oh, how he wished he was wrong.

  Though he couldn’t make any connection to childhood memories in his father’s face, it did connect with someone he had seen very recently. Several times, in fact, over the last two weeks. It meant his father was not dead, but this thought brought no relief.

  He looked at the picture again and again. And as he did, he pictured the man he had in mind. There could be no mistake.

  It was him.

  Add several more years to the face. Make the hair much grayer and much longer. Add in a long, matted beard. Put on a dirty, wrinkled raincoat.

  The man in the driver’s license—his father—was Columbo. The homeless guy hanging around the Book Nook.

  Rick read the name again . . . James Michael Denton.

  James Denton.

  JD.

  JD was Rick’s father.

  41

  Art was sitting up. And he was eating.

  Leanne was beside herself.

  He was still weak, still hooked up to all these machines, but Dr. Halper had just left an hour ago. He’d pulled Leanne off to the side and said he was increasingly hopeful Art was going to make it. Those were the strongest words he’d used so far. And he was smiling. He thought Art was ready to start eating for himself. If it went well, he’d take him off the IV feeding tube. Then he wanted to slowly ease Art into a series of tests to determine if there had been any collateral damage from the surgery.

  “How is it, Art?” She had just fed him a mouthful of macaroni and cheese.

  He chewed and nodded his head.

  “Good?”

  He smiled, kept chewing.

  His head was still wrapped in bandages. There was some bruising around his eyes. His face sagged a bit from all the weight loss. But to her, he looked wonderful. Less than a week ago she thought she’d be spending this Christmas as a widow. She gave him another spoonful.

  He chewed some more. A puzzled look crossed his face. “This is macaroni and cheese?” he said quietly after swallowing. “I’m not tasting the cheese.”

  “Well, it’s hospital food. Here, have some more.”

  He ate another four or five spoonfuls, then said, “You taste it, hon. See what you think. I’m glad to be eating something real, but . . . I still don’t taste any cheese.”

  Leanne took a spoonful. Maybe she had been in a hospital environment too long, but it didn’t taste too bad to her. “It’s not as good as mine, but I definitely taste the cheese. Here, try another bite.”

  He ate several more spoonfuls. “Nope, just tastes like squishy noodles.”

  “Well, here, let’s try the Jell-O.”

  After several spoonfuls of lime Jell-O, Art shook his head. “I don’t taste anything.”

  Leanne took a bite. To her, it tasted good enough to finish the whole cup. “I can taste it.”

  “Really?” he said. “Maybe the meds are messing with my taste buds.”

  “Maybe.” Of course, she didn’t know. “How’s your stomach feel?”

  “Fine.”

  “Then just see if you can eat it all, and we’ll talk to Dr. Halper tomorrow about the taste thing. Right now, the goal is to get you off the feeding tube.”

  “I’m all for that, so let’s eat.”

  She gave him a few more spoonfuls of Jell-O.

  “I could get used to this,” he said, smiling, referring to being hand fed.

  She loved it when he smiled. To be able to see it again, hear his voice again. That’s what mattered. Not something like this taste problem. Still, she hoped it wasn’t something permanent. Art loved food so much, and she loved making it for him.

  As he finished up the Jell-O, she wondered what other post-surgery surprises lay in store.

  Rick fled the house as the shock of the news sunk in. He had to get out of there but wasn’t sure where to go. He hopped into his car and drove off. Tears streamed down his face. It didn’t make sense. How could it be true? How could this crazed, homeless guy be his father? Images from the last two weeks began to flood his mind.

  The disgusting first impression of JD at the store that first day, begging for an Egg McMuffin.

  Watching him cross the street by the Davis Brothers Toy Store that night, arms flailing about as he argued with some imaginary friend.

  JD walking around the corner, the morning after the big freeze, all wrapped in a blanket.

  The terror on his face at the park, right after the robbery, when Rick found him and tackled him to the ground. My gosh, Rick thought . . . I tackled my father. And he remembered how much he wanted to punch JD out just then.

  Then yesterday, watching this pathetic little man crawling back into his stupid box, trying to run from Rick as Rick yelled at him to get off the property.

  An image of a recent conversation with Andrea came to mind as she explained to Rick why she was being kind to JD. And Rick’s reply: “Andrea, it’s just . . . the guy is homeless. He smells. He lives in a box. He talks to himself.”

  Rick smacked the dashboard. How could JD be his father?

  He looked up, realized he had stopped at a stop sign a few miles from the old house. He didn’t recall making a single turn getting here, but he recognized the spot. It was like a more rational part of his mind had involuntarily taken over. If he turned right here, the road would lead to Riverside Drive, another road that ran right along the river. Then left a few more blocks and he’d be at a place he used to always run to when he’d get angry or upset. It was a public dock, with a wooden fishing pier that stuck out fifty yards into the river. No one ever used it since they’d built better facilities near the bridge.

  He wondered if it was still there.

  It was just after 7:00 p.m., totally dark now.

  But the dock and fishing pier were still here. They’d removed the big light at the end of the pier, but the moon was out at three-quarters strength, plenty of light to find his way. He stepped carefully across the boards, which creaked and cracked much louder than he recalled; he hoped his leg wouldn’t fall through.

  The old wooden bench was still there, sagging a bit in the middle. Rick felt like standing anyway. He leaned against the rail. A gentle breeze blew against his face, with just enough chill to feel refreshing. It was so peaceful and calm. Tiny river waves slapped against the wooden pilings. Across the river, the black silhouette of hundreds of palm trees rose up to meet the deep blue sky. The dock was, perhaps, a mile north of all the mansions that lined both sides of the river leading back into town. Rick was glad the town’s progress had slowed in his absence, leaving this place alone.

  He needed this place to be here. Just as it was.

  “God, I don’t understand,” he prayed out loud. But quietly. How could things turn out this way? How could the man he’d loved and cherished as a young boy and, if anything, had grown to love even more in the years since, have turned out like this?

  He realized he’d allowed his memories of his father to grow into almost mythical status. Rick’s fantasy included his father showing up one day in the future—handsome, successful, perhaps the CEO of a large corporation—wanting to reconnect with Rick. He figured his father would have some explanation for the years of silence, but
Rick had already decided he didn’t care about his reasons. He just wanted to be with him again.

  And when his father came, he would be impressed with how much Rick had achieved on his own. Then together, they’d make up for lost time, maybe sail the Caribbean for a year getting caught up, maybe after that go into business together.

  “You idiot,” he said. “It’s JD. That’s who you’ve been waiting for.”

  He jumped, startled by a noise at the other end of the pier. He shook his head and smiled. A pelican had arrived in time to hear his confession. “You sure you wanna hear this, old fella?” The pelican flew off. “Don’t blame you.”

  Then he cried for a while. A few more thoughts, more feelings and mental pictures. Dissolving one by one.

  A brief funeral for the death of a dream.

  A sharp, chilly gust came across the river. He was grateful. He straightened up, wishing at that moment that guys still used handkerchiefs. He wiped his tears away, first with his hands, then his sleeve. New thoughts began to form. But now his heart was calm, open to hear them. He’d had it all wrong from the start.

  All of it.

  About his mom, about Art.

  Especially Art.

  Certain facts about how JD’s—his father’s—cards and papers had made their way into that little wooden box began to gel. Andrea had said Art had been feeding JD those Egg McMuffins for just over a year. She said Art had seen something in him worth caring about, that he was reaching out to him.

  That meant Andrea didn’t know. He didn’t know why, but for now, he was glad.

  So . . . some time shortly before that, his homeless, schizophrenic father had wandered into town. And at some point, Art and Leanne had found out about it. With his dad’s mental state so deteriorated, it couldn’t have been much of a reunion. But they had decided to help him, if they could. From what Andrea had said about Art, Rick could imagine Art actually inviting JD to set up his box behind the store.

  Rick looked up at the moon and sighed.

  Why would Art do that? It made no sense.

  Rick had thrown his fantasy father in Art’s face for years. The man Art could never replace. The man Art could never measure up to. An image flashed into Rick’s mind of the last time Art had invited Rick to go fishing with him. The snook were running. Art stood by his bedside, gently pleading. Rick had his back turned toward him. “Art, would you just stop this? I’m not going fishing with you. You don’t think I get what you’re trying to do? Just give it up. You’re not my father. You’re never going to be my father.”

  He’d been so harsh. Tears rolled down Rick’s cheeks as he remembered. He stared out at the water a few minutes, let the quiet scene speak to him; the moon shimmered on the water, like the still small voice of God. Art had known the truth about Rick’s father for over a year. But he’d never said a word.

  Rick knew how he’d have reacted if he’d been Art. He’d have hated JD, did whatever he could to make his life miserable. He’d have called Rick within hours and let him have it. “You think your old man’s something special, right? The superhero, the white knight who’s gonna show up one day and make your life wonderful? Well, guess what? I’m looking at him right now. A stinking, penniless drunk. Hardly even knows who he is. Why don’t you drive down here and have a look?”

  It’s exactly what Rick would have done. But not Art. Art did just the opposite. Did everything he could to help JD. And he didn’t say a word to Rick about it, he let Rick continue to keep his fantasy father intact. And if Art hadn’t had that aneurysm, he’d still be doing his best to help JD, and still be allowing Rick to think the worst about him and the best about his father.

  Why? Why would Art do this?

  Rick looked back at the moon. He knew why.

  Art wasn’t the man he’d hated all these years. He wasn’t even close. Rick had been hearing about who Art really was for the last two weeks. From one customer after another.

  And from Andrea.

  He closed his eyes and looked down. He remembered the feelings he’d had in his bedroom on that morning years ago, the dark angry feelings toward Art. He could almost feel Art standing there behind him as he lashed out at him with his words. Remembered the long pause, then Art’s quiet footsteps leaving his room.

  Rick dropped to the deck and began to sob. Oh Art, I’m so sorry. He couldn’t talk. Just knelt there crying. God, please forgive me.

  Another funeral of sorts was underway. But this time, not the death of a dream but the death of an entire way of life.

  42

  Rick wasn’t sure how long he’d been out on that dock. He’d lost all sense of time. All he knew as he headed back to his car was that he felt completely different inside. The anger was gone. The frustration, gone. The confusion about what all this meant, gone. For some reason, he didn’t feel a need to know and didn’t care. It was totally unlike him. What he felt instead was something very close to joy.

  He instantly knew what to do.

  He got in his car and headed back to the house. He’d been in such a hurry before, he’d left his mother’s prayer journal in the living room. He hadn’t even locked the door on his way out. He was heading back to take care of both items, but he had a few other things he wanted to pick up before he drove out to the hospital.

  At the first intersection, his Christopher Cross cassette ended and self-ejected. The radio kicked in, filling the car with Christmas music. The odd thing was, he didn’t change the channel or put in another cassette. He actually sang along. “Sleigh bells ring, are ya listenin’, in the lane snow is glistenin’.”

  He noticed the time: 8:23 p.m. His mother probably thought he’d forgotten all about her. He hadn’t eaten any dinner but didn’t care. He needed to get out to the hospital. Within a few minutes, he pulled into the driveway. By now, the whole property was pitch black, the moonlight blocked by the huge umbrella of trees. But he knew the way. He made his way up the steps, turned on a few lights, and gathered the things he’d come back to get.

  One of them wasn’t in the house. It was out in the garage.

  Art was asleep. He had a peaceful look on his face.

  So much better than the look on his face all those terrible days right after his aneurysm. Leanne really felt now he was going to get better, that the worst was over. She remembered the conversations she’d had with Dr. Halper, when he’d tried to prepare her for the worst. The percentage of people who died before reaching the hospital. The percentage who died within the first few days after that. The percentage who died during surgery. The percentage who survived surgery but suffered from permanent brain damage.

  So far, Art couldn’t taste cheese and Jell-O.

  She could live with that. Even a few worse things. But he could talk with her, and when he did, he was Art, through and through. She heard a noise behind her and turned. It was Holly.

  “Hey, Leanne, a young man is in the waiting room. Haven’t seen him before, but he said he’s your son Rick.”

  “Oh Rick, I almost forgot. I asked him if he could pick up something I left at the house. I’ll be right there.”

  “Well, he asked if he could come in here, to the room.”

  “He did?”

  “Just wanted to clear it with you. I know Art is doing better, but I’m sure Dr. Halper wouldn’t want any commotion. Sometimes family situations can—”

  “I don’t think Rick would do anything like that. You can let him in.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Holly.” Leanne turned and walked toward the door. She wondered why Rick wanted to come in. He hated hospitals. And he hadn’t come to Art’s room since the day this whole ordeal began. She walked toward the doorway to meet him. She didn’t want their conversation to awaken Art.

  She looked back at him sleeping so contentedly. His belly full. Everything had stayed down, which Dr. Halper said would be a good sign.

  “Mom?”

  She turned to face Rick. Something seemed wrong. His eyes—he’d been
crying. “Are you okay, Rick?”

  He smiled. “I’ve brought your journal.” He looked down at a bag in his left hand.

  “Thanks, Rick. Holly said you want to come in. Art’s asleep.”

  He took a few steps toward her. His smile disappeared. Tears filled his eyes. He dropped the bag. It made a thud as it hit the floor; there was something inside besides her journal. “Oh, Mom.” He reached for her, put his arms around her, and began to cry. Then the cry became heaving sobs.

  “Rick, what’s wrong?” she said quietly. “What happened?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, his head buried in her shoulder.

  She couldn’t imagine what he’d done to make him this upset.

  “For . . . ” he said. “For all these years.”

  She patted his back gently. As she did, she realized they hadn’t embraced this way for so long. The last time, she had been bending down to reach him, not reaching up. “It’s okay, Rick,” she said quietly. “Whatever it is. It’ll be okay.” Tears began to form in her eyes. Whatever this was, she could tell it was something big. She saw Holly over his shoulder, stepping around the counter, holding her hands up as if to say “Is everything all right?” Leanne nodded, reassuring her it was.

  But she really wasn’t sure. He just kept crying. She’d never seen him like this. Ever.

  Finally, he lifted his head. Holly tiptoed over, holding out a handful of tissues. Leanne nodded her thanks, took them, and handed them to Rick.

  “Mom, something happened tonight,” he said, wiping his eyes and face. “I don’t know where to begin.” He took a step back. “Maybe I should start here.” He bent down and pulled something out of the bag.

  As soon as she saw it, her heart began to panic. The wooden box. He’d found it. She’d forgotten all about it. They had planned to talk to Rick about JD but wanted to give it more time, hoping they could get him some help. They didn’t want him to find out this way. As he stood up, she realized . . . he wasn’t angry with her. “Oh, Rick. I’m sorry. We meant to tell you about—”