Christmas

By William Cass

She awoke at first light. Lying still, it took a moment to remember the day’s occasion. Something like quiet anticipation crept through her, a distant cousin to the excitement of youth long gone. She rose slowly. The house was silent, cold. 

After she’d pulled on her robe and slippers and had gotten coffee and fruitcake, she went into the living room. She nudged up the heat on the wall thermostat, plugged in the tree lights, made a fire, found a radio station playing carols, and sat down on the couch. The tree looked pretty, glittering there with just low flames flickering in the near darkness. She sipped coffee, nibbled fruitcake. A dog barked nearby. A scrap of kindling whispered and fell. 

She waited until the fire was full enough to feel against her ankles before bringing the four gifts she’d wrapped for herself from under the tree onto her lap. She removed the paper on each: a new mystery novel, wool socks, a necklace with a half-moon pendant, a knit cap. She put the last three on and folded the paper away to use again. Then she sat watching the fire, finishing the fruitcake and her coffee even after it had grown cold. She was sixty-seven years old. Her mother had passed away when she was eighteen, the last Christmas she’d spent with someone else. She sat there while wan light slowly filled the room.

Sometime after mid-morning, she turned off the radio, dressed, donned her Mackinaw jacket, and started off on her regular walk. Not many people were out in the neighborhood, nor on the path along the river. It was cold, overcast, and her breath came in short clouds.  Ice crusted the river’s edge; further out, it flowed fast, a gurgling tumble. She chose pine cones that had good heft as she walked and stuffed them in her jacket pockets. She was pleased to find her bench at the mile mark empty. She sat for a while before beginning to toss pine cones into the river. She followed each with her eyes until it had disappeared into the dark tumult before throwing the next.  After she’d emptied her pockets, she balled her hands inside them and watched the river flow, bouncing here and there between the odd cluster of boulders, coming from somewhere, going someplace else.

When the sun was hardly more than a muffled smudge above her in the sky’s gray canopy, she began retracing her steps home.  Chimneys billowed everywhere in her neighborhood scenting the air. She passed a few children on driveways or front lawns playing with new toys. A pair of late-to-migrate birds, sparrows or wrens, lit side-by-side on the telephone wire beside her house; when she waved up at them, they ignored her.

Inside, she took off her coat, turned on the oven, and began preparing her Christmas dinner. The night before, she’d made up scalloped potatoes and a green-bean casserole, so transferred those from the refrigerator to the oven and set the timer; she arranged the three slices of thick-cut ham she’d bought at the deli on a plate to warm them.

In the living room, she got the fire going again, then sat on the couch with her new book and read. The flames crackled and spat. The room grew warmer.  Every now and then, a vehicle passed in the street. At one point, she switched on the floor lamp. At another, her next-door neighbor’s back door creaked open, a garbage can lid banged, and the door slammed closed again. Otherwise, it was quiet until the oven timer sounded. 

Before dishing up her dinner, she poured herself a juice glass of eggnog laced with brandy, lit candles, then settled down at the kitchen table with her plate and regarded it: the same basic Christmas dinner her mother had made her until her death. She ate unhurriedly. It wasn’t yet four o’clock when she finished, but already the afternoon had descended towards gloaming.

After cleaning up, she went back into the living room, added logs to the fire and turned on the television. She scanned through the channels and found several playing old Christmas movies on a continuous loop. She chose a black-and-white one to start with, pulled the afghan from the back of the couch over her shoulders and began watching. The movie was nearly halfway finished, but it didn’t matter because she’d seen it so often. When the first ended, she moved on to another regardless of where it happened to be in the storyline. In this way, she watched parts of four Christmas movies while she refilled her juice glass twice more and complete darkness silently lowered its spreading hand. She switched off the television and watched the remaining embers in the fireplace blink off one by one.

It took effort to rouse herself up off the couch. She unplugged the Christmas tree lights and lowered the heat on the thermostat. She changed into her flannel nightgown and went in the bathroom. Ten minutes later, she was snuggled in the inky blackness under covers that included an extra quilt. She scissor-kicked her legs against the sheets’ stiff chill. Afterwards, she lay still, hugging herself. The familiar rumble of a train disappeared off beyond the river, the last, she knew for the night. Then it was completely quiet and she grew warm in the bed and she thought over the day and decided after some time that it had been a good one. A good Christmas, nothing to complain about. She was pleased with her gifts, the tree, the fire. The morning’s walk had been bracing, her new book held promise, the movies had provided moments of tenderness and comfort. Her health was okay, her finances in decent shape. Christmas dinner had been fine, and there were leftovers to look forward to the next day. She thought: maybe I’ll have some for breakfast. A tiny smile creased her lips. She thought: why not…who the hell do I have to answer to?

THE END

Author Bio: William Cass has had over 250 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. He was a finalist in short fiction and novella competitions at Glimmer Train and Black Hill Press, and won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal. He has received one Best Small Fictions nomination, three Pushcart nominations, and his short story collection, “Something Like Hope & Other Stories,” was recently released by Wising Up Press. He lives in San Diego, California.