Season's Greetings

Season’s Greetings 

J.M. Rogers

Mac ran an appraising hand over a red gift topped with a glittering, green bow. The wrapping paper was thick and smooth, dyed a deep maroon that was more blood than holly. It crinkled softly beneath his fingers. Under the warm light of the fire, the paper revealed no seams. He had seen such a trick before, but it had been many years ago. A trace of a smile worked at the corner of his mouth and quickly faded. 

Gently, he turned the gift over, inspecting every side, but found no tape fastened nor any tuck or fold of paper. The only imperfection was an illegible name scrawled across the top. Mac lifted his eyes and stared longingly at the evergreen that towered over him. Finely crafted ornaments of silver and gold dangled from every branch, and crystal teardrops spun on invisible strings projecting sparkling shards along darkened walls. 

Mac returned the gift to its place atop an impeccably stacked tower of presents and glanced around the room.

But for his looming shadow, the scene would have appeared perfect. Three stockings hung from the hearth, each placed with care and each saturated in the same hearty maroon color. When he checked the dining room, he knew there would be an ostentatious spread of Crystalware and crotchet riding a polished mahogany table. As he made his way through the rest of the home, he would find miniature spruce wreaths on doors, elves on shelves, and mistletoes dangling from open doorways. There would be an elaborate Santa Village diorama in the den, complete with small illuminated houses and a motorized sled that glided along a winding track. The thought of those happy little places made his stomach turn. 

Mac wandered to the fireplace and began fingering an ornate, golden stocking-hanger that extended from the oak mantelpiece. Delicate filigree flowed down the hook curve to its cradle, where it met the bootstrap of a loaded stocking. The tip of the hook coiled inward, and at its center, sat an emerald. The leatherwork of the stocking was no less impeccable. Supple to the touch, the suede sock was capped with a white cuff of fur and lined with golden threads that gleamed like rivets. The sliver of mirth returned to the corner of Mac’s mouth, hanging there like a bitter star.   

 

“Whut’s good?” Terry asked, stepping out of the darkness.  

 

 Mac glanced over his shoulder and gestured at the nearest stocking. “They’re leather.”  

 

Terry chuckled. “Fuckin’ morons.  Prob’ly paid a pile for them socks.”

 

The stub of an unlit cigar protruded from the corner of his uncle’s thin lips, which were themselves buried in a tangle of grey beard. He hummed a melody tunelessly as he approached the mantel.

 

 Mac watched Terry remove the stockings. How quickly he snatched them down: one after the other until the mantel was bare. 

“Hey, Terry...”

“Yeh?” 

Mac wanted to hit him; to hurt him so he could get out of this house, so he could run far away and never look back. 

“Whut?”

“Nothin’. Ferget it”

“We good?” Terry asked, jamming the last jingling stocking into their ruck. 

Mac stared into the dwindling fire, his eyes searching the glowing embers for an answer. He could not remember the last time he felt good. Jolly, little, Christmas villages barged into his thoughts -- so much warmth and happiness pouring from those tiny windows.

... and I’d never look back. 

 

A heavy hand clapped onto Mac’s shoulder. “Earth ta Jarvis.” He leaned into Mac and waved his hand dramatically.  “Hello?”

“Stop.”

“Don’t you start this sourpuss shit up again,” Terry chided, the cigar stub bobbing up and down as he spoke.

 

“Don’t call me that.”  

 

“Whut? It’s yer name, ain’t it. Jarv-”

 

“Shut up,” Mac barked.

 

Terry’s face went flat. He raised a finger to his lips and removed the cigar. “You best shut yer fuckin’ mouth, boy. You hear me?”

 

Mac kicked the rucksack. “Or else what?”

 

“Nobody move!” 

 

Terry’s hand shot to his holster. A bullet splintered a corner off the mantelpiece.

 

“Don’t do that." a ragged voice ordered. "I’ll shoot you. I swear it. Now turn around. Real slow now. ”  

The darkness of the room was thick beyond the glow of the fireplace. It consumed light and air, leaving Mac and Terry alone on their little island of light. The glass bulbs dotting the Christmas tree hung like stars in the abyss, all twinkling before going nova. Both stared out into a black nothing of room.

 

“Do something!” Mac hissed through clenched teeth.  

 

Hoarse laughter emanated from the darkness of the adjoining room. “And what is he gonna do?”

 

The plank flooring creaked as the homeowner edged through the shadows. “That jackass can’t shoot me before I shoot him.”

 

Terry’s eyes went wide.  

 

“Nope. There isn’t no help for y'all. Not unless someone owes you a favor. Judging from the cut of you two, I --.”  

 

The man cleared his throat.

 

“-couple of bastards robbing old folks on Christmas Eve,” he grated. “-about the most damned immoral thing I have ever heard o-.” His words were cut short by a wet cough.

 

“-t’s the devil working through you, boys.”

 

Terry stood stock-still, listening to the labored breaths of the homeowner as they traced a dull path through the shadows that clung to the opposite corner of the room.

 

“Why don’t you do yerself a favor and sit down, Ol’ Timer?” Terry asked. “Sounds like you need a rest.” 

 

“I haven’t ever been one to seek after my own favors. I’d rather do you--me-- an’ everyone else a favor. Just up and kill you both right here-- Wouldn’t be the first time-- I killed a man... In Laos, I-”.

 

The violence of the coughing fit was startling. It stretched on, growing from a phlegmy rumble to a purging hack before waning to a tired gulping sound. The old man spat onto the floor and sucked in what air he could.

 

“Please, mister," Mac said as he stepped forward. "You aren't well. Just go back to bed, and pretend we were never here. Please.”

 

The sound of labored breathing emanated from the lightless space beyond. “W-What’d he say your name was? Jerry? I got a son- name's Jerry. Yer younger than him... T's no excuse to be robbin’ old-timers on Christmas. You got time to change, though. Time to change. Not like your buddy.” The man fought to clear the mass in his throat that blocked his airway. “He’s rotten-- So many are. I knew men like him... Over in Laos. Rotten straight through.” 

 

The man’s feet slid along the floorboards as he stammered, sweeping left and right erratically. For a moment, the outline of a hunched form protruded from the darkness beyond; real or imagined, Mac could not say. It swam among the writhing figures of onyx serpents and blue-black dancers, themselves melting in and out of existence. Mac's head moved left to right on a pendulum of blindness as he watched for another glimpse of the man's figure, hoping vainly that he had somehow vanished from the room. 

 

Terry walked forward a few steps. 

 

“No. No! Stop now!” the man hacked. “Don’t you move anoth--  Ain’t afrai- to shoo-” The gun’s guts rattled with every grating cough.

 

Terry laughed, grabbing his belly as he did.

 

Mac winced at the sound of his Uncle's laugh, his stomach knotted and cramping.

 

“Now I said don’t mo-”

 

Terry lunged. The force of the two hitting the floor sent the stacks of presents tumbling to the ground.  The outline of the men’s tangled bodies coalesced in the darkness, revealed only when the brawlers rolled into the edges of dim light where the flicker of the fire played across Terry’s broad back. 

The old timer was small beneath Terry, his thin legs kicking frantically as the brute clamped down on his arms, mashing the muscles, tearing the delicate skin with broken fingernails. There was a sickly crack of bone, a screech of pain and then stillness. Perfect stillness, within which one could drown themselves in silence.

Then the room was coming to life again, "Stupid fuckin geezer," Terry groused as he stomped out of the shadows. Four nasty scratches drained fresh blood down his right cheek. He grumbled indiscernibly while he dragged the old man into the fire's glow. The lifeless form lay spread eagle at the foot of the hearth, a slippered foot touching Mac's muddy boot. 

"..Is he dead?" Mac asked, a forlorn cast to his gaze. He knelt to investigate the elderly face, hands trembling. The man's face was dignified in a withered way. A neatly groomed mustache drooped over his top lip, the hair as white as the stockings’ cuffs. A thick shock of hair sat mussed atop his head, snowy, save for the blotch of blood above his ear.  He had been hale in his younger days and handsome, but those days were far gone. The man that lay before him now was skeletal, as if constructed of a series of long straight sticks; a scarecrow in plaid pajamas. 

The man jerked up swiftly, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, his lungs pumping out panicked breaths.  

“Lacy. For Lacy!” He yelled, his hands opening and closing frantically. "...it's for Lacy.” 

He tried to get up, but his arms went from under him, and he pitched over onto his side. Drool dripped from the corner of his gaping mouth. He tried to lift himself again, but his paralyzed legs pinned him to the floor.

 

“For Lac-, 

BANG

“Gotcha, geezer.” 

 Mac blanched. He watched, petrified, as the old man’s eyes spasmed and rolled over white. The body began to seize up, crumpling inward in erratic jerks. Hot blood flooded the illuminated wooden planks, pooling around Mac’s feet in glistening redness. Mac stared, mouth agape waiting for the man to lurch forward again, to bolt up and scream her name one more time, to turn over and cough.

 Terry leaned over the corpse, resting in his free hand on Mac’s shoulder.  

 “Look away, kid. You don’t want them kinda ghosts.”   

 Mac could not look away, his eyes snared by the gaping black pupils; the body convulsing into sickly angles. The mouth hung open, the bottom plate of his dentures protruding past moist lips. Liver-spotted hands, bird-boned, thin-skinned, clutched themselves into eternal fists: fists that shattered the windows of cozy villages blanketed in snow, fists that broke themselves hammering against his heartstrings, fists that would forevermore grip a piece of his memory in a rheumatic vice. 

Mac lurched away from the body. The vomit flooded from his mouth and nose. He wretched again and again, unable to quell the urge to empty himself of every morsel, every memory. When he reached bile, he collapsed onto his side, the flickering shadows blanketing him in non-existence. The Christmas tree and fireplace still glowed, merrily unaware, but their illumination could no longer touch him. The impeccability of the decorations had faded, their ugliness laid bare by the revealing hand of death.

 “I always wondered what it was like ta kill an old-timer.” Terry quipped as he walked over to Mac. “We gotta go," he said, nudging Mac with the toe of his boot. "Sun'll be up soon."

Mac stared at the corpse, dazed. “You.. killed him. You killed hi--.'

Terry scowled. “That geezer had it comin’. Cussin’ me like that. I seen war too. He ain’t the only fuckin’ one.”  

Tears streaked down Mac’s face, puddling beneath his cheek.

It was still dark when they had finished loading the most expensive belongings into the back of Terry's pickup. Still dark when the house has gone up. The pinkness of dawn tickled the skyline, but the sun held back, not yet ready to dash sugarplum dreams. For a while, the two men just sat in front of the conflagration, soaking up the warmth and silence. It really had been a beautiful home before. 

The Silverado gurgled down the road towards the rising sun, the flames receding rapidly in the rearview. Mac rolled down his window and adjusted the side mirror. The morning air was brisk, but the wind felt good as it flushed away the stench of blood and smoke.

Terry tossed a small present into Mac’s lap and chuckled. "Merry Christmas, boy."  

An ornate green bow glittered atop the soft, red paper. In the light of early morning, the box still revealed no seams. He had seen such a trick before, but it was a lifetime ago. Mac ran his fingers along the surface, the paper crinkling softly beneath them. His eyes found the cream-colored label, and the scrawled letters that had once been illegible.

For Lacy.