Another Christmas Story

by James Thomas

Every Christmas until this one, my father had always been in charge of the Christmas tree. For reasons that were unknown to me this year, my father had put off going to buy the tree. As Christmas approached, less than two weeks before Christmas and still no tree, my mother took matters into her own hands on a Monday afternoon by loading me into our Delta 88 and driving to the nearest Christmas-tree lot, which happened to be a grassy field next to Walker’s Feed and Seed about two miles from our home in the small town of Wetumpka, Alabama. As far as I can remember I rode with him to purchase the tree; sometimes my mother came along, and before my sisters moved out of the house, when they were young girls, they came too. In fact, the second most important difference that distinguished the Christmas of 1972, in my eyes, from the others of my childhood was our family was now down to three. My oldest sister, Wendy, had left home for Auburn University three years before and my other sister, Sherry, graduated from high school and began college at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa that very year. Sherry's attending Alabama always stuck in my dad’s craw since he was an Auburn alumnus, though the irritation would be short lived, for Sherry fell in love her freshman year and dropped out of college. I was now the only child at home.

When my father came home from work that afternoon, the tree was lying on the front porch by the front door. I had crawled up into the attic and handed down to my mother the boxes containing the lights, ornaments, and tinsel. The boxes were sitting in the living room, where we always set the tree. I was watching Leave It to Beaver, my favorite after-school TV, when he marched into the house. “We got the tree,” I said with excitement. I was rather proud my mother and I had accomplished this, in my eyes, very important task. He said, “I see that,” with a smile, then “Let me change clothes, and we’ll get that baby up.”

Looking back, I don’t remember any animosity, hostility, or even tension in the air at the time. From my thirteen-year-old eyes, everything, other than his absence from the tree purchase and my sisters’ absence from the family, was going according to expectations. My mother put on a Christmas album, Burl Ives telling us to “Have a holly, jolly Christmas.” She probably made some hot apple cider, though I don’t really remember if she did on that particular occasion. After my dad changed clothes, he and I went outside to attach the stand to the tree. Sometimes this involved trimming limbs or even the base so the trunk would fit through the collar of the stand and into the bowl. We got the tree into the stand, carried it in the house, then balanced in the living room using a few of my mother’s old Good Housekeepings and Ladies’ Home Journals. My dad was in charge of stringing the lights with help from me. I was a good-sized boy by then, so I remember I actually helped instead of just being there pretending. Stringing the lights was the most exciting part of decorating the tree for me. My body tingled in seeing the strands plugged in with illumination; my favorite, of course, were these bright colored plastic bases with a pencil thin glass cylinder filled with red-tinted water sticking up four inches from the center. The base and water glowed while small bubbles danced in the cylinders; those bubbles baffled me not only as a kid but even to this day. While we strung the lights, my mother would help untangle the strings, then once done, would begin prepping the glass balls. She’d start untangling the hooks and setting new ones for the balls which had lost theirs.

I remember the tone as being happy, but for one thing. Since we had lost another member of the family a hint of loneliness had invaded our home, seeping through the windows and doors. A family of five has a certain level of life, of course not necessarily always happiness; children endlessly create jealousies, disagreements, disputes, and full-bore arguments. My family was no exception. My two sisters and I fought, picked on one another, and naturally struggled with our childhood complexities and evolving independence. Yet the arguments and traumas are life, and as each sister left home a part of our family’s vitality was lost. I have a vivid memory of missing my two sisters, even though I was the target of many of their jokes and cruelties.

I was a fairly normal boy, full of questions and a love for sports, though I did tend to lean toward the quiet side. The hustle and bustle of three children, two teenage girls on the phone and primping for dates along with a preadolescent boy running and jumping emulating the sports heroes on television, dwindled to two which reduced the energy hum of our home, that buzz of human activity, and then finally evaporating to the moodiness of the son entering puberty.

Christmas Eve was on a Thursday. I was on the two-week Christmas break, but my dad rarely took extra days off during the Christmas holidays. He worked as a civil engineer at Maxwell Air Force Base across the river in Montgomery. He would mumble how no one really worked during the couple of days before Christmas, but he got up and went in just the same. Wendy and Sherry were not home yet; they were spending a few days with their boyfriends’ families. For the first time in my life Christmas would not have its usual glow, like a recipe missing a key ingredient. A few days before, my mom had mentioned that we should drive around town on Christmas Eve looking at Christmas lights. I had happily agreed, of course; outdoor Christmas lights were part of the Christmas magic for me, and my dad thought the sightseeing excursion would be a pleasant experience.

He usually arrived home from work between 5:00 and 5:30. When he failed to walk in the door for dinner by 6:00 my mother called his office. Of course I didn’t hear what he said, but she muttered several “uh huhs,” then hung up the phone in the kitchen, walked over to the stove and began stirring the pot of chili. After a couple of minutes she walked over to where the den began, looked at me and said, “Your father is working late, so we might as well go ahead and eat. Come on and fix your bowl.”

I sat there sitting on the sofa with a Sports Illustrated opened in my lap. I knew something was out of sorts, my dad almost never worked late, but the implications of this for a thirteen-year-old are limited. I filled my bowl, walked into the dining room where we ate most of our meals, though there were times when we would all sit in the den and eat off TV trays (ours had prints of still lifes, bowls of fruit, wine and cheese platters) watching a movie, Disney, or lately Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In. I sat down and waited for my mother. After a few seconds she walked in, sat down, and began eating without saying a word.

“Did Dad say when he would be home?”

“Your father said he would be home within an hour or two.”

“Are we still going out looking at Christmas lights?”

My mother’s eyes froze in space. She chewed slowly, almost as if she was trying to insure she chewed every morsel.

“I don’t see why not. As soon as he gets home and eats a bite, we’ll go out.”

The remainder of the meal was spent talking about my two sisters, their boyfriends, and what I wanted for Christmas. Dad had not arrived by the time we finished dinner. Mother washed our bowls while I resumed my devotion to Sports Illustrated, reading an article about the University of Alabama’s winning football season. After she cleaned our few dishes, she walked into the den while giving the clock a quick glance.

“I can’t believe he’s at work at 7:00 on Christmas Eve,” I said.

My mother walked over and sat in the easy chair that was adjacent to the sofa I was sitting in. She grabbed one of her magazines off the coffee table.

“He’ll be home soon,” she said, then let out a deep breath.

A few minutes of flipping through a Redbook was followed by the click of the television ON button. Frosty the Snowman flashed onto the screen.

“Do you want to watch Frosty?”

“Sure, if nothing else is on,” I said trying to smoother my enthusiasm for the cartoon since I was in the beginning stages of leaving childhood behind and stepping into the adult world.

She flipped through the other three channels, stopping on a Lucille Ball Christmas Special. I studied the screen.

“Is this okay with you?” she asked with a smile.

“Sure, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m just reading my magazine.”

She walked back to her chair and sat down. We sat there, the two of us, without saying much else for several minutes. A few minutes before eight I put down my magazine. I looked at the screen, but I wasn’t really watching the program. I felt uncomfortable, uneasy. I looked at the clock on the wall directly above the television.

“Why doesn’t he come home?” I asked.

My mother looked up at the clock, then said, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, why don’t we take a spin and look at some lights. We can’t wait on him forever. We won’t make a night of it or anything, by the time we come back he’ll be here wondering where we’ve gone.”

She stood up, clicked the TV off, walked into the kitchen and turned off the chili, grabbed the keys off the kitchen counter, walked back through the den on the way to the front door and said, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

I sat there frozen like the Tin Man. I watched as she grabbed a coat out of the foyer closet. She put her right arm through the coat sleeve then froze a stare right into my eyes. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to go?”

“No, no, that sounds great.”

We finished readying for the cold, walked out to the Delta 88 with the full moon shining off its sky blue hood. My mom cranked the car, let it run for a few minutes to warm up, then we pulled out of the driveway on our way to admire people’s celebration of Christmas. As we drove off, I looked at our staunch red brick home, the Christmas lights on the tree blinking chaotically through a living room window.

We drove through the few blocks of our immediate neighborhood admiring the displays of Christmas gaiety. We lived in a neighborhood that exuded a desire to care. There were many Christmas trees with tinkling lights, plastic candle sticks on window sills topped with the comforting rounded bulbs, and the big blue, yellow, red, and green bulbs strung along eaves, doorways, and window frames. The Pattersons, who lived a couple of blocks over, had used all blue lights on their non-blinking tree and the outline of their house, which was different and for me, classy. After weaving through the streets for a few minutes we ended up at Augusta St., one of the main thoroughfares for Wetumpka, Alabama.

“Why don’t we go over to the Nelson’s neighborhood since it’s just right down there. They usually have nice lights,” my mom said.

“Yeah, I always like their lights,” I said hiding my anxiety.

We drove a half-mile to where the Nelsons, good friends of my parents, lived. My parents spent many weekend evenings having a few drinks with Billy and Barbara Nelson. Bourbon and gin flowed, nuts and sausage rolls eaten, and giggles and laughter filled the home of choice those nights. The Nelsons had two daughters, who were close in ages to my sisters; thus most nights I was left to fend for myself as the girls were usually out on a teenage excursion in Wetumpka or Montgomery.

My mom drove through their neighborhood at what seemed a slightly quicker pace than before, though we did come to a complete stop to look at the Nelsons’ home. I didn’t understand why we stopped in front of their house. The Nelsons were probably their best friends, but their house wasn’t any more decorated than the other homes.

“The Nelsons’ house looks nice, doesn’t it?” said Mom.

“Yeah, I always like the way he puts the lights in the trees.”

“They’re a good family,” she said. For a moment I thought she made a move for the gear shift, but she let off the brake and we crawled down the neighborhood street.

We ended up at Augusta Road once again, sitting at a stop sign. We sat there for several seconds with neither one of us saying a word. My mom looked straight out across the hood of the car, across Augusta Road, and into a small patch of trees.

I finally broke the silence. “Let’s go back and see if Dad’s come home. Don’t you think he’s there by now?”

“Okay, you’re right, he’s probably there.”

I could tell from several houses away my dad’s car was not in the driveway. I had never realized before that you could see our house from such a long distance. The urge to tell my mom that he still wasn’t home bubbled through my veins. I wanted to let her know as soon as I realized it, but I didn’t. Something held me back. Perhaps a thirteen-year-old’s perception is developing the first rice paper layer or two of understanding. I just sat there as the car gently rolled to the front of our home. Our Christmas lights were on, the twinkling tree, but the driveway was empty. My mom didn’t pull into the driveway as I expected. Instead, she came to a slow stop directly in front of the house.

She looked at the driveway, blinked her eyes a few times, then slowly panned the surrounding houses.

“Why doesn’t he come home?” I asked.

“He’s just working late, trying to get some things done at the office,” she said.

“But it’s Christmas Eve. I don’t understand why he’s not here.”

The feeling, rising to the top like a vapor, wafted through the interior of the car. The lights were beautiful, but like winning by default, I found them difficult to enjoy.

“Whatcha say we keep driving around looking at the lights. Are you up for a trip to Montgomery?” she asked. “We could go over to McDonald’s and get a shake and fries.”

The mention of a shake and fries at McDonald’s was normally a cause for celebration; McDonald’s had not made its way to Wetumpka yet, so I rarely got the chance to savor such glorious culinary advancements, but the excitement of the treat was tempered. I knew she was trying to make sure I had a good time. We drove the few miles down the Montgomery Highway that would take us to the city, through the fields that would sprout cotton in a few months, across the murky icy waters of the Alabama River, by the starkly lighted manufacturing buildings, by Maxwell Air Force Base where my father worked (neither Mom nor I mentioned Dad as we sped pass the base gates), to downtown and the white tiled McDonald’s with its golden arches reaching over the small building where we bought an order of fries (there was only one size then) and two chocolate shakes. Mom steered us through the streets of downtown Montgomery as our eyes gaped at the city decorations, up the main avenue to the state capital, down the street of the governor’s mansion, through the streets of the old town section where the perfect homes were princely decorated. We never mentioned my dad during the entire ride, rather we talked about the decorations, their beauty, the different colors of the lights, the different ways people strung their strands, the plastic Santas and reindeers and angels and mangers and wise men and Josephs and Marys and Jesuses. We bathed in Christmas, completely immersed ourselves in the hope of feeling good. We made turns, crawled, stopped, even pulled in a few driveways. I remember being happy and feeling terribly scared.

After a time of winding through the streets of Montgomery we drove home with the assurance that Dad would be there. Consequently, when we pulled down our street once again to an empty driveway a silence knifed through the air. We sat stoically in the Oldsmobile as Mom drove into the driveway, put the car in park, then turned out the lights without saying a word. No one said a word for several seconds.

“I can’t believe he’s still not here,” I said breaking the silence.

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

We walked into the house as if sound would trigger an avalanche. I took off my coat then stepped into the living room, sat down on the sofa and just stared at the tree. I looked at our star-shaped wall clock and noticed the time nearing midnight. After a few moments of studying the tree my mom sat down on the sofa.

“Why don’t you go on to bed, Scott. There’s no sense in both of us waiting up for him.”

I looked at my mother, her eyes glassy and a blanket of whisper covered her voice.

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

I walked through the den and down the hallway to my bedroom door, but I turned and came back.

“Come get me if you need to, okay?”

“Everything will be fine, you just go on and get some sleep.”

“I sure hope so,” I said, then turned and walked back to my room.

I put on my pajamas, crawled into bed and lay there as the uncertainties darted across my mind. I didn’t know what had happened, was happening, or would happen. I heard my dog bark outside my window. I opened the curtain above my headboard and looked out the window. Leo, my brown and black mutt, looked up from where he was standing. We stared at each other for a moment, then he barked his low gravel of a bark and looked off. I knew he was barking at some noise in the distance, but for a brief moment I felt he knew. I tapped on the glass causing him to walk a couple steps closer to the window. As I opened the window Leo jumped up and leaned on the house to where he was within my reach. Stroking his head I said, “It’s okay fella.” He licked my hand. I pulled my hand up, said “Good boy,” then closed the window and crawled back inside the sheets. Sleep did not come easily, my mind wouldn’t let go of the night’s drive.

The next morning, I awoke with the instant realization Christmas was here, but then the events of last night began to fog my excitement. The dawn was full, but I didn’t hear a sound. I got up and walked down the hallway, past the closed door of my parents’ bedroom, through the den and foyer, and finally into the living room. The stereo I had wanted was sitting on the piano bench. I looked out the window and saw my dad’s Corvair parked next to the Delta 88. After a moment, I returned to the stereo and began connecting the speaker wires, then plugged the receiver into an outlet on the other side of the piano. I switched it on, turned the switch to FM Stereo and found my favorite radio station. My hands almost trembled from the joy of receiving this much-desired gift. I was lost in my exultation. But upon hearing the crack of my parents’ bedroom door the wonder of the moment was snuffed, completely losing the flicker of warmth. Footsteps approached the living room. My mom rounded the corner wearing her robe.

She smiled and said, “What do you think?”

“Thank you, it’s exactly what I wanted.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Good. I wasn’t sure if this was what you were looking for. One stereo looks the same as the next one to me.”

“This is it. Perfect.”

“I’m glad you’re happy with it. It makes me feel good to see you happy. You’re a good son, Scott.”

Then she turned around and walked to the kitchen where she began making coffee and breakfast. In a few minutes my dad walked in wearing his “home clothes,” baggy wool pants with a long-sleeve oxford shirt and a t-shirt underneath, and sat with me while we listened to my new stereo. I waited for him to say something, what I’m not sure, even today, just something about him not being home on Christmas Eve. He told me the stereo “seems to be a good one. I never dreamed of such things when I was a boy.”

After a few minutes my mom called us to the table for breakfast. No one mentioned the night before. Not during breakfast, that day, that week, nor ever. The incident was treated as if it had not occurred.

A few months later, sometime in the spring, my father and I ran into a woman, a friend from work he said, as we were walking through a Montgomery mall on our way to buy me baseball cleats. Though they seemed to be surprised to see each other, there was little doubt they knew each other well, smiling eyes, touching each other on the arms and shoulders, even my dad’s speech became faster and more intense. The woman, Susan, was several years younger than my mom and dad, and very pretty, slender with dark features. She told me I was a handsome young man, “just like your father.” They made small talk, some banter about the incompetence of a coworker, but then the woman said she had to go and reached over and kissed my father on the cheek. My father gave me a quick glance, then said for me to run on to the store, he would be there in a couple of minutes. I walked down the mall, right past the entrance to the sporting goods store, all the way to an exit and out into the spring afternoon. I stood outside just a few feet from the door not knowing what to do next. I turned to look back inside the mall and saw a Coke bottle sitting on the ground next to the glass wall a few feet from the door. I walked over, picked up the bottle, looked around to make sure no one was close, then threw the bottle as far as I could towards the parking lot. Not waiting to see what I hit, I quickly turned and walked back into the mall, just short of running to the sporting goods store.

Contact James Thomas, Professor of English.

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