Nothing Under the Tree

On the last day of school before the Christmas holidays, smack in the middle of class, Mr. Murray scolded me for the verse I handed in as my writing assignment instead of the five-page story he’d assigned. He rubbed his fingers through his graying beard and said, “You’re a talented writer, Leonard, but you’re in danger of failing.”

           Mrs. Shay, my landlady, would have been disappointed in my behavior, but right then, I didn’t care. I hadn’t made any friends since I’d transferred to Lone Oak High School, and with my work schedule, I didn’t have time for a major assignment. I’d have all the time in the world over the holiday break since I’d be spending it alone, but Mr. Murray wouldn’t give me an extension. So I fixed him. Here’s what I turned in:

           It’s over. It’s done. I swallowed my bun.

           But what can I do? The meat’s on my shoe.

           Silly—that’s okay, I was going for silly—but if I could draw, I’d turn it into a cartoon. Can you see it? I knew Mr. Murray wouldn’t think it was funny, but it’s the second verse that sent him over the edge and got me banished from class and sent to the school counselor. He thought I might be suicidal, but he couldn’t recognize a joke with a magnifying glass.

           Dead river. Dead meat. It runs down the sheet.

           Dead lad on the bed. In blood that he shed.

           The empty hallway gave me goosebumps on my arms. My footfalls made a metallic-sounding echo that ricocheted off the lockers. I peeked into a classroom and heard Ms. Winston addressing her history class. Some of the class was visible through the narrow glass window in the door— the students near the front and on the opposite side from where I stood peeking.

           Students liked Ms. Winston. Even the delinquents paid attention in her class. I recognized a few faces through the clouded glass, but nobody I knew. No surprise, this being my first semester at Lone Oak. Then, at the far end, I caught a glimpse of Abbie Washington. I knew her from Trig, a pretty girl with freckles, studious, and quiet. But, wow, she knew her math. As I peered in at her, she glanced my way, and our eyes connected. My heart went warm when she smiled. Then, Ms. Winston addressed the class again, her voice rising to a question, and Abbie turned her attention to the teacher.

           I had the urge to open the door and sneak into the class. Sitting next to Abbie seemed an attractive alternative to the counselor’s office right then, but I’d already gotten myself into enough trouble for the day.

            The counselors’ offices were on the first floor. I handed the secretary the note from Mr. Murray as Jingle Bells played from a pink iPod on her desk. She pointed to an office with a name on an engraved nameplate on the closed door. Damn, not him, I thought. He’s the counselor who told me I couldn’t take the advanced writing class because I wasn’t in the academic program. “Creative writing won’t help you get a factory job. We both know that’s where you’re headed.” If he didn’t actually say that, he might as well have. It was written all over his face.

           He sat behind a massive desk, a force field of regulations encasing him. He appeared ancient beyond his years. How can a guy two years older than dirt help me?

           He motioned me to a chair at the front of his desk as he perused over my file. “Then he looked up and said, “Do you have a death wish?”

           Yeah, I wish you were dead, and for all I know, you are; but your body forgot to lie down.

           The counselor stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Do you always write like this? It’s depressing for one so young.”

           I shrugged.

            “I’m sending you for psychological testing.” He hunched over his computer and punched some keys until the printer spewed out a sheet of paper. “You’re scheduled. Take this note to your parents. It’s got the time, date, and location. Make sure you’re there.”

           I had no intention of going. I’d have quit school then and there, but I had promised Mrs. Shay that I would graduate. If only I hadn’t had to repeat last year. I’d be finished school by now, but by the time I moved in with Aunt Mary and changed schools, I’d missed too much time. Otherwise, this bullshit would be over. “Okay, Mr. Dalwrinkle.”

           The ancient man glared at me. “My name is Dalrymple.”

           It Came Upon a Midnight Clear leaked through the office door. “Whatever,” I said.

           I skipped the rest of the school day and headed to the “Unistop” grocery store where I worked after school, plus full days on weekends. Mr. Greer let me punch in early, and when the store closed, he approached me with an entire crate of Florida oranges. Leonard, take these home with you.”

           “No need for you to do that,” Mr. Greer.

           “Take the oranges. They’re good for you,” he said, handing them over, “Vitamin C and all that. Merry Christmas.”

           “Merry Christmas,” I replied, realizing the oranges were a gift, not a charity.

           “You’re a reliable employee, Leonard.” He led me to the door with his hand on my shoulder. I left him to lock up.

           “Say hello to Mrs. Shay for me,” he called.

           The crate grew heavier with each step of the three-block walk to my above-the- garage apartment at Mrs. Shay’s house. I wondered how many oranges there were. I couldn’t possibly eat them all.

           Mrs. Shay is a widow, supplementing her pension by renting her upstairs rooms since her husband died. I had lived there recently, having moved in with my spinster aunt after my parents died in a car crash. Then, the day I turned eighteen, Aunt Mary moved to Florida, leaving me stranded, saying she’d fulfilled her obligation and that I was on my own. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I thought Aunt Mary liked me, but I guess I’d been a burden, a burr in the saddle, a stray keeping her from her life. Well, fuck that. I’m glad she’s gone.

           Mrs. Shay let me live, rent-free, in the empty room above her garage with the stipulation that I graduate high school. Did I mention she was a retired teacher?

           “I’d let you stay where you are” (on the second floor),” she said, “but I need a cash-paying tenant.”

           I turned the corner, my arms weary with the weight of the oranges. Mrs. Shay’s duplex came into view. I set the crate down on the stoop. Then, because her light was on, I knocked at her door. She answered in a nightgown and a scarf-thing on her head that made me think of The Night Before Christmas. I cracked a smile between breaths. “I wouldn’t have bothered you so late, but Mr. Greer said we should split these.”

           “Oh, isn’t that nice of him,” she said. “Come in, and we’ll divide them up.”

           She placed two cups of tea on her coffee table and set about dividing the oranges. I don’t like tea, but I take it when she offers because it seems polite.

           She removed her kerchief, and her thin, gray hair flopped to her earlobes. She lowered her cup, placing it on her saucer as gently as butterfly lighting despite her shaky, blue-veined hand.

           “Is something troubling you, Leonard?”

           I suppose I appeared more sullen than I realized. It was my first Christmas alone. I’d put up the old family tree. It took up half of the space in my room, but there wasn’t a single gift under it. I shook my head, embarrassed to be upset about a stupid holiday. Plenty of people are alone for Christmas. Maybe I’d write that story of Mr. Murray’s even if I couldn’t turn it in.

           “No, Mam, just tired.”

           We finished the tea and divided the oranges. Then, because it was late and Mrs. Shay looked tired, I made my excuses.

           “Please come for Christmas Dinner,” she said as I started for the door.

           “Oh, no, I couldn’t.’

           “Please, Leonard, unless you’ve got a better offer. I’ll tell you what. I’ll set a place for you, and if you come, you come.”

           Her wide eyes twinkled. How did she know what bothered me when I hadn’t realized it myself?

           “Sure thing, Mrs. Shay,” I said, cracking a smile for the first time that day. Christmas wouldn’t be so bad, after all, I thought, my spirits uplifted. I’d go to Dalwrinkle’s evaluation and answer the questions seriously. The point is not to let Mrs. Shay down. Maybe I could find a way to go to college and make her proud. No one had been proud of me since my parents died.

           It wasn’t something she could wrap, but Mrs. Shay had given me the best present I could have wished for.