Geese, Grease & Fire

When Christmas approaches it greets you with a warm December kiss. Outside, fall is whispered away in the wind. Nights stretch out. Golden fires burn brighter, hotter and longer, and waltz inside the many fireplaces. Old fire wood remembers this passionate heat and burns longer, so why would anyone want to douse such a flame? Good question.

 The family is doing something different this year. Everyone is expected home for Christmas. G.G Wallace’s birthday is twelve days before but this year there will be two parties for the price of one on Christmas day, and so my journey begins.

The bus ride was short. I arrived in Blue Ridge from Atlanta on the twenty fourth. It certainly feels like Christmas. Flurries of snow and dazzling Christmas lights welcome me home.

Some things are automatic, like kicking your shoes off at the front door before entering, and the door remains open until everyone is inside. The wine is rationed first. We all sing Great Grandpa Wallace a happy birthday song, and now followed by Christmas carols.

 I brought a stuffed goose for the Christmas table. This took effort. I’ve never roasted a goose before. The goose cavity I stuffed with a turkey filling consisting of potatoes and onions. I stuffed the neck skin with about a pound of minced meat, which I think will be appreciated by everyone besides the two pescatarians posing as vegetarians, Uncle David and his wife Marlene.

I bottled all the goose fat and brought it with me, thinking someone might find some use for it before dinner time, and I’m sure someone will.

However, I didn’t expect anyone to invite Michael Murray, although I should have seen it coming. Strangely I didn’t. I hear he is good at what he does and that he got an award of some kind for bravery. I’m sure he has many stories of such kind. I can tell he waits patiently for an acknowledgment exactly where I left him standing three years ago, eagerly anticipating a greeting besides the intimacy of eye contact while he leans against the wall under the arch leading into my mother’s kitchen. How disappointed he must be, rubbing his doubled chin instead, watching me pass him by under the mistletoe, and my heart still secretly rattles in the same way whenever I am near him.

His heavy footsteps behind me follow me into the kitchen. Alerting him to my awareness of his presence I ask him, “Are you going to help me carve this up?” When I place the goose on the kitchen counter, to my astonishment his arms circle from behind. He places his hands gently on top of mine and I shudder. They stay there for longer than I like.

I get woozy when he glides them up my arms slowly and back down onto the back of my hands, pushing his hands gently under my palms to lift my prized goose off the counter and over the top of my head, taking it across to a rack of knives on the opposite counter near the window.  I wish he hadn’t gotten such a satisfying gratification from my reaction to his touch. I know that reminder was for me, not him.  He stays quiet, pulls the carving knife out of the rack and peels the aluminum foil layers away from the goose.

With my undeniable reaction set aside, he asks me with his back still turned, “Did you bring the goose fat or did you throw it away?”

 I wish he would speak more than he expresses. There’s usually no need for him to say anything, always making his intentions clear. When he finally turns around and I look at him and he looks at me I feel everything he wants to say, so I close my eyes and turn away.

It is impossible for him to have waited this long for me anyway, that is, if he shares similar traits with my great grandfather G.G Wallace, who for some reason admires him.

  I tell him, “I have it. It’s right here in this jar in the bag. I’ll leave you to it.” and hastily abandon him inside the kitchen.

On my way out I hear his more than eager reply, “You asked for my help Rhea,” he says, and I ignore him.

I search for G.G Wallace’s location on my way out and find him as plump as ever, laid back in his mobile recliner by the fireplace wearing a green Christmas sweater. Every time I see him I appreciate how blessed we are to still have him with us. The last time he gave a speech at Christmas he said only the good die young. At one hundred and one I’m starting to think G.G Wallace might take some of his many exploits in life to the grave. Occasionally a long lost offspring of his joins us at the family table. We Wallace’s may never know our true number.

 The love of family keeps him going I guess. His smile is angelic, and if he ever has a favorite great-grandchild I think it might be me.

When I lean forward to hug him he drags me down into his lap with the strength of a man half his age, and chuckles deeply. His chest shakes like a bear’s. The residual strength of an old fireman still lingers in him, “I heard a rumor that a certain person would bring me a Christmas goose this year. I wonder who it might be?” he asks, rocking me back and forth in his bear hug with gleaming eyes and his old rusty voice.

“Michael is in the kitchen slicing it for you G. G. I don’t think I was able to replicate Mama Wallace’s recipe to perfection, still, I did my best old sir,” I reply.

 G.G Wallace slows his rocking upon hearing Michael’s name. He stays quiet for a minute. It is the kind of honest guilt that needs no accusation.

“You’re the one who invited Michael, didn’t you?” I ask.

“I did, yes,” he replies.

So, it is G.G Wallace who is behind Michael’s invitation, “Why?” I ask.

He starts rocking again and says, “I feel the heat of hellfire closing in, and I want to make things right with the Lord.”

Tempted as I am to laugh at G.G Wallace’s sarcasm, Michael was a very serious chapter in my life. A chapter I wasn’t ready for, one I’m still not ready for. On the other hand I’ve come to appreciate the openness and candid nature of conversations with G.G. He keeps it real all the time, unafraid to speak his mind. He sat in this same chair and made up his mind about Michael when he watched me snub him under the mistletoe three years ago, but what happened between Michael and I shortly before remains mine and Michael’s secret. Or so I thought.

After staring pensively at G.G Mamma’s empty chair across the living room, G.G Wallace closes his eyes and blinks the slowest blink I ever saw him do before, and the he opens his eyes, sighs and says, “You know something Rhea; some mistakes are easier to hide than others. A few of mine walk through the door every now and again. It took an incredible woman like Mama Wallace to tame a Neanderthal of a man like me, and I miss her dearly. The universe has made it so easy for you with Michael. Just so you know, he has another love interest here in town, and she’s not here with him,”

Now this is a different feeling altogether: jealousy. My heart flutters knowing what I know now and that Michael came here alone on invitation.

“Why are you telling me this G.G?” I ask.

“Do you think he is finished in the kitchen? It’s almost time for dinner. Go check and call everyone inside,” he says, giving me a push in the right direction towards the kitchen when I stand.

My steps toward the kitchen are unusually quicker this time, but when I get there Michael is gone. My goose is on the counter, masterfully carved and plated, even garnished with vegetables out of the tossed salad with some tomato wedges and chopped lettuce. It is also drizzled with the goose fat, but the one liter bottle with most of it is gone, like Michael.

  I don’t know how G.G Wallace knows the things he knows but I know that Michael came back for an answer, and I have to find him before I never see him again. The kitchen door leading out back is still open. I recreate the familiar scene, he throws the door outwards in a fit of disappointment and hurt and pain, the same way he did three years ago and this memory cuts deep and hard. I’m trying even harder to laugh instead of cry. The replay hurts. It hurts more than the original.

 I dash to the front. His car is still here so he can’t be far away. If he isn’t inside the house there’s only one other place he could be and I hope he is.

G.G Wallace’s cabin is off limits to everyone. Michael is there, I know he is. Flurries turn into a full-blown winter wonderland and I can hardly see through the misty cloak and darkness. I don’t care. I’ll find my way on this cold December night.

When I get to the cabin the door is open. It’s pitch black inside and uninviting. I push the door open further, hoping to see a shadow somewhere or silhouette waiting for me. He’s not here. Michael’s already gone. It appears he came and changed his mind. I turn around to leave and thank him for finally making it easy for me. I take a moment to let him go for good and cry, but suddenly there is a cracking voice in the darkness behind me like a haunting, “Rhea.” This is the sound of an uncomfortable reaction to my pain.

 Every emotion in his voice pierces my heart. This is where it happened.

He strikes a match. A dim light follows, and yet I refuse to turn around to watch history repeat itself. He is kindling a fire in the fireplace. Its means he intends to be here for longer. The fire builds and the walls of the cabin reflect its flickering light.

Suddenly a whooshing sound coming from behind startles me. That is not the sound of building fire. That is the sound of acceleration, and now I fight temptation to see what is happening behind my back when all the rough, barky logs of the cabin’s walls are painted in the light of a vigorous orange flame.

If I didn’t know that Michael Murray was a fireman I would think he is going crazy to accelerate a fire in a log cabin using a full bottle of goose fat. I turn around and that is exactly what he did. Inside the fireplace becomes a bowl of spitting viscous lava erupting out of a volcano, and the fire rages.  I can’t hide in the dark anymore, we see each other. The fire doesn’t scare me at all, my feelings do, and all I want to do is run away from him but don’t. Slowly he approaches, the fire crackles. I see it in his eyes and I feel it in the heat of my body. The message is clear, I can go back out there or stay in here in the safety of the arms of a confident fireman, where it is warm and inviting, where the old firewood remembers the flame.

He whispered knowledge about the effect grease has on fires into my ear three years ago on Christmas day, right here in this cabin, “The more you douse it, the hotter and brighter the flame grows,” he whispered, sliding his hands up my arms as we stood in front of the fireplace, “You have to let it burn, like this,” he said, and I closed my eyes, wanting to hear more, waiting for him to whisper chills into my spine through my ear like winter solstice.

This is what it’s like when he talks more.

I didn’t see him walk up to me. I didn’t know when I closed my eyes again, and only separate past from present when his lips touch mine. They quiver uncontrollably when he presses them, and we lock lips. I find limited strength to walk backwards in his embrace. He mirrors each step back with me, advancing in my retreat, devouring my lips the way the inferno devours this cabin’s fireplace. I find myself uncontrollably unfastening small metal buttons on his denim shirt with my hands underneath his sweater.

He pulls me in around the waist, and his sturdy hands wander, finding trigger points on the side of my body when his fingers tickle my skin, lifting everything in their path until he stops to push the cabin door closed behind me. How can he possibly conceive that I’m still running away?

He can barely stand, clearly his intoxication isn’t wine related, and he asks me softly, “I’m not letting you leave this time without an answer. What do you want Rhea? I’ll do whatever you want,”

If I don’t tell him the truth now I know this ends permanently. So I look him in the eyes and tell him, this time without hesitation, “Michael, the truth is I love you. I always have, but you chose one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. My biggest fear is that I’ll lose you one day in a very tragic way because you are so brave, and I don’t know if I would be able to live with it.”

“Is it easier for you to live without me while I’m alive? I see. I save lives Rhea, and I’ll always come back to you but if you let me leave this time I won’t come back,” he says, and I know he means it. He doesn’t want to leave. He’s holding me tighter than he ever did before.

The truth is I need to go back and have a talk with G.G Wallace, so I tell him, “Michael, it’s Christmas, people might notice we’re missing by now, we should go back,” and, reluctantly I turn around to leave.

“What’s your answer Rhea?” he asks.

 I tell him, “I said we, didn’t I?”

 I leave him behind in an effort to throw everyone off our trail, strutting through the cold, biting wind alone, shivering while I hurry back into the house to find G.G Wallace rocking by the fireplace where I left him, now he wears a smirk of satisfaction.

 Everyone else is inside. They were only waiting on two more people to come in so that they can close the door and keep the warmth inside. Michael straggles in three or four minutes behind me. The entire cohort for Christmas is in blissful silence when Uncle David closes the door behind him, as if they are watching a romantic movie.

They all dawdle their way to the dining room. I assume the honor of pushing G.G Wallace there as slowly as I can. I have questions, and ask him in a soft voice, “G.G, be honest, how do you know so much about me and Michael?”

Again he chuckles and his Santa-like paunch and chest shakes with it. I put the brakes on his fancy recliner in the hall way to listen intently, “Rhea, that old, secluded cabin isn’t as secluded as you might think. Back in the day your G.G had a few radio pals. There is an old radio transmitter inside it. Me and my pals, we would talk to each other across the country. They’re all dead now. Their radios went dead a long time ago, but I can hear everything that’s said inside the cabin so long as there are batteries in this receiver,” he says, and he shows it to me tucked away beside him in his chair.

Why G.G, you old fart!

After dinner G.G told me how he met Mama Wallace. He said he spent his early years as a fireman skirting love in the fast lane, thinking his life could end at any time because of the nature of his job. When he met Mama he realized how many years of happiness he missed for the same reason.

“I’ve said my piece,” he says, “This time Rhea if you let Michael go it’s all on you.”

I got compliments too after dinner for my replica of Mama Wallace’s Christmas goose. As usual, the music starts with some Mariah Carey, and Wallace’s aren’t afraid to throw down. G. G gets the first dance—a little rock-a-by in his chair before Michael pulls me to the dance floor with him.

In a sense this is a first. Michael moves around the room a lot. I wasn’t paying attention to where he was leading me like I did in the cabin until I heard cheers echoing throughout the house, so I look up and…yea. I look at Michael, with his nod of satisfaction and accomplishment in front of me, and he laughs. I close my eyes and try to stifle my own laughter and hide my blushing cheeks, but if I don’t kiss him now glasses will break.

A warm December kiss under the mistletoe is illuminated by warm light from the fireplace, and this is how Michael and I announce continuity of a long overdue relationship. The fire was always there, and I know G.G Wallace, patriarch and founder of the original fireman’s love story with Mama Wallace, is satisfied with this outcome. If anyone, it would be a retired fireman like G.G who understands the compelling power of a raging fire when he sees one, but I might just hide the old radio transmitter he keeps in his cabin.

THE END