Earl's Christmas

Slouched in my ragged, uneasy chair, I gazed out the picture window at the falling snow, wondering how I'd become such a miserable prick. The stroke was just my latest excuse. I was no charmer before that. I was lucky to get away with a numb left side and a slur that sounds like the Novocain hasn't worn off. That ended my construction career, so I felt less than useless long before this virus lockdown.

The TV blasted my favorite news channel, pissing me off at the many ways this country was now less American. And this Covid-19 crap... it's just another kind of cold. How come I'd never heard of the first eighteen? Now the government's going to pay for everyone to stay home sick. Send 'em all back to work. If we lose a few old farts along the way, so be it. Nearing sixty, I, Earl Burgis, am ready to go. I've done enough damage during my sorry life. At least I'll go out with some dignity.

A drinking problem started my misery twenty years ago. I drove my wife, Sharon, to distraction until she finally went nuts, took the kids, and left. A year later, I started going to AA meetings, healing my life one day at a time. She even invited me to dinner on Fridays, and the prospects of eventually getting my family back looked good. Then, ironically, a drunk driver took her life, further fracturing my existence.

Now, I had to try to raise our twin teenage boys, Jackie and Tom. They missed their mom, constantly fought with each other, and blamed me for Sharon's death. This did nothing to sweeten my disposition. But I was determined to stay sober.

At seventeen, Jackie was a defiant badass. He quit high school, took some of his mom's insurance money, and bought a beat-up Harley chopper. He kept the worst company and couldn't hide the fact that he was a budding drug addict. Yeah, I knew the pattern. The kid was following his old man's example.

Twins couldn't differ more. Tom was like his mother—her pride and joy. Stick-thin and introverted, the kid was a born sucker. He idolized Jackie, who'd act like his best friend and steal his money. With all of his school smarts, Tom couldn't figure that one out.

I was exhausted from trying to keep the peace and couldn't help but side with Jackie. I didn't like the kid, but he was a copy of me.

Looking back, I realized how poorly that went. I hated single parenthood and was in over my head. Then, to top it off, Jackie lost a leg in a bike crash. No longer a badass, the poor kid offed himself with a gunshot to the head. I didn't leave the house for months, although I would have done the same at his age.

From then on, I resented Tom more and more, as if he had something to do with Jackie's death. Tom should have known the gas money he gave his brother had been spent on meth. Deep down, I knew I was the enabler.

Our problems came to a head after Tom finished high school.

Tom's red face was covered in tears. "You couldn't even be bothered to come to my graduation." He leaned in towards me. What did I ever do to you?"

My guilt flashed to anger. "Your mother spoiled you. Turned you into a pussy. The two of you made Jackie feel like a reject and look what happened. If he couldn't make your graduation, neither could I."

Tom left home that night. I mourned his loss for a few months, too. Fifteen years later, neither of us had made a move to reconcile. He'd inherited my stubbornness.

I've recently heard that Tom was married, had a daughter, and moved back to Kensington, one town away. Within a few minutes, I found his number and started dialing, but chickened out. I didn't deserve his forgiveness.

I wanted to fix things for Christmas but couldn't without first fixing myself. I re-played how things might have gone and should have been. I absentmindedly slid boxes of decorations, hidden away for years, down the steps from the attic.  

I hung a few homemade ornaments on a dingy white plastic tree. On the back of each was one of the boys' names and ages. Overcome by the urge to see and touch Tom, I reached for my phone. Then thought better and put it away.

I unpacked Sharon's pride and joy, her Christmas Village collection. The platform I'd built had been trashed long ago, so I set it up on the long, dusty dining room table. As I plugged in the power strip, the ten stores and cottages lit up without a single dead bulb. Even the clock in the town hall tower began to chime. I carefully placed the kidney-shaped, blue mirror and positioned the ice skaters, remembering how that mini-world used to mesmerize the boys. Sharon's stories breathed life into the tiny villagers lining Main Street and sitting on the park benches. The warmth of the living room fireplace that burnt so long ago now magically filled my dining room. I sprinkled artificial snow over the village, revisiting those happiest of times. I swear I heard fire crackling.

Although it had been ages since my 'final' drink, I opened the bottle of Scotch that defiantly dared me to do it. After two pulls, a familiar fire warmed my insides. After two more gulps, embraced by that long-dreaded buzz, I vacantly stared at the little people in the middle of the village.

Before I could stop myself, I was dialing Tom's number. I was about to hang up when I heard his voice, but it was only a message.

I awkwardly rambled at the beep. "Tom, it's your old man─still an asshole and still living in the same place." I choked up a little and took a deep breath. "You can probably hear it. I had a stroke, but I'm mostly better. Anyway, I'm looking at some old Christmas stuff and thought about you." As my throat swelled and my voice failed, I managed to say, "Merry Christmas.", and quickly hung up before losing it altogether.

The Scotch is half gone. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the edge of the table. The room spun. When I opened my eyes, I was in the village park. The couple sitting on a bench across the green looked strangely familiar. I shuffled through the snow to get a better look and, halfway there, froze in my tracks.

Sharon was in her favorite red winter coat, and Jackie sat next to her, beaming with adoration. This was the new bride version of Sharon, complete with her beguiling dimples and infectious smile. Jackie looked as he did just before his accident, only much happier and healthier, with his arm around his mom's shoulder. They gazed right through me. Desperately wanting to talk to them, I stood motionless, wondering what they were saying.

I trod to the mirrored pond and took in my reflection, muttering, "Jesus, you lazy fuck! At least you could shave once in a while."

Before I could continue, their reflections rippled at me from the lake. With a mischievous expression, Sharon teased, "Relax, it's the pandemic. No one cares. Besides, it's a good look for you."

Jackie squeezed my shoulder. "So, you think you messed up? He swallowed hard. "Guess I showed you." Then he mouthed, "Sorry."

The spike of sorrow had been suddenly pulled from my heart. Before I could turn to answer, they were gone.

What I really needed now was to set things right with Tom. Tomorrow is Christmas, and I've never seen my granddaughter.

****

Tom sat in bed, listening to Earl's voicemail for the third time. The bastard had his nerve. Their wretched graduation argument rolled through his head in slow motion, like so many times before. Dad didn't deserve a callback, but Jesus, a stroke? Maybe there wasn't much time left.

Then, he pictured Jackie smirking with his dad as they, once again, made a patsy out of him.

Tom paced the floor and ran things by his wife, Wendy. She held him as he shuddered from holding back tears. "I know what he's put you through, but he might finally want to make up. It would be nice if you two could reunite on Christmas. Surprise him and drop by tonight. If that goes well, bring him by in the morning. What a nice gift for Megan to meet her long-lost Grandpop."

Tom couldn't steady his hands enough to shave but could put on a clean shirt. He had to do this before he changed his mind. On the drive to Earl's house, he was filled with versions of imagined conversations, none of which went well. Should he begin with an apology or wait for his dad to take the lead?

He whispered, "I've buried so much, so deep, for so long."

He pulled into the driveway, which he'd avoided since returning to the area. He turned the car off and sat paralyzed for a half-hour, watching the dim TV light flickering blue and yellow through the picture window while working up the nerve.

He pushed himself from the car seat. No matter how it would end, his dad had made the first move, and now he owed Earl at least this much.

He climbed the steps to the slightly ajar front door. After two soft taps, he called out, "It's Tom. You home?"

Nobody answered. He nudged the door open and let himself in.

The night chilled the house, and the living room smelled of booze and smoke. Earl, wearing a stained white T-shirt, stretched out on his lounger, head back and eyes wide, oblivious to the cold. On the stand next to him, a two-inch-long cigarette ash stuck to a greasy dinner plate. Earl didn't flinch when Tom called out again.

Tom watched his dad intensely, hoping for a trace of movement, but none came. He knelt by the chair and felt for a pulse. There was none. Heart sinking, he dropped a picture of his family in his dad's lap and held his father's cold hand. A light coating of fake snow clung to Earl's heavy eyebrows and week-old stubble. Tom could have sworn he felt his dad's hand tighten, but he knew better.

He stood and approached the Christmas Village. His mouth twitched towards a smile as his mother's stories echoed in the room. He'd bring it home to his daughter, a gift from Grandpop.

Merry Christmas, Dad.