Christmas in a Minor Key

Dolores did not like the holidays. She did not appreciate the forced feeling of communal celebration, nor the saccharine cheeriness that they pumped through supermarket speakers and home television sets. She hated the upbeat jangle of jingle bells, both the sickening song and the so-called instrument that evoked the indentured servitude of horses. She did not understand why a compulsory holiday fell during the coldest time of the year, when the air hurt her face when she dared to step outside.

But there was one festivity she could not avoid — the annual holiday party of her employer, F. Murray and Associates. F. Murray and his associates believed that the holiday was a reward for a year well-done. Dolores believed they were a ploy to keep the cogs in their legal machine happy despite the long, underpaid hours. Nevertheless, she was a faithful attendee, year after year, forced to play the game of office politics. F. Murray and his associates liked to see her there. She liked paying her mortgage and feeding her child — a tortoiseshell cat named Bartleby.

This year was no different than all the others. Dolores and a couple dozen coworkers crowded into the associates’ largest conference room, a soulless white-walled space that smelled of permanent marker and the coffee that F. Murray had spilled on the carpet three days before. The staff had tried their best to brighten up the place. A team of elves had put up a tree, hung up some lights, and set up some speakers to blast the jingle jangle carols that Dolores so loathed. 

These small compensations somehow worked like magic, and the room soon buzzed with joviality. Even Dolores felt her spirits lifting. It wasn’t all bad, she supposed. The alcohol was free and flowing. The food was adequate, the cake was edible but dry. Her outfit — a black sweater emblazoned with a smiling cat and the phrase MEOWY CHRISTMAS — was a massive hit. And the company was ideal, as no one bothered to talk to her. 

Well, that wasn’t quite fair. Her coworkers did talk to her, but in such a way that they talked at her. They said words out loud, she did the same, and everyone managed to escape the situation with no real feeling exchanged.

“How are you, Dolores?”

“Just fine, thank you.”

“I don’t think we’ll have a white Christmas this year.”

“It’s not likely, no.” 

“Did you see that Angie is already on her fourth glass of wine? Unbelievable.” 

“Typical.”

So it went, pleasantly on and on, until all the food was eaten and every last white elephant gift had been opened. But the party didn’t die down, as Dolores had hoped. Instead, her coworkers seemed to find a second wind, buoyed by the delightful uselessness of their presents. She excused herself from the hubbub and took a seat in a row of chairs placed against the back white wall. She checked her watch: 6:15, far too soon to leave F. Murray and his associates. She’d rejoin the party in just a minute, she promised herself. She just needed a bit of a people break.

She caught Stephen bounding across the room to chat with her, and she knew no break would be had. 

Stephen was, somehow, her favorite and least favorite coworker. He was lanky, boyish, and almost handsome. If he were older, and she were younger, Dolores might have had a crush on him. They were desk neighbors.They chatted often, both about their lives and their cases. But they were also rivals for the associates’ professional affection. It was a contest she knew she was losing on most days, either on account of her sex or her sullen disposition. Stephen, in contrast, had the natural advantage. He was a literal member of the boys club, who loved to laugh and was full of good cheer. 

Her almost handsome coworker plopped down next to her, careful not to spill his drink. He turned and smiled at her with deep wells of enthusiasm, as if taking this seat was the best thing he had done all day.

“Well, Dolores, how are you enjoying this fine party?” 

She smelled at least two three on his breath.

“You know, just taking it all in.” 

“What time are you hoping to leave?”

“As soon as possible.” 

“Oh, come on,” he laughed. “It’s a party! Live a little. Let loose.”

Dolores looked at his golden retriever face, so curious, so eager to please.

“I’m not a let loose kind of lady.”

“Oh, I know,” was all he said, with something like a sigh. 

For a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence. The hum of their coworkers’ chatter grew louder as men and women dipped into their third and fourth cups. The hubbub, at least, drowned out the jingle bells-adjacent music.  

“What are you doing for Christmas this year?” he asked, finally breaking the light tension, the sort that inevitably bubbles up when no one is talking. 

“Not much. My mom and stepdad are going on a seniors-only cruise to the Caribbean.”

She paused, hoping he wouldn’t make a crack about her age. He didn’t.

“I did not get an invite. But I’ll spend the day with my brother.”

“So you won’t be alone?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. 

God damn it, she thought. Just like a dog.

But beneath the snark she noticed another emotion. She felt the unexpected sting of unwanted tears. She blinked, uncomfortable with the crack in her attempt at a cheerful holiday facade, and hoped he had not noticed. 

“I wouldn’t want you to be alone on Christmas,” he said. 

He spoke with true sincerity, or at least a very good attempt at it. She hated it. She didn't trust it. She knew the polite thing to say — thank you, Stephen, that’s so kind of you. But she didn’t. She doubled down on feeling nothing at all.

“What’s so bad about being alone on Christmas?” she asked. “It’s just a day, after all. I spend many days alone and enjoy myself. Would it really matter if someone hadn’t told us that it mattered? It would just be, well, I spent a winter’s day alone.”

“But it’s tradition, Dolores. Traditions are nice.”

“Sometimes,” she countered. “Traditions are dangerous.” 

“Sometimes. But I don’t think Christmas is one of those times. It ain’t ‘The Lottery,’” he sighed. “Jesus, Dolores.”

This time, their silence was not companionable. His kindness had been rebuffed. Her analysis had been deemed insufferable.

That was the problem with talking to people instead of at them. 

Stephen gave the conversation one last chance.

“Come on,” he said. “There must be something you like about Christmas. Or Hanukkah, whatever you choose to celebrate. Festivus? And you can’t say presents, everyone likes presents. And food.”  

She was surprised to find that her first thought was about her dad. She hadn’t thought of him in years. And that was how she found her answer.

“I like some of the songs, but not ones like this,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the noise that filled the room. “I like the sad ones. Like Carol of the Bells or those off-key children in a Charlie Brown Christmas.”

“The songs in a minor key?”

She nodded.

“Yes, the ones in a minor key. The other ones, the cheery ones, they’re trying too hard to create something that’s not there,” she said. “Don’t you hear it? The melancholy, the longing? Winter is sad. Life is sad.”

Stephen considered this. 

“Well, my wife likes Mariah Carey,” was all he had to offer. “So I like Mariah Carey.” 

She found herself surprisingly disappointed — not in that he had a wife, she already knew that. But that he had withdrawn from the conversation, as if she had stumbled upon a deeper well than he never wished to excavate. 

“We’re just more major key people,” he shrugged. 

He looked at her with something like pity. She thought she would mind, but she didn’t. Because the truth was she felt some kind of pity for him, too. 

Stephen stood up to leave, lamenting that he had to fetch some more beer. The excuse was kindly meant, but Dolores knew a desire to flee when she heard one.

Stephen had walked five steps away before doubling back. She looked at him, expectantly.

“You know, Dolores, even those minor key songs have happy lyrics. That’s all I want to say.” 

She smiled at him, a real smile, the realest she could muster.

“Merry Christmas, Stephen.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, my friend.”

Dolores left the party half an hour later, feeling as if she had paid the sufficient party toll to F. Murray and Associates. She walked out of the noisy conference room and into the quiet of her solitary life. These were the sounds that gave her comfort: the clicking of her heels in empty hallways, the low murmur of public radio in her car, the happy, hungry mews of Bartleby when she unlocked the door. They were the sounds that allowed her to be in a world by herself. 

She started her nighttime routine. She hung up her keys. She took off her coat. She fed her cat. She changed into pajamas and fell onto her sofa. 

But Stephen’s parting words nagged at her. She walked over to her record player, feeling, as she always did, a little ashamed that she had bought into the hipster industrial complex. She needed it, though, to listen to one of the few things her dad left her. She tapped through his old albums until she found the one she was looking for. She took it out of its sleeve, laid the B side on the turntable, and placed the stylus on the vinyl, feeling its satisfying catch. 

She listened as Vince Guaraldi and those off-key children captured the silence of her living room. Her dad loved this album. He hated the holidays, as a rule, but he loved the songs that evoked the darkness and depression of a deep midwinter. She always admired him for that. She knew he heard and saw the truth.

Dolores tried to do as Stephen said. She tried to focus on the glad tidings of the lyrics — Christmastime being here, happiness and cheer. She thought that’s what Stephen was trying to say. Sift through the noise and look for the happy. 

But Dolores just couldn’t do it. All she heard was the piano, the hi-hat, and the honesty of the minor key. That’s where her thoughts and her spirits dwelled. That’s where, she had to admit, she felt most comfortable. She would never hear the world’s rhythms and melodies the way so many people did. People like Stephen. But, she supposed, he would never hear what she heard, either.

She settled under a blanket, hugged Bartley to her chest, and let the quiet jazz fill the air.