OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 4

They were standing in Margaret’s craft room. Charlie was trying to convince Benny and Carol that something supernatural had happened the night before.

“I’m telling you,” said Charlie, “the box was open when I went to bed. But when I got up this morning it was shut. And I didn’t touch it, and nobody else could have touched it, and the box didn’t shut itself. So you tell me what happened.”

There was a long silence. Then Benny cleared his throat and said, “Charlie, I’m not going to argue with you. Maybe Margaret did come back—” he hesitated “—from the grave and shut the box. I don’t know. Anything is possible I guess. All I’m saying is, you’ve been shut up in this house for a year now, all by yourself, and—”

“Don’t touch those,” Charlie said sharply to Carol.

Carol froze. She had been curious about Margaret’s stack of craft magazines and was about to pick one up and look at it, but stopped now and backed away, casting a worried glance at Benny.

Benny sighed. “Charlie, we didn’t come here to argue. We just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “Go ahead, Carol, take a magazine. Take as many as you’d like. Take them all. Margaret would want you to. Really.”

“Oh no Charlie,” said Carol, “I couldn’t.”

“No, please take them.”

“We should leave,” said Benny.

“No, take them. You guys are right. I should get rid of this stuff.”

“Charlie,” said Carol, her eyes tearing.

Benny walked over and placed his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “We love you, buddy,” he said.

“I love you guys too.”

“Hey, we’re gonna’ have our big Christmas party in a couple of weeks. You gonna’ be there?”

“Sure.”

“It’d do you good,” said Carol.

“I’ll be there,” said Charlie. Then he saw them to the door, hugged them both, said goodnight, and closed the door.

He started getting ready for bed. He took out his teeth and looking in the bathroom mirror thought, God where did the years go? I should still be a thin young blade, with my own teeth, and Margaret should still be my blushing bride. Where did the years go, God? And why couldn’t you give us a child? It’s not fair damn it.

He turned away from the mirror and turned off the light. That’s stinking thinking, he thought. I know better than to go down that road. I can’t afford a pity party. The past is what it was, and the present’s what it is, and as for the future—well, to Hell with the future … what little there is of it.

Noticing the light in Margaret’s craft room was still on, he went in there to turn it off. But first he checked to make sure everything was still in its place.

Yes, everything was where it should be: scissors, marker, ribbons, rolls of fabric, glue bottles, boxes, paint cans, stack of magazines—everything was where it should be. And the unfinished purple doll lay precisely where it had lain for a year now, on its back in the midst of the clutter.

Benny and Carol are right, he thought as he turned off the light. I must have shut that box myself without realizing it. Or maybe the lid just fell of its own accord. Sitting in there for a year that was bound to happen. Things eventually fall down.

I’m an old fool, he thought. I’m an old fool to think Margaret’s spirit shut that box. Benny and Carol are right, I’m going out of my mind with loneliness.

He turned off the light and went to bed … and dreamt of Margaret.

They were having a picnic under tall pine trees roaring in the wind. It was reminiscent of the road trip they took to East Texas in the late Sixties, and Margaret looked exactly as she looked the day he married her. She was laughing at some silly joke of his and threw herself backwards on the grass she was laughing so hard, and he fell down beside her and his heart soared with happiness. And the brightness and fullness of the day was such that he could count every blade of grass and every pine needle and knew instinctively every atom of earth beneath his feet as well as he knew himself, or better.

And Margaret said, “Charlie, there is so much more to know.”

“What do I need to know?”

“Well,” she said, “you need to know that the back right tire has a slow leak and it’s going to go flat on you. You might even have a blow-out. You should take it around to the Jiffy Lube, Charlie, first thing in the morning. If you don’t, you’re going to have a hell of a lot of trouble.”

Charlie laughed. “I don’t know what I ever did without you,” he said. “I never could remember to check the tires, or the oil, or—”

He woke with a start. There had been a noise. He lay in the darkness, listening, his heart pounding.

Then he heard it again. A loud thump in the craft room. My god it’s a home invasion, he thought and grabbing the baseball bat he kept by the bed jumped up and crept down the hall towards the room.

He flung the door open, turned on the light, and at first saw nothing amiss. Then he noticed the purple doll sitting upright on the table and all the boxes and cans turned upside down and the scissors and black marker lying on the floor.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 3

Jim gave up trying to find work as a plumber. He was bitter and felt that a cruel joke had been played on him. The state had trained him for the job, at the same time that it was cracking down on “offenders” by passing new laws that made it impossible for him to be licensed. He did not understand it. Did the state want him to go back to prison?

He began looking for other kinds of work, but quickly discovered that his record was still an impediment. Even minimum-wage fast-food jobs were requiring background checks these days and they preferred applicants without clean records, particularly if the job involved handling cash. He managed to find a few fast-food employers who were not particular, but they had no openings at present. Not that the situation was hopeless. These were high-turnover jobs, thus there might be openings later. But he did not need a job later; he needed one now. Heather’s paycheck could not cover all their expenses—expenses that included not only next month’s rent but the balance still owed on this month’s. So far the apartment management had been patient, but he knew their patience would end if all the money was not forthcoming by January third.

It was December fifth. After a full day applying for jobs on foot (he could not use the car because Heather needed it to get to her job), he walked into a Shop-N-Go to buy a bottled water and package of peanuts.

While he was there, he found himself lingering in front of the refrigerated beer case and thought maybe he could have just one. Just to calm my nerves, he thought. Help me think straight. He was so desperate. No, he thought, I should walk out now. I shouldn’t look at this stuff. I shouldn’t even be in the same room with it. I should leave right now. I can’t be around booze. But he remained standing there in front of the case, even though it was not wise. I can’t even be around this stuff, he thought.

He didn’t know how Heather did it, serving drinks all night. She’s stronger than me, he thought. No, she’s not. Booze never was her real problem. Booze she could take or leave. It was a line of crank she couldn’t turn down. If she was serving crank all night, now that would be a problem. Then it would be her falling off the wagon now, not me.

I need a beer, he thought. Just one. Just enough to settle my nerves. No, I should leave—and to his surprise, he did leave. But he thought about the beer all the way home and wished he had one—just one—something to help him wind down from the hard discouraging day and help him think straight.

He told Heather about the episode later when she got home. He had considered not telling her. He didn’t want her to know how close he had come to falling off the wagon, lest it cause her to fall off the wagon too. But they had promised each other they would discuss these things. They didn’t have sponsors, thus were trying to be each other’s sponsor—and so far it was working. They had been clean and sober two weeks now, which for them was a success.

So he told her. They were sitting at the kitchen table. He told her what a hard day it had been trying to find work and how desperate he felt and how he almost bought a beer.

She said, “Jim, I’m going to have to take that job.”

“No.”

“We don’t have any other options,” she said. “We’re going to be evicted, and you—we—can’t take this pressure. We’re going to fall off the wagon, Jim, both of us. And we’ll be evicted and this time there’s no money coming from my mother, or your brother or anybody. You know that. I’ve got to take that job, Jim.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ve got no choice. It could take you weeks to get a job and we don’t have weeks. But if I take this job, I’ll make good money. I talked to one of the girls that works there. She makes hundreds of dollars a night in tips. With money like that we can make it, Jim.”

“I don’t know, Heather.”

“Don’t cry because you’ll make me cry. And there’s no reason to cry. I can do this, okay? Believe me, I don’t want to, but I won’t have to do it forever, just till you find a job. And you’ll find one. Don’t give up.”

“I’ll keep looking.”

“Yes, and I’ll take the job. It’ll save our lives, Jim.”

“But what if CPS finds out? We’ll never get Jason back. They weren’t so hot about you working in a regular bar. But a titty bar—Christ.”

“Jim honey, we’re going to end up on the streets and if that happens we’ll never see Jason again. I’ve got to take this job. Anyway, CPS won’t find out.”

“Okay,” said Jim. Then they held each other a long time.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 2

The man who said the prayer for the young couple at the meeting was named Charles Dunlap. People called him Charlie.

Later that evening, as Charlie unlocked the door of his home, he was still thinking about the young couple. He had said the prayer because it seemed the right thing to do at the time. He meant well, but now in hindsight he saw it as an ineffectual gesture, empty words when what the couple needed was something more—a real-world solution. Not that he had a solution. He just wished that when the meeting adjourned, he had been able to talk to them privately—but they had bolted from the meeting and disappeared before he could get to them.

And now he could not stop thinking about them. They stayed on his mind as he took out his teeth and got ready for bed, and when he lay down and started to read, their story weighed so heavily on him he could not concentrate on his book.

Usually he did not invest a great deal of emotion in the people he encountered at meetings. He had heard so many hard stories over the years, so many terrible things, that he had learned to detach. You had to, because if you got too caught up in other peoples’ problems, it tore you up inside and put your own serenity at risk—and then you couldn’t help anyone, not even yourself.

So many hard stories, and so many from people with criminal backgrounds like that young man Jim—so many because of all the parolees and people on probation who had been stipulated by the courts to attend AA.

God what a mess, thought Charlie. Half those people aren’t even alcoholics, they’re just there because some judge told them to be there. A bunch of losers and hustlers using the meetings to vent and take time away from people who really need help.

And it's gotten worse, Charlie reflected, now that our group is the only one in the area that allows smoking. People come from as far away as the south side of the city just to smoke. And vent, and bitch, and waste everyone’s time instead of following the rules or working the Steps. Jesus, what a zoo.

But the young couple were for real. The young man Jim had no doubt been stipulated to be there, but he was sincere about wanting to stay sober. And he was desperate, and needed help. He wasn’t just venting.

And all I had to offer was a prayer, thought Charlie. Empty words. I’m just an old bag of wind.

He glanced at his wife’s picture by the bedside, and smiled because that’s what she would call him sometimes, an old bag of wind—teasing, of course.

He missed her teasing. He hadn’t always been in the mood for it and it had irritated him sometimes. But he missed it now.

It also used to irritate him when she would talk while he was trying to watch the news. But now he would give anything to hear her voice again and he didn't give a damn about the news.

All at once, he got out of bed and went down the hall to the room where she had done her crafts. He turned on the light and stood over her little table.

Everything was exactly as she had left it. She had been making funny little animal dolls that day to give away for Christmas. One doll, an owl made with purple fabric, was unfinished. It had pink ribbons on each pointed ear, but its button eyes had not been sewn on yet. Around it lay multi-colored stacks of fabric, cotton balls, a can of buttons, a needle pad, black marker, scissors, and all the other items she had been using that day, none of which had since been touched. The can of buttons was still open and always would be. He did not have the heart to close it or touch anything, because looking at this table frozen in time made him feel she had just stepped away for a minute and would be right back. But it also made him sad.

I’ll need a sleeping pill tonight, he thought. He went to the bathroom, took the pill, then got into bed and turned off the light. To hell with the book. He had lost interest in it.

He slept fitfully, with strange disjointed dreams—a chaos of confusing events, long tedious tasks that could not be completed, thoughts that made no sense.

Then, around three o’clock after waking briefly to go to the bathroom, he went back to bed and had a dream that he was walking through a dark wooded area down a dry creek bed. Nothing happened in the dream, but the strange, quiet, dark mood was disturbing and he woke up.

Then he went back to sleep and dreamed some more and found himself talking to Margaret, his wife. It was so real and he could see her so clearly, and he was happy and relieved she wasn’t dead. It had just been a passing health scare like so many times before. They still had years ahead of them. Then he woke up.

It was five o’clock. He got up, made coffee, and sat in the kitchen drinking it while the sun came up.

It had been months since he dreamed about Margaret. He wondered why now, and supposed it was because it had been a year since her death. Anniversaries like that are hard, Charlie thought. And so is Christmas. More people fall off the wagon at Christmas time than any other time of year. Wow, that’s a double-whammy for me. I may not survive this Christmas. She used to do a lot of baking this time of year. The kitchen was always full of wonderful smells, and she was so happy. She would smile and hum to herself—

I don’t think I’ll be able to stand Christmas this year, he thought. I might drink, and that would be bad. Thirty years sobriety down the tubes ... No, I won’t drink. Margaret wouldn’t want me to. I’ll white-knuckle it, do whatever I have to just to honor her memory. But it will be hard.

I should take a trip, he thought. Get out of the house. Too many memories here. But he was not up for a trip. He did not have the energy and did not know where he would go. And even if he had the energy and had a destination he cared about, it would be no fun by himself. He preferred to stay home, even though home was full of too many memories.

He had been told he should clean out the house, get rid of her things. Benny and Carol had said so just the other day. You’ve got to move on, they said, and he wondered if he could. I could empty out her craft room, he thought. I could rent out the room. Extra money wouldn’t be bad. Hell, I could give the room to someone who needs it … like that young couple who are going to end up on the streets unless the wife works in a strip joint.

I’ll probably never see them again, he thought. But the spare room would be there next time I meet someone in trouble.

But could he do it? Could he empty out the room? Could he touch those dear objects she had touched moments before she died?

He was agitated. He got up and went to the room and stood over the table, and while he was staring at it noticed something. The box of buttons that had been open for a year now—and was open last night, he was sure of it—was now shut.

(To be continued)

OH HOLY NIGHT, Part 1

The driveway was long and dusty and led to a large frame country house that stood between three large trees swaying in the winter wind, their leaves brittle and brown. The driveway was long and dusty and led to a large frame country house that stood between three large trees swaying in the winter wind, their leaves brittle and brown.

In front of the house was a large graveled space where six cars were parked. Inside the house, in the front room, was a couch and chair and some large ashtrays and a rack full of AA pamphlets and on one wall a large framed poster listing the Twelve Steps.

On the opposing wall was another poster with the Serenity Prayer, and on another wall hung a few framed mottoes ("Easy Does It," "Let Go and Let God," and so forth), and in the northwest corner of the room stood a small Christmas tree with a strand of blinking lights wrapped around it and a few little ornaments hanging from its dry limbs. There was also the faint smell of pine mixed with cigarettes and fresh-brewed coffee.

Behind the front room was a meeting room that had been created by removing the wall between what had formerly been the dining room and master bedroom. In the middle of this meeting room was a long table around which sat eight people on folding chairs, all smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and arguing.

No one today remembers what the argument was about, only that it started between an obese fiftyish woman with dyed-red hair and the fortyish insurance salesman with dark circles under his eyes who was chairing the meeting that day. It is also remembered that a few minutes into the argument there suddenly appeared (drawing irritated glares from those assembled) a young tattooed couple in their twenties.The driveway was long and dusty and led to a large frame country house that stood between three large trees swaying in the winter wind, their leaves brittle and brown.

In front of the house was a large graveled space where six cars were parked. Inside the house, in the front room, was a couch and chair and some large ashtrays and a rack full of AA pamphlets and on one wall a large framed poster listing the Twelve Steps.

On the opposing wall was a smaller poster with the Serenity Prayer, and on another wall a picture of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemene, and in the northwest corner of the room stood a small Christmas tree with a strand of blinking lights wrapped around it and a few little ornaments hanging from its dry limbs. There was also the faint smell of pine mixed with cigarettes and fresh-brewed coffee.

Behind the front room was a meeting room that had been created by removing the wall between what had formerly been the dining room and master bedroom. In the middle of this meeting room was a long table around which sat eight people on folding chairs, all smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and arguing.

No one today remembers what the argument was about, only that it started between an obese fiftyish woman with dyed-red hair and the fortyish insurance salesman with dark circles under his eyes who was chairing the meeting that day. It is also remembered that a few minutes into the argument there suddenly appeared (drawing irritated glares from those assembled) a young tattooed couple in their twenties.

They were in their twenties, yet seemed older. That is, their faces and bodies were young but their skin had the dark weathered look of being too long on the streets, and the girl in particular though blonde and cute with the kittenish features of a centerfold also showed the early signs of alcoholic bloat and dissipation, and the eyes of both were dark and desperate.

They sat down at the meeting table, and when the opportunity arose (that is, when there was a lull in the ongoing argument), the young man spoke …

“We’re here,” he said, his voice cracking, “because we—”

“WHO ARE YOU? SAY YOUR NAME!” roared the others.

“I—I’m Jim … and I’m an alcoholic, and this is Heather.”

There were murmurs of approval, along with sideways glances of great disapproval of these tattooed young intruders in their midst.

The young man Jim went on: “We’re here because we need help. We’ve been trying … we pray together every morning and read the Big Book, every chapter, but—” his voice choked.

The meeting room now was silent. Jim went on: “But I can’t find a job. I’ve got a criminal record. I was busted for pot a long time ago, and a couple of years ago I forged some checks. And I’ve done other things. I know I was stupid. But I did my time and took vocational classes while I was in prison and tried to make something better of myself. I trained to be a plumber. But now that I'm out, I can't get a job because of my criminal record. No one will hire me. When they see I’ve got a record, they just throw my application in the trash, and now I find out that the state has made it impossible for people like me to get licensed—”

He choked again, stopped to pull himself together, then went on: “Just a few months ago we ended up on the street and the CPS took away our little boy. We were able to get a little money from family to get us back on our feet. We’re trying so hard. We’re trying to stay sober. I’m trying to find a job. We’re trying to get our little boy back. But the money’s run out and we can’t borrow any more. Heather’s got a job now. A cocktail waitress. Doesn’t pay enough—we’re behind on our rent—but her boss says she can make more money if she dances in his other club. A strip club ...”

The young tattooed man broke down crying, and the girl beside him—her face drawn and white—touched his hand. He blubbered that he didn't want her to dance naked just to keep them off the streets, he just wanted a job and his son back, and he wanted a reason not to drink, and asked anyone present could they please help.

And when he was finished, someone stood up and said a prayer for the couple and the meeting was adjourned.

(To be continued ...)The driveway was long and dusty and led to a large frame country house that stood between three large trees swaying in the winter wind, their leaves brittle and brown. The driveway was long and dusty and led to a large frame country house that stood between three large trees swaying in the winter wind, their leaves brittle and brown.

In front of the house was a large graveled space where six cars were parked. Inside the house, in the front room, was a couch and chair and some large ashtrays and a rack full of AA pamphlets and on one wall a large framed poster listing the Twelve Steps.

On the opposing wall was another poster with the Serenity Prayer, and on another wall hung a few framed mottoes ("Easy Does It," "Let Go and Let God," and so forth), and in the northwest corner of the room stood a small Christmas tree with a strand of blinking lights wrapped around it and a few little ornaments hanging from its dry limbs. There was also the faint smell of pine mixed with cigarettes and fresh-brewed coffee.

Behind the front room was a meeting room that had been created by removing the wall between what had formerly been the dining room and master bedroom. In the middle of this meeting room was a long table around which sat eight people on folding chairs, all smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and arguing.

No one today remembers what the argument was about, only that it started between an obese fiftyish woman with dyed-red hair and the fortyish insurance salesman with dark circles under his eyes who was chairing the meeting that day. It is also remembered that a few minutes into the argument there suddenly appeared (drawing irritated glares from those assembled) a young tattooed couple in their twenties.The driveway was long and dusty and led to a large frame country house that stood between three large trees swaying in the winter wind, their leaves brittle and brown.

In front of the house was a large graveled space where six cars were parked. Inside the house, in the front room, was a couch and chair and some large ashtrays and a rack full of AA pamphlets and on one wall a large framed poster listing the Twelve Steps.

On the opposing wall was a smaller poster with the Serenity Prayer, and on another wall a picture of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemene, and in the northwest corner of the room stood a small Christmas tree with a strand of blinking lights wrapped around it and a few little ornaments hanging from its dry limbs. There was also the faint smell of pine mixed with cigarettes and fresh-brewed coffee.

Behind the front room was a meeting room that had been created by removing the wall between what had formerly been the dining room and master bedroom. In the middle of this meeting room was a long table around which sat eight people on folding chairs, all smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and arguing.

No one today remembers what the argument was about, only that it started between an obese fiftyish woman with dyed-red hair and the fortyish insurance salesman with dark circles under his eyes who was chairing the meeting that day. It is also remembered that a few minutes into the argument there suddenly appeared (drawing irritated glares from those assembled) a young tattooed couple in their twenties.

They were in their twenties, yet seemed older. That is, their faces and bodies were young but their skin had the dark weathered look of being too long on the streets, and the girl in particular though blonde and cute with the kittenish features of a centerfold also showed the early signs of alcoholic bloat and dissipation, and the eyes of both were dark and desperate.

They sat down at the meeting table, and when the opportunity arose (that is, when there was a lull in the ongoing argument), the young man spoke …

“We’re here,” he said, his voice cracking, “because we—”

“WHO ARE YOU? SAY YOUR NAME!” roared the others.

“I—I’m Jim … and I’m an alcoholic, and this is Heather.”

There were murmurs of approval, along with sideways glances of great disapproval of these tattooed young intruders in their midst.

The young man Jim went on: “We’re here because we need help. We’ve been trying … we pray together every morning and read the Big Book, every chapter, but—” his voice choked.

The meeting room now was silent. Jim went on: “But I can’t find a job. I’ve got a criminal record. I was busted for pot a long time ago, and a couple of years ago I forged some checks. And I’ve done other things. I know I was stupid. But I did my time and took vocational classes while I was in prison and tried to make something better of myself. I trained to be a plumber. But now that I'm out, I can't get a job because of my criminal record. No one will hire me. When they see I’ve got a record, they just throw my application in the trash, and now I find out that the state has made it impossible for people like me to get licensed—”

He choked again, stopped to pull himself together, then went on: “Just a few months ago we ended up on the street and the CPS took away our little boy. We were able to get a little money from family to get us back on our feet. We’re trying so hard. We’re trying to stay sober. I’m trying to find a job. We’re trying to get our little boy back. But the money’s run out and we can’t borrow any more. Heather’s got a job now. A cocktail waitress. Doesn’t pay enough—we’re behind on our rent—but her boss says she can make more money if she dances in his other club. A strip club ...”

The young tattooed man broke down crying, and the girl beside him—her face drawn and white—touched his hand. He blubbered that he didn't want her to dance naked just to keep them off the streets, he just wanted a job and his son back, and he wanted a reason not to drink, and asked anyone present could they please help.

And when he was finished, someone stood up and said a prayer for the couple and the meeting was adjourned.