Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas



     In a modest house near Parkersburg, West Virginia, a Christmas tree stood in the far corner of a cozy living room. It was live tree, though it wasn’t very large. It was strung with electric lights -- not the sort that blink off and on. He never cared much for those, although he thought they could be pretty. Just not on his tree. The lights on his tree were all “white.” Meaning that slightly off-amber glow that isn’t quite yellow, but not wholly white as the snow that fell outside the window. The tree had few ornaments. There were a few angel figurines and some old brass bells that dangled from the branches, a couple of small picture frames, but that was about it. Still, the tree seemed full, at least to him, and that was all that mattered. A wreath hung outside his front door made up the rest of his Yule decorations.
     The man picked up a small log from the long box next to his fireplace, knelt down, used it to move the embers round, then tossed it in. He stood up slowly, for he was old. At eighty-seven, Fish stared at the fire. He briefly thought of the burning of the pile of jackrabbit carcasses conjured from the long, misty and hagridden past. He didn’t usually ponder such nightmares. They’d died along with everything else too many years ago for his often confused and tormented mind to apprehend. Everyone else he’d know from those dear, terrible, and wonderful days had died as well. His best friend, Miller Tate, had just gone to sleep a week after Miller’s boy, Jordan, had been killed in a car accident. Wasn’t Jordan’s fault. That boy had survived so much, grown into a man, only to get broadsided by some drunk running a red light. Fish reckoned Miller’s heart just couldn’t take no more. Miller was old, though not as old as Fish. Miller was strong. Hardiest man Fish ever knew. Fish reckoned Miller just done give up, and so disappeared the last of the brave, Viking-like Tate’s. Too many battles, scars running deep into the marrow, no time nor salve could heal.
     Fish carried the same wounds. Well, Miller’s ran fouler. But Fish had been there. He’d felt each cut, every loss. All the dancing spider’s of sorrow. Yeah, Fish remembered being caught in that same damned web. Sonofabitch. How the hell any of them escaped he couldn’t quite remember. Must a been a few miracles still floating about back in them times. He coughed, walked to the fireplace, and spat a tiny wad of dark phlegm into the flame. It hissed. He still carried a remnant of the brown plague. Small one. Just another reminder, so he wouldn’t never forget. He forgot much in these tired days, most of it for the best. He had good days, and bad ones. Still, he lived on his own, never having no kin, and he walked steady. Never really came near to stumbling. Gaunt as ever, his body was surprisingly healthy for his age. Never needed a cane and took no medicine. Like a handful of shit pills gonna make no difference now, he told his first and only doctor. Fish figured he’d die when his name was called. He figured that would be soon enough. He hoped so. He wanted to step off the face of this world before his mind sank too far into the bottomless shit of madness, where he couldn’t remember anything. Or worse, where shadows split apart in his head, wielding cutting instruments, severing the connections that made his reality his own. His. By God. No murmuring of some jumbled past for him. Nor only living moment to moment, recalling nothin’ that he’d previously owned. He wouldn’t have that. He’d go to hell before he had hell come knocking on his door in that manner.
     Fish strode into the kitchen, where he’d set a pot of coffee going. Even though it was late, it didn’t keep him awake. He poured a cup and took it back to the living room. He looked at his tree. He couldn’t help thinking this would be his last one. But he thought the same last year, and the year before. He liked his tree, he guessed. Wasn’t sure why. He’d never been the festive type. Just seemed…not the right thing to do, but a true thing to do. Just one of many discovered truths. And it was only done for him. He wasn’t lighting a tree for the good Christ’s birthday. Hell, Fish couldn’t recall his own birthday. He’d been  in many a church, but not for reasons of holding a bible and singing psalms, nor praying, nor listening to some preacher spouting off for half a day. Miller was the one who took the Bible seriously, or at least tried his best to live his life according to that book. Miller was always calling Fish out for blasphemy. Fish had tried to read the Bible. He was never much of a reader anyhow and when he came to all those damned “begats,” he put the book down and never opened it again. He’d never prayed a day in his life. He’d watched the others fall to their knees in supplication, groaning for the good lord’s deliverance. Then he watched them die. One by one. Miller was the last. It was all superstition to him, and him unread and, quite often, unreasonable. It was the only thing he and Miller had ever argued over.
     Oh well.
     Fish sat in a chair by the fire. He sipped his lukewarm coffee. Didn’t much matter to him. He never did get used to comforts. Never much a part of his life. He stared into the fire. He looked at his lit tree and, for a moment, thought to pick it up and throw it out the door. I mean, what the hell?
     But he left it alone. Didn’t hurt nothin‘. Didn’t really help, neither. Just was. A late habit he’d picked up, for reasons unclear to him. He got up and tossed another small log into the fire. Lately, he’d taken to getting cold. A damned chill seemed to follow him around like an old hound, growling at his ankles. He’d tried to shake it off, but the damned thing had some sharp teeth. The hell. Let it bite. He had plenty of wood. He chopped it his own self. This made him smile. He had neighbors who used to offer to help him out with this chore or that. They soon learned not to come round again. Fish didn’t need no help. Day he did was the day he died.
    Christmas. A holy day for some, a season of charm and joy to others. Goodwill toward men and whatnot. Carols. Good King What’s his name. Fish didn’t mind these songs. Some of them he actually liked. Some made him happy, for no reason he could explain. Like “Carol of the Bells.” Or “I Wonder As I Wander.” Even “Silent Night. He preferred the melody without the words. The truth is, Fish didn’t understand Christmas. He never had, even as a lad. Yes, the gifts were few and small. He reckoned it meant something to him because he saw happier people, for the most part. Least happier children. Yes, they wanted things. Stuff. But it was more than that. This season brought them joy that went beyond baby Jesus and toys. Maybe it was the snow. The food. The cheerfulness. There was some sort of magic at work here that Fish couldn’t grasp -- and didn’t fully hold with. Look at these children. They loved this time of year more than their own birthdays. Gifts were given on both occasions. Maybe it was the exchange? The act of giving? Ah, horseshit.
     Goodwill toward men.
     Well, Fish knew what that meant. He’d followed that creed every day of his life. Didn’t always succeed, but he gave it his best shot. Now, here he sat, alone, all those he’d loved -- and who’d loved him -- lost, gone, dead. They would not come back. Ghosts, even the least malevolent, were for suckers. Goddamn, Miller, how I wish you was a ghost. Jordan too. Do you know I’d go back? Hell yes, I would. To the death and the blood and the rising dust and the horror…what have I now, this instant, the only one left, and yes, goddamn I feel so alone right now… 
      Fish began to weep.
     “He has lost so much.” said Fowler, looking through the window.
     “Yes. His life had been bittersweet.” said Mother, peering in as well. “But is this not the way of all human life?”
     “It is, I suppose.” said Fowler.
     “Quite sad, they are.”
     “This is my fault,” said Fowler. “I brought him to this.”
     “You did not create the storms, or the drought. It was human error that brought all this about.” said Mother.
     “But I fed it.” said Fowler. “It was my doing that his friend’s wife was taken.” He turned away, disgusted with himself.
     “Listen,” said Mother. Off in the distance, carolers were softly singing ‘Silent Night.’
     “It’s beautiful.” whispered Fowler.
     “Yes. It is.” replied Mother. “And it’s neither our fault nor our responsibility. Not our blame nor credit, any of this.”
     “We aren’t really a part of this, really, are we? I mean, we don’t belong. You or I.”
     “No. If we did belong, we would be the better for it.”
     Fowler thought for a moment. “I must give up this life. Go home. Retire. Die. Whatever you want to call it. Cease to be. I’m tired of it all, Mother.”
     “Do you feel sick?”
     “Yes.”
     “So do I. It is perhaps time for us to cease.”
     “I’m ready. I’ve been ready, I think, from the beginning.”
     “Look, then. The Bridge is back.” Mother pointed to the stone bridge, where they’d met many time before. It came into being beyond a children’s playground. “Let us walk the path together this last time.”
     “I’m afraid.” said Fowler.
     “I will take your hand.” said Mother. And he did. They walked to the bridge and, in the middle, the stones cracked and broke, trees fell, thunder burst, and they fell into the stream, where both drowned, their bodies disappearing, fading away from the memory of this world. They could never die, since they had never been born, but their essence dissipated and they became lost until the world broke again upon itself, but they were altered and not the same as they were before.

     Fish walked over to his Christmas tree. He straightened an angel that was dangling awry. He was an old man, and this holiday -- as all holidays -- meant little, if anything, to him. He would be glad when it was over. He would be sorry when it was over. He would feel relief, as many did. He would not look forward to the next December 25th.  He was still, in his way, in love with the world, but more than ready to walk out the door, his bill paid in full, tip his hat, leave all his experience behind, and enter the darkness. He had no loved ones left, no one to love him. He was completely alone. Even though he was used to this now, at his age, it hurt more than ever. He was no longer needed. It was easy and liberating to be alone, in many ways. But to not be needed by anyone. Fish looked at his front door. He should just open it and begin to walk through the snow until he fell. Instead, he went into the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, sat down in his chair and looked at his tree.
     This, he thought, should belong to someone else. Someone who cared, who could enjoy it. The fire blazed on, as did his thoughts. He fell asleep in his chair and, to his surprise, woke up on Christmas morning. No ribbons, no bows. No one left to give a shit about him. He got up out of his chair, stretched. It occurred to him that it was not over. Not by a long shot. No, it was beginning all over again. New Year’s Eve, he thought. A brand new goddamn year. Well, wasn‘t that just a wonder?
     Christ Almighty, thought Fish. Is there no end? No end at all?
     “Merry Christmas,” he said, as the snow fell in large, unheeding flakes. He heard a tinkling sound from the direction of his tree. One of the old bells had jingled. He walked toward the tree. It jingled again, merrily. Fish grinned. “Same to you, Miller, you old fart.” Another bell sang out. Then another. Soon, a chorus awoke and Fish was treated to his very own Carol of the Bells.
     Fish then realized that the best gifts come in small packages, and were unexpected. What next? The sound of reindeer hooves on the roof? As the music of the bells dwindled, he went to the kitchen for fresh coffee. He looked out the window. The snow was falling harder, and sticking. His small yard was covered in white. He took his cup, opened the door and walked outside. He stood still in the snow, as if carved from a bas relief from centuries ago, letting the snow pile upon him, flake by flake. It felt peaceful.
     Inside, the insistent tinkling of the bells called to him. He didn’t listen. The bells begged, shaking the already arthritic tree. Needles flew off in all directions. Still, Fish didn’t listen. Not to the bells, not to Miller. Not this time. He dropped his coffee cup, the warm, brown liquid staining and melting the snow, before that hole was filled in again. Fish walked away, away from his home, his town, and Miller’s impotent cries. He walked for three days and three nights.
     He had no next of kin.