The house is big and set back from the road. It has been tarted up with too many lights and wreathes and bows. Even on Christmas Eve something is wrong about it. Someone’s effort went into the decoration, but not the right person, and not for the right reasons.
“Let’s get this over with,” I tell Fester. He is staring out the window rapping silently on the glass, no doubt thinking simple thoughts of those tropical cocktails he likes to drink, or football games on television, or Beatrice Vaughn’s lopsided tits. Whatever it is, I don’t care. “Okay, Fester?”
“A-okay.”
I back into the driveway and as I do the garage door opens.
The perfect wood delivery is one where the customer isn’t home. In these cases I dump the wood wherever is most convenient, stick an invoice in the mailbox, then I’m gone. It takes fifteen minutes. Tops. An opening garage door that reveals a middle-aged woman is a complicating circumstance. I don’t like complicating circumstances.
“Keep your mouth shut.” I tell Fester. He hadn’t expected to work tonight, and is already pretty drunk.
“Sure boss,” he says with what sounds like an edge, and I can’t tell if he is fucking with me.
It is Christmas Eve so I give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Thank you. Thank you for coming,” the woman says through my closed window before the truck has stopped moving.
She is attractive for an older woman, and something about her reminds me of my mother, though this woman has had the luxury of aging gracefully where my mother died, alone and mostly forgotten, in a state-run rehabilitation center. They may have started at the same point and with the same raw materials: nice faces, straight teeth, bright blue eyes; but then gone down different paths.
“Not a problem,” I say.
I get out, walk briskly past her, and climb into the bed of the truck. Fester stays in the cab and I bang on the back window.
“Let’s go.”
The wood is cold, and a lot of it has patches of ice on it. It is some of my boss Duffy’s worse stuff. I can almost picture it in his yard, half covered with a tarp, where it has been sitting out for months. Like Fester, I hadn’t planned on working tonight, and don’t have any gloves. It doesn’t take long for my hands to numb. We throw the wood into a pile in the middle of the garage, both of us going with both hands, throwing two, three, four pieces of wood at a time. Fester is faster than me. When he gets going he is something to see. Fester’s a fucking animal on the wood.
“The thing is, I ordered with someone else, and they never came. Last time I call them.”
“We’re happy to help out, Ma’am.” Duffy is paying me twice what he normally does because it is Christmas Eve which means he is charging this woman at least three times the normal price.
“They don’t care, mother.” The woman’s daughter appears in the doorway leading back to the house. This is another complicating circumstance.
“Go back in the house please, Sarah. I don’t want to get into it with you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sarah is attractive, but, unlike her mother, it is in a plain sort of way. There are no imperfect features, but at the same time nothing really extraordinary either. Sarah has a smirk of entitlement, though, that I immediately recognize. I spent three semesters in college where I met more than my share of Sarahs.
“Just go inside with your grandfather.”
Fester is still head-down, tossing firewood, and I want to tell the daughter to go back inside before Fester looks up. It’s not like Fester is going to come unhinged at the sight of a young woman, but he will become distracted and that will be yet another complication.
“Ahh, good strong men,” the grandfather says, appearing in the door the way the daughter had, as if he had been channeled at the mention of his name.
I smile and nod but think “Jesusfuckingchrist.”
The grandfather is tall, hunched, with loose, pink skin that almost appears to be melting off his head. He is remarkably old.
“I was a strong man,” the grandfather says, and the woman’s daughter rolls her eyes at me as if we are allied.
“You can all go back in the house if you like,” I say. “We won’t be long.”
Fester hears this and stops throwing firewood. He notices the grandfather, and then the woman’s daughter. He wipes his hands on his pants, and a wide grin appears that makes him look dumber than he actually is. Retarded even.
If the homeowner hadn’t been paying attention to Fester while he was working, she is on edge now that he has stopped and is staring at her daughter. I can’t help but be a little amused by this.
I consider telling the mother that Fester got the name because, as a kid, he had this long straight hair that covered his face, but whoever was teasing him got the Addams family characters mixed up. His name should be Cousin It, but Fester stuck, and over time he has grown into it. For some reason I think the mother would get a kick out of this story in the way my mother did, but I decide not to tell it.
“You know The Camel?” Fester asks the daughter.
“Excuse me,” the daughter says.
“You have to come to The Camel,” Fester says.
“It’s a bar,” I say because the conversation is too cryptic without some explanation of what Fester is saying. Camel is also the name of the guy who owns the bar, but explaining that would only confuse things further. I start throwing firewood out of the truck again, hoping Fester will follow my lead, which, of course, he doesn’t.
“Sarah, please. Bring your grandfather back inside.”
“It’s good to see some good strong men around here for a change,” the grandfather says. “Hardworking boys on Christmas Eve. This is a house full of women and their arguments.” He unexpectedly laughs, then says in a lower voice, “it will make you crazy.”
“Dad, you need to go inside.”
“Ma’am, you can all go inside if you like. I can let you know when we’re done.”
“Or you can stay if you want,” Fester says to Sarah.
“Sarah, Dad, go back in the house.”
This time, for some reason, Sarah and the grandfather go back inside.
“Holidays can be stressful,” the mother says as if I give a damn. Things are already more complicated than I wanted and I’m in no mood to be sympathetic.
“We’ll be done in a few minutes.”
“It just wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without a fire in the fireplace.”
Fester isn’t moving. He is looking at the door to the house, waiting for it to open again.
“Start working,” I say in a way he’ll understand, one that lets him know to stop screwing around. The woman is visibly startled by my sudden change in tone and volume. Apparently, her first impression of me was wrong.
The tone does the trick, and Fester and I work in silence. The homeowner watches us closely. Once the truck is emptied, there is a pile of wood on the garage floor. I expect the woman to offer us fifty bucks to stack so that she can retain use of her garage but she doesn’t. I attribute this to Fester’s enduring attention to the door to the house and his obvious hope the daughter will again emerge from behind it. Fester appeals to more women that one would think, but an amorous Fester can be a terrifying sight to any mother, and I don’t blame this woman for wanting to be rid of us.
“Thank you,” she said and hands me two twenties. “For you and your friend.”
My mother’s family had money at one time and still might for all I know. Ties between her and her family were severed around the time I was born, soon after which she married my father. I know she had a rebellious streak that made her family consider her wild but by any other standard she was an intelligent, kind, even dull person. She was always reading and that was something I got from her. My father was generally thought of as the town bad boy when he was young enough for that to be something to aspire to and before he evolved into a nasty drunk who looked to fight. Last I heard he was living in Florida. He has been someone else’s problem for a long time now.
“Thank you,” I say.
“All families have their troubles. The holidays don’t make it any easier.” She appraises me with a look of skepticism, as if she is accusing me of something.
“I’m no one to say. Look at how I spend my Christmas Eve.”
She laughs at this.
“That actually looks pretty good to me.”
“It has its benefits.”
Fester has given up on the door. He is back in the truck, anxious to return to The Camel and whatever lonely women with standards temporarily lowered by the holidays await.
“Have a nice Christmas,” the homeowner says.
The crowd Camel gets on Christmas Eve always amazes me. He started opening up on Christmas Eve a few years back so people could get together for a quick drink after Midnight Mass. Since then it has turned into a gathering place for misfits and orphans. Every year I tell myself that this will be my last, that next year I’ll go to the movies like Jews do or maybe I’ll have a woman who does normal things and I’ll spend it with her. In the end, though, I’m not exactly relationship material and I don’t really like movies.
The crowd is two deep at the bar, but somehow Fester divines a stool as someone gets up to leave. I’m glad to be done with him. Working with Fester requires a lot of energy. I have to be on my toes around him. Also, my interaction with the homeowner and her family has left me in a mood where I don’t want to talk to anyone. I get like this sometimes, and it always makes me think about my fucked up life too much, which I’ve already started to do. I’ve made mistakes. No question. I’ve blown some opportunities and I have ruined my share of situations.
I manage to find a bar stool and I watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” for possibly the one-millionth time. It is the part where Jimmy Stewart is home from college and trying to get with Donna Reed.
I’m three drinks in when I look in Fester’s direction, and see that he is talking to Sarah. Her hands are making shapes as she talks, and Fester’s face is pinched as if he’s trying to both follow the conversation and decipher what her hands are doing. After a moment he gives up, and stares at her tits.
Sarah’s appearance at The Camel is not surprising. It suddenly occurs to me that a sequence of events was put in motion when Duffy called me to make the delivery. Perhaps even earlier than that. Sarah at The Camel was inevitable. I watch them for a little while. In the way that many rich girls do she kind of blends in, but not quite. There is nothing flashy about Sarah’s appearance but, unlike most of us, nothing is genuinely scuffed or worn. She chats away with Fester, as if he is a friend’s toddler. Her easy little life strikes me as pathetic. I watch them drink a couple of rounds of shots, and then I go over to talk to her.
“You made it to The Camel,” I say, elbowing my way in front of Fester.
“Hi,” she says in a flirting way. “This place is cool.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I can’t believe my mother made you guys come out tonight.”
I shrug. “She seems like a nice woman.”
“We’re talking here,” Fester says and tries to pull me out of the way but he is sitting and I am standing and I have the leverage.
“She’s a bitch,” Sarah says.
Fester laughs at this.
I think of my mother again and how people in her life—her parents, my father, probably even me—prevented her from being who she could have been.
“She’s doing her best,” I say.
Sarah pouts, and then lowers her eyebrows in the same way her mother had earlier.
“How would you know?”
“Yeah, how would you know? The girl says her mother’s a cunt,” Fester says and laughs.
“No I didn’t.” Sarah scowls at Fester. Then the scowl melts away and she giggles at his use of the word.
Sarah is naïve and foolish and doesn’t know what she is getting herself into with Fester, but I have enough of my own problems. I don’t need to take on some rich girl’s as well.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” I say, making eye contact with Sarah the whole time. Then I step back into the crowd.
I’m at the other end of the bar surrounded by people. I tune them out for long stretches of conversations then pick the string back up. Someone has switched the television from the movie to a football game. I am drinking good scotch tonight. I try to savor it, but the glasses drain awfully fast. It is Christmas Eve and I have some money in my pocket and the alcohol feels good. It warms and creates a cocoon around me. I catch Sarah looking in my direction a few times and I look away before she does. Fester is still next to her, slouched further forward than before, in a way that makes me think he has his hand on her knee or perhaps higher up her leg than that. Despite this, I know Sarah is interested in me, not Fester. I exercise some discipline by denying myself looks in that direction. Women don’t want a man who is too attentive to them and I am here to enjoy my drinks. When I finally lift my head to steal a glance, I see that her stool is empty. Fester is there and he picks someone else’s money off the bar. Any second now I expect Sarah to appear behind me, to feel her hand on my shoulder.
“Go home to your mother and grandfather,” I plan on saying to her even though a good fuck might be exactly what I need on a night like this. “You should be with your family.”
But the hand on my shoulder never comes. I watch Fester wobble his way out of the crowded bar. There are still ninety minutes until last call. I have misjudged the situation.
It is not as cold outside as I expect, and, compared with the crowded, stuffy bar, the air is refreshing. The twenties Sarah’s mother gave me, that I decided not to cut Fester in on, are gone. I am on wobbly legs and heavy feet, but the cool air gives me clarity and I feel like I can run a race. I look back and am reminded that The Camel is a crappy little bar, in a crappy little building, and it is sad that so many people, me included, spend so much time in such a shit-hole. People do all sorts of things without realizing it.
Fester and Sarah are leaning against her car. They are facing each other and his hand is on her shoulder. Despite this contact her body is leaning the other way and appears to be retreating.
“Hey Fester. Camel’s looking for you,” I say when I’m close enough to be heard.
Sarah looks up at me. I sense pleading in her eyes.
Fester ignores me.
“Says he’s going to ban you again. You know better than to steal tips off the bar. He’s pretty pissed.”
His gaze stays trained on Sarah, as if he’s trying to stare holes in her.
“Fuck do I care. Tell him that.”
“Look, asshole. I’m no messenger for you.”
Fester swings around quickly to face me. The truth is I don’t have any problem with Fester. I understand him more than he understands himself. He’d be a better person if he had me around to constantly keep him in line. But Fester rarely has anyone keeping him in line. Sarah is too naïve to understand that.
His brow is lowered and he spits on the ground. I can see his brain working. Fester is like a cat with a mouse.
“Your problem is not with me. Talk to Camel.”
He turns back to Sarah.
“You should probably talk to him,” she says.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he tells Sarah.
Then he sends a menacing scowl at me. Fester’s not the biggest guy, but he’s not wired like everyone else. He has exceptional hand quickness, and is crazy strong. The few fights I have seen him in were all brief and brutal. I know that someday he and I will come to blows. This town is too small and our lives intersect too often for it not to happen. I’ve also been pushing my luck with him for a long time.
“I’ll be right back.”
Sarah and I watch Fester’s quick, short steps as he walks towards the building.
“Having a nice time?” I ask when he is out of earshot.
“Your friend’s an interesting guy.”
“That’s one way to put it. He’ll be back in a few minutes so you better get going.”
“Why would I do that?”
I consider for a moment the possibility that this answer was made to make me jealous. Maybe it was.
“Look, you’ve had your fun. Now get going while you can.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I chuckle at this.
“You don’t have a clue what a guy like him is like.”
“He’s sweet.”
Sarah’s an adult, Fester’s an adult. They can do what they want. It shouldn’t make any difference to me, but it does. I know that Sarah is unprepared for someone like Fester. I have seen it before.
“You’re mother’s a nice lady. You’ve got a nice family. You ought to spend Christmas Eve with them, not with that guy you’re waiting for. He’s not like the frat boys at college. He’s a really bad guy.”
Her body tenses in defiance, like I’m trying to tell her what to do. It funny, in a strange sort of way, to be in this position: a Christmas Samaritan.
“I can take care of myself.”
In the light of the parking lot I see a stronger resemblance to her mother that I didn’t notice at her house and I think again of my own mother and what she might have been like at Sarah’s age.
“I spent some time in college,” I say.
Sarah is avoiding eye contact but she purses and twists her lips to show her annoyance with me
“Why do you deliver wood then?”
“I’m good at reading people and that is something I didn’t learn in college.”
Her eyes brighten at this, like she has finally come to her senses. She smiles and looks directly at me.
“So what? You think you have me figured out? What do you know?”
Then she starts laughing. It is a high-pitched little girl’s laugh that sounds half put-on and half genuine. It spins like a web out of her mouth and around me, and doesn’t stop.
My mother’s mistake was always her failure to get away from my father. They’d split up, sometimes for long periods, but she would always take him back. As I got older I realized that things weren’t as simple as I had thought and that my mother was not the innocent victim she liked to portray. At times she took great pleasure in belittling my father, as if she were trying to make him pay for her decisions.
A switch goes off in my head and my body immediately responds. It might be because of her refusal to heed my advice or I might be trying to teach her a lesson that being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people can have consequences. My hands are around Sarah’s throat. The body and mind when working instinctively can summon enormous power. I am going to make her stop laughing and, now that I have taken hold of her, there is no turning back.
Her eyes bulge. They are a brighter blue than I had noticed before, bluer than her mother’s. Surprise registers on her face. Then terror. She scratches and pulls at my hands. She wheezes out the words, “Take the money.”
“I don’t want your money. I’m trying to help you.”
“Don’t,” she gasps.
Her face turns red and her eyes roll around, looking for someone to help her. Then they train on mine. The adrenaline rush this gives me is immense and I squeeze even harder. I feel her body go limp in my hands and I am holding her up. It is a beautiful moment, our eyes locked, my hands around her, and her body limp. We are dance partners. Nothing else in the world exists but the two of us at this moment.
“I’m helping you,” I say.
A sharp blow strikes my shoulders and propels me forward on top of Sarah. My hands are locked on her throat but the blow, and then the impact of our fall to the ground, causes me to let go. She is gasping for air as a hand grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me up. A punch to the back of my head knocks me down again. My vision is slightly blurred, but I see now what I had already known. Fester has come back.
“Camel didn’t want nothing,” he says.
There is a good chance that Fester will kill me. I have given him the excuse he needs to go absolutely ape-shit on me and, when the flurry of kicks and punches starts, my only feelings are indifference. I cover my head with my arms as best I can, and accept each strike the way a losing boxer might. It is part of the bargain. Then, as quickly as they started, the blows unexpectedly stop. There is the metallic taste of blood in my mouth but, after sliding my tongue around, I confirm that my teeth are in tact. I lift myself partially off the ground and rest on my hands and knees. A small crowd has formed. More people from the bar are quickly approaching, not wanting to miss out on the excitement. Four guys are holding Fester back. My ribs are broken, or at least cracked, and, as I slowly shift into a more erect kneeling position, I can feel every millimeter of movement though this pain. I take some solace in that. This kind of pain is familiar for me, the way a bad friend is. I can hear the sirens of approaching police cars.
“I’m not through with you,” Fester is yelling.
My father was big on showy apologies: flowers and gifts the day after he would fly off the handle and even as a kid I saw the dishonesty in it. I look for Sarah in the crowd. She is standing, hands on her knees, and leaning against her car. She does not look up at me.
“Bah humbug,” I say.
A few people help me to my feet and ask me if I’m okay. I suspect by their helpfulness that they have only seen the Fester pummeling me part of the interaction. Perhaps they think it was an unprovoked attack.
“You need to quit drinking,” someone tells me.
“Maybe so,” I say as if that is going to solve things. The police arrive, and after some conversations out of earshot, I am handcuffed and put in the back of one of the cars.
Sarah finally looks up at me. I smile and shrug. My father spent more than one Christmas Eve in the pokey and it seems appropriate for me to do the same. The series of events were put in place when her mother ordered firewood on Christmas Eve. I feel closer to my father now than I ever did when he was in my life. I have a better understanding of him now.
As the car is about to pull away, I mouth, “I’m sorry.” I say that to Sarah. To my dead mother. To my father, wherever he might be. To myself.
“Fuck you,” she mouths back.
About the author:
Brad Conlin lives in Arlington, Massachusetts. His fiction and essays have appeared in The Beacon Street Review, the Boston Globe, Tatlin’s Tower, and elsewhere. His story, “The Ballad of Donald Lane,” was in the May 2009 issue of Word Riot. He recently completed a novel.
