{"id":2463,"date":"2020-03-18T12:42:42","date_gmt":"2020-03-18T16:42:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/rbwood.com\/dir\/?page_id=2463"},"modified":"2020-03-18T12:42:42","modified_gmt":"2020-03-18T16:42:42","slug":"the-glass-bauble","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/rbwood.com\/dir\/published-works\/the-glass-bauble\/","title":{"rendered":"The Glass Bauble"},"content":{"rendered":"

Introduction<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>This is a dark one. What happens when incredibly bad luck follows someone for their entire life? I wrote this during one caffeine-fueled evening for a class. Five thousand words between 11 PM and 3:30 AM. <\/span><\/p>\n

To date, the fastest story I’ve ever written.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

R. B. Wood<\/span><\/p>\n

March 2020<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

THE GLASS BAUBLE<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Present Day<\/u><\/strong><\/p>\n

It was during a blizzard that I placed the glass bauble containing the soul of my fianc\u00e9e Laura on our family Christmas tree.<\/p>\n

Just hours before, I\u2019d been sitting alone in our over-priced studio apartment in Boston\u2019s South End. I had been passing time alternatively watching the roaches scurrying about their business amongst the stained and unpacked dusty boxes that littered the living room, and the snow that drifted down between the dumpsters and abandoned cars outside our building. Clumps of matted white crystals fell, barely visible through the greasy yellowed glass where I\u2019d set up a cheap folding chair. A lifetime ago I would have been excited at the prospect of a few snowed-in days sharing a good book with my future wife. Perhaps we\u2019d have put some Sinatra on the record player and enjoy a glass of rum with just enough eggnog mixed in to call the booze \u201cfestive.\u201d<\/p>\n

Happy Christmas Eve to us.<\/p>\n

I sighed and poured myself another shot, flicking a roach onto the floor. It scurried away from me, making a beeline for the dark safety underneath another box marked \u201ckitchen pots.\u201d I stepped on the insect and took pleasure in hearing a distinctive \u201ccrunch\u201d as its shell split under the weight of my boot.<\/p>\n

Lights on the street below had been glowing for hours due to the sun-stealing storm, the lamps painting the blizzard in an electric rainbow of good cheer. The bright trappings and colored lights of the winter holidays were nothing more than a pretty lie sold to the gullible. There was a hiss-popping sound from the stereo speakers\u2014the old record had finished hours ago and I had neither the energy nor the interest to switch the turntable off.<\/p>\n

Laura had been missing for six months. I sat on the folding chair in the apartment we had picked out last summer, surrounded by old boxes still filled with the unimportant bric-\u00e0-brac of our lives \u201cbefore.\u201d The shadows of that December afternoon lengthened, finally engulfing me. I swirled a tumbler of rum for the hundredth time before finally emptying it in one deliberate motion. The darkness brought forth the ugly reality the voices taunted me with. There was a soft knock at the apartment door. I ignored it at first, but it quickly escalated to an insistent rapping.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I finally called.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Hector,\u201d replied a slightly muffled, accented voice. \u201cI have your medicine from the farmacia<\/em> and my wife made you dinner. May I come in?\u201d<\/p>\n

I grunted.\u00a0Perhaps Hector heard me and assumed I had agreed to the interruption. Or perhaps he planned on coming in anyway. Either way, I heard the rattle of keys in the lock and then my landlord entered our apartment.<\/p>\n

He was a squat, little man with a salt and pepper mustache and a comb-over that fought a losing battle with his receding hairline. He held two things\u2014a white bag with a pharmacy logo\u2014and a large, clear, Tupperware container filled with enchiladas. My stomach growled audibly.<\/p>\n

Hector put the food and the pills on the dusty, moving box nearest me\u2014this one, in Laura\u2019s handwriting, was labeled \u201cbooks.\u201d Another cockroach scuttled across the cardboard\u2014perhaps sensing a holiday treat for him and his six-legged companions. I let this one live. Hector ignored the vermin, focusing his gaze on me instead.<\/p>\n

I said nothing.<\/p>\n

Hector cleared his throat, then said nervously, \u201cFirst, your parents. Now, se\u00f1ora<\/em> Laura is missing. Eat, take your medicine. Tomorrow, maybe we can talk about the back rent, s\u00ed<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

Silence.<\/p>\n

Hector backed out of the room as fast as he could. The door closed behind him with a click.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know he\u2019s trying to poison you,\u201d said a female voice. Right on time.<\/p>\n

I nodded. The vinyl record continued to pop and hiss, unabashed.<\/p>\n

The figure moved from my periphery to stand in front of me, hands on her hips. She was an older woman, wearing a lime green dress that went just below the knee with a matching low-heeled pair of shoes. The pink pillbox hat she wore was an accessory as ever-present as her wigs and always clashed with the colors of her accompanying ensemble. I ignored her for as long as I could, but this was a game she played better than I ever could.<\/p>\n

Finally, I looked up at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not in the mood, Gran.\u201d<\/p>\n

She tutted. I hated it when she tutted.<\/p>\n

\u201cNonsense, grandson. It\u2019s Christmas! Time for family. Yours is waiting for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLaura is gone.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gran smiled, showing yellow-black crooked teeth. \u201cOf course she isn\u2019t. She\u2019s right here!\u201d Gran held up a round, red Christmas bauble\u2014delicate and beautiful. It spun slowly, grasped in her claw-like hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee? Just like all the others.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I murmured. I was tired\u2014so very tired. I tried to look away from Gran. But she played this game better than I did.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe family is waiting, boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

She vanished, dropping the glass ornament. I caught it an inch or so off the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cDammit,\u201d I muttered to nobody. Shadows danced to the multicolored onslaught from the street, all to the rhythm of the hiss-pops coming from the stereo. I grabbed my car keys.<\/p>\n

1999<\/u><\/strong><\/p>\n

A new girl had moved into the sleepy seaside town of Ogunquit, Maine that spring. The first time I saw her at Petersen\u2019s Grocery, I fell in love.\u00a0 Well, as much in love as a boy of ten who had yet to experience his first kiss could be. Little blonde ringlets cascaded around her face, her blue eyes the color of a robin\u2019s egg. She wore a green dress that made her look like one of those fancy dolls for sale in the toy aisle of Petersen\u2019s\u2014you know, before they replaced the good stuff with overpriced crap for the tourists.<\/p>\n

Her skin reminded me of the freshest glass of milk\u2014smooth, creamy and white. Perfect. I longed to taste it and was shocked at the thought. Her little black Mary Jane\u2019s\u2026<\/p>\n

\u201cMama! That boy is staring at me!\u201d<\/p>\n

It took me the better part of half a minute to realize she was talking about me.<\/p>\n

\u201cHush, now Carolyn. He just likes you, is all.\u201d<\/p>\n

While the voice of my heart\u2019s desire was shrill and high-pitched, her mother\u2019s was softer, and had what I\u2019d eventually learn to be a southern drawl. Later, I would pretend that Carolyn spoke with her mother\u2019s silken tones.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi!\u201d I squeaked. \u201cYou\u2019re the Taylors, right? You bought the old Littlefield place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2018What a bright young man! Why yes, I\u2019m Mrs. Taylor. And you are\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGoing.\u201d<\/p>\n

I jumped. I hadn\u2019t heard Gran approach from behind the fresh fruit aisle.<\/p>\n

I had only enough time to give Carolyn a pleading look before I was dragged out of Petersen\u2019s by my ear. Goodbye, my ladylove!<\/p>\n

A month later, Carolyn, wearing that same green dress, gave me my first kiss while we were walking along the Marginal Way. It was summer now, and the coastal walk to Perkin\u2019s Cove was a popular morning exercise spot for the vacationers and scads of ancient \u201cwrinklies\u201d staying in the various motels and summer rental homes along the cliff face. The sun pelted down on us, while the cool sea breeze made our skin tingle. Or maybe that was the kiss.<\/p>\n

We sat in our hidey-hole\u2014an outcropping of rocks hidden from the main path and only large enough for a couple of kids. It was surrounded by honeysuckle and lavender and smelled a little like I guessed heaven might.<\/p>\n

I wiped a tear from one cheek. I\u2019d just finished telling Carolyn about why I lived with Gran. How my parents had been arrested; how they\u2019d gotten out of jail just to die in a car crash on the way home. I\u2019d never told that story to anyone before.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you ever kissed a girl?\u201d Carolyn asked me, suddenly. I felt my face flush, heat rising from neck to settle in my cheeks. She asked the question very casually, but I could tell by her eyes that the question excited her. Her eyes had changed color\u2014more of a seafoam green. They always changed color when she was excited about something.<\/p>\n

The silence had gone long\u2014a frown began to mar her pretty face. If I didn\u2019t act fast, a tantrum would be next.<\/p>\n

\u201cUmm\u2026yeah. Sorta.\u201d I was blushing furiously now and I looked away from Caroline, focusing on a pair of seagulls in the distance lazily drifting on the breeze. \u201cI\u2019ve kissed my Gran goodnight and stuff.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked back at Caroline and could tell at once she was disappointed in my answer.<\/p>\n

\u201cGod, boys are stupid. Mama told me all about it after I caught Uncle Ray kissing her just before we moved.\u201d She then proceeded to go into detail about her Uncle Ray, and why she and her mom had to move. To be honest, I didn\u2019t pay attention to the story\u2014I was too distracted with the thought of kissing her. What if I wasn\u2019t any good at it?<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2026and I wanted to try it. With you. Do you want to? Kiss, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

Before I could say anything, she kissed me. Her lips were soft and wet. I was terrified. I squirmed and told her to stop. She laughed.<\/p>\n

I lashed out with my foot and kicked her full in the chest. She fell backward with nothing more than a sigh. Her head didn\u2019t even make a sound when it hit a rock and split open, blood and pinkish-grey bits mixed with shards of white bone staining the sweet-smelling lavender dark red.<\/p>\n

Her eyes stayed open, still the color of excitement. I watched her for almost an hour, fascinated by the color and the metallic smell of her blood. I was just beginning to panic\u2014what was I going to tell Gran? Mrs. Taylor? \u2014when Carolyn blinked and sat up. Her blonde ringlets, now scarlet and matted fell flat against her shoulders. She gave me that tantrum look.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou killed me,\u201d she said\u2014her voice sounding more like her mother. \u201cYou killed me and I didn\u2019t even get to have my first real kiss.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said but didn\u2019t mean it. She\u2019d laughed at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cS\u2019ok. So what now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you have to get rid of me\u2026or else you\u2019re gonna go to jail,\u201d she answered in that sweet southern voice.<\/p>\n

My eyes welled up with tears. I didn\u2019t want to go to jail like mama and papa had.<\/p>\n

Carolyn put her hand on my shoulder. \u201cOh, don\u2019t worry. You can just toss me off the cliff when the tide is a little higher. Then run back to the beach and get mama. We should practice what you\u2019ll say and stuff. And tears. You\u2019ll need loads of tears.\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought for a moment. It was a good idea. \u201cMight work,\u201d I said scratching my chin. \u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to do something for me first,\u201d she said slyly.<\/p>\n

\u201cUm\u2026what?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cRemember when I said I wanted to kiss?\u201d She asked slowly, a wicked smile twitching on her face. \u201cYou have to kiss me first.<\/p>\n

\u201cYuck. No way. Now that you\u2019re dead\u2026yuck!\u201d<\/p>\n

She kicked at me with a bloody foot. \u201cYou owe<\/em> me!\u201d<\/p>\n

She was right. I did.<\/p>\n

Present Day<\/u><\/strong><\/p>\n

The snow was coming down as hard as I\u2019d ever seen. I was in my car, crawling up the highway heading north to Maine, where you just knew<\/em> the storm would be even worse.<\/p>\n

Sitting on the passenger seat next to old sandwich wrappers, moldy french fries and some unused ketchup packets, sat Laura. The red glass bauble was protected from my rubbish by a perfectly white cotton handkerchief.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll be there soon, love,\u201d I whispered, soothingly.\u00a0 Or at least I tried to sound soothing. The words came out wet sounding, and phlegmy.<\/p>\n

Only a few cars were braving the road in the storm. There was a tow truck with flashing lights making the snow dance and twirl like a couple dancing the most sensual tango, trying to right an expensive-looking SUV. A city plow was stuck in the median, with a second plow sitting near it\u2014for moral support, I guessed. Neither was going anywhere.<\/p>\n

Slowly\u2014oh so very slowly\u2014I drove with only the steady thump-whump<\/em> of the windshield wipers to keep me company. And Laura, of course. But she was being very considerate and keeping silent so that my attention could stay on the road ahead.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you going so slow, boy?\u201d<\/p>\n

I sighed. Driving with Gran in the car was always stressful\u2014she was the one who taught me to drive, after all. I shifted my hands to the ten and twelve positions automatically, flexing my fingers\u2014she would use a switch on my hands when they weren\u2019t in position. I could still see the hair-like scars on my knuckles when I made a fist.<\/p>\n

\u201cGran,\u201d I sighed. \u201cThere is a foot and a half of snow on the ground. Did you not see the city plows stuck on the side of the road back there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you shouldn\u2019t be in the center lane, driving this slow,\u201d she changed the subject. I looked at her in the rearview mirror. Her gnarled hands with blackened fingernails were adjusting her pillbox hat as she sat back. \u201cAnd your car is disgusting. It smells like a sewer in here. What have I told you about a clean car, young man?\u201d<\/p>\n

Before I could say \u201ca clean car is a sign of a well organized and fastidious mind,\u201d Gran had answered her own question and continued on her tirade.<\/p>\n

\u201cRemember my car? It was a classic\u2014in perfect shape. Not a lick of rust on my old Impala, was there, boy? Mr. Petersen offered to buy it from me once. He said he\u2019d never seen one in such good shape. But you ruined that for me, didn\u2019t you boy?\u201d<\/p>\n

2005<\/u><\/strong><\/p>\n

The white, plastic steering wheel of the 1957 Impala felt massive in my teenage hands. Gran had never let me sit in the driver\u2019s seat before now. Hell, I wasn\u2019t even allowed to sit on the front bench seat. But today was my sixteenth birthday and Gran had promised to teach me to drive.<\/p>\n

The fall colors had just begun to burst forth on the maples\u2014always the first to turn on our property. The crisp air and the brown leaves that litter the grass hinted that winter wasn\u2019t too far away, but the warmth from the sun reminded winter that summer wasn\u2019t quite done with Maine yet. It was the perfect day to take the first step toward my escape from this place, and I couldn\u2019t wait to get started.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you wash your hands? You better not be sitting in my car with dirty hands, boy!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Gran!\u201d I called back, rolling my eyes. She\u2019d been calling me that for nine years. I hated it when she called me \u201cboy.\u201d It reminded me of Carolyn, not that she could have known the truth about that, of course.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you just roll your eyes at me? You are so going to get it, you little shit. Why did I ever take you in after your parents died? On the day they got out of jail, too. I\u2019m a softie, that\u2019s why\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

I have no idea how she\u2019d known I\u2019d rolled my eyes. She was yelling at me from the screened three-season porch. I quickly wiped my hands on my jeans and then used my untucked t-shirt to wipe the steering wheel clean. Heh. I hadn\u2019t even washed my hands before<\/em> lunch, let alone now. Suck it, you old bat.<\/p>\n

\u201cC\u2019mon, Gran,\u201d I called back after her scolding faded away. \u201cYou promised!\u201d<\/p>\n

I jumped when the passenger door opened. I hadn\u2019t seen her come off the porch. How had she made it to the car through the fallen leaves without making a sound?<\/p>\n

Gran gave me a cold look and struggled to get into the car.\u00a0 Her arthritis didn\u2019t enjoy the change of seasons nearly as much as I did. She knocked her pink pillbox hat askew.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t make me regret this, boy,\u201d she grumbled and stopped fussing long enough to stare down at my lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u2019 I asked, nervously. She wouldn\u2019t break this promise too, would she? I bit my lower lip and looked at her. I felt like my heart had stopped.<\/p>\n

Gran moved faster than an old hag like her should have been able. Suddenly, my hands\u2014which I\u2019d just placed back on the steering wheel\u2014stung. Something had hit me across the knuckles.<\/p>\n

\u201cOw! Gran!\u201d I yanked my hands off the steering wheel. Blood welled up from a couple of my knuckles. A stick was shoved into my face.<\/p>\n

\u201cA switch,\u201d said Gran, smugly. \u201cYou know what a switch is, boy?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head, blinking away tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cSeatbelt.\u201d She said with a smirk. \u201cPut it on. It\u2019s the law.\u201d<\/p>\n

I fumbled with the old-fashioned clasp, finally snapping it into place. I kept my head low, so she couldn\u2019t see my tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s what I\u2019m going to use on you every time you do something stupid while driving my car. Hurts, doesn\u2019t it?<\/p>\n

I nodded and sniffed.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. Remember that. Now, let\u2019s learn how to drive, boy!\u201d<\/p>\n

For a week, Gran took me out every afternoon after lessons, and I drove her car. And every day I returned with red, bleeding knuckles. It was on a Friday when the accident happened.<\/p>\n

We were driving on Shore Road and had just passed the Petersen\u2019s place when I\u2019d gotten an itch on my nose. I did what anyone would have done. I took my hand from the \u201ctwo\u201d position on the wheel and\u2026scratched my nose.<\/p>\n

Crack! Gran had hit me with the switch. But this time, it had been across my face. Blinded for a moment, I lost control of the car.<\/p>\n

Shore Road is a windy road, just barely wide enough for two cars, let alone Gran\u2019s Impala and the garbage truck traveling toward us in the opposite lane.<\/p>\n

The sound of the impact was incredible\u2014like a bomb going off, but without the fire. I was wearing my seatbelt, so I only got banged up a little. Gran, however, had grown up in different time\u2014so of course, she hadn\u2019t been wearing hers.<\/p>\n

Safety glass hadn\u2019t been perfected in the year Gran\u2019s car was built.\u00a0 And, in point of fact, up until the 1960s only tempered glass was used inside windows. Supposedly, this was done to allow first responders easy access to accident victims. But in reality, it had been a cost-cutting measure. Mr. Petersen explained it to me at Gran\u2019s wake.<\/p>\n

I remember her impaled on glass, blood bubbling from her lips. She reminded me of Carolyn.<\/p>\n

My hand must have hit the windshield wiper switch on the steering column, as the wipers struggled to move against Gran\u2019s body. I remembered that, too.<\/p>\n

Thump-whump.<\/em><\/p>\n

Present Day<\/u><\/strong><\/p>\n

Thump-whump.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI asked you a question, boy,\u201d Gran repeated, adjusting her hat for the second time.<\/p>\n

I looked away from the review mirror back toward the snow whipping past the windshield. We were crossing the bridge into Maine now. I couldn\u2019t see any road signs, of course. The snow was falling so heavily that it all but obscured any highway markings.<\/p>\n

I sighed again. \u201cYes, Gran,\u201d I finally replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll be home, soon boy. I remember how you killed me in my old Impala\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

My mind drifted, as it always did when Gran was in the throes of one of her scoldings. Besides, I needed to really concentrate now. This far from Boston, there were far fewer lights. The headlights on the car were nearly useless; the beams could only penetrate a dozen or so feet in this storm. It made all the snow look like we were traveling through hyperspace. I snorted at the thought.<\/p>\n

\u201cDude!\u201d called a voice from the back seat. \u201cYou almost made a Star Wars reference! Dork!\u201d<\/p>\n

I laughed. Peter Madison now sat where Gran had been. He had long hair, a beard that was barely more than scruff, and a face filled with perpetual acne. He was wearing his trademark flannel shirt, ruffled, unbuttoned and untucked, with a black Alicia Keys tee-shirt underneath. Torn jeans and black biker boots completed the image.\u00a0 He smiled and waved to me.<\/p>\n

\u201cSup, dude? Wanna hit?\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter was the biggest Star Wars biker nerd I\u2019d ever known. I\u2019d had my first beer with him, smoked my first joint with him, and learned to ride a Harley with him.<\/p>\n

In short, he was my best friend.<\/p>\n

There was a brief flash from his lighter\u2014a real, honest to God Zippo with the imprint of a naked girl on it with the words, \u201cHandle with Care\u201d etched on the back\u2014and then he inhaled, closing his eyes.<\/p>\n

He held the smoke for a moment or two, then exhaled. The familiar pungent aroma of weed wafting around me whispered temptations I hadn\u2019t heard in a long time.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy the hell not?\u201d I reached into the back seat and took the offered joint.<\/p>\n

Peter absently flicked the lighter on and off a few times while we got high. After what seemed an eternity, he asked, \u201cWhy you back here, man?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFamily Christmas,\u201d I said simply. \u201cIntroducing the wife.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s cool, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

2007<\/u><\/strong><\/p>\n

I was high as all fuck.<\/p>\n

Peter and I sat atop my beat-up Corolla. We were in the parking lot of Petersen\u2019s Grocery, drinking beer and smoking. It was winter in Ogunquit, what else were we gonna do?<\/p>\n

\u201cMan, it\u2019s cold!\u201d said Peter. The bastard wasn\u2019t even slurring his words. I, on the other hand, was watching the winter stars circle lazily overhead while trying not to throw up. \u201cWe totally need a bonfire, dude!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re in a parking lot, man,\u201d I said, carefully enunciating each word. \u201cI don\u2019t think old man Petersen\u2019s gonna be happy if you light his place up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter rolled off the hood of the car and peered at me with bloodshot eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cOver by the store, man,\u201d he said, breath coming out in a plume of winter fug and weed. \u201cPallets, man. We can build a pyre like Luke did for Darth Vader at the end of\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShit, Peter. Not everything has to relate to Star Wars!\u201d I was going to be sick for sure. Peter\u2019d probably look at the vomit and say it looked like some alien from Tatooine or some other obscure dork Star Wars thing.<\/p>\n

\u201cDork.\u201d I said. But he\u2019d already made his way over to the neatly stacked pile of pallets. He looked over at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn your own!\u201d I called, waving my hand vaguely.\u00a0 \u201cDork.\u201d I finished. And that\u2019s when the booze\u2014aided and abetted by the spins caused by the weed\u2014brought back up my dinner.<\/p>\n

By the time I\u2019d been able to clean myself up, Peter had a roaring fire blazing in the middle of the parking lot. I had to hand it to him; it certainly made the cold January night a lot warmer.<\/p>\n

He stood next to me, all proud of his pyre.\u00a0 He flicked his Zippo a couple of times in appreciation.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t you picture Darth Vader\u2019s mask melting right off his dark Sith face!\u201d He blurted gleefully. And then those teddy bear Ewoks danced around, like this\u2026<\/p>\n

Peter started to hop from one foot to the other. I noticed he was moving closer to the fire.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey man!\u201d I shouted. \u201cYou\u2019re too close\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t even notice when his flannel shirt caught fire. I tried to get to him, I really did. But the world seemed to be moving in slow motion.<\/p>\n

Peter screamed and tried to take off his shirt. He flailed around; tongues of flame jumping from his shirt to his hair. His screams turned wild, animalistic as he tripped and fell right on top of the bonfire.<\/p>\n

I watched his face melt off as his struggling slowed, then stopped altogether.<\/p>\n

I could never eat barbeque after that.<\/p>\n

Present Day<\/u><\/strong><\/p>\n

The snow continued to fall as I pulled up to Gran\u2019s house. The car got stuck halfway down the unpaved driveway, so with difficulty in the large drift, I opened the door and started to trudge toward our old place. I could see in the old picture window, the lights of our Christmas tree.<\/p>\n

The old Victorian home sat alone in the wintery Maine wood. The cobblestone walkway leading to the front door was buried under two feet of snow, so I had to make the best guess as to the safest path with only the light from that damnable Christmas tree to guide me. The surrounding forest, so lush and inviting during the summer months, now seemed like leafless pallbearers surrounding an 18th-century coffin with a wrap-around porch. The heavy snow deadened all sound, save for my breath that came now in agonizing gasps as I stumbled through the last hip-high drift to reach the house at last.<\/p>\n

The solid oak door, with only a few grey moldy paint curls to hint at its original color, opened reluctantly at my touch. Squealing rusted hinges protested loudly at my intrusion. Drifts of snow in the foyer crunched under my feet as I made my way inside.<\/p>\n

There. Just ahead. A kaleidoscope of color broke through the stagnant shadows and beckoned to me. The family tree, the centerpiece of every Christmas I could ever remember, waited. The faint, comforting, smells of pine, holly and gingerbread greeted me as I moved into the living room.<\/p>\n

The tree stood, as it did every holiday, in front of the picture window\u2014the cracked glass and chipped sill framing the perfect Christmas card. The approving whispers encouraged me to complete the portrait. I nodded enthusiastically.<\/p>\n

Little Carolyn Taylor\u2014her green pinecone-shaped ornament reflecting the multicolored chaos, hung serenely amongst the clean-smelling needles. Next to her were mom and dad. So was Gran, of course\u2014the plastic icicle, cold and distant. Even Peter was here\u2014his Star Wars Hallmark ornament swaying slightly on its branch, waving to me.<\/p>\n

I reached carefully, gently into my pocket and pulled out the delicate, red glass bauble.<\/p>\n

A quiet squeak of a floorboard made me turn from my family nativity. Old Mr. Petersen was there. He was wearing a red and black checkerboard patterned hunter\u2019s cap with the cotton-lined flaps hanging over his ears, and a matching woolen coat. He was covered in a layer of snow that melted steadily, pooling at his booted feet. For as long as I\u2019d known him, old man Petersen had been just that\u2014old. Dark circles surrounded his grey, watery eyes and the sagging skin underneath them gave him the doleful look of a basset hound.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe found Laura,\u201d he said, simply.<\/p>\n

\u201cOut back,\u201d I said quietly.<\/p>\n

\u201cYep. What happened boy?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked back at Laura\u2019s ornament\u2014it gleamed merrily at me. I couldn\u2019t face Mr. Petersen. \u201cWe came out here in the summer\u2014six months ago. We came to the house. I told her I didn\u2019t want to live in the city.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy daughter didn\u2019t want anything to do with Ogunquit anymore,\u201d he said, his voice breaking. \u201cShe wanted the big city.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBoston is a shithole,\u201d I spat. \u201cNo green anywhere. I told Laura about this place, and what a wonderful home it would be for us\u2026for kids\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBoy, this house hasn\u2019t been livable in a decade!\u201d shouted Mr. Petersen. I looked at him now\u2014there were tears in his eyes. I nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what she said. We were going to live in Boston and that was the end of it. No discussion.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Petersen was sobbing now. The lights from the tree seemed to be blinking brighter\u2014blues and reds washed over us.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell Gran wouldn\u2019t have it,\u201d I continued. The story came easier now. \u201cAnd Peter thought I was being jerk and Carolyn was just so jealous\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cStop it! They\u2019re dead, boy. Your crazy Gran, your pyro pothead buddy, little Carolyn Taylor\u2014all dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll here<\/em>,\u201d I said. Mr. Petersen had<\/em> to understand. \u201cSo, if Laura wouldn\u2019t move back with me\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Petersen?\u201d Called a voice from the porch \u201cPolice. We\u2019re coming in.\u201d<\/p>\n

Two young men, both with mustaches and both dressed in the winter uniforms of the Maine State police walked in. As soon as they saw me, they drew their weapons. Mr. Petersen held up his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo on, boy,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen my parents died, it was just before Christmas. Gran had me pick out two ornaments\u2014she said that my parent\u2019s soul would live in them forever. It was my happiest memory.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Petersen, we have to take him in,\u201d said one of the cops.<\/p>\n

I looked at the red ornament in my hand, then back at Mr. Petersen.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour daughter loved the color red,\u201d I said. I turned to the tree and saw it for what it really was. An old, fake, plastic evergreen, missing half of its branches covered in rotted bits of plaster. A few ornaments, my ornaments, could still be seen amongst the branches.<\/p>\n

I hung Laura next to the rest of my family.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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