Merry Christmas c/o the Stewart Family

1.

"So. Did you ever get around to doing your Christmas shopping?"

Half sure he knew what her question was going to be before she'd finished it, he'd begun shaking his head in disagreement while still listening to her voice. Then, for no reason in particular, he shifted his glance downward; he heard a brief shuffling, a sharp click, and a deep inhalation. After a pause, she sighed and continued. "You know you can't wait until the last minute to do stuff like that."

He scoffed. "And you know those things are going to kill you," he said, pausing. "But neither of us will ever change."

"I'll quit one day," she said, smiling.

"And one day, I'll stop putting stuff off 'til the last minute."

She took a long drag of her cigarette before continuing. "…and what about playing the Lotto?" she jested? They both laughed quietly.

"You never know…" he began.

"I know, I know. One day you'll have the big one," she mocked. "I think I've got a better chance of smoking away my cancer."

All at once, he stood from the edge of the mattress and began walking towards her door. "I'd better get out of here," he said hurriedly. "We'll see you later, though."

"How's Heather?" his mom asked, expressing the first genuine sentiment the two had shared since he'd arrived. "I know she always gets depressed during the holidays."

"I dunno. She always gets so down about her Granny. I just wish it wouldn't have happened, you know?"

She sighed as she raked the cigarette's burning ember abrasively against the cheap, crystalline ashtray. "We all have it rough nowadays, Shawn. Tell her I say hello, won't you?"

"Sure. Sure I will," he said as he shuffled awkwardly out the doorway. "And we'll see you tomorrow for dinner, okay?"

"Okay," she said softly. She inhaled deeply before calling loudly after him. "Drive carefully!"

Confirming her inclination that he'd already made it to the porch, the screen door slammed loudly, jarring the small, framed picture that she kept hanging over her chair. She shifted her glance to the picture before kissing her thumbnail dramatically. "Bless us and keep us," she begged the cloaked image of Jesus; he remained silent as the sound of a car engine bellowed in from outside. She waited until she'd heard the vehicle pull away from her house before shutting her bedroom door and crawling slowly into bed and under a blanket. She fell asleep mumbling her semi-daily bid for prosperity as her son was carelessly driving towards the mall.

2.

He hated Christmas shopping. Hell, for all intensive purposes, he hated malls, Christmas, greed and capitalism. Nevertheless, he knew that the one thing he'd never live down would be pissing away the three shopping days before Christmas and having to give Heather some worn out excuse as to why every gift under their tree was addressed from the missus to Shawn. Oh yea, and he hated wrapping s**t too.

He'd left work at noon, had made it into the mall parking lot at half past, into a parking spot ten minutes later and up to the mall entrance by three minutes 'til; surprisingly enough, he'd only had to walk from three buildings over to get to the mall, which for him was a small miracle unto itself. That miracle dissipated and left a sour, angry taste in his mouth as soon as he opened the door and was overtaken by the humming mass of voices echoing off of one another and billowing out into the parking lot like a cloud of smoke from a hay-fire. He sighed deeply, shook his head and reminded himself for the third time since leaving his mother's house how much he really hated Christmas.

As always, he walked past the first three stores—a beauty-supply store in which he hadn't the first clue as to what to purchase, followed by an equally useless Foot Locker and some always-packed Christian book store—and as always, he mumbled something to himself about moving to a real city where they had a real mall. Walking a little farther led him to the large fountain situated at the exact middle of the mall's large, crossed shaped design; by this point, he'd been merged into a larger, more aggressive sect of shoppers and after being shoved, elbowed, spun around and cursed at, he stopped, sighed and considered picking up smoking for the first time in his life. After all, by smoking he could relieve stress and die about fifty Christmases early; he smiled cynically at that image.

He took a left and went into the first clothing store he came across; he'd chosen the place because his memory was for s**t and he knew for certain that the one thing Heather definitely wanted that year was housed inside. In years past, he'd done his best to by her alternate versions of the same thing: a faux-fur coat one year followed by a genuine leather coat two sizes too small the next. This year, though, he'd gone shopping with her enough to know that the cranberry leather coat with the fur-lined neck and the removable lining was precisely what she wanted, and despite the mob of people frozen somewhere between the point of being drones and homicidal maniacs, he made his way slowly down the wall where he'd seen it hanging.

He'd passed the rack of seventy-dollar lingerie, the grouping of two-hundred-plus dollar sunglasses and the small cluster of ninety-dollar hats, each of which were surrounded by a mixture of spoiled, degenerate women and clueless, leashed husbands, by the time expensive Italian leather flooded his nostrils. As he shuffled his glance clumsily between the racks of coats, he noticed one very distinct, very troubling reality: amid this stack of winter wear which housed a variety of leathers in black, brown, red, purple, sage, orange and vomit-yellow cropped from the asses of everything from a simple cow to a goddamn Serengeti walrus, one coat in particular was nowhere to be found.

"Excuse me miss," he said to the first service-looking person he'd come across. "I'm looking for a leather coat. Cranberry. You know—the one with the fur and the removable lining?"

Before he'd even stopped talking, the woman had begun to chuckle. "Ya know what's funny?" she said, her huge, ominous grin a testament to the sincere enjoyment she was getting out of the situation. "What if I told you that the woman right there—right over there," she said, pointing to a short, thin woman with flat, blonde hair walking confidently beside a morbidly obese bald man in a fancy imported suit. "What if I told you that that woman had just grabbed the exact coat you're talking about?"

Then I'd go over there and kick the s**t out of her, his mind suggested. Instead he sighed, shook his head in disbelief and said the only thing he could manage. "Then I'd tell you that that's precisely the reason I hate this holiday."

The woman stood there, her face painted with a combination of surprise and genuine disgust, as she watched the man walk somberly out of the store and disappear seamlessly into the sea of shoppers. After a moment, she stopped, smiled to herself and thought about how wonderful her Christmas was going to be, not at all concerned with the little piece of life that had been chipped away from the man before her. She simply shrugged it off and continued walking jovially around, pretending to help anyone who seemed to need it.

3.

Hey. Where are you?

"I'm getting ready to leave work," he said. He'd considered telling his wife the truth but since she couldn't see his face and since he didn't want to remind her how much he hated the holidays, he decided that a lie was in perfect order. "It's been a long day."

Really? I'm sorry, she said, genuinely concerned. So I guess you're not going to do your Christmas shopping today then, huh?

He knew she was joking, but even upon hearing the sarcastic scoff that had accompanied the last syllable, he couldn't help feeling sick to his stomach.

"Not today," he said. "Definitely tomorrow."

Good. So I'll see ya in a bit? she said. He could imagine the smile on her face.

"Yep. I'm gonna stop by Lairsey's on the way home, though."

Okay. And Shawn? she asked playfully.

"Yea?"

I love you.

"I love you too," he said genuinely.

For a brief moment he forgot everything that had happened up to that point. As he pressed the "talk" button on his phone, however, a dirty pickup truck with a long, densely-limbed fir tree jutting out the back pulled carelessly out in front of him; he slammed on brakes only to be bombarded with horn blows and f**k you's as the man behind the wheel—a red-faced, over-all clad man clearly lacking both common sense and dental coverage—sped angrily away. Once again, however, he held his tongue and continued driving, paying careful attention to the people around him until he finally saw a tall, half-lit store sign peeking slightly out from behind some trees. He smiled a smile filled with both relief and uneasiness as he pulled into the store's parking lot.

.           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

Wha' cannhai geh fauh yooo?

The clerk behind the counter was a neatly dressed, dark-skinned Pakistani man with a deep accent and a strong, jutting complexion. Clipped tightly onto his shirt collar was a small, laminated nametag that read Samhir; Samhir's holidays were just as busy, just as rushed and just as disappointing as anyone else's, but for some reason, he had a courteousness about him that shone from his face despite the emptiness in his voice. Shawn picked up on the small beacon of hope that glistened through Samhir's eyes from somewhere down deep and for the first time since leaving work, he smiled a cheerful, genuine smile.

"Yea, um…let me get one of those new ten dollar Christmas tickets…."

Samhir nodded in confirmation and started dutifully punching buttons on the cash register; assuming that the transaction had worked itself to an end, Shawn reached into his back pocket, plucked a single $10 bill from his wallet and laid it on the counter. As he reached his dark, hairless hand out to grab the bill, Samhir spoke up for the first time.

Yoo peeck zha teecket, he said in his heavily accented baritone as he nodded to his right.

There, beside the cash register, was a miniature Christmas tree, unlit and covered with lottery tickets which hung like paper ornaments from tiny aluminum hooks. Shawn laughed a small, hesitant laugh and reached his hand out. Unsure of which one to pick although certain it didn't matter, he held his hand nervously in the air before turning back to Samhir.

"Can you pick it?" he jested. "I've never been very lucky…."

Nooo, yoo hasz too peeckeet, Samhir answered. Both men chuckled to themselves.

"Well when I win, you're not gettin' any," Shawn answered with a smile. He looked at Samhir, noticing that the wide, honest smile painted across his tender, underpaid face had grown a little wider, and with that reached out and plucked a ticket from the bottommost branch. He turned stiffly, shifting his glance downward to stare at the ticket as he walked out and got back in his car.

He flicked the ticket carelessly into the passenger seat before cranking the car, which he did without looking towards the store even once. When he finally raised his eyes back above the steering wheel, he caught a glimpse of Samhir smiling brightly through the small window nearest the cash register and although he didn't know why, he felt obligated to return that smile. He left the store happier than he'd been all day although he wasn't sure why, and as he drove slowly home, he couldn't help thinking about how trivial the day's blunders had really been.

As he pulled into the short, cramped driveway leading towards his garage, he noticed that his wife's car was gone. He wracked his mind momentarily, trying to remember if she'd mentioned having anywhere to go but upon the realization that his memory really was for s**t, decided that he'd never know one way or the other. Instead, he reached over to the passenger seat and fumbled clumsily as he tried to seize the ticket by its hook; a few seconds later, however, he was seated in much the same position, this time cursing himself aloud as a small trickle of blood began to creep to the surface of his index finger.

Goddamn lotto ticket, his mind mumbled. Not only does it take your money, give you false hope and break your heart—now it f*****g attacks you….

The trickle of blood had just built up enough to spill over the side of his fingertip when his phone began to ring. He grabbed it and flipped it open.

"Heather?" he asked.

No, it's mom. I had a bad dream and I just wanted to call and make sure you'd made it home alright.

He snickered to himself. "Yea, mom, I'm okay. I'm sitting in the yard nursing a lotto injury…"

What? she quizzed, perplexed.

"Don't ask," he said with a smile. "Listen, Heather's not home so I think I may go inside and take a shower."

Did you win?

"What?" he asked, completely lost and unable to find the link between her question and his statement.

Your ticket. Did it win?

"I haven't even scratched the thing. I'll probably do that in a bit."

Alright. Well call me if you win.

"Hell, if I win I'll be showing up on your doorstep," he said comically. "But I gotta go. Love you."

Love you too, she said as he beeped the phone off.

He closed his phone and tossed it in the passenger seat next to him; suddenly, he was reminded of the lotto ticket which by this point had made its way onto the dash and was lying there, blank and devoid, as if staring damage it caused.

"I think I'm going to scratch you, you piece-a-junk," he said. He paused as if awaiting a retort and then plunged his hand deep into his pocket; he shuffled around momentarily, seized a coin and removed his hand.

By force of habit, he read over the directions. Match any one of your trees with the factory's tree and win the amount listed. If your tree has a Santa standing beside it, win five times that amount. He smirked to himself, imagining a picture of fat, jolly 'ol Santa humping a small fir tree as he cashed in his million dollar ticket.

Hell, at least you got a laugh out've the ticket, his mind interjected. That means Christmas isn't a total waste….

4.

The sobs of emptiness were still echoing from her room when she heard a knock on her front door. She'd found that no medicine seemed to ease the depression brought on by the holidays, a feeling that was only magnified since she'd lost her job. She never told anybody, though; she just sat in her room, spending day after endless day crying her eyes out and praying to the various religious insignia adorning her walls that something, anything, would come along and ease the pain.

"Just a minute," she yelled as she wiped her face abrasively. She sniffed deeply as she stood and walked towards the door. "Who is it?"

It's me, mom, she heard seep around the door panel.

As she opened the door, she did her usual Come on in routine before turning around and walking back towards her bedroom. Usually, she'd hear the loud patter of her son's feet as he walked heavily across the room; hearing nothing, she turned around and saw her son standing frozen in the doorway.

"What's wrong, son?" she asked genuinely as she began making her way back towards the door. "Are you two fighting again?"

"No." he said simply.

When she'd gotten close enough to him, she saw that his long, thick forehead was unusually pale, which only magnified the dark purple rings around his stress-painted, bloodshot eyes. She paused for a second before continuing.

"Have you been crying?"

"A little."

"Come on in here. You come on in here and tell me what's wrong," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him tenderly in the direction of her bedroom. She got him close to the bed and nudged him softly. "Sit down, son, and tell me what's wrong."

She walked over to her chair, sat carefully down and directed her attention towards him. He remained silent, and the more closely she watched him, the more certainly she saw a small tremble creeping into his arms.

"God, Shawn, don't do this to me. My nerves can't stand this."

She paused momentarily, awaiting the sound of his voice. As the silence mounted between them, she pulled a cigarette out of its pack and lit it sharply.

"Are you on drugs, son?" she asked, this time only half seriously. "I mean, if you are, then that's okay. You know I don't mind having to hook myself on the corner to feed your…?"

I won, he said simply. She stopped talking, expecting him to say more. When nothing else surfaced, she squinted her eyes and looked longingly towards him.

"Speak up, son. You know I can't hear you when you mumble."

"I said…" he began, projecting himself as loudly as his shivering, anxious voice would allow. He sighed and reached dramatically into his pants pocket. "I said I won," he finished as his hand moved slowly from his pocket, holding a bowed, flimsy piece of cardstock covered obnoxiously in Christmas insignia. He dropped the ticket carelessly into her lap.

A small chill crept into her spine. Although only half-certain that her son wasn't playing a terrible joke, she shifted her glance sharply towards the ticket.

"And what?" she quizzed jokingly. Tears had begun to swell in her eyes. "And now you want me to go get your free ticket?"

"It's real," he said slowly. "I bought it and I scratched it and it's really real…."

She raised her head and looked dramatically back towards her son. Her eyes were freshly bloodshot as a new wave of tears had begun running down her face; this time, the color had drained from her face as well leaving the two of them speechless like a family of ghosts. "What does this mean?" she said. Her voice was shaking as she did her best to fight off a breakdown.

He swallowed deeply and bit his lip, half certain that he wouldn't be able to squeeze out another sentence. "It means…" he began, trailing off. He sniffed and covered his mouth with hand. "It means that you won't ever have to work another factory job ever again…." He closed his eyes and began to sob, ignoring the pain that had settled itself deep within his head.

5.

He sniffed deeply. "Hello?"

Where are you honey? I thought you'd be home by the time I got back to the store.

His mind was still numb from shock but it began whirling busily, trying to think of something to say.

Are you there, Shawn?

"Angela needed me to stay late at work," he said. He sniffed quietly so she wouldn't hear him. "You know how busy we've been with those new projects…"

Yea, I know. So what time do you get off?

He stopped and thought quietly to himself. Okay, Savannah's about ninety minutes away, so that means it'll take me until about…

"About six," he said. "I told her you wanted me home, but she's a soulless b***h."

I know she is.

"I love you," he said, trying to cheer her up.

I love you. Is everything okay, Shawn? You seem vexed.

"Everything's fine, darlin'. We can sure use this overtime with Christmas here, can't we?"

She sighed heavily. We sure can. I can't wait to see you.

"I can't wait to see you," he said, "but listen—I've gotta go."

'kay. Bye.

"Bye angel," he said as he hung up the phone. He'd always hated lying to his wife, and the fact that he wouldn't be home again was simply daunting; nevertheless, the thought of his wife wearing her new leather coat with actual money in her wallet made him the happiest he'd been in quite sometime. He smiled to himself as he flipped on his turn signal and got in the right-most lane.

Savannah, here I come, he mumbled to himself as he drifted slowly onto the exit ramp.

.           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

As he drove past the sign welcoming him to the Savannah city limits, his mind picked up and started quizzing him dully.

So what're you gonna do with it?

"I dunno," he said aloud. "I tried to think of things but it didn't work, ya know."

The more he thought about the situation at hand, though, the more he figured that now was as good a time as any to try to make some kind of "to do" list; after all, the drive down had been very enjoyable and after having driven almost a hundred miles without having a single thing go wrong, he smiled and found himself feeling very festive. He bobbed his head lightly, humming some no-name song or other; before long, he'd begun swaying back and forth and had started singing aloud.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Toys in ev-ry store….

Suddenly, he stopped singing. That's it, he thought to himself. Stores. Department stores. I can buy Heather her jacket. And I can buy toys and deliver them to the local goodwill, his mind suggested nobly. With his faith in the holidays now restored, he turned sharply right onto Jennifer Street, smiling a hundred dollar smile and patting himself on the back.

What about your mom? the voice quizzed.

"Well," he said aloud. He hadn't really thought about his mom; after all, he did promise her no more s****y jobs and all but what exactly could he do? His mind started racing but quickly reached a dead end; he sighed, dejected, but only stayed that way for the briefest of moments as he picked up a tall, beige building creeping into his peripheral. Is that it? his mind began to quiz him and as he answered it uncertainly it started to scold him. Do you even know what you're looking for?

"1328 Rockwell," he said aloud.

The building he'd seen earlier was growing increasingly large and menacing as he approached the four-way. What road is this? his mind prompted as he squinted his eyes sharply towards the intersection, distorting his face horribly. "It's Rockwell!" he exclaimed as he turned right, immediately turning left into the building's parking lot. Now what's the address here? his mind prompted yet again; as he crept slowly into the parking lot, he saw a manned security booth sitting to his left. He slowed down and honked the horn, rousing the short, severely-aged white man sitting like a drone inside the building.

"Can you tell me the address of this building?" he asked excitedly.

Hell son. I don't get paid enough to know the address. Maybe you should ask Santa for a GPS for Christmas….

He sighed. "Is this where people go to cash in their tickets?"

The security officer sighed and shook his head in disbelief. Lotto tickets? So you gots yaself a winner and you don't even know where the hell you goes to cash it in?

"Okay," he said calmly, doing his best not to lose his festiveness. "How about I drive up here and see what they say?"

That's fine by me. You don't think I'm gunna get my panties in a wad ever'time some a*s-hole wants to go in and CAWZ A RCKUS INSME SHITTYLKKING BILDEN DYA?

Shawn had done his best to stay calm, but he'd sharply rolled his window up before the man could completely articulate himself. Shawn had noticed that the way the glass distorted the guard's bitter words almost removed the sting of the fact at hand; the fact of the matter was that he, Shawn, had been precisely that man, that security guard, not four hours before. Even worse, for every Christmas since he was fifteen years old, he'd done his best to bring everybody else down without ever trying to change himself as a person. He felt a little better about himself knowing that he'd changed, but somewhere deep inside he knew that he hadn't changed all that much; so he had a little money, big deal. In four or five years when his money was gone and he was stuck working the same nine-to-fiver, slaving over a desk slammed full of stuff that he in no way cared about, his mind was going to sour again and he was going to hate Christmas even more. Not Thanksgiving, maybe, because of the food and the relaxation, and probably not Easter or Yom Kippur or any of those other stupid holidays, but definitely Christmas; after all, Christmas was the one holiday that every other family worked towards. Shawn's work had never really paid off at Christmas.

6.

"Whaddya think we should do about this boss?"

"Have you called the family?"

"Well…nossir."

"Bobby, just for the record—when it's three days away from Christmas and some rich prick's greasy, sour mug is painted all over some other rich prick's windshield, the first step will probably be to call prick A's family, you got that?"

"Yessir."

"And keep all the s**t he was carrying somewhere safe. The family may want that."

"Yessir."

Rich Prick B's name was Susan Olhausen Richardson and although that name wasn't important in itself, Susan worked, ironically enough, for a large corporation that was responsible for designing the jolly, happy insignia that got painted all over miscellaneous lottery tickets. Of course, she'd been yapping away on her precious Motorola v2347 with Bluetooth enhancement when she'd looked up and seen that she didn't have even remotely enough time to stop. And why was that? Well, Miss Richardson had never taken the time to learn about the pressures of driving, and more specifically that doing forty on the road directly beside the mall wasn't really the same as doing forty through the mall's parking lot. That night, she got introduced to that little tidbit of driving theory and was given a heavily dented hood on its behalf.

Rich Prick A hadn't even settled into being rich before he'd gotten rolled off the hood of some woman's car; as he fell bleeding onto the pavement, he heard the woman's heels clacking densely against the asphalt as she ran around her car and started bickering about the mark he'd left. He pressed his eyes sorely together and started thinking to himself: except for little nicks and scratches like the one that came along with his lottery ticket, he'd never actually bled firsthand. That fact wasn't very comforting as his body remained pressed against the asphalt, blood trickling smoothly from his cold, chafing lips; in fact, his mind took the opportunity to laugh at the fact that it had really been just a nick—a little scratch from an ornament hook—that had led him to this juncture. His mind somehow found closure in that little bit of irony. Nobody else really got it….

The elder Missus Stewart, who had gone out and spent the last of her money to buy her son and his wife a really nice congratulatory dinner, was the first person the officer called. As a result, the phone had seemed joyful as it beckoned around the smell of roast beef and garlic bread dancing gracefully throughout her kitchen; she answered the phone gleefully and much as anyone in such a situation would have done, thought the somber, melancholy voice on the other end was a joke. A fake. Just her son playing a little prank. It wasn't until the officer on the other end of the line began chronicling the complete list of what they'd taken from the body that she knew it had to be true and then, for the third time that afternoon, the elder Missus Stewart broke down in tears. Christmas had come and gone in precisely the same manner she'd remembered it so often before—wielding great loss and excruciating pain.

Shawn's wife, the younger Missus Stewart, had also been cooking when her phone began to ring. She answered it with a smile, expecting her husband to say that he'd gotten off work and was on his way over to Lairsey's; she of course would have obliged and told him to buy a winner, which he wouldn't have done and would have sulked about until coming to the table to eat. In that regard, the news she received was bitter-sweet.

She managed to stay strong as the officer calmly explained everything that had happened with the accident. He went into as much detail as he could about her husband's injuries, and even then she managed to stay strong and not to cry. It wasn't until the officer apologized and told her that she needed to drive to her local sheriff's office to pick up his remains, which themselves had only recently been delivered, that she began to cry. Remains. What a terrible word that was. The officer apologized and corrected himself.

"I didn't mean…I just meant the…personal effects," he explained apologetically. Later that night, he and his superior officer shared a hefty laugh about that one.

"What personal effects?" she asked. She knew he'd been carrying his wallet, but would they really make such a long trip to drive a faux-alligator billfold all the way down from Savannah?

"Well, your husband was carrying a small sack of gifts and the like. People around him said that he looked almost like Santa Claus except, well, skinnier and not as old…."

She thanked the officer and reminded him that she did, in fact, know what her husband looked like. The officer held his tongue and apologized slightly; she then agreed to go pick up his stuff as soon as she had the chance and hung up on the officer quickly.

Not long afterward, she drove over to the small, dumpy house that Shawn and his mom had called home for as long as she could remember. She knocked, paused, and knocked again before finally walking into the dark, smoky house and shutting the door. Inside she found a roast that was burned beyond recognition still baking away in an oven that had been left alone for God only knows how long. She did understand what had happened until she found the chef sitting lifelessly on the small ceramic toilet in the adjacent bathroom, skin pale, lips purple and tears still moist upon her cheeks. She collapsed onto the floor before regaining enough strength to call an ambulance, the crew of which told her that the woman's heart had just kicked the bucket. They were quick to point out that she'd been lucky to have made it as long as she had, what with her smoking and all. They droned on mechanically.

Arrangements can be made tomorrow morning with the local hospital where you'll have the option to either collect her or donate her organs. We're terribly sorry about your loss. Yadda yadda yadda. Oh, and Merry Christmas.

As she walked into the police station, the tears that remained still warm and resting calmly on her cheeks froze suddenly; her arms had begun to tremble on the drive down and she had found that absolutely no amount of Holiday bullshit, however pretentious it may have been, could even begin to relieve the pain she felt. She was led into a room where she was sat down and offered a choice of beverages; later, the officers brought the "sack" in question—an old, hardly-worth-a-dime burlap sack bulging, jutting, with boxes and the like—and dropped it carelessly on the table occupying the center of the room. She remained unmoved, choosing not to open it until she knew she could cope. Finally she stood, walking over to the table and pulling clumsily at the top of the sack, inside of which she uncovered the truth.

The topmost item was a large box wrapped in blue paper and addressed to goodwill; the box, which contained a video game console and accessories, fell stiffly onto the table before her. As she read the tag, she felt the tears begin to swell in her eyes again; he'd been so selfless and now she just wanted him back. Despite her tears, a shimmering silver bow atop the gold wrapping of a small, jewelry-like box—a box which was addressed to Apple Blossom from Scrooge and was ornamented with a small, crudely-drawn smiley—caught her attention. Not long afterward, a fresh wave of tears began to fall as she tore open the box and uncovered a single key with a small BMW emblem on it. Later she found out that the key actually went to one of those new snazzy Beemer SUVs; she'd always wanted an SUV.

Beneath that was a larger, thicker box, this one made out to A Very Special Baby Bird. She closed her eyes and saw the poorly-lit recording of their summer camping trip projected brightly within her mind. She remembered hearing Shawn's deep, nasal voice as he whispered things like Apple Blossom and Little Baby Bird into her ear; tears had begun rolling down her cheeks once more as she began to tear open what she hoped would be a little piece of her happiness back. Instead, she found the exact same Cranberry Leather coat she'd wanted all year; he'd even managed to get it in the right size.

The tears kept flowing as she found package after package. There was a manila envelope addressed to someone named Samhir, inside of which she found a single stack of one-hundred hundred-dollar bills and a note that read Merry Christmas, buddy. She found another envelope beneath that one with a crudely-sketched heart with To Mom printed beneath it; inside was a neat stack consisting of exactly $31,265 along with a piece of paper that had numbers scribbled all over it. On that paper, she saw her husband's hand-writing as he'd figured the exact remainder of his mother's mortgage, to which he had added a nice little $5,000 tip. A few days later, his wife donated the money to the Salvation Army.

Before she could leave the sheriff's office, she had to sign paperwork. Death Certificate. Remains Release Certificate. An insurance liability form giving Rich Prick B the right to sue her late husband's estate because some cop had misinterpreted that whole Pedestrians have the Right Away thing. After it was all said and done, she turned mechanically and began making her way back to her car and back towards a now-empty life that she hadn't even had the chance to understand.

"You forgot something," one of the officers called out from across the room.

"Keep it," she said.

The officer told her that they couldn't do that for "liability reasons," and so she doubled back towards the table. There, where the officer had shaken out the contents of the bag, she found a creased, bloodied lotto ticket with a large X drawn across the top indicating that it had been cashed in for a value of  two-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars, along with a bright green Wilson duffle bag bulging with small bundles of cash. After reading the ticket, Heather didn't bother opening the bag; she simply carried it out to her car where she sat and cried until she thought her own heart was going to stop. Then she cranked her car and drove away.

She fell asleep that night lying emptily on her old, dirt-covered sofa, staring tragically at the bright, convicting lights burning emphatically from her own Christmas Tree. The fact of the matter was that she too had always hated Christmas—she hated cooking Christmas dinner, shoveling snow out of their driveway and listening to the neighboring kids scream on about some stupid snowman. She hated the idea of some jolly fat man breaking into her house, and just like her husband, she too hated malls, grocers, the salvation army's bellmen and America. That year, for the very first time, however, she found herself hating the town around her, the home they'd built and the very prospect of having a bagful of money. Two Christmases later, after finding that nothing in her life made her heart hurt any less, Heather Stewart took twelve too many of her overpriced, unneeded pain pills and died holding a note addressed to anyone who would read it.

Take this money and choke on it, her note said. That's what happened to my family. Then, at the bottom of the paper, was a small quickly-scrawled Christmas tree. Merry Christmas, it said simply, Care of The Stewart Family.

 

Reviews

[Amberly...]

very good!!!!!!! keep up the good work!!! i like this one!!!!!!!!

[Creepy Swine Guy]

Hi Chas ... First, the "book keeping"

In the paragraph starting with ... "He'd left work ..." is the first sentence a run-on?

In the paragraph starting with ... "He took a left..." the word "by" is used where you should use "buy"

Is "bottommost" a word?

One bit of writing that just serves as an example of your writing skill is:
"...and thought about how wonderful her Christmas was going to be, not at all concerned with the little piece of life that had been chipped away from the man before her."

I love this bit of writing. This is an example of the kind of classic turn of a phrase that I've come to expect from you. You are indeed a talented story teller with the kind of imagination required to find the story.

I like the idea of showing people what is important about Christmas by means of a "reverse story" . That is to say, you took away family and showed how useless and worthless the fabulous gifts and the wealth was in comparisson to the cost of attaining them.

Well told Author ... Well told

[Valerie Jones]

You managed to convey your thoughts about so many things at the same time, that this piece was excellent. Certainly the lenght of the piece is not an issue, since it keeps the readers engaged from the very beginning.

Excellent read!

[Jazlean]

brillant. there is a lot packed into this well written and i dont just mean words..christmas, money, shopping...family. in a way its like finding a true christmas spirit. when you think about it when they say Christmas is about family, they are forgetting the rest of the year. We have our family all year, and at Christmas time we often worry too much about trying to please them with gifts and what not to actually enjoy spending time with them..its stressing. And as for the added touch with the 'money and gifts wont make you happy' this is a story with powerful meaning. and even though in my mind i picked the few deaths to come and the win.. i was hooked and the events still hit me..
well done, its as great! (just like just about everything you have written)
thanks for sharing and may your Christmas be far more joyous as this one.
~Jazlean

[Pierce Franklin]

You say you are an amateur writer but I don't believe that for a second, you are far, far better than that. This is a great story, albeit incredibly bleak, and the length of it wasn't even an issue once I started reading it. Your writing, as always, keeps me hooked until the very end, which in this case was a fantastic ending. I wish I could write fiction this good.

[Heather Stover]

You know I don't like leaving comments but I know you're a comment w***e...so I'll be the first.

I think people are intimidated by the length of this piece.

I really, REALLY like it. I cried at the end...that's good, right? There are a few things I want to point out to you later...I'll do that when I get home and can talk to you about it.

I love you, pookie.