Liere: Every kid’s Christmas Eve
What kid can sleep on the night before Christmas? The homemade quilt, pulled so snugly about his chin just an hour before, is now in a puffy, useless wad at the foot of the big poster bed, and the sheet is draped like a giant Band-Aid across his middle – feet and knees protruding from one end, head and shoulders from the other. His hair is in comical disarray as he sighs loudly, flops to his side, and attempts to entice the sandman from this new position.
Three hours earlier, when all his immediate family as well as second-and-third-place-once-removed relatives were still lounging around the living room, laughing, singing Christmas carols and engaging in that peculiar adult activity called “visiting,” he had unobtrusively extracted himself from the festivities to lay on the carpet near the tree so he could contemplate the wonderful foil-wrapped boxes adorned with red ribbon and bows. Near the outer edge closest to him, he knew, were the necessary, practical things – underwear, socks, probably a new belt. Behind those, there were mysterious packages hidden by thick, drooping fir branches, and these intrigued him, but not as much as the scintillating possibility there were, perhaps other gifts so special no one had even dared to put them under the tree – large things with obvious shapes. Things like mountain bikes and canoes and maybe even a scope for the old .22 rifle he had purchased for himself the year before – things no outdoor kid should be without for long.
While he had fantasized thus, his Aunt Judy had heaved herself onto the piano bench to begin her traditional half-hour Christmas medley – the one that started with “Santa Claus is coming to Town” and ended with “Silent Night”: … he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake … Hmmmm. He wrinkled his brow slightly, then decided coming home late for dinner once or twice wouldn’t drop him from Santa’s graces … Oh you better watch out, you better not shout … He hadn’t done so well with that one. There may, in fact, have been a loud curse or two that day on his Uncle Verlyn’s ranch when his dog had gotten into a skunk.
He remembered how Aunt Judy had swayed rhythmically on the piano bench, tickling the ivory, improvising when she felt like it, lost in memories beyond the melody. “Up on the House-top,” then “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” then “All I Want for Christmas Are My Two Front Teeth.” There were lots of others. He guessed Aunt Judy had been a kid once, too, but he nodded knowingly when she started the “in-betweeners” – songs like “Silver Bells” and “Winter Wonderland” that allowed her a subtle transition into the more serious selections she loved best. She had ended with “The First Noel,” “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem,” and finally “Silent Night.” He smiled self-consciously to himself when he remembered how, when he was only seven, he had asked his mother about the mysterious character from “Silent Night” who went by the name of “Round John Virgin.”
He moans softly, reaches down beside the bed, picks up the electric clock, and struggles to focus on the luminous dial. Three a.m. He wouldn’t dare get up until at least 6:30. He turns again to lie on his back, thinking of the gifts he had bought for his family and trying to keep from wondering who had stashed the long box behind the towels in the downstairs linen closet. It had to be a new spinning rod! This was followed by a horrifying thought: What if no one liked the gifts he had selected? As usual, money had been tight, and he certainly wasn’t the most creative shopper in the family. Besides that, he had once again forgotten to jot down any reminders during the year. What was it Matt had said about cologne? Had Evan mentioned the tackle box, or was that Cousin Sandy?
Candy canes, fudge, chocolate-covered cherries, sugared orange slices and giant gumdrops. His aunt Doreen had warned him not to eat so many sweets. But what kid could resist, especially on Christmas Eve? He groans, and flops to his stomach. Three slices of fruit cake and just as many mugs of eggnog.
Beside him, his wife rolls over and jabs him hard in the ribs. She pulls irritably for a share of the quilt. “Go to sleep,” she grumbles. “You can’t get up until the kids do.”