A CHRISTMAS STORY
FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG
He pours himself a glass of wine and takes a sip. Then fishes for a bit of cork with his finger. The noodles are ready and he shuts off the stove and drains the pot with a burst of steam. Cools the pasta down with cold water. Plates and bowls of cheese line the kitchen counter. Bruce slowly starts the lasagna. One for them and one for their neighbor.
Electric candles in the windows cast the soft glow of holiday as the dark starts to set in. An early winter night while Christmas music plays. Something about angels and snow and he hums along not really paying attention or to the dog sitting near the lasagna lineup, waiting for anything to fall to the floor and maybe, just possibly, some kind of treat. The dog patiently watches Bruce cut the sheets of noodles and spread them in the dishes. Then sauce, cheese, sauce, more cheese.
Bruce remembers his mother making lasagna at Christmas. Tonight he is following her recipe. Her handwriting on an old piece of paper he's had since college. Layer on layer of love is what she used to say, as Bruce would steal hunks of mozzarella behind her back. Waiting and watching. Bruce tosses the dog a scrap of pasta and with a sharp snap, it disappears mid air.
He scrapes the pot of sauce clean and tops them both, finishing with a generous handful of cheese. A sprinkle of oregano. He eats the rest of the mozzarella and the dog licks the floor.
When Roy walks in, he stops dead and stares at the pile of dirty pots and pans, dishes and kitchen towels. The counters are covered with spoons and empty cartons and wrappers. He asks about the second dish of lasagna and Bruce says it's for Evelyn. Roy smiles. Bruce says his mother used to make lasagna for their neighbor next door. He remembers taking it over every year.
And then suddenly the dog growls and barks. Hair on his back stands up straight. The kitchen lights dim. The candle in the window flickers. Then it surges brighter. The men look at each other and the barking dog. It's not the first time. Roy has replaced the bulb and switched out the candle light twice already. Then just as fast as it started, it's over. The microwave clock flashes the time of day.
Roy takes a sip of Bruce's wine. Picks a piece of cork out of his mouth. Then sits down and pulls on his boots. The dog jumps up. Needs no commands or invitation. Heads to the back door and waits. Those boots mean out. Roy flicks on the back porch light with a click. Grabs his coat.
Roy and the dog walk back behind the garage, past the woodpile and the old shed. It is quiet. The hum of past seasons long gone. The hush of night falling. The dog runs ahead sniffing, tail wagging wildly. Evelyn lives behind them. Backyards together. A shared space where Roy grew up playing with Evelyn's son, John. The same age. A shared childhood. John passed away two years ago from cancer. Roy drove Evelyn to the church and the burial. He held her hand while the casket lowered into loss. Now Evelyn lives alone in a house too big.
Roy places the lasagna on the picnic table near the back door. He knocks then puts on his face mask and backs up. He sees her face behind the curtain. The back porch light flicks on. Evelyn emerges and the dog wags with delight. She sees the food and Roy tells her how to bake it. She's overwhelmed. It's Christmas Eve. Tears start in her eyes. She says thank you. She says tell your little chef thank you. And how lasagna was John's favorite around the holidays. Roy says he remembers. Says he misses him. And all of a sudden, the back porch light flickers and hums. A vibrating sound. It grows brighter. Both of them stare at the bulb. And then it's normal. She smiles; Evelyn knows. She retreats into the house without a hug but with all the love in the world.
Roy calls the dog. Together they walk back home in the dark. A gentle wind picks up the scent of wood fires burning. In the distance, houses and homes, people plugging in trees and turning on hope. Outdoor Christmas lights blink. Above them, stars start to twinkle.
He stops at the woodpile and fills his arms. On the way in, the dog grabs a stick from the stash by the backdoor. Inside, the smell of warmth and lasagna baking. The wood stove burns hot. The heat fills the home. Boots off, Roy pours himself a glass of wine and starts the dishes. Stands there shaking his head. The details of the day. So many spoons. But these are not just the usual ones. They are tools. Spoons of grace.