A CHRISTMAS STORY

FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG

Roy can't sleep. He slowly slides out of bed, trying not to wake anyone. He finds yesterday's clothes on the floor and stumbles downstairs. Tired. The dog jumps off the bed and follows. Bruce sleeps on, in the thin dawn light.

Downstairs Roy lets the dog out. Then back in. Turns some lights on. He starts a pot of coffee while the dog paces around wondering why this is so early and then finally decides to go back to bed. The lazy click clack of nails up the stairs and down the hall. Then the house is quiet again. 

Roy sits at the kitchen table. The table his father built. He sips his hot coffee out of an old stoneware mug that's been in this house longer than him. Across the street, in the distance, the neighbors' colored lights glow and flicker. It's Christmas morning. 

He grew up Jewish. His mother was Protestant and shortly after she married, she stopped going to church and embraced the Jewish traditions the Horwich family celebrated. Mostly feasts and histories, symbols and prayers. 

But all his life, every Christmas, his mother secretly gave him a little gift, not out of faith, but rather holding onto tradition, keeping close her childhood memories. A small toy or a simple indulgence. Star Wars figures or little Lego sets. When Roy was older he started giving gifts to her. It was their Christmas secret. 

He wonders and remembers. He gets up and goes to the chest of drawers at the bottom of the stairs. Top drawer. There he finds an old stormtrooper. Roy picks it up and looks it over. Smiles. And back at the kitchen table he stands the figure in front of him. A guardian of memory. The figure falls down. 

She's been gone two years.

And sitting there at the old worn table where he's eaten dinner his entire life, he remembers it all. Like it was yesterday or last week. He sees her face, remembers her smile and their secret Christmas rendezvous. Holiday movies together while his father was at work. Candy canes and Bing Crosby.

The knot in his stomach tightens. It spreads and seeps deeper. He starts to cry. The table wet with sadness. Sorrow steeping still. And after a few minutes, he wipes his face and looks around the kitchen. Her kitchen. 

The morning sun starts through the windows. And he hears the dog jump off the bed.