| It wasn’t chestnuts that roasted on the open fire, but a remote control car. The noxious odor of melted plastic wafted from the fireplace and filled the tiny den with thick smoke. Choking on the fumes, James giggled maniacally as the wheels continued to spin. Molten rubber splashed onto the carpets, stippling the puke green pattern with black. Teeth clenched, he joggled the knob on the remote control between forward and reverse. Wedged between two logs, the cherry red corvette rocked back and forth. In a moment it would break free. James trembled with anticipation as he pictured the car, decked in flame, as it peeled across the-- “What the hell are you doing?” Father asked as he stormed across the room. Swinging his thick, hairy hand he slapped James on the top of the head. James winced. He didn’t dare cry. With a pop, a hiss, and a whine, the batteries exploded. The car had finally died. Father snatched the remote from him and tossed it against the tobacco-stained wall. “Are you trying to burn down the fucking house?” Hearing the ruckus, Mother hustled into the living room. The pudgy bulk of baby Zack dangled from the crook of her arm. “What’s going on?” she asked softly. “Your son is trying to burn down the goddamn house.” With heavy stomps, he strode to the window and yanked it open. An icy December breeze howled through living room, rushing through the tree and teasing the tinsel as it passed. Wads of colorful, crumpled wrapping paper drifted around the room like tumble weeds. Mother stood at James’ side and laid a comforting arm across his shoulder. “Honey, you know that he can’t help it.” “I’m tired of you making excuses for him. I don’t care if he’s ‘not like other kids’. Christ, if one more teacher or doctor tells me that Jimmy’s special--I’m going to puke. The fact everyone’s missing is that he’s dangerous.” “But, honey. It’s Christmas--“ “Exactly. And if I didn’t just catch him, he would have burned down the whole house. Then we would have spent Christmas in a hotel with no fucking gifts.” Father plucked a soft pack of Marlboros from his shirt packed, shook one out, and placed it between his pursed lips. Father hated him--James knew that. Lately his father’s spankings and slaps had become harder, more cruel. A week earlier, father had struck him with a closed fist. It wasn’t a particularly hard strike--a quick jab to James’ forehead--but it had hurt. Lip trembling, James had looked into his father’s eyes. They had twinkled with the thrill of it… Father sat by the window and dragged deeply off of his cigarette. Plumes of smoke encircled his head. Eyes locked on his son, he scratched his scruffy chin. “What’s going on?” Mike asked as he slipped around the corner. James’ older brother had likely been summoned by conflict. “Your brother’s trying to burn down the house,” Father replied calmly. “Tard,” Mike muttered. “Watch your mouth,” Mother warned. She turned to James. “Honey, I have one more present for you.” Placing Zack on the floor, she tightened her robe and scurried into the kitchen. Zack occupied himself by chasing a stray ornament. When she was out of earshot, Father turned to James. “One more fuck up, boy, and I’m going to beat the ever-loving shit out of you. And your momma won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.” James swallowed hard. Mother flitted back into the room. She cradled something in her arms. “Merry Christmas, James.” |
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| Christmas Kitty by Tom Moran |