by Louise Bohmer
Gazing at the burning logs in the hearth, Jim’s eyes grew blurry while visions filled his head.
He remembered the feeling … The feeling of his father’s thin, sagging neck. Squeezing tighter and tighter … Dad’s face turning purple … His tongue lolling out of his mouth like a fat, grey worm.
Blinking, he shook his head and chugged back another eggnog-and-rum shot. He had six more lined up to go on the coffee table.
With his big toe, Jim reached out and pushed the broken rocking chair, sitting next to the fireplace. He pictured his father’s dead body, sliding out of the chair. The rocker coming down with the old man—its wicker back smashing into his lifeless face.
He remembered the surge of freedom he had felt at that moment. The cantankerous old sonofabitch was gone. A year later, he still had trouble believing it. After forty-three years under that bastard’s thumb, he was finally free.
“Merry Christmas.” Lifting another shot glass to his lips, he paused long enough to salute his dad’s vacant corner. “I sure hope there’s a hell, old man.”
Tipping his head back, he downed the drink just as a sharp knock rattled the front door. Surprised, Jim choked as the liquor went down. Coughing and cursing, he crossed the living room to see who it was.
Who the hell could that be? No one ever paid Jim Franklin an unexpected Christmas visit. In years before, “Rotten Ol’ Ed” (what the town used to call his father) chased any holiday well-wishers away. Nowadays, Jim’s crippling fear of people kept him out of the “popular” arena. It didn’t bother him much. The time alone, after years of Ol’ Ed’s bitching, was welcome.
After a quick check of his breath for alcohol damage, he answered the door.
The wind greeted him with a wounded cry, as he poked his head out into the chilly night.
No one; the walkway was empty. So was the sidewalk and street.
Rolling his eyes, Jim put the disturbance down to some disgruntled student. Probably the same one who let the air out of his tires last spring.
He was just about to head back inside when something resting on the stoop caught his attention.
A red, velvet Santa hat with white trim—topped with a cotton ball.
With trembling hands, he bent to pick it up. His eyes darted over the furry material, searching.
There it was, near the bottom edge of the soft brim. Just as he had remembered it. A thick, brown cigarette burn about the size of a quarter.
It was his dad’s old Santa hat.
But how could that be? Jim thought back to last Christmas, back to after he had dragged Ol’ Ed’s body out into the forest behind their house.
Didn’t I burn the hat … with him? Frowning he tried to think back, but it was hard to recall through the cloud of special holiday shots mixed with the Jack he’d had for breakfast.