Tidings - William Wharton

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don’t have the guts to do what she did; I hope Lor doesn’t either. Maybe continuity means too much to me. I’m too inertial, not courageous, creative. It explains a lot.

      I speed by and promise myself I’ll walk over the hill soon to wish her a Merry Christmas. I power my way in first gear up to Vauchot. There’s almost no snow on the road but some places are icy. I stay in first and glide down those last two kilometers to the mill. I’ve left the grange doors open; I’ll swing the car straight on in.

      I get into town without seeing anyone. I twist and slither through mud into the grange; stop, turn off the motor, turn out the lights and sit a moment, quiet in the dark, giving my blood pressure a chance to arrange itself.

      Then I get out, close the grange doors. Using my flashlight, I wend my way through motorcycles past and present, to the other side of the car, open the door; free the top of my tree from the window, and carefully work the bushy part from inside the car. I stomp the stump on the grange floor, holding it by the middle.

      I open the little door-in-a-door to see if anybody’s out in the street. No one. I skip over the sill, through the mud, clutching the tree under my arm like a bride. I get through the cellar door and start pushing the tree backward up our steps ahead of me. I don’t want to break any branches going through the trap door. Lor holds the trap and pulls the lower end of our tree, helping me through. I come along behind and take it from her; the pillaging, rampaging, returned, conquering hero; crumpled, dripping, bristled, tousled, white hair in a flying mane.

      I lift that mini-Nevers tree from the millstone, push it out the damside door onto our porch, then jam my newly cut tree into the millstone hole. It fits perfectly, tightly, stands straight up, buttoned-top tip almost touching the log ceiling under the loft; branches, glistening wet, spread to fill the space. It’s not too bushy and hasn’t a bare part; somehow there’s no mud either. Ben stares, he flashes his pulled-together squint which serves for a smile.

      ‘Now that’s a real Christmas tree, Dad. It makes me want to believe in Santa Claus again.’

      Lor puts her arm around me, gives me a hard hug.

      ‘It’s okay with us if you want to, Ben, there probably is anyhow you know. Just ask your father; he’s the expert.’

      ‘No, I don’t think I could do it any more, it’s too hard. People don’t really want fifteen-year-old boys to keep believing in things like Santa Claus. It isn’t fitting.’

      Lor pours me a small glass of Poire William. We light the candles on our table and turn off all the other lights. There’s only a glow from the two butane heaters and the light from our fireplace. It’s warm enough so we don’t need the electric heaters any more. Our inside thermometer on the newly varnished barometer says twenty degrees. The outside thermometer registers two above, still snow temperature. In my varnishing mania, I varnished the plastic match holder by the sink, including the striking surface on one side, so now we have a hard time striking matches. But we do get the candles lit.

      Slowly, softly, Lor and I begin singing Christmas carols. Ben hums along with us. He has a deep melodious voice, perfect pitch, but it’s the first time he’s actually joined with us in singing. Only last year, he would’ve quietly absented himself, going out in the grange, or for a walk. Ben has a horror, an intense dislike for overt performance. It’s a feeling I understand, appreciate. There’s something sad, hard to be around, when people perform in a desperate attempt to prove that they are. I often cry at concerts or in a theater. It has nothing to do with the music or the play. I’m feeling sorry for the musicians, the actors, all those for whom that public performance of private fantasy is a way of life.

      The temptation is strong to comment, congratulate, thank Ben for his participation on these, the last moments of his fifteenth birthday. But I don’t, it would be a violation. Not doing those things is most of what I’m trying to learn. I seem to lack a certain sensitivity, respect, for the inner needs of others; Lor always seems to know just what to do. It might be a part of what makes me a piss-poor philosopher and her an outstanding first-grade teacher. She almost always seems to do the right thing without trying.

      We continue through the carols, very low-key, whispering, and I’m surprised how many of the words Ben knows, as he begins to sing with us; convinced it isn’t a competition or a command performance, but a mutual expression of good will. The tree stands mute, deep, dark green, mysterious; our representative from the great outdoors; an unwilling martyr to our desire for expression of oneness with the world, with all living things.

      I feel calm inside. I resolve to hold tight the promise I made Loretta and keep my mouth shut when our daughters start working their thing off. Both our girls are heavily committed to the emancipation of womankind. Brothers and fathers are automatically guilty and are expected to absorb the brunt of the assault. Assault I can usually handle but directed insult triggers me if I’m not careful. The problem is, after twenty-five years of philosophical nit-picking, I’m a veritable demon at dispute, and it’s frustrating for the girls, especially Nicole.

      This is what happened two Christmases ago in California. Loretta walked away and went to bed, she refuses to let herself get involved in nonproductive, noncommunicative conflict situations. I wish I could be so smart, I think it’s the contentious Irish in me. Nicole gets especially hostile after she’s had too much white wine. She’s so much like Nora, Loretta’s late sister, it can be frightening.

      That Christmas, Nicole started insisting we’d ‘fucked up’ her life. I guess all parents are shocked, concerned when one of their children comes to feel this. But having evolved from difficult backgrounds ourselves, Lor and I’d convinced each other we’d honestly tried not to do just that. It’s so hard to show love, especially when you really love, respect and admire the loved one. It’s almost as if they want you to violate them, force them to behave by some standard of your own not related to their desires. Maybe they want a chance to manifest their love for you by submission. I don’t know. It’s beyond me.

      So, there, in the pleasant dark, I reaffirm my determination to listen, not to be provoked, to make the most of this which, I’m convinced, will be our last Christmas together. I feel a pang again because Mike won’t make it, but then again, we can’t have everything.

      Before going to bed, I heat some water and scrub myself thoroughly in the washbowl. I stink from nervous perspiration and it’d be no fun for Lor sleeping beside someone who smells like an escapee from a metro or a zoo. I even shave. Ben sets up his bed before the fire, then when everybody’s settled in, I blow out the candles and crawl into bed.

      As I’m going off to sleep, wrapped close to Loretta’s back, I think again what a big mistake our species made when we started building houses with sleeping, eating, cooking, washing, all separated into different compartments. Virtually everybody in this village lives as we do, in one room. It’s surprising how comforting this can be. I won’t try to defend that one with the girls. There’s no reason to.

      I wake at about seven thirty for a pressing morning piss. I don’t usually take a diuretic before sleeping, but last night I did, along with my usual Valium. I could feel signs of elevated blood pressure, a slight tightness under my left arm, a throbbing in the temples.

      Two good things came of my medicating. One, I got up twice during the night and each time threw a good-sized log on the fire to keep it going, so now it’s burning merrily. Starting a new fire in the ashes on a freezing morning with cold, damp wood is not my idea of a great way to begin a winter day.

      I let my eyes drift around the room, enjoying peace and the coming dawn.

      The second good thing is the blood pressure is down and I’m feeling very content, undisturbed inside, in tune with the world. I run through again what has to be done, as I see it, and my only concern is for Lor. But it’s a concern, not an anxiety.

      For me, Christmas Eve day is even more important, more exciting, than Christmas Day itself. The sense of anticipation, of expectant readiness, is magic. I hear, feel, Lor breathing beside me. Ben is stretched out, overlapping his cot by the fire, arms hanging over the sides. He sleeps deeply, calmly, no tossing, no teeth

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