THE LATE CHRISTMAS GIFT

This is a story I wrote for my literary club.


This Christmas could be special if he just tried hard enough. Josh knew that it all depended on him: to keep the peace and make everyone happy, to put out the fires as they started, and most important, to bring in the holiday spirit. The most unlikely character in this problem family could make everything right if he just concentrated and planned ahead. Sometimes even a child can make a difference.

First, though, he would have to fortify his own joy of the season.

Josh sat on the carpeted step of the open stairway of his home, dangling his legs. He used the next step as a table to study the TV Guide. Let's see, he thought, "CBS seems to be the network for tonight. 'A Charlie Brown Christmas' comes on at seven P.M., 'Frosty the Snowman' at seven-thirty, and 'Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer' from eight to nine--a full dose of Christmas."

For some reason, he could remember the words of many of the shows' songs after hearing them once, and he began to sing them to himself, even the jazzy piano tune from the Peanuts program. Maybe, he could be a jazz musician one day, in addition to being an artist, and a college professor; he liked that kind of music so much.

Josh nibbled the Russian Tea cookies his mother had made, licking the powdered sugar off the pecan-flavored morsels as he turned pages. His mother was an excellent cook. Since his father's death, his mother tried to compensate somewhat for the loss with her Southern culinary excellence. Josh's young physique showed the results, but he didn't care. It was a love-communication they shared; his enthusiastic appreciation for her skills; her love poured out in an activity he knew eased the anxieties and worries she suffered, a constant in what had proved to be an unpredictable life. It made both of them happy.

Josh turned and glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen. It was already four-thirty P.M.! He felt the familiar clutching pain in his stomach, anticipation of his stepfather's return home from work. What kind of mood would he be in? What brand of moodiness would the family be subjected to? What measure of stress and irrational requirements would be placed on the household tonight? They would soon find out.

Older brother Brad's old, Ford pickup roared up the hill, the driveway that passed outside the den windows to their barn-like garage out back. Brad wouldn't interrupt his plans. After their father's illness and death from cancer, Brad had become a stranger that lived in their house. He spent most of his time in his room reading war novels or "Soldier of Fortune" magazine, using his reloader to refurbish spent shotgun shells, or carousing at all hours with his friends. Sometimes, he would stumble in late at night, waking Josh who slept in the two-story addition to their home that they shared, the addition their father had begun for them, and their stepfather had tyranically completed. Brad would reek of beer and cigarettes.

Josh couldn't blame him. Being older, Brad was the official keeper of their father's memory. He had defiantly resisted their stepfather's inclusion from the very beginning. Josh remembered the many arguments, some disolving into fist-fights, their mother standing by screaming, and glass breaking.

Brad roused Josh from his daydreams by slamming the den door, running up the stairs two steps at a time, yelling, "Watch out, geek!", before ducking into his room and slamming that door shut, too.

Josh sat and thought. Being only twelve, there wasn't much he could do to make everything better. It would have to be something stupendous to chase all the hurt away.

The idea formed in his mind in a flash. There was only a little daylight left, so he would have to hurry.

He ran up the stairs to the small attic access door. Crawling through, he rummaged around the old, dust-covered cardboard boxes 'til he found what he was looking for--the biggest one. He pulled the big box out and lugged it down the stairs as carefully as possible, though it was almost as big as he was. He wrestled the box out the den door and around to the front of the addition. Running to the back of the garage, he found the huge aluminum extension ladder, dragged it to the front yard, and locked it into it's longest extension. Starting underneath the far end, he slowly walked the ladder up into the air, holding it with shaking arms until it stood upright--then fell with a clunk onto the brick face of the two-story addition. Josh laid the contents of the box on the ground. He sorted the wires as best he could. There wasn't time, and he was just a boy with no tools, but he had noticed something before on the addition--three nails left over from the construction.

He first threaded the wires through the bushes in the front flower planter, in the narrow space between the bottom windows. He ran the wires up and around the windows to the farthest shutters, then wrapped them around the single nails at each end. Holding the longest length of wire wrapped around his shoulders, he slowly climbed the ladder. The ladder creaked and swayed as a cool wind blew against him. Climbing to the highest point, just below the roof peak, he carefully wrapped the middle of the wire around the last nail.

Brad heard him begin to stumble down the ladder, the pings of the aluminum rungs just outside his window. He stuck his head out and, with a grimace, grumbled, "What have you messed up now?"

Josh ignored him and continued to the bottom. He pulled the ladder back 'til it rocked upright again, then fell with a crash onto the yard. He locked it into position, then drug it back behind the garage. Going inside the den, he pulled the orange extension cord attached to the wires inside one of the den windows and plugged it in. It was dark enough now. He ran outside, down the hill, and across the street to a neighbor's yard. Brad wandered outside along with their mother who was drying her hands on a dishtowel.

They stood down the hill in their yard and turned to look at Josh's handiwork. His stepfather had just arrived home in his company car and parked on the street. He turned off the engine and sat behind the steering wheel to stare at the front of the house without moving.

A giant Christmas tree of lights two stories high met their gaze. Its red, blue, green, and gold spectacle shone radiant in the cold, crisp air. His mother put her hand to her face, tears in her eyes. She whispered to Brad, "How was he able to...?"

Josh turned to look at the other homes and streets in their neighborhood and saw that the tree could be seen from most of the houses. He saw the lights in their windows and wondered if their families had troubles too. He hoped that these lights, this tree would warm their hearts and remind them of what was really important. It was something his father would have done.

Josh looked up and saw the first star come out in the darkening sky. "Dad," he said, "This Christmas tree is big enough for you to see up there. I made it for you."

j. Wallace

THE RIVER

This begins a series that I offer as a continuing story with various episodes appearing weekly. I hope you enjoy it.


The river had always terrified the boy.

It was established in his memory and imagination, waiting to intrude upon his thoughts, to strike terror into his heart in the dead of night or in his daydreams. Half a mile wide, it crossed his mind with no beginning or end, a raging torrent coursing through his life determined to have its way no matter how many lives it claimed. Millions of cold, white snakes appeared at first to cover its surface, writhing and squirming, coiled over each other and striking out into the air: a continuous, undulating passage of treacherous whirlpools and white caps of deadly ice-cold water. The spectacle held him with a hypnotic power. Just over the treeline of his wilderness home in the North Country, it cast through the gigantic, dark pines that stood as sentinels along its graveled shore--what seemed to be a malevolent force with a soul intent on laying claim to his. The boy swore to himself that he would fight it with everything he had. He would not lose his life like so many others. This natural fury could be resisted. He vowed that the river would not determine his fate. The entity surged on through the primal forests and his viens to an eternal sea not of this world. It harbored a secret unknown to him: great adventure and treasure awaited the man found worthy.

Every wilderness family had been touched by tragedies wrought by the water. Crossings attempted far upstream sent silent witnesses to the settlement: drowned oxen, cattle and horses tumbled past in the rapids, frozen in postures of fright; submerged wagons of broken boards drifted by with wheels missing; semi-clothed specimens followed that were no longer human, staring at nothing with black eyes, rolling far behind everything they had once held dear. Spring floods occurred occasionally without notice-silent, melted snows that shocked the system and took life quickly within minutes. Day or night, it didn't matter. The results were the same. The waters would rise and all would be lost. The strong currents wrenched apart everything constructed, with steel hands it took it all away, defying the people who struggled to wrest sustenance from the wild land the river ruled. Anything attempted on the loose gravel banks along the water's edge often resulted in calamitous accidents. Cords of driftwood would suddenly be deposited or withdrawn with thunderous cracks and clatterings according to the river's whim, an ever-changing collection of debris along its sides swept from other regions. Every so often, one of the colossal trees on its banks could no longer withstand the river's will. Ripping moorings from the earth, the tree would slowly careen in, taking along whoever, unfortunately, impeded its path. The swift, cold water was dangerous in many ways and could not be trusted, neither the river nor all it influenced.

The boy tried to warn his neighbors that the river was some kind of supernatural force, something in this world but not of it, that had invaded his mind like a spirit. They would not listen. They told his mother, "Your son Ezekiel is crazy! Stop teaching him so much and giving him books to read! You're filling his head with dreams and foolishness, and soon he will be good for nothing."

Zeke's mother ignored them. She had once been a teacher and had recognized in her young son the sparks of intelligence and creativity. She found him at three years old drawing a realistic picture of a deer with a crayon on scrap paper. Knowing that such early artistic ability is often a sign of cognitive sophistication, she set about to teach Zeke to read while he was still a toddler. The precious books of education that she had saved during the family's arduous journey to the wilderness meant everything to her. She had passed on to her son, through these books, the world of thought and reason, a love of learning that she felt made life worthwhile, no matter where a body might be or the hardships he might be enduring. Her son's precociousness and creativity were a constant joy, a gift she had given him for his own personal enrichment and enjoyment. With constant encouragement and nurturing, she had seen them return, demonstrated in his artwork and understanding. If no one else could appreciate his qualities and insight, it was just their loss.

Perhaps due to his artistic sensibilities and intellect, enhanced by the books he had studied, Zeke had known for some time that things were not as they seemed. Knowing their limitations, he did not completely trust his senses. He could easily represent the reality he perceived with sight by employing depth and perspective techniques on a two-dimensional piece of paper, and reasoned that the world of sight was also that easy, just two dimensions folded over third-dimensional spaces: an illusion of substance concealing a void in which anything could exist. Within this void, he believed opposing forces of good and evil operated and did battle. The beauty and terror of the natural wilderness world in which the lived, he understood as an extension and projection of his own imagination--enriched and intensified by an artistic eye and perceptions of the infinite, inherant in all things. The mysterious realm of the void sometimes "leaked through," encroached upon physical reality and this is how he felt the river came to be. Despite the dangers and his paralyzing fear, he endeavored to discover the true origin of the river's power, it's true meaning and purpose, not knowing that the risks he took would affect everyone's life, would change everything forever.

To be continued...
J. Wallace