A Death in the Family Copyright 1990-93 by Dave Laird There are many rites of Christmas to which we each, in our own way, pay homage, almost without conscious thought. Round-eyed children gather around Santa Claus at the mall, the camera man leaning forward for a photo child sitting on Santa's lap, the adults all coo, smile and nod at one another, as if to say, "Now, THAT'S what Christmas is all about!" and it becomes a ritual. This is a story which delves into another Rite of Christmas, which hopefully few of us will ever see. Theresa RedFern's Christmas surely fell apart in a hurry. It actually began back in October, when Bud left with some Indian gal he met in the Reservation Tavern. Departing with his clothes, his tools and the pickup truck, he left Theresa without much as a thank you or goodbye, leaving her the stereo he'd broken when they had fight, the broken color TV set and the moose's head that hung over the couch at an uncanny angle with an empty can of Olympia beer permanently impaled on one antler. One week later, returning from getting groceries, some guy jumped out of a pickup truck in front of her house, repossessing the car that Bud had bought Theresa for her thirtieth birthday. That left her with only a wheezing old pickup truck with bald tires to make the forty mile trek to work each day. The fourth time that she was late coming in to work because of the old truck's mechanical problems, her boss fired her and, for the first time in a decade, she was unemployed and on Unemployment Compensation. Theresa, her mother and I sat together one evening admiring the Christmas tree she'd just bought. This was not just **any** Christmas tree, I thought to myself. This was a war memorial, a mangy, half-dead, rusty tin can version of what once was, at best, a douglas fir. It was one of the last trees left on the lot, and the kid working there had given Theresa a discount, which was good, since she had less than twenty bucks to begin with. I had tried offering her some more money to buy a better tree, but her pride slammed the door on my fingers even as I made the offer. But, we agreed, Christmas just wouldn't be the same without a tree, even there were no presents wrapped up in shiny foil and paper beneath the tree on Christmas Eve. I guess it gave Theresa some small comfort just to see the familiar old ornaments hanging on the tree. She meticulously packed and put them away every year since she first left home, and that became one of her Christmas rituals. Unwrapping each bauble, the tinsel and placing the angel up on top of the tree folding up the original wrapping paper, and hanging each shiny bauble in its place gave Christmas meaning. "I don't know what the hell you keep the tinsel for," Bud had commented last year as he and I watched her, sitting on the floor, putting the Christmas decorations away during a break from watching the New Year's Day Football games. "Wouldn't it be just as easy to buy more each year?" Last evening Carole, a friend of mine, went by to drop off a turkey we had scrounged for Theresa, and I grew concerned when she tells me the previous evening she found Theresa sitting in the dark, gazing out the bay window at the Christmas lights coming on up and down the street. She seemed all right, though. She fixed them both tuna fish sandwiches, which they ate together in the living room, with the Christmas tree lights peacefully glowing in the darkened room and a fire in the wood stove crackling merrily away. Still concerned, I stop by late Saturday morning after it had snowed during the night. Theresa's front yard is tranquil, with a puffy white curtain of new-fallen snow over everything. Theresa says she has been reading a trashy novel most of the morning, occasionally watching as the neighbors plowed, shoveled or took snowblowers to their driveways. She turns on the radio in the kitchen, makes us some tea and we sit together sipping tea and munching graham crackers as the radio croons Christmas music in the background. She seems distant, almost aloof, but laughs readily when I tell her about my son shipping me a new pair of long-handled red underwear for Christmas. The house creaks and groans as her upstairs neighbor moves unseen across his living room. He is some kind professor of Psychology out at the University, she tells me. She is was certain that he is battier than a breadfruit, and we laugh together again when she tells about the time he nearly ended up in jail for absent-mindedly walking out to get his morning paper wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. I gather that he, like herself, tends to be a recluse, seldom venturing out further than necessary to grab his mail or to drive his car out to the University. I wonder aloud whether anyone at the University knows how batty he is, and we both chuckle at that, too. She seems glad for my company, that is until I mention Bud's name by mistake. There are always conversational points even close friends avoid. Theresa and I never talk about my kids, as that seems to be a constant source of pain since Theresa has been sterile since birth. Bud once had asked me plaintively in front of her, "Well, can't you just go see a doctor and have him fix something? I mean, ain't it just like plumbing?" That really hurt. Bud knew that as soon as he said it. Normally, we both avoid talking about Bud, but now that his name had been mentioned, an unearthly silence falls over the room. "Maybe it's just as well the sonofabitch is gone." She finally mutters darkly, giving an angry toss of her head as if to say, "..and that is that..." The last time I see Theresa she tells me about a strange, wild dream she had the previous night. She dreamed there were shiny packages under the tree, one for everyone. Every friend she ever knew was there, even the Baby Jesus, who was dressed in a tuxedo, smiling, and handing out Christmas candy and everyone said he looked just like his pictures. Bud was back, and this time stayed away from the Christmas punch, and thus, by some miracle, was still sober by midnight. Her mom was there, stolid, unmoving, unemotional as ever, sitting in the corner and staring with distrust at everything she saw. Some old guy dressed up in a red suit was playing Santa, but needed a shave and his false teeth clacked and rattled like angry castanets each time he spoke, but no one noticed. "That's my kind of luck I'd have if Santa Claus ever came by here," she says with a wry whisper and a grin. "The sonnofabitch'd show up with his suit half-pressed, needing a shave and lookin' in the bathroom for some Polident or tryin' to bum a cigarette." We laugh together at her vision of Saint Nick. A few days pass, and as Christmas nearly is upon us, my schedule grows predictably chaotic. On Christmas Eve morning, when I drop by Theresa's house to deliver a last-minute present, there are several police cars and an ambulance sitting in the middle of her driveway. I walk anxiously up to the front door of her apartment, which is slightly ajar, only to meet a young uniformed cop face to face, just inside the doorway. "What's the problem?" I ask, dread creeping up and down my spine with little tingly feet. "What's happened to Theresa?" "Do you know the gal that lives here?" the cop asks, brusquely. "Uh, yeah." stammer. Over the years I have developed a philosophy about how to handle adversarial situations with the police. When in doubt, continue to ask questions. It seems make them less likely to suspect you some of any misdeeds. "What's happened to Theresa?" Then I offer up what had to be the shakiest version of a grin anyone could ever imagine, adding "I asked first, remember?" The Cop is young, but he knows his job. He eyes me up and down, undoubtedly taking an indelible, permanent mental picture of me for future reference, and then said, "She's dead. She committed suicide." No tender mercy here. No subtle play on words, but a real-life reincarnation of Jack Webb's 'Just the facts m'am' in reverse. After staring at me hard-eyed for second, his face twists strangely, then a shadow of a smile comes dashing briefly by, and he adds softly, "I'm sorry." Tonight, sitting atop my usual spot on the hill overlooking Springdale, I watch the town as it sleeps, thinking about Theresa's dream. Somewhere there is a special Santa Claus, it seems. This is not some jolly old elf who makes little children smile, or that sits in a mall somewhere, posing with children between cigarette breaks. This is a wise old man, with a stubble of a beard, faded red suit, and false teeth that don't fit, who sometimes travels with guy wearing a rented tuxedo named Baby Jesus. Together these two cosmic vagabonds make all the stops at this time of year. Their Rite of Christmas, one of mercy, is collecting the souls all who fall between the cracks of life during Christmas in Springdale. In the Memory of two friends, each who killed themselves over Christmas in Springdale.