Fiction by Gregory Cusumano
The Christmas tree had begun to sag. It actually started to sag several days ago, but it was a slow process— incremental, first the bottom branches drooped, then the next row up, and the next. The pine needles dried, and the trunk slumped to its side. Now, the needles were pallid, and the string lights had slipped low on the branches. It was daytime. The apartment dim, lit from only the front window, which was defused by flurries of snow.
The new Christmas gifts had been opened, played with, and now set up neatly in all their new homes around the living room. The hollow green Castle Grayskull, with its skeleton face, mouth for a drawbridge, sat at the foot of the tree. Across from it, next to the sofa, was the purple snake-like castle of Skeletor. A landspeeder sat above it on the side table, accompanied by a 4″ plastic Luke Skywalker on his Tauntaun battling a fluffy white horned monster called a Wompa.
On the TV stand, the new Donkey Kong Jr. and Q*bert video cartridges were lined up with the other Atari games next to a Zenith box tube television set.
Yes, all the presents had found a home except for the lone package beneath the tree. Its paper was crinkled, the rips taped, torn again, and re-taped again with stronger masking tape.
The name tag lost days ago.
A strong wind whistled past the window, making it shudder. “Will you get off of there?” the mom said as she dragged a large suitcase into the living room. She was dressed for traveling, comfy jeans, a sweater, and sneakers.
“No,” said the boy sitting by the window, his nose pressed against the glass. He was almost too big to be sitting on the sill. Once upon a time, he could crawl along it with ease. Now, at nine, he had to balance carefully.
“It’s too cold to be sitting that close to the window.”
“I’m not cold.”
“I’m cold just looking at you, and it’s time to go. I’d like to get on the road before the weather gets really bad.”
“Can we wait a little longer?”
“We’re going to be late.”
“Half-hour?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Ok.”
“Can you at least get off of there and put on a sweater?”
“No!” said the boy, not looking at her. He was intent on staying there all day if he had to. He didn’t care if they spent New Year’s Eve with his cousins. He was half-hoping that they would get snowed in.
His mother came over to him, putting her arms around him. “You’re freezing. Come on, let’s get down.”
He didn’t budge.
Outside, a handful of kids dressed in snow gear entered the courtyard of their apartment complex, whooping and chasing after each other, throwing snowballs. “Nicky and Joel are outside. It looks like they are having a good time. Why don’t you go out and play with them? It’s as good as waiting here.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
“It will be more fun with your friends.”
“Can you call again?”
“I called already. There was no answer.”
“If you call him again, maybe, he’ll answer this time.”
“I’ve called! He swore he would be here Christmas morning. Then the next day and the next, and now today,” she looked at her watch. “He’s five hours late. No, I will not call him again. We should get on the road.”
The boy pushed his tongue against the back of his front teeth, crinkling his lips and nose, holding back the brimming tears.
“Please,” his lower lip trembled.
“If you get off there, I’ll call him again.”
The boy didn’t budge.
“Suit yourself.”
The boy watched the kids play. The chase had ended. Now, they were behind the short leafless hedges on the courtyard area that, in a different season, would be green with a manicured clipped lawn. They were building a snowman.
The flurries were picking up. Maybe he would get his wish. A gust rattled the window. The snow was making it hard to see. Yet the boy steadfastly continued to search. Then, in the distance, near the road, a man entered the courtyard. He was bundled in a parka, his arms laden with packages.
“HE’S HERE!”
The boy leaped from the window sill, running across the living room, hopping into his boots, tearing open the door, and bounding down the stairs.
“Wait, your coat!” his mom yelled out to him. THUMP – THUMP – THUMP, the sound of his boots thumping down the stairs to the front door.
He turned the knob, cold to his ungloved hand. It spun, he pulled the door open, and he was hit with a windy, white torrent of flakes. Wiping it away, he plowed ahead, running as best he could, slipping at times but righting himself before he could fall. He ran up to the man in the parka holding the packages.
“Hello,” said the mailman with a smile.
His face went gaunt.
“Hi,” said the boy. He blinked. One tear appeared, then the next. No matter how hard he pressed his tongue against his teeth, he couldn’t keep back the thing he had so successfully suppressed in the past.
From behind him, his mother approached with a coat. He slipped his arms into its sleeves. She zippered it for him. “You always have me.”
“I know.”
“Is that enough?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me either.”
They walked side by side back through the courtyard. She knew better than to offer her hand. After a time, he offered his. She accepted. The snow drifting around them, sometimes in torrents, sometimes in flurries.
“Do you want me to call him?”
“No,” said the boy, less sullen, “I think it’s time to go.”
Greg Cusumano‘s love of storytelling began at a young age sitting at his grandparent’s table for the traditional Italian Sunday meal. He is mainly known for his work as a film and television editor; his recent credits include Grey’s Anatomy, Teen Wolf The Movie and Wolf Pack. This is his first published story.
