Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue
Fiction by Zan Bockes
When Jo got home from the hospital where her husband lay comatose, the house blazed with Christmas decorations he’d put up and connected to a timer just after Thanksgiving. Every evening since, the reindeer and sleigh on the roof lit up automatically. The large plastic Santa loomed above the icy shingles, and a series of inflatable candy canes danced across the snow-covered yard. Cheery elves rocked back and forth and a red-nosed reindeer turned its face slowly side to side. The crèche radiated a soft yellow, the three wise men and animals peacefully gathered in the rough wooden enclosure.
Merrill spent weeks ahead of time positioning ladders and climbing on the roof, hanging looping strands of colored bulbs around the gutters and windows. When it was all done, when the cords connected and electricity surged through every circuit, the three-bedroom split level leaped from darkness like the Big Bang. Neighbors gathered for the event, and their cul-de-sac overflowed with cars driving by in a long line to observe the spectacle.
Jo again resolved to hire the teenaged boy next door to take it all down as soon as possible—the gaiety seemed false and irreverent with Merrill strung with tubes and wires that ironically mirrored the display at their house.
Three days ago, the surgeon removed a blood clot from Merrill’s aorta and replaced it with a stent, a tiny mesh cylinder to keep the artery open and blood flowing. Jo related the details to their son, who would fly in with his wife and three young children the next day. The thought of noise and commotion drained her. She hadn’t had time for baking or shopping for presents, every spare moment taken up by visits with Merrill.
Once inside, Jo took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She heated up a cup of milk in the microwave and turned out the hall light, sinking into an easy chair with her head against the lace doily on the back. The lights in the juniper bush outside flashed in random sequences, casting shadows of branches and needles across the ceiling.
This might be Merrill’s last Christmas, she thought. No more festivities and decorations, laughter and singing. No one to lie next to when the night grew deep and sleep descended.
Perhaps she could ask God politely for a reprieve. It seemed important not to be too demanding or greedy. Just one more year to watch the grandchildren grow, to pay off the house…
She tried to picture the vague deity she hesitantly worshipped. She saw an old man, rigid, gray-bearded, and unlikely to bestow favors, especially to those who otherwise rarely consulted Him. From the clouds above, He orchestrated all that happened on Earth and punished those who questioned His power. But she doubted He would answer her request, or that a prayer could make any difference in the outcome.
Through the frost-feathered glass, the scene in the front yard blazed across the deep snow. The plastic baby Jesus in his bed of fresh straw glowed like an oracle.
The wind was picking up. The tinfoil star on top of the crèche shivered. The colored bulbs winked on their frozen wires, ticking against the windows.
Jo stared absently at the doll’s swaddled body. A curious shadow drifted back and forth across its face, and as she tried to identify its source, the scene suddenly went black. Jo blinked against the darkness. Maybe a fuse had blown. She thought of opening the fuse box, but she knew nothing about what was inside. That had always been Merrill’s territory.
Or perhaps a transformer in the neighborhood had lost power. But the Reynolds’ Christmas tree across the way still reflected its colored lights in the ice rutted street.
Maybe the wind was responsible—a power line was down, lying like a snake in the back yard, electrocuting any live animal that ventured near. She thought of stepping out into the electric snow, her charred body sizzling under the bulbous yellow moon.
Next door, the streetlight still shone, snowflakes circling through its illuminated cone. The cuckoo clock on the piano whistled twelve times.
Jo tried to resist the idea that God’s hand descended from the heavens, compelling her to repent or submit. She didn’t believe in omens, really. But she whispered a clumsy prayer nevertheless. “Please, God. Help me…”
Wind buffeted the house, driving snowflakes against the windows. Jo’s hands trembled as she felt for the lamp beside her chair. As she turned the switch, she recalled the timer Merrill had set to extinguish all the Christmas lights at midnight.
Oh, she thought.
Zan Bockes (pronounced “Bacchus”) earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Montana. Her work appears in numerous publications, and she has had four Pushcart Prize nominations. Her first poetry collection, Caught in Passing, was released in 2013. Another collection, Alibi for Stolen Light, appeared in 2018.
