Benjamin McFadden The Death of Santa Claus

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as if nothing had happened, friendly once more. Kris would go along with it, not
mentioning the incident or trying to apologize.
38
The Death of Santa Claus
H"
Finding nothing in particular to do for the evening, Kris was satisfied to
spend time reading and writing some poetry. He composed a rather sad rhyme
about a cemetery full of forgotten heroes who had fought in a very important
battle. There was a beautiful heroine, beloved by the people, who had died
honorably, but the poem spoke of the true lack of honor in death, the tragedy that
such a death always was, no matter how necessary the sacrifice might have been.
He was not sure where the inspiration for the poem had come from, but
he was fairly pleased with his work. It did seem as if something were missing
from the story, but he could not say what.
He also wrote a somewhat less literary work for Gwen, a sort of
sickeningly romantic set of verses lauding her beauty and the wonders of new
love. He was sure to keep the tone light and intentionally overstated; he did not
want to get too serious too quickly, but he did want to keep her interest. He
figured he would find some flowers for her as well. No roses. Something more
friendly and innocent for the early stage.
He spent some time with his parents. They rarely attended church on
Sunday evenings, preferring instead to get some fast food and bring it home to
eat in front of whatever was on television. Kris rode out to a restaurant with them
to get the food, talking a lot to his mother. His mind on Gwen, he asked his mom
about her college experience and how she and his father had met, even though he
had heard it before.
He liked the story, partly because it involved him. He had already been
born at the time. His father had returned to college while Kris s grandmother was
helping care for him. I m not sure who I fell in love with first, you or your
father, his mother said as she said every time she told the story. But I knew
from the beginning that once I got caught up with you two that I would never be
able to get out of it. And here I am.
You knew from the beginning? Kris asked, wondering how that
worked, how one could be sure.
His mother shrugged. I say I did. It seems now that I knew then.
Honestly, I think I just had so much fun with your father and caring for you that I
was head over heels before I knew anything. It was the most natural thing in the
world.
Kris thought about this, wondered if it would be the same with Gwen.
Maybe he was getting a little ahead of himself.
His father was strangely quiet this whole time, and for much of the
evening. Kris suspected that he was probably about to start one of his moods. His
father would, on occasion, go into depressions that lasted for days, sometimes
more than a week. He would sometimes call in sick to work for a day, rarely two,
but generally managed to get by. But during the whole episode, he would be
listless, quiet, often lost in thought. He would sleep a lot. But then, as quickly as
39
B.A.McFadden
H"
it had started, it would be over. Kris had never noticed what triggered most of
these moods, though he had noticed in the past few years that one seemed to hit
every year around Christmas time. It was just a week until Christmas Eve.
Monday came, and the week promised to begin rather uneventfully. John
was still incommunicado and Gwen had a partial week of high school before
Christmas break began for her. Kris had no problem being alone, however, and
took the opportunity for introspection and learning, for walking and relaxing. So
during the daytime that week, he had some quiet, reflective times, but he spoke to
Gwen on the phone each night, reminiscing, catching up on the years they had
spent as acquaintances. He was able to see her Wednesday night, at church, and
they went for a cold walk down the main street of town afterward to see the
classic Christmas decorations that adorned the buildings. They shared their first,
sweet kiss under a streetlight wrapped in greenery and bows before they returned
to their homes.
The next day, dizzy with the first stages of love, Kris was out wandering
in his neighborhood, feeling a need to walk and think, feeling almost happier
than he could stand. Without any conscious thought of going there, he found
himself drawn to the park he had frequented as a youth.
He had not been there since sometime around the beginning of his senior
year of high school that he could remember. It looked just the same. It was
desolate in the cold of winter; the trees were stark and bare, brown leaves
scattered across the grass, dirt, and pavement by the wind. The playground
equipment stood rusting and neglected, in need of painting, and the basketball
goal leaned a little more than it had, the net long gone from the rim.
Kris found an old, flat basketball sitting between the heavy roots of one
of the old trees and took a few shots at the goal. Between the lean of the support
pole and the dead weight of the deflated ball, he was not incredibly successful. At
least he had an excuse in this instance for missing so many shots.
He walked over to the merry go round with a smile born of myriad
memories. The wheel of death. How many times had this monster dragged him
around? He placed his hands on the rail and gave the platform a spin, producing a
squealing squeak, but putting the device in motion.
The sound. There was something about the sound, something eerie. He
watched the wheel turn round and round, waiting for an image to pop into his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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