It was after midnight and very dark. In the low light, no one on the quiet, well-groomed cul-de-sac saw the giant shadow stop before number three and hover at its letterbox because the neighbours were all sleeping in their beds.
The apparition was a huge man dressed in the attire of a Viking from a bygone age. Under his helmet, tendrils of braided blond hair hung. Fur skins covered his shoulders, and he wore a leather tunic with arm and leg guards. A long sword hung at his side. His face shone, which was unusual because there was no moon, and his eyes burned like fire.
He stooped low to push an envelope through the letterbox, straightened, smiled, and rubbed his big, beefy hands together. Then he turned, walked a couple of steps away, and disappeared.
***
Harold sat at his dining table and examined the white envelope he had found in his letterbox. He was amazed that anyone would send him mail, and it was hand-delivered. He stared at the large, cursive writing as it looped his name across the front in a flamboyant style. He opened the envelope, stared at the Christmas scene and sighed. It was that time of the year—the season of sorrow and loneliness. He would again sit by himself in his house on a day that people cherished as a family day, as they celebrated with their loved ones and friends. He would hear the laughter of neighbours as bottles popped, and cries of delight as presents were opened. Later, it would be the yells of kids on the street riding their new bikes or skateboards.
It had been five years since his wife, Carol, had died. They had no kids. Memories cascaded into his mind, and he allowed them to wash over him for a few minutes. Sometimes, he swore he could still hear Carol’s lyrical voice and laughter. She was the socialite who brought friends into his life. She was his momentum, organising holidays, Sunday afternoon drives, picnics, parties … and Christmas lunch.
Within the year of her passing, he sold the house and moved out of the district into a bigger town with a medical centre. He moved into a safe, quiet, leafy cul-de-sac and bought a one-level home. He nodded at his decision, even though he’d made it harder for their friends to visit, but Harold needed to take care of himself now that he was in his late seventies, and besides, he reasoned, they could still stay in touch by phone. He compressed his lips. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit his reality was that of a hermit, only leaving the house in his car for a food shop or doctor’s appointments. He never phoned anyone.
The neighbours respected his privacy and aloofness when, after several attempts to engage him, they met with curt nods, a few words and his back as he walked away. He didn’t choose to be rude; he just didn’t want to engage in any meaningful way. A nod at the gate would suffice. He was never a chatterer anyway. They were lucky to learn his name. Harold didn’t know theirs. The cul-de-sac seldom heard him speak, except for the occasional “shoo” as he chased cats and dogs off his property or yelled at a kid if their ball landed on his front lawn.
Harold knew he was becoming a grumpy old man, which Carol would have disliked and reproved him for. However, he credited the summer’s scorching and bothersome heat as adding to his disgruntlement.
***
Harold opened the card to find Make Christmas in bold lettering at the top and five boxes drawn underneath in a column. Besides each box, the author had written a day of the week. The first Monday, the second Tuesday, and so forth, right down to the Friday next to the last box, which also had Christmas Day written in brackets. Well, that’s weird, he thought.
He stood up and walked over to the calendar on the wall in the kitchen. Today was Monday, and this Friday was Christmas. ‘Huh?’ He muttered, ‘Where has the time gone?’
He blinked at the card and guessed what he must do. ‘Sure, we can play this game of “What is Christmas?”’ He said to himself. ‘And you’ve got the word wrong at the top. It’s supposed to be Merry, not Make.’ He scowled at the low level of English proficiency people proffered these days.
Harold entered the study and grabbed several coloured pencils from Carol’s old sketching case, which he hadn’t had the heart to throw away. They had become an extension of her in her last years, as her mobility decreased. He paused by an early sketch of Carol’s, one he’d framed and hung on the office wall with pride, which he often admired. He felt a pang of grief that made him wince and turn away.
Harold thought about today’s box—Monday, and drew a Christmas tree with lights. He was no artist, but made an effort. He stared at his simple drawing and exhaled in shock. The tree looked so real. He rubbed his eyes and reached out to touch the paper. ‘Ouch!’ He looked in shock at the tiny dot of blood on the tip of his finger. Can’t be, but the tree’s needles were prickly. Their colours too, so vibrant green, and the lights were soft, white, and twinkling. He leaned in to smell and inhaled the sweet pine scent. He gasped as a rush of childish exhilaration overcame him. He loved the sight of Christmas trees.
Harold looked up, by golly, I know where that tree stands. It was located right on his property, in the left-hand corner, by his rail fence. He walked over to the nearest window and located it, yes, there it was.
Feeling prompted, he raced into the study again and searched his closet for the fairy lights he’d kept from his and Carol’s last year together, again not having the heart to chuck them. After a quick test and seeing them working, he took them outside and decorated his tree. It looked fantastic, and he felt something he couldn’t explain. Was it hope? He returned to his dining table and smiled, something he hadn’t done for a long time. He’d leave the drapes open tonight to admire the sparkling display before retiring.
***
Tuesday, he walked into his kitchen, grabbed a bowl of cereal and coffee and sat at the dining table with the card open. Was he going to continue this little game, he asked himself? He sat, staring, and then shrugged. Why not?
He pencilled into the box a fat Santa in red and white. Vivid memories flooded his mind, and he remembered being with his parents in the mall, where he saw a jolly, fat man sitting with children on his knees, asking them what they wanted. The big bag of presents sat near his feet. He had begged his parents to let him go to Santa, but they had refused. They told him he was too old for that sort of thing. He had never visited Santa as a child because they lived way out in the countryside, and only his father went into the city. By the time he joined his parents, they said he’d outgrown the Santa and Christmas carry-on stage. But he loved Santa and all the stories and had refused to believe he was not real for years.
Harold stood up, went to his lounge bay window, and looked up and down the street. His house was elevated, and his section sloped gently downwards, giving him a good view. He stared into space for a while and then walked outside, unthinking, as if a hand was leading him. What am I doing outside? It’s too hot today.
He walked the cul-de-sac. Something he had yet to do since moving into the neighbourhood. As he passed different houses, words came to mind, and he uttered them in surprise, ‘Nice, nice, naughty, nice, nice, naughty.’ Halfway around, ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ erupted from his mouth, and his eyes began playing tricks on him. He saw into homes, into people. He knew what they thought, felt, and what was going on in their oh-so-nice houses, with smiles and laughter, expensive clothes, and well-dressed children. His chest ached, and he said rather too loudly, ‘Stop, stop!’ as a weight of sorrow fell upon him. He didn’t understand his feelings—strange and unfamiliar, yet like an old friend, they enveloped him until he embraced their pain. Cripes, he had enough of his own.
He was about to rush home to clear his head when he stopped outside number nine. Harold saw the woman, at the end of herself, trying to raise three kids on her own, feed and clothe them while working night jobs—she was on the phone, pleading with her sister to babysit for her.
He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and returned home, knowing what he must do. He tore through his house and found all the money he had stashed away for rainy days. Taking an envelope, he stuffed several hundred-dollar bills into it, sealed it, and discreetly crept across the street, popping it into her letterbox.
When he arrived home, he sighed, fell into his chair, and took a long nap.
***
On Wednesday, he drew a street blanketed in snow. He made sure rooftops groaned under the weight, and piles of white lay pushed up against the parked cars, just like when he visited his Nana and Poppa in the South Island one January winter holiday. He laughed aloud at the thrill he had experienced as a youngster eager to play outside. Forget breakfast; building a snowman was way more important.
He looked up to hear shrieking and yelling and wondered what was happening outside. He pulled the net curtain aside in the dining room window, and his mouth dropped open. All around the cul-de-sac, the ground lay covered in white. ‘What the heck?’ he asked and hobbled outside.
He joined the children in their exclamations. ‘This is impossible—it’s summer, for goodness’ sake. This is the Southern Hemisphere,’ he muttered. After touching the white, he laughed a deep belly laugh, which sounded rather like, ‘Ho, Ho, Ho.’
‘It’s cottonwood fluff.’ His neighbour said, and added, ‘Hi, I’m Jack.’
‘I’ll take that!’ Harold yelled, and for the next thirty minutes, Harold and Jack threw fluff balls at each other.
Other neighbours stopped in their tracks as they watched Harold leap about, kick up the fluff, and throw it around. They whispered behind their hands but smiled, happy that the old man was enjoying himself.
One boy stopped outside his gate to observe Harold at work. ‘What ya doin’ mister?’
‘Making a fluffman.’ He grinned.
The kid ran off to organise his buddies to do the same thing. Soon, half a dozen fluffmen sat lopsided up and down the street, some blown over in the wind, others fallen against the trees.
‘Wow, isn’t this something? We don’t even grow cottonwood trees in this neighbourhood, and it’s the wrong season now. They only release their seeded fluff in spring. It’s a miracle, I tell ya,’ said Harold’s other neighbour, Ron, when he stopped to watch the street’s activity.
Harold looked up, smiled, nodded, and threw a fluff ball at him.
It was late when he got in and promptly fell asleep in his lounge chair as the Christmas lights twinkled outside, the fluff blew away, and Cathy, at number nine, cried over her Christmas gift.
***
On Thursday, Harold entered his dining room tired. He’d been up all night thinking, and these last few days had been strange, almost magical. He felt enlivened, dare he even say it—like a young man again. His jaw still hurt after all the laughing and smiling he’d done. He’d met some neighbours who turned out to be decent folk, and he’d done some extraordinary things. Ron had said the “fluff snow was a miracle”.
Harold knew he must draw what Carol always said about Christmas—“the real reason for the season”. He set to and drew a feeding trough in a barn with cows, some rich-looking visitors and a new Mum and Dad with a baby under a big, bright, shiny star, and some presents, of course.
Next, he dug out the Christmas manger set Carol had inherited from her Grandfather—little wooden pieces you could join, like Lego blocks. It took him a couple of hours to figure out how the pieces fit together. Carol had always made it look easy, but he was all fingers and thumbs. He breathed a sigh of relief at its completion and muttered, ‘Not bad for an old guy,’ as he placed the nativity scene with tiny lights in the lounge bay window so people could see it from the street if they wanted to look. That done, he sat to do a crossword, but sleep took him quickly; the afternoon waned.
He woke as the sun was sinking and couldn’t believe the hours had passed so quickly. Something urged him outside and down his garden path to the street. He looked back at his house, saw the manager scene lit nicely in the window, and swore his tree twinkled a thank you.
Before he could stop himself, he burst into song. A deep, rich, baritone voice that greatly surprised him rang out with Silent Night, followed by Hark the Herald Angels.
He shut his eyes as he sang, and the world faded away. He saw himself standing in a barn. The smell was a tad overpowering, and the big cow behind him was frightening as it snuffled and breathed warm air over his shoulder. When it uttered a moo, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He sneezed several times and felt itchy all over with the scratchy straw. He wondered at the hygiene level of the place, but a baby’s wail tore his eyes to where it lay in a trough, snuggly on a robe placed over a bed of straw. Little pink feet kicked furiously, and fists waved in the air. He gasped at the sight and tried to still his pounding heart as tears ran down his face. The visitors were singing to the baby, and the parents looked on in wonder.
When he opened his eyes, he looked at the smiling faces of dozens of people singing with him—neighbours and their kids.
After the carol singing had quietened, people hugged and exchanged Merry Christmases as twinkling streetlights illuminated the small gathering in an ethereal aura. Ron and Jack shook hands and introduced him to their neighbours. In such a short time, he had met several people, all friendly and nice. He asked himself why he hadn’t made the effort years ago. He returned home floating on a cloud and wondered if he’d touched heaven.
***
Friday morning dawned sunny. He tried to swallow his anguish, fear and loneliness. Christmas Day was the day he dreaded every year. It would be the same this year again, after all, he had no family left, and he’d distanced himself from Carol and his friends over the years. Best get it over with, Harold. He set his mind to the inevitable and sighed.
He opened the card and drew a roast turkey on a large platter. The bird looked delicious. Succulent juices ran off the plate, staining the tablecloth, and the aroma hit him hard, like how Carol’s cooking would make his stomach rumble. She made the whole deal, even though it was only the two of them, but she always took half of it over to a couple of their neighbours. She was like that, generous and thoughtful. He’d left the saintly duties to her, the niceties. She was the one who did the right thing; he was the passive follower. Maybe it was time for him to wake up and take notice of others, and take the initiative; otherwise, his life would stay the same as it is right now.
He set the card on his windowsill with the other two sorry excuses—one from a pharmacy, and another from a clothes store, thanking him for his custom. He put on his stoic face and nodded. Best he decide which frozen dinner from the food store he’d pull out of the freezer. He sighed, his throat catching. He rubbed his eyes. As he got up, the doorbell rang. At first, he had no idea what the ding-dong meant. He’d not heard it ring in a long time. Oh, he blinked.
Jack and his wife, Suzy, were smiling when he opened the front door. ‘Will you do the honour and join us for lunch at midday, Harold?’
***
When Harold returned after a fantastic lunch and time with his neighbours, still on a high, he searched for the card. The turkey and trimmings were even better than what he’d drawn. And the deserts, well, he’d forgotten to sketch those in too, what a bonus. Plus, they had those silly crackers you pull, which he and Carol shared every year they were together, laughing at the corny jokes, putting paper hats on each other, and collecting the plastic toys.
He walked over to the windowsill, sure he’d placed it there. He frowned. It was gone. Strange. He then said, ‘Well, I guess someone else needs to make Christmas next year.’ He just knew it.
As he lay in bed mulling over the week, he found he couldn’t explain what had happened to him. Christmas had given him a new lease of life—he had risen from a grave of despair. Carol would be proud. He could move on and start to think outside himself. His world had gotten bigger this week. He looked forward to meeting up with more neighbours, perhaps playing cards and dropping in for cups of tea and cake. He felt the stagnation and alienation of grief slip from him.
He shut his eyes, smiling, and passed away in peace.
Denise Diehl spent the last forty-plus years working in Laboratory Science. She retired with her husband to a small rural town in New Zealand to write her first novels and short stories—a fun new adventure to match the latest decade of her life. Her writing leans toward the speculative and weird.
Several short stories have been published in various magazines, including The Academy of the Heart and Mind, Bright Flash Literary Review, Frivolous Comma, Promised Protagonists, and 101 Words.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 