CHRISTMAS PRESENT
by Tim McMullen
It had been a cold
Christmas Eve, and the white, crystalline rooftops glistened in the morning sun
like snow-capped peaks above suburban, multi-colored mountains. As I walked
across the lawn to get the Christmas morning newspaper, the brisk rubbing of my
bare hands and the snail-shell crackle of the brittle grass were the only
sounds. I winced at the thought of snail shells, glanced across the street at
Ron Logan's lawn, and remembered.
"Look, Jimmy," he'd cried. Then, holding the
large, brown garden snail at eye level, he'd crushed it loudly between his
forefinger and his thumb. "Here, eat it!" he had sneered and flicked
it at my face.
That was over twenty years ago, but he hasn't changed
much. It is ironic that of all the kids and all the families that have grown up
on this block, Ron Logan and I are the only ones who have remained. As kids we
never really got along; he was the bully of the block, and I was "the Big
Brain"—at least that was the derisive epithet he delighted in hurling after
me. Naturally, I took it as a compliment. As adults, we simply don't have many
occasions for contact. Once in a while, he and his two boys will be out front
washing their Bronco after some off-road excursion, and we'll exchange a word
or two; for the most part, though, we have very little to do with each other.
I smiled as I looked at his place. The house was
nearly covered in Christmas lights—red, white, and blue only—which poked up
through the swiftly melting frost like a giant, abstract connect-the-dots
picture. On one corner of his lawn was a large wooden scene of Santa and his
reindeer; on the other, a life-size nativity scene. That’s Ron for you. Nothing
halfway about him. Just like his annual Fourth of July extravaganzas: Nobody
has a bigger or brighter display than Ron Logan and his boys. Two years ago
they nearly burned the roof off the Mejia's patio, but we finally put the fire
out with garden hoses.
Suddenly, a bird twittered and then
another, and the tree by my chimney came alive with their rustling and
chittering. My thoughts snapped back from the recollected scenes, and I paused
above the yet un-collected newspaper and listened. Southern California is a mixed metaphor, after all, juxtaposing the frost on
its rooftops with the birds in its branches. I had noticed one chirrup pitched
higher than the others, and I realized that there must be a fledgling in among
the older birds. The image of little John Logan, Ron's six-year old, intruded
upon my thoughts.
Johnny is the only one of the
Logan lot that I can tolerate, and, in fact, I really like him, even if I do
feel a little sorry for him. More than once I've seen the gloating countenance
of his older brother, Ron, Jr., suffused with fascination and pleasure at the
whimsical torture of some insect or small animal unfortunate enough to have
been captured in those merciless, pudgy fingers. It is his father's face as
well, the face of the snail crusher. But John is different. His fists clench,
and his gentle brow creases in disgust and horror at his brother's callous
delights. And the little fellow has paid for such feelings.
"Get over here, you little
sissy!" I've heard the father bellow.
"Take it like a man..." or "Boys don't
cry!" the pugnacious taunts of his older brother have echoed, emulating
the father's sarcastic tone.
Once, about a year ago, as I was carrying the trashcan
around the corner of the house, I found little John hunched over on my porch,
sobbing. His T-shirt front was nearly saturated, and he caught his breath in
lurching hiccoughs as the tears surged down his cheeks and chin. Even the
cement porch at his feet showed signs of the torrent.
"What's wrong, Bud," I said,
sitting down beside him.
He brushed the butt of his fist back and forth across
his eyes and tried to stifle his sobs. As a first grade teacher, I've seen
enough unhappy children to know when they're inconsolable. I put my right arm
around his heaving shoulders and pushed his wispy, brown hair out of his eyes
with my left hand.
"It's alright, little buddy. You just
go ahead and cry."
"M-m-y D-d-ad says that only
s-siss...” he whimpered, and his shoulders convulsed even harder.
"Well, we both know you're not a
sissy, are you?" I said.
"N-n-o!" he answered, as his
sobbing began to subside. "But my brother says I am."
"Why don't you tell me what
happened," I said.
After successive swipes of his sleeve at his eyes and
nose, he began. "R-Ronnie got a p-pellet gun," he said, sniffing
hard.
"Well, you're not crying because of
that?" I said.
"No...but he...he shot a bird...a little bird..."
his voice quivered, and a big tear began to fill the corner of his eye.
I watched it swell and swell like the slow drip of a
leaky faucet until it finally spilled out and rolled down his cheek. "He
killed it!" he said, and the sobs began again.
I held his shoulder tighter.
"J-Jimmy..." he said, after a
long snuffling silence, "I-I'm not a sissy..."
"No," I said quickly, "Of
course you're not. Why would you even ask?"
"B-Because Ronnie s-says so.... He
says it's just a s-stupid b-bird, and only a sissy would cry...."
"Ronnie is wrong!" I said, and all the old
anger and resentment swelled. I looked over at the little boy's house, and I
could imagine the moronic glee on the bully's face. "It is a sad thing
when someone is cruel. When something small and helpless dies, it's right to
cry!" I patted him on the head. He smiled a little and sniffed.
"I think so too, Jimmy," he
said.
"Good boy, John," I said, and he
began to walk slowly toward home.
As I leaned down to pick up the paper, it occurred to
me that since that day on my porch, Johnny and I had not really talked as much
as we used to. School had probably gotten more demanding for both of us. It
certainly had for me. On the other hand, I wouldn't be surprised if his father
had told him not to come around.
Peeling the plastic wrapper off the Christmas edition,
I unfolded the paper and wondered whether the news on Christmas morn would be
good or bad. The birds abruptly ceased their chirruping at the sound of a door
opening across the street. I looked up to see Johnny run gleefully out of the
house.
"Look, Jimmy," he cried.
"Look what Santa Claus brought me! Look!"
He held his present in his hands, but I couldn't see
what it was as he dodged through the maze of Santa and his wooden reindeer.
"What you got, Bud?" I yelled to
him as he ran.
"Look!" he cried, then he stopped at the
edge of my lawn and raised his present in his arms. There was a soft report, a
whoosh of air like the sound someone makes when the wind is knocked out of
them. "YAH!" he cried, "Got 'im!"
The boy ran to where the small form had tumbled from
my roof, and he stood aiming his Christmas present triumphantly at the bloody
ball of fluff. I looked back at the house with its nativity scene and its red,
white, and blue bulbs. Then, trying vainly to blink back the burning behind my
eyes, I turned to gaze once more at the two pathetic victims on my
frost-covered lawn.
©1985 Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved
