It was Christmas in prison
And the food was real good
We had turkey and pistols
Carved out of wood
–John Prine from “Christmas in Prison”
Christmas Eve and Stu watched the bright red lights of the railroad crossing come to life. The long red and white arm slowly blocked the road as lights flickered along its length. He wished Penny and Lisa were with him. They could crack open the Sparkling Pink Catawba he was bringing home for the Christmas Eve toast, crack it open right there in front of the flashing lights, raise a toast to the cross on top of the semaphore, so much like that crazy, four-pointed, tin foil star Lisa had made for the top of last year’s tree. No tree this year.
“Penny, hey, what say we grab the kid and go pick out a tree?” he’d asked countless times.
“I got things to do, gifts, you know…and cards to write out,” she’d say. “I got friends, you know.”
“Nobody sends us cards,” he’d say.
“I got friends…” she’d say, then just to set him up: “Why don’t you go get a tree?”
“’Cause I can’t drive,” he’d say, falling for it. “The nearest tree place is miles away. You want me to carry one home on my back?”
“If you didn’t get the DUI, you could drive to get one,” she’d say. “If you didn’t get the DUI, you wouldn’t have to carry it on your back.”
Stu leaned against the pole of the streetlight, pulled his collar tighter as snow fell down his neck. Huge flakes fell, colored pink slanting across the flashing red lights, silver in the glow of the streetlight. God’s own tinsel, he thought and pictured the railroad semaphore in their living room, Lisa bounding around the gifts beneath it. But they had no tree. A wreath on the wall with stockings stuck to it, but no tree. Crossing lights flashed and bells rang out like no Christmas carol he’d ever heard. It was Christmas in prison/And the food was real good/We had turkey and pistols/Carved out of wood. The song came to him from a long time ago. Who wrote it? Some guy with a raspy voice… Stu couldn’t recall but the melody was sing-songy, like a nursery rhyme. It was Christmas in prison… Stu hummed along, lights flashed, bells rang and the wheels of the train squealed, seeming more like blades slicing through the rails than wheels riding along them.
“Eight dollars for a wreath, mister,” the kid had said at the door, some sort of scout, Stu wasn’t familiar with the insignias.
“Eight bucks, huh?” Stu had said. It was the night before. The night before Christmas Eve and he knew they’d never get a tree. He went for it. Tipped the kid a buck.
“Thanks, mister!”
He’d made someone happy. He felt thirsty, thought of popping open the Sparkling Pink Catawba but he didn’t even like the stuff. What he really wanted was another Beam but that was part of the deal: no drinking at home. Neither of them. So he’d picked up the Sparkling Pink Catawba. It had that festive pop and fizz with no alcohol and Lisa liked the bubbles. Poor man’s champagne… Stu leaned his head back, caught snowflakes on his tongue, a snowfall thick enough to quench a thirst.
The train jostled from side to side, a high-speed stagger down the tracks, blades still slicing true on the rails. Stu entertained thoughts of jumping the train and took a minute to figure out its direction, its destination. Milwaukee? Chicago? He’d had a good time in Chicago once. Surprised to find a beach smack in the middle of downtown, he was stunned when a lovely young woman continued talking with him after giving him the directions he’d asked for, shocked when she’d ditched her boyfriend to spend the day with him. Stu figured he had a chance in a million of finding her again, a chance in a million of surviving the jumping of the train—999,999 chances for failure, 999,999 chances to get sliced up by the blades. He shook his head and laughed—it hadn’t been that good a time in Chicago.
He spotted the caboose, watched it grow closer and pass, watched the crossing arm rise and the life go out of the flashing lights as, finally, the rattle of the train faded down the line. Stu shuffled through the fresh snow, over the tracks and down the small hill toward their building. Sometimes, the thought of riding away came on strong, seemed the only way, like you were going to die if you didn’t just up and escape, roll on out of town.
Stu shifted the Sparkling Pink Catawba into his left hand and stopped on the sidewalk just before their building. In the strip of yard at the side of the building, a small child rolled in the snow, splayed her arms and legs wildly in the making of a snow-angel. Stu looked up, couldn’t miss the halo created by the falling snow and the glow of the streetlight. Wait awhile eternity/Old mother nature’s got nothing on me/Come to me/Run to me/Come to me, now/We’re rolling/My sweetheart/We’re flowing/By God! Must be the chorus of that song, Stu thought, still unable to recall who sang it. The child sat up, her small face poking out of a pink snowsuit. Pushing herself up from the ground, she left little mitt prints at the ends of the wings and, in rolling off and jumping away, made feet for the angel with her boot prints. Happy as can be, she peered into the basement level window, pointed down at her creation, a face in the window moving closer and smiling. The child flopped down once more, worked her arms and legs into another angel. She pushed up, rolled and jumped away, once more leaving an angel with hands and feet. The face in the window smiled again at the girl, then seemed to stare in Stu’s direction.
Stu gripped the bag around the neck of the bottle. Even angels have human traits, he thought, hands and feet. Probably human faults, too… He noticed right off that Penny had left nothing in the door to keep it open. The buzzer was broken and he’d called before leaving the bar to get her to leave something in the door.
“If you hadn’t lost your keys, I wouldn’t have to leave something in the door,” she’d said.
“Yea, yea…” He rattled the door handle anyway before moving back around the building for the snowball drill. The child worked on another angel and Stu fired a snowball up at the window lit by the blue glow of their TV. He waited for a response, got none and heaved another. Maybe they left, he thought: they left the TV on all the time, they didn’t have to pay the electricity. Maybe she had to go out suddenly. Maybe she had had enough. She was on that train… Why not? Was there anything to stay for? He hurled another snowball, suddenly missed them, felt alone, wanted to hurl the Sparkling Pink Catawba through the glass just as the window opened a crack.
“Sorry, I dozed off!” Penny called out.
“That’s okay.” Stu held up the Sparkling Pink Catawba. “Merry Christmas!”
He heard Penny’s laugh before the window closed. The child flopped again in the snow, starting in on yet another celestial creation. Stu thought how he’d never taught Lisa the fine art of the snow-angel. Maybe tonight, after a toast… He moved to the front of the building, past the child finishing her angel. She rolled and sprang to her feet, facing Stu. “Merry Christmas!” she screeched, proud as hell of the angel she was.
Will Tinkham has published short fiction in MSS, Lake Street Review and other literary magazines, as well as an anthology, Stiller’s Pond (New Rivers Press). Then there’s the novel seeking publication… Also a fledgling Minneapolis actor, he has appeared most recently in productions at the Guthrie Theater and Theatre in the Round. (Photo by Annie Pollock.)
