Tidings. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ inches in diameter; I saw through in less than a minute. Nothing like when we took down the last one, a veritable ship’s mast. That time, Mike and I took turns cutting and leaning back on the tree to keep our saw from binding. We were definitely pushing our luck. When we got home, Mike, vehemently, almost in tears, swore he’d never go treenapping at Christmas again.

      As the tree starts to wobble, I steady it with my left hand and take the last two strokes one-handed. It falls over easily – right onto me. I lie back and smell greenness, feel cold drops of water, ice and snow drip onto my face. I’m totally sweated up, not so much from exertion but from nervousness. I’m also experiencing a sudden, deep sense of depression. Why am I here, what fear of life drives me on with this ritualistic fantasy? Where did I lose contact with reality as others perceive it? What can I do to make things right or, at least, learn some tolerance when they seem wrong to me? I drift back to my real situation under the tree. I’m trying not to cry.

      I’m not even sure just which way it is to the road. I think it’s slightly downhill but I’m not positive. I can’t make out anything in the dark. How am I going to stuff this monster tree into my tiny car and drive home without anyone seeing me? I’ll take the back roads, past where Mike’s Geneviève and her family have their home.

      I start crawling through the small trees, dragging my tree behind me like Little Bo Peep’s sheep’s tails. I flash my light once to make sure I’m going downhill. I’m totally lost and am convinced I’m going deeper into the forest.

      Finally, I feel a strong decline and know I’m coming onto a road, some road at least. But the car isn’t there! I must’ve come out at a different angle from the one I went in. I can’t imagine anybody stealing that car without my hearing them start the motor. Yes, right, I even have that thought. I might be the world’s biggest worrier, the least effective one too. Or maybe I don’t worry enough. I know Lor is convinced I don’t pay enough attention to things; I probably don’t.

      Is the car to the left or right? Is it even on this road? I peer into darkness. I stash my tree in a ditch. It’s most likely getting smeared with mud but I’ll wash it off later.

      I peer and think I can make out a dim shape to my right. I walk along the road in that direction till I’m sure it is the car. Then I come back for my tree. I can’t find it. Right here is when I make my final decision never to go in for bank robbery, or murder, or anything serious.

      But, I do finally find the tree, a bulge in the ditch, without flashing my light. I drag it and the saw behind me in a low crouching rush to the car. Now I’m vulnerable. If a car comes along, or anybody turns a flash on me, there’s no excuse I can think of for being out here running to my car along a road with a fresh-cut tree in one hand and a saw in the other.

      I have no rope for tying this tree onto the car roof; that’s my kind of careful planning. I open the offside door and push the butt of my tree back in; over the seats, as far as I can into the back. I bend the top of the tree so it sticks out through the window and I can close the door. I carefully squeeze all the branches in, then ease the door shut. I lean the door tight closed and the inside floor light of the car goes out. I’m in the dark again.

      By feel, I know the tip of the tree sticks out three feet past the windshield. I start edging around the other side to get in; I trip over my saw where I’ve left it leaning against the car. If I hadn’t tripped over it, I’d have left it there, driven off without it. Two wrongs do sometimes make a right, like negative numbers in algebra; that is, if stealing a Christmas tree can ever be considered a right.

      I start the car, no problem, thank God, or whomever. I drive a hundred meters with just my parking lights on, then turn up my highs before I get to the narrow bridge. Now I’m away from the scene of the crime. I’ll just blind anybody who gets in the way with my highs. Ruthless, that I’ll be.

      I cross the bridge, turn off onto the back roads, only slightly more than paths; twist, turn, up and down through what we used to call the enchanted forest, a veritable fairyland of ancient, hoary, moss-covered oaks, now a barren wasteland of three- or four-year-old Christmas trees. The shutters at Geneviève’s house are closed as I go by; but the grange door is open and some light seems to be coming from one shutter. Geneviève’s mother must be there; it’s going to be a tough Christmas for her. I just don’t have the guts to do what she did; I hope Lor doesn’t either. Maybe continuity means too much to me. I’m too inertial, not courageous, creative. It explains a lot.

      I speed by and promise myself I’ll walk over the hill soon to wish her a Merry Christmas. I power my way in first gear up to Vauchot. There’s almost no snow on the road but some places are icy. I stay in first and glide down those last two kilometers to the mill. I’ve left the grange doors open; I’ll swing the car straight on in.

      I get into town without seeing anyone. I twist and slither through mud into the grange; stop, turn off the motor, turn out the lights and sit a moment, quiet in the dark, giving my blood pressure a chance to arrange itself.

      Then I get out, close the grange doors. Using my flashlight, I wend my way through motorcycles past and present, to the other side of the car, open the door; free the top of my tree from the window, and carefully work the bushy part from inside the car. I stomp the stump on the grange floor, holding it by the middle.

      I open the little door-in-a-door to see if anybody’s out in the street. No one. I skip over the sill, through the mud, clutching the tree under my arm like a bride. I get through the cellar door and start pushing the tree backward up our steps ahead of me. I don’t want to break any branches going through the trap door. Lor holds the trap and pulls the lower end of our tree, helping me through. I come along behind and take it from her; the pillaging, rampaging, returned, conquering hero; crumpled, dripping, bristled, tousled, white hair in a flying mane.

      I lift that mini-Nevers tree from the millstone, push it out the damside door onto our porch, then jam my newly cut tree into the millstone hole. It fits perfectly, tightly, stands straight up, buttoned-top tip almost touching the log ceiling under the loft; branches, glistening wet, spread to fill the space. It’s not too bushy and hasn’t a bare part; somehow there’s no mud either. Ben stares, he flashes his pulled-together squint which serves for a smile.

      ‘Now that’s a real Christmas tree, Dad. It makes me want to believe in Santa Claus again.’

      Lor puts her arm around me, gives me a hard hug.

      ‘It’s okay with us if you want to, Ben, there probably is anyhow you know. Just ask your father; he’s the expert.’

      ‘No, I don’t think I could do it any more, it’s too hard. People don’t really want fifteen-year-old boys to keep believing in things like Santa Claus. It isn’t fitting.’

      Lor pours me a small glass of Poire William. We light the candles on our table and turn off all the other lights. There’s only a glow from the two butane heaters and the light from our fireplace. It’s warm enough so we don’t need the electric heaters any more. Our inside thermometer on the newly varnished barometer says twenty degrees. The outside thermometer registers two above, still snow temperature. In my varnishing mania, I varnished the plastic match holder by the sink, including the striking surface on one side, so now we have a hard time striking matches. But we do get the candles lit.

      Slowly, softly, Lor and I begin singing Christmas carols. Ben hums along with us. He has a deep melodious voice, perfect pitch, but it’s the first time he’s actually joined with us in singing. Only last year, he would’ve quietly absented himself, going out in the grange, or for a walk. Ben has a horror, an intense dislike for overt performance. It’s a feeling I understand, appreciate. There’s something sad, hard to be around, when СКАЧАТЬ