Christmas Short Story : Lake Placid

 

It has been raining steadily ever since we left North Conway. The windows were steaming up as I struggled to keep the car from skidding on the leaf-strewn road.

Fall was in full swing; the trees were ablaze in fiery red, yellow and brown. I could see Jo in my peripheral vision; her reclining form snuggled up in the seat. Her hair was in disarray and her sleeping eyes moved in some distant dream. Her lips were parted ever so slightly and her teeth glistened in dusk’s orange glow.

 

She sighed in her sleep, as she often does when we have had an argument.

 

I felt like leaning over and taking her full lips in mine, nuzzling that gentle slope of her neck. She would wake up partially, moaning my name and her hands would ruffle up my hair. I like the way she does that. I like the way she does so many things.

 

We had argued that morning; we seem to be doing a lot of arguing lately.

 

It was something so trivial that both of us couldn’t remember towards the end what it was all about. The shouting match had continued, spinning off into an endless loop of persecution. The venom in our voices often surprised me, my temper flaring like some volcanic eruption.

 

I hated this. I wanted to agree, to pacify and quietly say how much I love her. Something always stopped me from doing just that. I often wondered if we were too much alike, too headstrong; egotistical perhaps.

 

There was a moose standing quietly by the trees.

 

I watched its glinting eyes as we drove past. It watched us, unmoving. Its coat was velvety and glistening in the drizzle. Maybe humans are getting too complex; too evolved for their own good. Maybe if our needs were simpler, we wouldn’t argue so much. I am sure moose don’t argue over trivia.

 

Jo stirred and straightened her reclining seat.

“ Are we there yet?”

“No, it would probably be another twenty minutes”

She settled back, looking at the distance and I could see she was thinking about this morning’s fight.

“Jo,” I said softly, “I am sorry!”

She didn’t look at me. “ What for?”

“You know what for, I am sorry I shouted at you over nothing”. The drizzle was lightening outside.

“ Matt, tell me something new. We have been shouting at each other over the past few months. We both have been sorry so many times, the word has lost its meaning!”

“ I thought this holiday will do us good. I thought it will help us sort things out”

She reached and touched my shoulder. “ I thought so too, but it doesn’t seem to be working”

I gripped the steering with clenched fingers. “It will work if we both simmer down and have a long talk!” Her hand gripped my shoulder. “No Matt, I don’t think it will.”

 

I stared straight ahead but my eyes didn’t register the road. My heart felt heavy, I could see what was coming. “When we go back home I am moving out. It will do us both good.” She said gently. There was no anger in her voice, only sorrow. I knew she was right. We had been together for more than five years now. I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to commit, she wanted me to say the magic words: Will you marry me? She has never talked about it aloud but I knew.

 

I couldn’t agree to something I didn’t believe in. I had this deep-seated phobia of weddings and commitments. I wanted freedom. I wanted all the joy of a relationship held only by love and respect, not by some document, some symbolic ceremony of bonding till death do us apart.

 

Jo was different. She wanted it so bad I could read it in all her actions, all her subtle hints about her friends getting married. We have discussed it but she knew how vehemently I felt about the whole process. Her point was simple. She loved me and wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. My point was that we didn’t have to be married to do that. I have questioned myself a thousand times on why I felt this way, somehow my thought processes always strayed towards supporting my view, never for once could I convince myself getting married would be a good thing.

 

I wanted to say so much but instead all that came out was a curt “Fine, if that’s how you feel.”

 

Lake Placid was quiet. We pulled up at the Ramada and checked in. The room was cosy, with wooden panels and obligatory paintings of the lake. Jo unpacked and went for a shower. I stepped out into the balcony. Rain had stopped. The evening sun lit the lake in tangential reflections. I lit a cigarette and stared out at the few people who were walking alongside the shores. A group of school kids in identical outfits were jogging along, their laughter and jokes echoed interspersed with assorted noises of cars and coaches.

 

My heart felt heavy like the clouds that hung over the evening sky. Be sensible, I told myself. You’ll never survive losing her. I have had brief flings before but have always moved away when the women hinted commitment. It is not that I am not romantic. I can be gentle, passionate and always considerate. But my considerate nature never extended to making that final gesture, that final commitment which would entangle us both into the abyss of marriage.

 

I inhaled deeply and my lips twisted into a wry smile at the choice of my word. Abyss!

 

Is getting married so bad Matt? That sneaky inner voice asked.

 

I have always wondered if it was due to my parents’ acrimonious divorce. They had fought incessantly, over everything. When it came to the crunch they even fought over me in a bitter custody battle.

 

I was in a boarding school and spent my holidays either with my mum and her new boyfriend whom I hated or with my Dad and his girlfriend .

 

Maybe that was it. All those memories have conditioned me into hating marriage. I was convinced that my parents really did love each other and would have stayed together if not for their marriage. Somehow getting married had made them bitter, arrogant and unhappy. Twisted logic?  I think not.

 

I could hear Jo coming out of the shower. I love the way she steps out of the shower wrapped in a towel. With water droplets slide down her shoulder; the wet strands of her hair cascading over her nape. I always want grab her as she came out, kiss her moist forehead and slowly unwrap the towel.

 

I sighed; it must have come out louder than I thought. I heard Jo walk up behind me. There was an unpleasant heaviness in the atmosphere and I knew it wasn’t the fall weather. I flicked the cigarette and ground it with my foot. I turned around and she stood looking at me. She looked fresh in her denim shirt and black jeans, her hair crowning that heart shaped face, she didn’t wear any lipstick and her half parted lips looked ready and waiting. Jo had deep blue eyes with flecks of silvery floats. She hardly frowned, but she could always convey steeliness, without as much as an arched eyebrow.

 

I knew at that instant that the decision was made. She was going to leave me. There was no way I could talk her out of it this time, unless I gave up my stupid logic.

 

I was too proud to do that. Something inside me still wanted her to change her mind, to tell me she will not leave and stay with me whatever I decide to do.

 

“Isn’t this a beautiful place” she said as she walked up to the balcony railing.

“Shall we go for a walk?” my voice sounded as if someone had grabbed hold of my throat.

“No, Matt.” She whispered, “You go on, I want to be alone for a moment.” I swivelled around and went into the room, grabbed my jacket and went down the wooden stairs.

 

The ground was soft with the carpet of leaves. Small twigs cracked under my shoes as I stepped onto the path. The road was not very busy and I walked with my hands buried in my pockets, nervously fingering my lighter. I wanted to light another cigarette but I was trying to give up, trying to ration my cigarette quota.

 

Dusk was upon the sky and few streetlights had come on. I browsed through the shops. There were a more than a few shops selling mementoes.  There was a scattering of restaurants and a sleepy cinema.

 

Cool air drifted in from the lake and I shivered.

 

Most of the shops were shutting down for the evening. I looked down the road and saw a little sign, hand painted on a wooden panel with ornamental lettering.

‘Ye Olde Christmas shoppe’, it said.

 

Christmas was always a depressing time for me; maybe because of all those Christmases I spent alone, both my parents conveniently away on holiday. I had to stay back at my hostel, all my friends away; I used to give away all my unwrapped presents to the security guard’s children. They used to enjoy it much more than I ever will.

 

In an impulse I walked up to the shop window. The glass was dusty; there were innumerable small figurines of angels and reindeer, stars and snowflakes. There were Santas in all shapes and sizes, in sleighs, in chimneys, on top of miniature Christmas trees. I used to tell my friends how the current image of Santa in his red suit and fur trim came from a Coca-Cola ad and not from tradition. They just called me a cynical old Scrooge!

 

I gingerly opened the wooden door with glass panelling and a bell tinkled inside in a broken melody of jingle bells. Quaint, I thought.

 

The walls were full of Christmas decorations, shelves full of rows and rows of ornaments. There was nobody in but there was a small door in the back.

Jo loved Christmas and she always made such a fuss about the tree. She painstakingly collected ornaments and lovingly decorated the tree from apex to bottom. I decided to buy her something.

 

A parting gift, said that sneaky voice in my head. I decided to ignore it.

 

I heard the inside door creak behind me and turned around. I almost laughed. The man who came from inside was rotund. He had red cheeks and a potbelly and his shirt strained at the front. His hair was snow white, his bushy eyebrows matched. His eyes twinkled and he had a perennially amused expression on his face. The only thing missing was a beard and the red suit and the illusion would have been complete.

 

I suppose he liked the expression on peoples’ faces when they saw him in the Christmas shop. Or maybe he was tired of people joking about his appearance being so appropriate. I swallowed my laughter and contrived a serious expression.

 

“Hello!” I said, “Good evening”.

 

He waved his hand and slid behind the counter struggling as his belly strained.

“You are English” his voice was deep and rumbling, I suppose it was no surprise. Any moment now I expected him to break into a song or laugh thunderously in a Ho! Ho! Ho!

 

“I am” I smiled, “I suppose my accent isn’t that hard to figure”.

 

“I like England” he smiled back. “You here on vacation?” I nodded.

“Alone?”

 I shook my head. “My girlfriend is back at the motel”

 

“Can I interest you in anything? I have just carved these elves. The paint is still wet.”

I looked at the drying elves. There was something about these figures. I was going to say they were so lifelike but it seemed absurd. I have never seen an elf, myself.

“I wanted something for the tree.” I offered.

He was so short it was difficult to see whether he was sitting or standing behind the counter.

 

He looked around, his plump finger scratching his smooth chin. “I think I have got something that may interest you.” He leaned across and picked up a set of figures from the shelf. It was a bride and a groom in full wedding costumes, a small cupid over their shoulders. The craftsmanship was impeccable.

“I will personalise these with your names” he said and looked at me under those bushy brows.

 

He should have seen my expression change. “You don’t like it?”

 

“No it’s wonderful. I just don’t think it is appropriate”

 

“Why not?” he persisted. “It will look wonderful on the tree”

Something came over me. I am usually not in the habit of discussing my private life with strangers.

But he was like an old uncle you could confide in.

“It is a parting gift, actually” I sighed, “Jo is leaving me after the holiday”.

His eyes widened. “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.” He set the figures on the counter in front of me.

“You folks couldn’t make up?”

 

I stepped back embarrassed. “I am sorry; I shouldn’t be bothering you with my problems”

“Come on,” he said, “man needs to talk to somebody” He waved me to the wooden stool and went towards the back door, “Coffee?”

What the heck! I sat down wearily and nodded. “Black, no sugar”

 

He came back with two steaming mugs. “Thanks” I took one and gratefully sipped the scalding liquid. It warmed its way through me.

 I have never had a paternal figure to talk to, maybe that was my problem. I hated my dad, my mum was never there and all my grandparents were long gone.

He looked at me with those twinkling eyes, his expression more of concern rather than amusement.

“You are a young man”, he observed, “but you look like you have all the worlds weight on your shoulders. I can see you love her and love her very much. If you don’t want her to leave, why don’t you tell her so?”

 

I set the mug down. “It is not that simple.” I wanted to leave, but couldn’t. “She wants more than that”

 

“More than love?” He smiled. “She wants more than love? What could she possibly want that is more than what you two have?”

“She wants to get married.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.” I rubbed my eyes. I was tired.

“And no doubt you have your own reasons.”

I really didn’t want to discuss my parents. I nodded.

He took a sip from his mug and sighed. “So let me get this straight. You both love each other. You don’t for a moment doubt that your relationship is fickle or an infatuation.”

 

“No. I know how much we mean to each other.”

 

“So you’re splitting up on a technicality?”

 

I thought about it. “You can say that.”

 

“Seems to me that you’re both two strong willed, intelligent people, couldn’t you folks discuss this between yourselves and find a solution?”

 

“We’ve tried.” I said sharply.

 

“Trying means laying your cards on the table, not holding back your reasons.”

 

I lowered my head. I was guilty of not giving Jo my reasons. I have tried to dress it into pseudo-intellectual concept of marriage being just a symbol, and when we have love, I had told her repeatedly, who needs symbols?

 

“ Do you like Christmas?” he asked .

“To be honest, no!”,  I exploded. “I am not religious”.

He chuckled softly and ran his hand through his hair. “Who told you Christmas is just about religion?”

 

I looked at him as if he was stupid. “In case you are confused, the name says it all.” I said sarcastically.

 

He took out a small cloth and started wiping the counter like at barman in Bogart movie.

 

“Christmas,” he said in a story-time tone, “is not just about religion. It is about giving and taking. It is not about the presents but the joy you see in the people you give it to.”

He paused wiping and smiled.

 

“Its not about socks and songs, it is about ending the old year in a happy note. It is about clearing your mind off unhappiness and joining in love. It is about stories that come true. It is about magic and myth.

 

“It is about sharing your love with people who deserve it. It is about making yourself happy by making others happy. Don’t you see, it is not about solitude? It is not about giving people what you think they need, it is about giving them what they need.” He paused, and waved his hand around.

 

“Look at all these. They are nothing but papier-mâché, wood and metal. Pigments of paint, silver strings and ribbons. But to someone who cares about these they are ornaments, heirlooms, treasured objects, a mother’s love, a lover’s gift and a child’s dream!”

 

I sat, mesmerised. It was as if he was reading my mind. He was talking about symbols.

What is this guy? A shrink? A poet? An orator?

He patted my hand and rested his hand over mine.

“Let the past go. It is not worth it. Hey it’s Christmas in six weeks. Give her what she wants not what you think she should have.”

 

I stood up, strangely clear. My mind felt lighter and the sneaky, cynical voice was silent.

 

“I will take these” I pointed to the cupid and the bridal figure.

He smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. “Let me personalise it for you”

He picked up a small paintbrush and dipped into pot full of silvery ink. He wrote ‘Jo’ and ‘Matt’  on the bases and blew on it with his red cheeks bulging. He wrapped it in a gold wrap and tied a ribbon around it.

 

I got my wallet out, “How much?”

 

He chuckled. “You’ve paid already. By listening to a senile fool’s ramblings. I cannot take money from you. I will be happy if your story has a happy ending.”

 

“Oh no! I can’t possibly do that. You’ll have to take the money”

 

“Nonsense. You can repay me by telling your friends back in England about the shop. Give me some free publicity. Go on, take it. Merry Christmas”, his eyes twinkled.

I hesitantly put the wallet back. “Thank you!” I muttered, “For everything!”

He waved his hand, “Like I said, It is not the gift but the pleasure I see in your face”

I picked up the parcel, suddenly desperate to get back to the motel. I walked toward the door and opened it, the jingle bells came on again in a broken melody.

I stepped out and turned around. “Tell me,” I asked him, “are you married?”

He stood behind that counter, his snowy hair in wisps and his red cheeks glowing in the lamplight.

“No” he laughed, “I am a confirmed bachelor!”

 

I walked back in a daze. It was dark and colder. Something kept niggling in the back of my head.

I wanted to get back to Jo.

I reached the motel and bounded up the stairs. The room door was open and I could see Jo leaning on the bed.

I ran in and put the parcel on the side table. I went up to the bed and looked down at her.

She looked at me, puzzled. “Is everything okay?”

“Let’s talk.” I said. There was something in my voice that hadn’t been there before. Conviction.

She shook her head. “Matthew, please. I don’t want another conversation on the inadequacy of marriage as a symbol.”

“Listen to me Jo. We both love each other. We are good for each other. We shouldn’t split. I think the sole reason we have been bickering is over the question of marriage. You want me to marry you. I just want to love you forever. Maybe you feel insecure. Maybe you misunderstood my reasons.”

 

She sat up. “Are you telling me the reasons you don’t want to marry me are beyond the fact that you don’t want to be ‘tied down’?”

 

“ No. It’s got nothing to do with that. I just have this image of my parents not getting along within the confines of their wedding. I somehow got this idea in my head that if they weren’t married they might have got along fine. Somehow I thought it suffocated their love. They split up. They split me up.” My voice was breaking up and all the past was coming flooding back. I could feel my eyes misting.

 

There was confusion in her face. Her eyes filled up as she held my face close.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before you silly idiot. Because you didn’t give me a proper reason I had to make my own…”

 

“I know. I am sorry.” I choked.

 

She looked into my eyes, “I love you. I really do. I don’t want to lose you. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want marriage. I can cope with that now. I don’t ever want to leave you.”

 

I leaned forward and picked up the parcel from the side table. I unwrapped it slowly.

The bride and groom smiled proudly.There was surprise in her eyes. Then tears. Then a smile. She started to say something.

 

I knelt and crushed my lips on hers. “Don’t say anything!”. She struggled at first, and then melted into my kiss. Her arms wrapped around me and I gathered her up. I walked up to the balcony, carrying her in my arms. The Lake was shimmering with sparkling reflections. The moon was out. It was perfect.

 

“Jo” I said, “ Will you marry me?”

 

That night we made love. I felt as if some curtain had lifted from my heart. I traced maps on her body and felt her pounding heart against mine. Her face was lifted up at me like an offering, and I kissed her lashes. She fell asleep in the crook of my shoulder, her sweet breath warm on my skin. I didn’t sleep for a long, long time. I kept looking at Jo, my Jo. How close we come to losing the ones we love!

We started early next morning. We were driving back to Boston and catching the return flight to London over the weekend. We took a few pictures of the Lake and checked out. We got in the car and I drove down the road where the shops were. I didn’t tell Jo much about last night. It felt something special just for me and I couldn’t even share it with her. I parked the car and leaned towards her.

“ I won’t be a minute!”

I jumped out and walked towards the shops. I came up to the Christmas shoppe and opened the door.

It chimed. The jingle bells didn’t happen. Inside was somehow different in the daylight.

A woman stood behind the counter. “ Hi!” she smiled, “Can I help you?”

“ I am sorry to be a nuisance.” I said, “ Can I speak to the gentleman who was in the shop last evening?”

She looked at me quizzically, “ Last evening? We weren’t open yesterday. We never open on Wednesdays.”

“ But it was. I met this elderly gentleman who sold me a figurine.”

She shook her head. “Impossible. I own this place. There was nobody here yesterday”

I stood there stunned. “Is there any other Christmas shop in the neighbourhood?”

“None. This is the only one in Lake Placid”

“I am sorry” I walked out, feeling very strange.

I remembered what was niggling in my mind as I walked out of the shop.

I never told him my name or Jo’s and yet he wrote it on the figurine.

I got back in the car.

Jo looked at me, “Matt, are you all right?”

I nodded in a daze and started driving. I will have to tell her sometime but not now.

The Lake was placid.

Quiet with its ancient secrets. I thought I heard a familiar laughter as I drove past, but it could’ve been my imagination.

 

 

Copyright   © Mohan Kumar 2010