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“Giving” 

Christmas 1994

By Charles Moon

     For Alex’s sake, I learned to pretend that Christmas was a joyous time. I never expressed any negative feeling or showed my disdain for the season in his presence. I never contradicted Elizabeth or interfered with her plans. She could tell I was not enthusiastic about the situation, but as long as I kept everything tucked neatly away, I was permitted to distance myself from Christmas when she was the only one present. It seemed to be a mutually acceptable compromise.

      August of 1994 was drawing rapidly to a close and the Labor Day holiday weekend was approaching. This was the last weekend before September we could sit leisurely on our deck and enjoy the waning days of summer. The next weekend would be filled with the smoky grills and iced beer of an in-law’s family picnic and the preparation of our only son to begin his attendance at pre-school. This was the last weekend of our private summer.

      A rusty chain link squeaked against the galvanized hook that suspended it from the swing set that I had built for Alex when he was two. Elizabeth and I sat at the round white table on our elevated deck watching a four year old enjoy the pendulous effects of gravity and inertia. Steel skewers rested on the edges of our plates as a testament to the shish kebab that we had just eaten and we were peacefully sipping the second half of a bottle of French Bordeaux. Life felt good.

      Elizabeth looked like she was relaxed, too. She had been worrying about Alex’s indoctrination into the educational system through his entrance into pre-school. It was a mother’s worry that could not be expunged so I didn’t try, other than to be supportive and understanding when the emotions became overwhelming. The warm afternoon, a contented family and the wine helped reduce the stress.

“What do you want for Christmas, David?”

      The question came out of the blue like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. I took a large gulp of wine and immediately refilled our glasses, emptying the last few drops from the bottle into Elizabeth’s glass.

      “I haven’t thought about Christmas at all, Beth.”

      “What would you like?”

      Even though she knew how I felt about the holidays, she wasn’t trying to provoke me. Planning this far in advance was her way of managing the stress that was sure to come as Christmas approached. I took another sip from my glass.

      “I don’t know. Is there something in particular you want?”

      I didn’t know if Beth was looking for the right opportunity to plant an idea in my mind for a gift she would like to receive. Giving each other gift lists was a long held tradition in her family and I think she would have liked me to play along. I always responded with the idea that if someone didn’t know me well enough to know what I’d like, then they shouldn’t be buying me a gift in the first place. I didn’t like giving other people suggestions for me, nor did I ever ask anyone but Elizabeth what they’d like in return. I tipped the base of the long-stemmed glass to the sky and felt the last drop of wine dribble into my mouth.

      “I mean, David, if there was one thing you could get … anything at all … what would you want it to be?”

      “Anything?”

      “Anything,” Beth reinforced adamantly.

      “You really want to know?”

      “Yes.”

      “Nothing. I want nothing for Christmas. I want a rest from the shopping and the piles of useless junk and just spend a quiet day in the company of friends and family.”

      Beth thought for a moment.

      “You don’t mean Alex, too?”

      I did mean Alex, too. I meant everybody just enjoying being together and putting the effort into each other, rather than the wrapping and shopping and cash that normally accompanies the holiday. I knew, however, that Alex was old enough to know that the shower of presents he had experienced the last few Christmases was repetitive. He wouldn’t understand why there might be nothing for him and he would think that, according to the story, he had been a bad boy and undeserving of Santa’s generosity.

      “No, not Alex.”

      I also knew it was unrealistic to expect my in-laws to toss out decades of tradition just to humor me.

      “Just us, Beth.”

      “You’re serious.”

      “Yeah. I am.”

      “You know, it might be nice to have a little bit of the pressure off for one year.”

      I wasn’t sure if it was my wife or the wine talking but I liked the direction that the conversation was going.

      “We can invite some people over and have a big dinner. We can put our efforts into that together.”

      My mind raced with images of a huge festive gathering with a house full of people enjoying themselves. Like my earliest memories of a happy and satisfying Christmas, there would be fellowship and community and family. I started to believe that a merry Christmas might once again be possible David Branch.

      “That would be nice.”

      I didn’t sense the same enthusiasm for a giftless Christmas in Beth’s voice, but the fact that she agreed not to exchange gifts with each other this year was a step it the right direction.

That was all we spoke about it until Thanksgiving when the annual exchange of the children’s’ gift lists took place. After dinner, when most of the men were napping in front of the football games, the ladies assembled in the living room to plan. I briefly joined the ladies’ group.

      “We were thinking,” I began, continually looking toward Elizabeth for support, “we’d like to have dinner on Christmas day at our house.”

      I looked around the room to see if there were any positive reactions to the idea. Elizabeth kept her eyes focussed on me, afraid to see the faces of her own family. Elizabeth’s sister Stephanie was the first to speak.

      “We usually go to Tim’s family on Christmas day.”

      That was all it took to open a floodgate of excuses. Elizabeth’s brother’s wife explained that it would be a long trip for her family, even though Beth and I had made the same journey without complaint for the past five years. Bonnie added that Beth’s father hated to travel. Stephanie reminded Elizabeth that their parents always went to mass on Christmas morning as if that ritual was intractable. She said it directly to her sister, even though I had posed the question and was standing closer to her. I got the hint.

      “It was just an idea.”

      Beth looked away. She knew I was disappointed but she was not willing to stand up to her family and force the issue. It didn’t matter. If they didn’t want to come, I didn’t want to compel them to be there.

      An hour past sunset, we packed up Tupperware containers of leftover turkey and sweet potatoes and strapped Alex into his car seat. A block away from my in-laws’ house Alex was sound asleep. Another block further and Elizabeth’s head began to bob. It wasn’t that late, but family gatherings were exhausting.

      “Beth?”

      Her head snapped back against the headrest. Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with the surprise of being disturbed on the verge of sleep as well as her pretense of being fully conscious.

      “What?”

      “I’m sorry, were you trying to sleep?”

      “No.”

      My silent smile was fortunately invisible in the darkness.

      “About Christmas...”

      “Yes David?”

      “I just want to make sure we are still not getting anything for each other this year. You haven’t changed your mind?”

      “No gifts. That’s what we decided, David.”

      “Okay, just checking.”

      Elizabeth turned her head toward the window and watched the flickering lights from the developments that flanked the highway whiz by. She was sleeping comfortably in ten minutes.

      After Thanksgiving, I contacted my relatives about the possibility of a holiday gathering and heard a similar chorus of excuses. “Too far to travel,” “other family commitments,”  “sounds like fun, maybe next year.” In the end, the only people who were coming on Christmas day were my mother and elderly Grandparents.

      Christmas Eve, 1994 was the repetitive ritual that I had come to expect. We drove to my in-laws for a brief celebration of Alex’s birthday before moving on to the more important business of Christmas. There was a buffet of cold cuts and vegetables followed by a hot entrée and the ensuing homemade cookies and pastries. The food was almost as overwhelming as the pressure the children were putting on us to begin the gift exchange. They were all poised, ready to dive into the packages under the tree and stay submerged in papers, foils and ribbons until the last box gave up its treasure.

      At least three times during the course of the evening tempers flared and harsh words were spoken over trivial issues. Feelings were hurt and grudges were held. Sides were taken and fingers pointed. It was not what I would consider festive, joyous or fun, but it was traditional Christmas.

      “Next year we’ll have a quiet Christmas Eve at home,” Beth said on the drive home. I had heard it before and for all the promise that statement held for me, I knew it was empty. Next year we would be making the same drive home.

      Christmas morning was bright and sunny with temperatures expected hover around the freezing mark all day. It was a good day to travel, for those family and friends heading somewhere other than the comfort of their own home. I was glad that my mother, now 67 years old, did not have to make that long trip during inclement weather.

      Alex slept late this morning. The excitement from the day before – both from his birthday gifts and the family exchange – had temporarily satisfied his desire for new toys. Elizabeth woke up before Alex to the mixed aromas of freshly brewed coffee and celery and onions sautéing in garlic butter for the stuffing. I had to get the Turkey in the oven by 9:00 a.m. if we were going to eat by 2:00 p.m. Cooking was my responsibility and I enjoyed it immensely.

      “Something smells good.”

      Elizabeth shuffled into the kitchen in a heavy terrycloth robe the ratty old slippers I had bought her last year for Christmas. This year there would be no ritual slippers or socks or the bag of pistachio nuts that had become her adult equivalent of small treats in a stocking.

      “Coffee?”

      “Please.”

      Elizabeth pulled a stool up to the island and sipped her coffee while I finished stuffing the turkey and slid it into the oven. She emptied her first cup by the time I was on my third and almost finished with cleaning the countertops in preparation for the next phase of dinner.

      “I take it Alex isn’t up yet,” Beth commented as the effects of the caffeine made it into her bloodstream.

      “Nope.”

      “Are we going to let him open all his presents right away? Or should we wait until your mom gets here?”

      “Let him open them. Besides, my mom will be bringing more gifts with her.”

      Beth nodded in agreement with her nose buried in the refill I had just poured for her. I leaned over the counter and kissed her on the top of the head.

      “Merry Christmas, Beth.”

      I did not say it in appreciation of the day. I said it as a token of thanks for being spared even some small aspect of the season.

      “Merry Christmas,” she sighed in response. Elizabeth was happy, but not because she was as relieved as I was to not have the pressure of finding that perfect expression of love and appreciation at the mall, but because she was actually glad it was Christmas day. We emptied the last few sips from the coffeepot into our cups and went into the living room to wait for Alex to wake up, while the second pot brewed.

      Alex came down a few minutes later and, instead of diving into the unopened presents under the tree, he proceeded to curl up on the sofa next to me. He looked at the unopened boxes and was unmoved. Or, more likely, he was saturated with receiving presents. He just wasn’t interested in opening another wrapped package.

      Elizabeth was disappointed that Alex didn’t rush down the stairs with wide eyes and stand in awe of what Santa had brought to the good little boy in the middle of the night. She was anxious to see Alex’s reaction to a few of the unopened gifts that she placed under the tree before we went to sleep the night before. I wondered if my attitude about the holidays had already begun to affect my son or if his birthday had interfered. Perhaps it was a little of both. While I didn’t mind him not having a storybook view of Christmas, it was clear that it bothered Elizabeth. That bothered me.

      Alex slid off the sofa onto the floor and began playing with two action figures he had brought back from his maternal grandmother’s house. Elizabeth slid down to the floor as well and, on her knees in front of the tree, she reached for a box with our son’s name on it. Alex was content, it was Beth who was excited about the presents. I touched her arm before she had been able to fully remove the brightly wrapped package from its resting place.

      “He can open the presents later, Beth. Let him play.”

      Her shoulders slumped and she pushed the box back to its original position. She looked at me and knew I was right. I looked at her and knew I had spoiled her fun.

      I was still in the kitchen assembling the few remaining items for our holiday feast when the doorbell rang. My mother and grandparents arrived a half an hour earlier than expected with three shopping bags full of gifts wrapped in plain brown paper, old Sunday comics or tissue paper recycled from the gift boxes they had saved from previous years. My mother was creative and frugal. My grandfather was just cheap. It was comforting and familiar but there was a small part of me that was embarrassed for Elizabeth and Alex’s gifts not to be wrapped in the brightly colored store-bought paper that fit in more closely with my wife’s vision of Christmas. I felt like apologizing to my wife for the substandard wrappings and I felt like apologizing to my mom for marrying a woman who didn’t understand the “Branch” way of doing things. It was an awkward moment but only for me. Beth graciously accepted and appreciated the gifts and my mother was warmed by her genuine affection for her. I was the one lacking the faith in Christmas’ ability to bring families together even though that was the thing I wanted most.

      Alex was my mother’s first and only grandchild. He was also the only great-grandchild at this point and they made no secret of the fact that Alex had favored status in the branch family. The majority of the content in the shopping bags was for him.

      As soon as my mother and her parents settled in the living room, they insisted Alex be given his gifts. Alex had, by this time, had been able to recharge his enthusiasm for new and undiscovered toys in wrapped boxes, so he eagerly set about the task of ripping open the packages. Elizabeth alternately mixed our gifts in with my mother’s so that by the time we were finished every package for Alex would finally be opened.

      “This is for both of you.”

      Mom handed me an envelope. Inside the comical Christmas greeting card was a check for $100 for Beth and I to use for our own benefit. Beth in turn handed my mother a box containing a photo album dedicated to the first four years of her only grandson. We had also bought my grandfather a new cardigan to replace the threadbare sweater he constantly wore when the temperature dipped below 70° F. Grandma got a box of puzzle books and several pencils. Her hands had become too unstable for her to continue knitting, and word puzzles were one of the few things remaining that she was able to do with enjoyment.

      Elizabeth handed each person their gift and then sat back to watch them open it. She was reveling in the joy of giving.  I just sat back and watched the transfer of packages from one person to the next wondering if this was a symbolic gesture of faith, an act of sincere generosity or merely an obligation.  The only thing I was certain of was that I didn’t have the same feelings that everyone else seemed to have.

      Elizabeth reached under the tree one last time and produced three packages. Two small cubes sat balanced on top of a large rectangular box. She handed them to me.

      “What’s this?”

      “They’re for you.”

      I forced a smile. My mother glanced over at us and then refocused her attention on Alex.

      “I thought we agreed? No gifts this year.”

      “These aren’t gifts. They are just a few things I picked up.”

      Elizabeth was pleased with herself. You could see it in her sparkling eyes and broad grin.  My eyes were not sparkling with the same glee as were my wife’s. I felt as if someone had just hung a big neon sign over my head that read “SCHMUCK” and it was glowing brightly.

      “Beth…”

      “Just open them.”

      I slid the two small cubes from the top of the large rectangle and unceremoniously tore at its wrappings. Elizabeth’s anticipation grew with each rip of the paper. I lifted the lid off of the box and there inside was an olive green fishing jacket. Beth grabbed the Jacket as soon as the lid was opened and proceeded to show me all its unique features. It was lightweight and yet insulated enough to be worn on the coldest of spring days. The sleeves detached to allow it to become a vest in warmer weather. And pockets … there were more pockets in this one article of clothing than in all my other jackets combined. It was unique and attractive and functional and in every way a perfect gift, and I hated it.

      I thanked Elizabeth coldly, folded the jacket in half and placed it back in the box. I excused myself from the room under the false premise that there were things in the kitchen that needed my attention. I stood alone in the middle of the kitchen, arms across my chest, and seethed. I had been sailing through this Christmas with the comforting thought that I had been able, in some small way, to get my wife to understand my point of view and once in a while release me from the season’s obligations. All that was immediately ripped away at the moment those packages were placed in my hands.

      “Don’t you like the jacket, David?”

      Elizabeth’s voice startled me. She must have been standing there long enough to see me not attending to the food.

      “I thought we agreed. No gifts this year. You made me look like an idiot in front of my family.”

      “I can take it back if you want me to.”

      “I love the damn jacket, Beth. It’s perfect. That makes it worse. You give me this great gift and I don’t have a single stupid thing for you. I feel … ambushed.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      The sparkle in Elizabeth’s eyes was now from the moisture collecting around the edges. I had made my wife apologize for giving me a wonderful present and feel guilty for it in the process. The imaginary sign over my head glowed with the intensity of a super nova.

      I had been ambushed by Christmas for the last time.

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