November 7th #3
“Holiday Club rules,” Jay says. “When we turn this corner up here”—he gestures with his chin—“we’ll be there. Close your eyes.”
I look at him.
Swallow.
Feel my chest tighten.
And do as he says.
The first few seconds drag on, every beat of my heart harder than the last, but then I relax. I rock with the movements of the wagon as the chill of the air claws at my skin.
He gives a low whoa that stops the horses before taking my hand—briefly—and guiding me out of the wagon.
Standing behind me, mouth close to my ear, he says, “Open.”
I do.
And bring my hands to my mouth with a stunned laugh.
Around us, glowing like conic stars grounded on Earth are at least fifty trees—maybe more—dripping with strands of white lights. Hundreds of tiny bulbs surround each one. On the ground, paper lanterns glow.
“What is this?” I ask, consumed by awe as I take several slow steps.
In the newness of night, the lights are so bright our faces are fully lit.
“Old Christmas tree farm,” Jay explains, grabbing a thermos and three mugs.
“Family thing. The parents died and kids didn’t want to run it.
Tree business didn’t make much money, but they loved the trees—and Christmas—so they started doing this a few years ago, taking donations for local charities.
Do the lights because they love them.” He pours what smells like hot chocolate into the mugs.
“Marv,” he hollers over his shoulder. “Drink.”
Jay hands me a mug as Marv walks up, pulls his headphones off, and looks at the trees.
“This many lights confuses the extraterrestrials,” Marv says, matter-of-fact, as he drops a tiny red pepper into his drink before taking a slurpy sip. “Probably why they do it.”
He looks at me, Jay, then wanders into the trees.
“Tell me,” I say, blowing the steam from my cup as Jay and I fall into step together, sauntering through the trees. “What is Marv’s origin story?”
Jay chuckles. “Way he tells it, about ten years ago, he was married and working in some kind of computer tech job when he got abducted by aliens. Nobody believed him. His wife left. He became Marv.”
I pull my chin back. “You don’t care?”
“Care?” he asks with a laugh. “Aliens didn’t take me.
” His smile stays as he drinks from his mug, some of it clinging to his mustache.
It’s inexplicably cute. “He’s a good guy,” he continues.
“Fun to bowl with. Keeps me entertained. Doesn’t care that I’m a forty-year-old unmarried beertender the way some people do,” he teases. “No pressure.”
Every word he says is genuine, refreshing, and completely captivating.
I take my first sip of my drink and it burns my throat; I gag. “This is not hot chocolate.”
“Adult hot chocolate,” he amends with a press of his lips. “I add whiskey.”
I snort a laugh and take another sip, the burn less shocking the second time going down.
We stop in the middle of the trees, light surrounding us in every direction.
It’s like a fairy tale. A Christmas fairy tale.
Beautiful, and much to my surprise, better than any float in any parade.
A place where a man might drop down on one knee and propose to the woman of his dreams or a couple just starting out might fall a little bit in love.
“Thank you for letting me force my way into being here,” I say, looking from the trees to him, a million little lights reflecting in his eyes. “My kids would love this.”
“You should bring them,” he offers. “When they’re with you. Or next year.”
Bring them?
Every other year of the holiday season has every square of the calendar filled with things we do every year on every day. This is the opposite of all that. This is quiet. Simple.
“I have the International Space Station,” Marv announces from deeper in the trees. “KD9JDF. Do. You. Read. Me? I’m in the lights, ISS. Follow the light.”
Jay and I stand there, looking at each other for one, two, three heartbeats. And though it’s been a while, I don’t know him at all, and I’m extremely out of practice, I like looking at him. Like him looking at me.
I tell myself it’s just the trees. Just the effect of the lights and my loneliness playing tricks on my head and my heart.
Whatever it is, for the first time in years, standing in this once-was Christmas tree farm in the middle of the hills, I’d love nothing more than the man standing next to me to take my hand in his and tell me he’s happy I’m here.
“These trees suit you, Hollis the Writer,” Jay says, taking a step toward me, close enough I notice.
My breath stills. Our eyes hook and hold. What is happening? He reaches a hand toward my face—slowly. I cannot breathe. Just over my skin, he pauses.
Then pulls a twig out of the yarn of my hat and my breath gushes out of me when he shows it to me.
“From the wagon ride,” he says.
“Ha.” My blood moves through my veins a little faster. “Twigs.”
A small smile curves his mouth, and we stand in a brief silence. Him cool as the breeze with lights reflecting brightly in his eyes, me with a foreign feeling making my skin feel too tight.
“We should go make sure Marv doesn’t get abducted again,” he says around the rim of his mug, amused lilt to his voice.
I nod, press my cold palms tightly against the warm mug, nerves settling.
“That would be quite the Christmas story,” I joke, following his lead.
We stroll through the trees until we find Marv, then the three of us walk together, sipping our adult hot chocolates until they’re empty.
On the wagon ride back to the barn, the conversation is light.
No more family or traditions, just three people in the woods.
Marv tells us about a guy he bought a ham radio from who had pigeons living in his house and newspapers covering the floor.
Jay laughs easy at everything he says, giving me a wink right before he asks him to tell me another story. Like he’s saying a secret get ready.
Nothing about tonight with these two strangers is ordinary or makes sense, yet the sadness I’ve carried with me seems to melt—just slightly—like an icicle in the morning sun.
I don’t remember to miss the parade I didn’t go to again until I get home and open my computer.