KYLE SLEDGE

I start taking down the holiday decorations by burning the Christmas tree on the front lawn. It’s a mild, breezeless afternoon. Middle of February. Toastier than it should be this time of year, but any warmth’s a welcome change from winter. Gray nimbus clouds hang low, creeping slowly around the sun. It’d be a shame if it rained today.

I crack open a Budweiser and waste half a bottle of lighter fluid on the parched fir to get her going. A dense cloud of smoke rolls off the branches. It’s chunky, pungent smog. Thick and black. Smells like a tire factory on fire. The tree burns up faster than expected. It makes sense, though. Hadn’t watered the damn thing since the week after Thanksgiving.

As the cinders smolder, it dawns on me that I forgot to take the lights off. That explains the funny smell. After there’s nothing more than scorched earth and melted plastic, I pour my backwash on the ashes, dropping the bottle onto the fuming remains.

A dumbfounded family in a small red sedan drives past, investigating. I smile and nod—give a wave while tying up my bathrobe.

I live alone in a nice enough neighborhood. Haven’t been alone for long. Had a wife and son.

My driveway’s short. It’s got some cracks that need sealing up. There’s a basketball goal above the garage door. The house isn’t too far from the road. In fact, it’s only one house over from the corner where the school bus stops. Lawn’s big enough to fit at least three cars side-by-side. Grass is still dead from winter. It crackles under my feet as I shift my weight.

I step into the garage, grab the last cold can of Bud Light out of my yellow Igloo cooler, and crank up the riding mower. I put my beer into the cup holder beside the steering wheel. The engine roars as I drive it out in front of the house. I stop underneath the Christmas lights hanging from the roof. I kill the motor and stand on top of the mower’s seat, reaching for the bright rainbow colored bulbs. I’m able to rip enough of the string down to let it droop near the mower’s back wheels.

I step down off the seat and tie the loose end of the lights to a small hitch on the rear end of the mower. I get back in the saddle and start it up again. Driving forward, I tear down the whole run, ripping little wood chunks out of the roof’s trim as I go. After reaching the driveway, I shut the engine off. The row of lights gives the mower a flickering, festive tail.

My next task is to get the light-up Santa and sleigh off the roof. I untie the hose beside the front door, turn it on full blast and pick up its nozzle. Stretching it out to the sidewalk, I twist the knob over to the jet setting and aim for Santa’s face. I squeeze the handle and water pummels his plastic body. That jolly bastard just won’t budge.

I drop the hose down to my side. Getting on the roof’s the last thing I want to do. Plus, I’d need someone to help me get up there and tote everything down.

Down on the corner, James Anderson is being dropped off with a couple neighborhood boys at the school bus stop. He’s grown his hair out into longer, shaggier locks since I’ve last seen him. Looks like Ben’s did. He squats to tie his shoes. His book bag’s unzipped and sags low on his slender little shoulders.

James was a friend of Ben’s—my son. They went to school together. Both of them were benchwarmers for the basketball team. They were good, but neither of them got much playing time. Coaches always play seniors more than freshmen. Almost every day after school, James and Ben would play a game of one-on-one in the driveway. James had a hell of a jump shot, but Ben rarely let it past him.

When James slept over on Fridays, my wife, Dana, would always fix breakfast the next morning and let me sleep in an extra half hour. Hell, she did that most every morning.

She was a great cook. From Teriyaki chicken to curried lamb, not a day went by in our marriage if she wasn’t trying out some new recipe. I remember her telling me, “Cooking’s a lot like love. Do it with abandon or not at all.”

But James is picky when it comes to his food. He wouldn’t eat much, so Dana seldom made him anything other than scrambled eggs for breakfast while I’d grill the boys cheeseburgers for lunch and dinner. He’s a good kid. Sat up toward the front at the funeral. Shook my hand after. Said he was sorry about Ben and Dana.

After James stands up from tying his shoes, the two boys from the bus grab the opening of James’ bag and pull him back down, spilling his folders and books out onto the sidewalk. I jog over to the corner and the boys split past me, sprinting down the street to their respective homes. I kneel next to him and ask if he’s okay.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” James says, sitting. He pushes himself up and rests on his haunches to scoop up his papers. I stack his books together and help him cram the stuff into his backpack. Standing, I pull him up by the hand.

He brushes himself off and winces, blocking the sunlight with his hand. I walk with him down the sidewalk until he stops and sees the wrecked Christmas clutter on the lawn.

“Mr. Stevens,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“Just taking down the Christmas decorations,” I say.

“Okay.” James eyes the charred ground. “Well, thanks for the help and all, but I gotta go do my homework. Big algebra test tomorrow.”

“Hold up. I was actually wondering if you could help me.”

“I would, but I’ve really gotta go study. Dad’s pretty mad at me right now. I’ve got a C in the class. Says our fishing trip’s canceled if I don’t pull it up.”

“But I haven’t even told you what I need you for yet. It shouldn’t take that long.”

“What is it?”

“Well, there’s twenty bucks in it for you if you help me get the rest of this Christmas crap off my roof.”

“I really shouldn’t.” James shrugs his shoulders and walks past me. I step in front of him.

“C’mon. All I need you to do is throw some stuff at Santa with me. Knock his ass down.”

“Can’t you just get up there with a ladder?”

“I’d still need someone to hold it steady.”

James looks anxious. “But what about,” he trails off, tugging the pockets of his hoodie with his thumbs, looking over at the yard. He takes off his book bag and drops it next to the mailbox. “Okay. What should I do?”

“First, let’s get some limestone from the garden,” I say, pointing toward Dana’s flowerbed. Most of the plants are dead with the exception of a couple juniper bushes. We can only fit a rock in each hand, so on each trip to the garden we carry back two apiece to the sidewalk until both of us have a decent pile to work with.

James picks one up and holds it, waiting for me to throw first.

“You go ahead,” I say. “My aim’s not worth shit.”

He throws the rock over the top of the house. He chucks two more. One hits Santa and the other clunks against the roof.

“I don’t think we should be doing this. I feel like we’re gonna bust your windows out or something,” he says.

“You worry too much, James.” I pick up a hunk of limestone from the heap. It’s a little heavier than a cantaloupe. I rear back with my right hand and let it rip. The rock sails over the roof and lands in the backyard. “See,” I laugh. “I’ve got no aim at all. At least you hit it.” I giggle to myself. The laughter brings tears to my eyes. I try to hold it all in, covering my mouth with my hands. My cheeks run hot.

James cocks his eyebrow and lets go of the rock he’s holding. It hits the sidewalk with a thunk. “I bet you can get the rest of this done without me, Mr. Stevens. Pretty sure I’d end up just getting in the way.”

I compose myself and hold him by the shoulders to stop him from leaving. “James. James. Relax. Just stay and talk with me. How’s school going?” I ask.

“School’s school.” He swallows. “Nothing new.”

“You like your teachers this semester?”

“They’re okay.”

“What all classes are you taking?”

“Algebra, chemistry, English. Just regular stuff.”

“Sounds great.” I tell myself not to bring up Ben, but start in anyway. “Ben was really looking forward to taking chemistry. Had the periodic table on his wall facing the foot of his bed. Said he wanted to be able to see it at the start of each day.”

Without a word, James leans over, picks up a rock and tosses it at Santa. We start throwing limestone at the house again.

“Have they started you in any of the basketball games, yet?” I ask.

“Not yet. Season doesn’t start until next week.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s right. You and Ben were the best out there. Should’ve put you in more. Coach doesn’t know what he’s got on the bench.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m not that great.” James smiles, tossing a rock between his hands. He
throws it on the roof.

“Whenever you and Ben practiced in the driveway, I always thought you had a great
shot. Especially at your age.”

“Nah.” I can tell he’s embarrassed. Modest kid.

“Are you doing okay in your other classes?”

“Yeah. I’m doing alright in English. Dad just wants me to focus more on math.” The crash of glass interrupts him. There’s a big hole in the window above Dana’s garden. All the color drains out of James’ face. He looks like he’s going to puke.

“Well, goddammit,” I say.

“Mr. Stevens, I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it, I swear,” James stammers.

“No, forget it. It would’ve either been you or me.”

“I should go home. Dad’s gonna kill me when he finds out about this.” James goes over to the mailbox to pick up his book bag. As he’s stooping to pick it up, I stop him.

“Look, your dad doesn’t need to know about this. But I need to get this done and I just can’t do it alone.”

“I can’t. I just can’t.” He starts to leave.

I pick up the biggest rock in the pile and walk up to the window above the garden. I throw it through, busting the rest of the window out, the rock rollicking across the kitchen table. Shards of glass sprinkle among the lifeless foliage.

“See? No big deal. Christmas is over. I wanna be done with it all.” I grab a couple more rocks around the garden and throw them through the side windows beside the front door. Glass spills over the steps and onto the welcome mat. “Windows can always be replaced.”

James lets the backpack slip off his shoulder, standing still as if he’s trying to blend in as a lawn ornament. He drops his book bag back down beside the mailbox, eyeing me distrustfully. We both walk back to our separate piles and start chucking rocks again, our aim diminishing with each throw. Some go over the house, some land on the roof and some even hit the front door. We throw so many that we have to resupply from the garden. We don’t talk to each other until James hits the plastic Santa against the side of the head and sends him sliding down the roof, the sleigh’s reins yanking the reindeer along with him. We laugh and high five as Rudolph and all the rest clatter against each other onto the lawn. We pick them up and drag the rest into the garage, their hollow bodies scraping across the driveway.

“That sure beat getting on the roof. Now let’s go in and grab a beer,” I say.

“I shouldn’t.” James smirks.

“Why not? It’ll stay between us. Besides, I’ve still gotta pay you. And the only way to do that is to go in and get my wallet.”

“I’ll just wait out here.”

“Nonsense. Go get your stuff.”

James walks down to the mailbox and grabs his book bag. He comes back up the driveway and follows me through the garage door into the laundry room. A few wet towels sit on top of the washing machine. They’re rank with the smell of mildew and rancid milk.

We head into the kitchen. It’s so dark inside, it might as well be a tomb. The only light to guide us is the sun fighting its way through the storm clouds outside. A damp mustiness hangs in the air. Pieces of glass are strewn all across the floor. Two hunks of limestone we’ve thrown are on the floor next to the kitchen table. A large, black and blue flowered wreath sits in a corner beside the table. Empty beer bottles litter the counter and fill one side of the kitchen sink. The TV’s shouting from the living room. Bundled up floral arrangements are scattered everywhere, dying.

I walk gingerly over the glass pieces. “Careful not to slip and cut yourself,” I say.

I open the fridge and grab two Budweisers. After twisting their tops off with the bottom of my t-shirt, I lob the bottle caps into the sink and hand James a beer.

“Thanks,” he says. The scent from the bottle hits his nose. His face scrunches up a little, but he still takes a sip. His face cringes as he swallows.

“I take it you don’t drink much,” I joke.

“No, sir. Ben and I tried a couple of my dad’s Heinekens once, though. He threw up all over my bed. We said the dog did it.”

“You don’t say.” I take a swig of beer.

“But it wasn’t like we were drinking a lot or anything. Plus, it was my idea. Not Ben’s. We just wanted to try ‘em,” he says.

“James. I’m not mad. Loosen up.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get used to the flavor. When you get older it sometimes loses its taste altogether. Here, let me pay you.”

I head into the living room to get my wallet on the coffee table. The TV blares some commercial for a used car dealership. Deals so crazy they ought to be committed, so they say. I pick up the remote on the recliner’s armchair and shut it off.

A portrait of Dana, Ben, and I overlooks me from above the fireplace. The smiles seem tense, fake. In fact, right before we took it, Dana and I were at odds. We had an argument about skipping celebrating Christmas at her parents’ house in Akron the week before the 25th. I thought it was a stupid tradition. If her mom and dad wanted to see Ben, then they should be the ones to travel—not us. But really, I wanted them to come our way so I could still go into work for a couple of days. I wanted to finish closing a deal with the Pinsky firm without feeling any guilt that I was neglecting spending time with her and Ben. And if I had gone with them, they wouldn’t have had to drive alone. And then I would’ve been the one behind the wheel. And I might’ve been able to get my foot on the brakes in time. But I decided to court investors instead. I put my career over my family. I failed my wife. My son.

Our Christmas stockings are still nailed to the bricks above the fireplace. Garish red ribbons litter the walls with holly and garland along the trim. Heaps of presents wrapped in brilliant green and ruby red paper lie in the corner, untouched. Thousands of pine needles are still lodged into the carpet where the tree was.

“You sure got lot of flowers.” James’ voice floats in from the kitchen. It’s as if he’s oblivious to the glass and empty beer bottles everywhere. I pull the last twenty out of my wallet and rejoin James in the kitchen.

“Yeah. All from the funeral. Still don’t know what to do with them. Most of them are dead now, anyway,” I say, rubbing my stubbled cheek. I reach my hand out toward James. “Here’s that twenty I owe you.”

“I can’t.” He puts his hand up.

“I said I’d pay you, so take it.”

“I can’t. At least not after I busted your window.”

“Fine. I’ll mail it to you.”

I put the twenty and my wallet in my bathrobe pocket and brush broken glass off a couple of kitchen table chairs, taking a seat.

“Come take a load off,” I say, nodding to the chair across from me.

James sits down, one book bag strap hanging off his shoulder, and nurses his beer. We sit across from one another in silence until James says, “Mr. Stevens. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, James. Shoot.”

“When you’re alone, do you ever hear Ben—like he’s still here?”

“Every day.” I take a swig of beer.

“Think it’ll ever stop?”

“Dunno. I’m not even sure if I ever want it to.”

James nods solemnly as a low rumble of thunder shakes the house. A light mist of raindrops kisses my forehead. I look out the broken window and across the front lawn. A blinding bolt of white lightning cuts across the sky.

“I should get home. Dad’s probably wondering where I am,” James says.

“But you haven’t even finished your beer.”

“Beer’s not really for me. Sorry.” James puts the near-full bottle on the table.

“At least let me drive you. It’s about to start pouring.”

“It’s just down the street. I’ll be alright.”

I nod, rocking side to side in the chair.

“Well, hey, thanks for the help today. If your dad asks where you’ve been, just tell him you were helping me out with some stuff around the house. Maybe one of these days we can play some one-on-one in the driveway. Just you and me.”

“Yeah. Sounds good. See you later, Mr. Stevens.” James heads through the laundry room and out the garage door. I watch him through the kitchen window as he jogs down the driveway to the sidewalk, his hood up in the rain. In that moment I realize I’ll never see him again.

“Say ‘hi’ to your folks for me,” I shout through the window. He turns my way and waves as he runs.

I sit at the table until I finish my beer. After mine, I finish what’s left of James’ while standing at the sink, gulping it down. I’m gaining my buzz back, so I get another one from the fridge to keep it going. With each step I take in the kitchen, the glass from the shattered window crunches under my feet. The rain’s pouring into the house. It pitter-patters against the linoleum like a bag of marbles being spilt by a child. A strong gust of wind rattles the pots hanging above the stove and rustles the dead bouquets in the kitchen. The storm’s dark waves have drawn me in for good.