Vignettes - A Merry Little Christmas
A Merry Little Christmas
Colby leaned his head on the steering wheel of the car and tried to work up the energy to go inside. It was Christmas and there had been an all hands call out at nine in the morning. Not that Colby had plans for Christmas, really. He and Charlie had exchanged little gifts that morning and were working towards a nice bit of Christmas morning sex when the call had come in.
Don gave Colby a nudge from the passenger’s seat.
“Come on. Dad’s made dinner.”
Colby looked at the house, the menorah flickering in the window. “I hope he made latkes. I need the grease.”
“Don’t forget the starch and salt.”
“Three of the four food groups.”
“If there’s one thing my people can do it’s cook ourselves into an early grave.”
Colby pushed open the front door. “Honey we’re home.” He called out wearily.
“In the dinning room.” Charlie called back.
Colby dragged himself into the dining room and froze. There was a turkey on the table. A giant turkey, and mashed potatoes, and green beans with the little crunchy onion things, and sweet potatoes with the little marshmallow, and a basket of perfect, white bread, hyper processed crescent rolls from a tube. Colby looked around. In the corner of the room was a little tree strung with about five feet more Christmas lights than it needed, with one of Charlie’s strange, pointy, geometric models, taped to the top. The radio was playing White Christmas.
“Gee dad, think you could have found a bigger bird?” Don asked.
“You try finding a turnkey on Christmas day. There’s nothing left but game hens and Godzilla birds.”
“Well at least we’ll have leftovers.”
Charlie took Colby by the hand and gently pulled him the rest of the way into the room.
“Come on in.” Alan said. “As our resident gentile you need to tell us if it’s been done right.”
Colby blinked a few times. “It’s perfect.”
“Good.” Said Don, “let’s eat.”
Everyone found a seat. Alan looked to Colby. Colby realized he was supposed to say grace, something that was reserved for special occasions in the Eppes house. Colby thought for a moment. His father had used Christmas to spew hypocritical fire and brimstone, his uncles, already six beers in by dinner, would tell off color jokes about the Virgin Mary, and mom always felt the need to pray for the entire county, by name, alphabetically.
“I’m going to have to go with Dickens here. God bless us, everyone. Let’s eat.”
There were nods of agreement and a general coordinated attack upon the turkey,
“You know,” Charlie said. “I also got my hands on some mistletoe.”
Colby looked around “Where?”
Charlie gave a slightly evil smile and a kiss on the cheek. “You’ll find out. Merry Christmas.”