by Jack Swenson
The street was in deep shadows. High houses were bedecked with threadbare strings of lights. A swept and carpeted staircase led to his wife's sister's house, as dingy as a tenement. At the top of the stairs a small black dog was barking loudly and simultaneously wagging his tail. They climbed the stairs, laden with gifts. He brought up the rear. Two women were in the room, a fat one on the couch knitting black wool. The other one got up and walked straight at him. She hugged him, then hugged his wife, her sister. They put down their burdens by the tree.
He looked about. The room was packed with mismatched furniture, overstuffed chairs, dark wood tables, a small wood-burning stove in one corner emitting a cheery warmth. His wife's brother wandered into the room. They shook hands and exchanged a few words of greeting. Joe's hair had been gelled and spiked, his wife's doing, no doubt. His wife, the woman on the couch, glanced at the visitor above the black plastic rims of her glasses. The swift and indifferent placidity of that look troubled him. She seemed to know all about him, and all about her husband and her sister-in-law, too. An eerie feeling came over him.
Dinner was served. The lamb was undercooked. The children emerged from the bowels of the house and jockeyed for position at the table, elbowing each other and smirking. He picked at his food. The teen-aged boys gnawed the bones. The conversation was nothing he was interested in. Chitchat and family jokes. His wife's brother recalled the time when their father was watching out for the neighbor's dog, and it got run over by a car. Everybody roared with laughter.
After dinner they all sat in a circle and took turns opening their presents. They pulled the gewgaws, some wrapped, some not, one by one out of a paper sack. No one got anything they wanted or could use except the kids, who got money. It took several hours to open the presents. Then it was time to clean up the kitchen. The children disappeared. Joe fell asleep in an oversize upholstered chair. His wife, Clara, returned to the sofa and resumed her knitting. Her fingers kneaded the black wool frantically.
Later as they stumbled out into the starry night, he eagerly sucked in the cold, damp air like someone escaped from the heart of a dark and alien place.
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Inspired by the Ghost of Christmas Past and Joseph Conrad's "The Heart of Darkness."
Not to speak of Madame Defarge with the knitting. Enjoyed this grimly funny take on the torments of the holiday a lot, Jack. Not sure it needs the Conrad at the beginning, since its own horrors are evident enough if slightly more subtle.
Loved the escape.
I once gave a jar of pickled pig lips to to my brother's only child. The look on his face as he opened it and showed it everyone...
priceless.
(at least *I* thought)
Yes, what a great tale of familial bonding/torture. It warms the heart, JS. *
(p.s. if this gets posted twice, blame Fnaut. It's doing it's weird magic today).
Oh, no. Five more days of dread. Bleakly well described. *
The last paragraph makes this story, Jack. It's a stunner. *
This could be a chapter in Kosinski's, Painted Bird.
This is such an unforgiving place to hold a Christmas. Wow! Dark and modernly-Dickensian.
*
Perfect but for the misplaced modifier ("the stairs, laden with gifts") and the diction or typo here:"oversize upholstered chair."[oversized?]
Agree with David. You don't need the opening quote. The ending is Conrad enough.
* for that undercooked lamb.
Enjoyed, Jack. Loved details like "high houses," the knitting of black wool (and the use of “frantically” near the end), and undercooked lamb.
I liked the undercooked lamb as well. *
Very sad but beautifully done. *