Stanley zipped up his coat.
“A woman is dead, sir,” the boy pleaded. “Do you think you really did her any good? What if she cleaned up?”
“Clearly she wasn’t ready to do that.”
“What if her problems weren’t her fault?”
Stanley paused, “Well, then we won’t miss anything, will we? That’s probably the way to do it, one person at a time. Solve the poverty crisis.”
The boy shook his head, “This is some bizarre gift, sir.”
“Milly and William should have supper by now,” Stanley continued. “You’re welcome to join if you want.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
Milly looked at Stanley and the boy as they walked in. She immediately got up, “Why isn’t he clean yet?”
Stanley looked at her blankly, “What?”
“He’s dirty,” Milly took the boy’s hands into her own. “Where are his parents?”
“He’s my nephew,” Stanley lied.
“What’s his name?”
“Dolphy,” replied the boy.
“Dolphy,” Milly smiled. “We’ll get you cleaned up and ready for dinner. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good, miss.”
Milly walked out of the room.
Stanley looked at Dolphy with raised eyebrows, “You can’t remember how you died but you can remember your name and that it was a hundred years ago?”
Dolphy shrugged, “It is what it is, sir. Not much I can do to answer that question.”
“Sure, sure. I guess I’m expecting too much from the mirror realm people.”
“Are you mocking spirits, sir?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“Why?”
“It seems silly, doesn’t it? Mirror realm?”
Dolphy shrugged again, “It’s the way it is. Take it or leave it.”
***
Stanley watched from the bathroom doorway as Milly poured water onto Dolphy’s head in the bathtub. She scrubbed under his fingernails, poured warm soapy water on his skin. Scabs and bruises were clearly visible.
“How did all those happen?” Milly asked.
“I’m not sure,” Dolphy answered.
“Was it a mean uncle?”
“No, my uncle’s alright.”
Dirt and soot filled the bathtub.
Stanley felt a faint warmth in his chest watching Milly. He couldn’t put it into words. Something within him felt awakened. He quickly walked away from the bathroom and into his bedroom where he sat in silence.
Outside, it stopped snowing. He walked to the window and stared at the Chicago skylines. All the lights were on and Christmas cheer was out and about in the city. He didn’t feel anything.
The phantom appeared in a reflection and shot him a toothy grin.
“Are you enjoying your gift, Professor Redlaw?” the phantom asked.
“I’m not sure,” Stanley sighed.
“This is what you wanted, is it not? A life free of painful memories? The gift that keeps giving.”
Stanley chuckled, “Yes. true Christmas spirit.”
Milly walked into the room, “Who are you talking to?”
The phantom disappeared.
Stanley turned around, “No one in particular.”
“Professor Redlaw, you are acting strange. Even in your bitterness, you had this compassion in you… this warmth. It seems gone. You don’t seem to care about Dolphy’s health or appearance. What’s going on?”
“Just an odd day is all,” Stanley forced another alien smile. “It’ll get better, I promise.”
Milly sighed and sat on his bed, “Dolphy needs help, Professor. Doesn’t that appeal to you at all?”
“I know he needs help,” Stanley blurted. “But it’s not all that it appears.”
“Not all that it appears? Professor, he has bruises and dirt all over his body. After Christmas, I’m taking him to the authorities if you don’t.
“That’ll be fine by me,” Stanley nodded forcefully. “Perfectly fine.”
***
Stanley read his old fiction. Novels and short stories that told of hardship and loss, addiction, and trauma. He read them and wondered why in the world anyone would sit through literature like this. He remembered writing them, but he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly motivated him to write them all down.
“Remember what you always say about fiction, Professor?” William walked into his library. “If fiction isn’t there to tell the truth, then what is left?”
“It all seems so droll and silly now,” Stanley put away his books. “All of it. Why would anyone connect to something that would make them feel bad? Why would they take the time to see the world in such a gray, cruel matter?”
“Like you said in your lectures. They are sermons that are never heard, but you preach them anyway. You used to talk in class about how you took pride in the poor and destitute taking pride in your work. How they felt less alone. You could care less that Truman Capote ripped it to pieces. You were there to deliver a blow for the poor, as you said.”
Stanley looked at William blankly. What was this rich depth coming out of William’s mouth? Did Stanley really hold to that in his pain? He wasn’t sure, and he cursed himself for not having clarity.
This gift was still worth it though, Stanley figured. He finally was free of the things that shackled him. His ex-wife, his sister’s death… none of that was weighing on him. In its final analysis, he would rather be numb to life than be hurt by it.
“What would you write differently, Professor?” William asked.
Stanley opened his mouth to offer alternatives, but none came to mind.
“Remember how hard you worked for this?” William continued. “Remember how you got three hundred rejections before you sold a story? You were so proud of yourself. It was an obscure magazine, you were young and newly married. You went home a joyous man. Don’t you remember?”
“No,” Stanley whispered. “I don’t.”
“You were so proud. Your writing seemed to give you such joy, even with its droll and gray content. Your excitement was contagious, you know. It inspired me to use my own pain to write and create. It inspired me to try again, and it led me to finding Milly.”
Stanley paused, “I can’t recall any of that.”
William chuckled nervously, “Professor, you remember, don’t you? How I met Milly at a poetry reading? How I won her over with my work about growing up a missionary’s son in east Africa? About the pain and poverty I witnessed?”
Stanley could tell the real explanation wouldn’t satisfy William’s concern, so Stanely lied: “Ah, yes. Of course. How can I forget something like that? Just having an odd day. I’m thinking I’m missing my ex-wife.”
“That makes sense, Professor,” William nodded. “That makes sense.”
Stanley then asked himself the same question under his breath.
“How can I forget something like that?”
There was a sudden knock at the door.
Stanley was secretly grateful that it interrupted their conversation, “I’ll get it.”
As he opened up the door, Lana stood there with a Christmas present.
“Mistletoe?” Lana pointed at the decoration hanging above the door.
“Ah, hell,” Stanley whispered. “Milly… wait, what are you doing here?”
“Merry Christmas,” Lana handed him his present.
She kissed Stanley again.
It was strange, unfamiliar. His mind was completely blank, no warmth. All he could focus on was how wet and soft it was. He knew it was good, yes, and he should theoretically want it.
Stanley opened his eyes and stared at Lana’s face. He almost laughed at her.
Lana smiled as she pulled back, “Have a good holiday, Stanley.”
“Thanks,” Stanley forced out.
***
Stanley opened the gift in the privacy of his own room. It was a picture frame filled with a photo of him and Charlene together. He touched it.
Nothing was coming to mind, yet he could tell the event had enormous significance. They both were on stage smiling. He was holding an award.
“What in the world is going on?” he murmured. “Why can’t I remember this?”
He wanted to forget his sister’s death for sure, but he never wanted to forget something like that moment. But there he was, unable to recall anything good about the timeframe that photo was taken.
***
The four of them in Stanley’s house ate Christmas dinner together. He remained silent as they all laughed and jested with one another. In the back of Stanley’s head, he couldn’t figure out what it was about William and Milly that made them see Dolphy. There was something supernatural about their kindness and gentleness.
Stanley continued to eat in silence as the conversations grew more lively, with his heart turning more numb in response. When the phone rang, he immediately stood up. He was desperate to get away from the table.
“Hello?” asked Stanley as he picked up.
“Professor Redlaw!” shouted a cheery familiar voice.
Stanley paused and was able to recall it was Ronald Swidger.
“I thought you were going overseas for the holidays,” Stanley’s voice was monotone.
“The flight was delayed,” Ronald laughed. “Why don’t you come over to my house for a drink or two and we can argue about theology?”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Stanley mumbled.
“Don’t sound too excited!” Ronald jested. “You may win this debate, after all!’
***
As Stanley walked into Ronald’s house, he saw Ronald pacing around with a phone in his hand. Ronald kept doing that annoying laugh that Stanley had started to despise. They made eye contact and Ronald motioned for Stanley to sit down.
SCROLL BELOW FOR NEXT PAGE ↓
- A Chicago Carol - December 24, 2024
