Thursday, December 18, 2008

Day 7 - Countdown to Christmas


Annabelle’s mother sat at a drop-leaf table which was flush with the far wall of the small room. A ceiling fan moaned and buzzed as the motor, which had been in its death throes for the better part of a year, labored for one more revolution of its dusty, yellowed blades. Everything in the parlor, in the whole house for that matter, looked much older than it should. Even Annabelle's mother, Charlotte who at 36 should be in the prime of life, wore the weathered countenance and chalky pallor of a much older woman.

Charlotte smiled as Annabelle approached, and she placed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Come here.” Charlotte said, patting her skirt above her knee. Annabelle scooted onto her mother’s lap and wrapped her arms around her, resting her head on her shoulder. She closed her eyes as she squeezed her mother and as she opened them her gaze fell onto a wall calendar which hung in the laundry room. The picture for December depicted Santa clutching a bag Chesterfield cartons. His ripened cheeks glowed red and healthy and his teeth sparkled. Annabelle pulled back and looked at her mother’s face. Charlotte smiled, pulled a few strands of hair away from her daughters face. “You are so pretty,” Charlotte said. Annabelle just looked into her mother’s eyes. They were bloodshot, but not too bad. There were hundreds of tiny wrinkles around her lips that Annabelle hadn’t noticed before. She stared at them, wondering if she would have wrinkles like that when she gets old. “Mommy?” Annabelle said, “Does Santa Clause drink?” Charlotte took a breath that triggered a cough which turned into a deeper, throaty bellow. Annabelle slid off her lap and put her hand on her mom’s back as the coughing continued. When it finally stopped, Charlotte reached for her cigarette and took a long drag, blew the smoke toward the fan, then snuffed out the remainder in the ashtray. When she turned back to her daughter, Annabelle saw that her eyes were very red. “That’s a funny question. I don’t think he does.” Charlotte said, reaching for her wine glass on the table. “I saw him on the back of one of dad’s magazines and he was drinking a bottle like daddy drinks.” Charlotte was quiet for a moment. She sat back in her chair and took a sip of wine. Annabelle used that moment to walk into the laundry room and pluck the calendar off its nail. She walked it back to her mom and showed her the picture. “Does he smoke too?” Annabelle said, placing the calendar on the table. “Santa Clause doesn’t do either of those things honey, and neither should you.” And as she spoke, Charlotte looked down at the table, eyeing the evidence of her hypocrisy.

[to be continued. . .]

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