“Step a-WAY from the RIDE.”
Posy jumps at the sound of the voice, then chuckles to herself.
The neighbors are probably asleep, although their SUV isn’t; the vehicle responds to any nearby movement—especially anyone dumb enough to get too close to it.
The backdoor slams shut, and Posy turns.
“That alarm’s a pain in the ass,” Meg says, and steps onto the porch, her belly round beneath her bathrobe, her long red hair and porcelain skin glowing in the lamplight.
“Don’t worry. It’s kinda funny. You’re due soon.”
“Any time, now.” Meg yawns. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks. Same to you and Hendrix.” Posy waves goodbye to Meg.
Posy climbs into her car, then drives around in the dark—aimless, and despondent—until she remembers the boy scouts sell trees at the Dairy Queen. She pulls into the lot as a man hoists a tree into a truck bed.
“That the last one?” she says.
“Yeah, but sorry, Miss; we’re closing down.” The man removes his work gloves.
“Can I buy it anyway?”
“Needles been falling off, straggly—probably too big to fit in your car,” he says, and frowns at her old, beaten-up Honda.
“How much? I have…” Posy rifles through her coat pockets. “…seven dollars.”
“Let you have it for five.”
Posy brightens. “Thank you, Sir. Have a good Christmas.”
She shoves the tree in the back; a few stray branches stick out where the trunk won’t quite shut.
Home again, she parks the Honda, and frees the tree from the trunk with a mighty tug. Her fingers are sticky from the sap at the rough cut on the bottom of the tree. As she passes her neighbors’ door, it opens and Hendrix steps out.
“Posy, Posy. How are you?” His deep voice is rich and mellow, not at all like the abrasive one that comes from his SUV. “May I help you get that up the stairs?” he says.
She smiles. “I’m decent, and no thank you, it’ll be fun for me to haul it up.” She forces a laugh, and glances away for a moment. “I’m so excited for you and Meg. Getting close!”
“Yes. And Meg needs her string cheese. Still getting those cravings.” Hendrix smiles—an easy, pleasant smile that lights up his cocoa-colored eyes in the midst of his dreadlocks.
“Please let me know if I can help.”
“We’ll call if we need you. Just come visit us after the birth. You’ll make a good Aunt Posy.” He pats her arm and gets into his truck.
As Posy struggles to carry the tree up the stairs to the apartment, a burst of joy takes her by surprise. She sings, “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, Tra la la LA la LA la.”
She opens the door and shoves the tree through it.
The room is dark save for the glow from the computer, where her husband sits at the desk composing music.
Posy sings the carol again, although softer.
He doesn’t turn to the sound of her voice, or the scraping sound of the tree as she pulls it across the hardwood floor. He continues to compose music, entering the proper notes on the computer—all he ever does when not at his day job.
Dread spreads through Posy’s gut and her spirits sink. She drags the tree into their bedroom and leaves it in the corner out of the way.
She climbs into bed and sobs herself to sleep.
As dawn breaks, she awakens to the sound of a muffled wailing. Her husband, still in his clothes from the day before, snores beside her; he doesn’t stir.
Posy rises, opens the bedroom window and listens.
She hears Hendrix encourage Meg in low tones. One more push, Babe. You’re almost there.
Posy leans out the window into the cold.
The sound of the baby crying fills the air, a miracle born of affection, and love resplendent.
She hears the joyful murmurs of Meg and Hendrix, and the sweet coos of their child.
Posy sighs—a solitary, silent witness to a Christmas birth.
Cowgill writes from Court House.
