Merry Nickmas: Christmas I

6.

     When Nick awoke, it was Christmas morning, and once more he found a hairless dog on his lap. Outside, the pattering rain had turned to a very wet snow, and a small part of him delighted at the idea of a white Christmas. He craned his head to look at the tree and caught sight of an old photograph on the mantle. A gentle man with kind, blue eyes stared at him from beneath bushy, brown eyebrows. A lump caught in Nick’s throat and he reached up to turn the picture face down.

     When the moment had passed, he shook the dog off of his lap and tried to walk as quietly as possible into the kitchen. As always, one of the floorboards echoing like a gunshot in the quiet house. He cursed his own laziness (he had put the boards in years earlier), and broke into a dead run for the coffee maker. There was an unspoken rule that whoever reached it first had full right to make whatever they wanted, and if he wasn’t quick enough the aroma would become one of flavored, five-dollar beans from the super store. The thought of it was enough to send him into a flying sprint for the kitchen.

     The sound of heavy footfalls from the bedroom down the hall were like an alarm of impending doom. As a child he had learned to recognize the movement patterns of his mother, and what their varying tones meant. These steps were forceful, and shook the chimes of the ancient doorbell with each step. Not this time. Nick had drunk one too many flavored coffees as a result of apathy, and was sure that one more would kill him.

     He skidded on the white tile floors of the kitchen, and stopped dead. Standing next to the marble countertops was an elderly man of 91, pulling out a coffee pot full of horribly fragrant black liquid. The sour stench of “Caramel Dream Bean” blasted Nick like nerve gas and he fell straight backwards, almost tripping his mother who came storming in right after him.

     His grandfather laughed. “You’re going to have to be faster than that if you want to beat me.” He poured a carton of heavy whipping cream into a ceramic mug with a picture of a well-dressed bear on it. With a wink, he shuffled over to the couch to enjoy his victory.

     Nick didn’t want anything to do with the foul liquid, but his pounding caffeine headache told him otherwise. From behind him there was a relieved sigh as his mother realized what had happened. “Why do we have to do this every time?”

     Because you’d drink arsenic every morning if we didn’t. “Because some of us have taste.” Not much better, he thought, cringing at the rebuke he was about to receive.

     “It’s good of you to come Nick.” His mother embraced him and planted a dry kiss on his forehead. “I know how this time of year is for you.”

     Nick hadn’t realized that there was any problem with “this time of year”, but was too distracted by the warm atmosphere of the house to do anything about it. He poured himself a cup of what loosely could have been called coffee, and walked over to sit next to his grandfather.

     “How are you doing old timer?”

     “One day at a time,” he said sipping his coffee, and showing Nick a flexed bicep. “I could take you down any day of the week.”

     Nick laughed and flexed back at him. It had been a routine they carried out since he was very young, and was one of the few traditions he had managed to hang on to. “You know I won’t mess with you after last time. Remember that mom?” She was already rolling her eyes, very familiar with what came next. “The old coot nearly threw me through the windshield of his own truck.”

     “I would have if you weren’t so damned fat!”

     “Maybe you should lay off on the sweetened coffee yourself grandpa. It’s making you soft.” The old man sipped his coffee through pursed lips, glaring at Nick over the rim. For a minute the room was awkward silence as they just stared at each other. Nick’s mother sighed heavily, as she was keen on doing. Just as it was going to become too much, both Nick and his grandfather burst out laughing.

     Warmth filled his heart, without any reprisal. It was a brief moment in space and time where he did not want to travel elsewhere. For once the present was living up to his somewhat lofty expectations. It was a nice feeling, but quickly dampened by his mother’s knowing look towards a blue urn placed above the fireplace, hiding between sprigs of holly. The joy in his heart fell ten stories, and he felt sick. A sickening voice at the back of his brain demanded anything alcoholic, and quickly. Old habits die hard. “Do we have any eggnog?”

     “Yes, in the fridge. But don’t make any of that ‘adult eggnog’ crap, we haven’t even eaten yet.” One of the gifts of being a mother was seeing right through what were meant to be subtle intentions. Nick imitated one of her sighs, took the crappy cup of coffee to the fridge and drowned it in as much eggnog as possible. He took a sip, and felt relieved that the fatty concoction might lead him to a quicker death.