jstro Word Count 750 Christmas Return Just as I remember it … the bonfire on the creek bank, kids playing out on the ice … the ones with skates gliding upstream and downstream almost without effort … those without skates working up a head of steam, then planting their feet for an extended slide. It's like a scene from a greeting card. Christmas carols drift down the wooded bank behind me, from the speakers out in old man Matthews' yard. I know there is a fat mechanical Santa belting them out, waving his hand, and periodically putting a finger to his nose (though he never disappears up a chimney). Between songs he belts out a loud HO HO HO! But down here, by some trick of the landscape, I can't hear the ho-ho-ho’s, though I can still catch bits of the songs. I hum along with the ones I like. A small cheer draws my attention downstream. Just past Howard's Rock a hockey game is underway, short-handed as always. Each team with one forward, one defenseman and a goalie … and, of course, no referee. There's no such thing as penalties in pickup hockey. I stand in the shadows, out of the glimmer of the fire, unseen by all. I'm good at being unseen. It's a skill snipers learn to hone. Those that stay alive. The older folks, those in their late teens and early twenties, huddle near the fire to keep warm. There are a couple of bottles being passed around, just as I remember. There's TT, Tommy Turner, with what would have to be a bottle Wild Turkey. He started stealing Wild Turkey from his old man back when we were in 10th grade. I smile. His old man never did catch on. Eileen Alexander and Fred Sanchez are tightly entwined. That's new. When I shipped out Eileen was going with Walt Robinson, and it was looking pretty serious. I wonder what happened? Walt probably did something stupid again. Maybe this time he ended up in real trouble, jail even. Luck does eventually run out. Well, the way I figure it, Eileen's better off without him. I can't tell who some of the folks in the shadows are. No night vision goggles now. Funny, I don't miss 'em. But I do see Karen. She's sitting on a log near the fire with Lucy Turner, Tommy's kid sister. I repeat that line in my head, and smile. She's sitting on a log with Lucy. No guy hanging all over her. I choke back a sob of relief. Now my hands begin to sweat, and I feel prickly heat creeping up my back. I begin to swelter under my heavy suede coat, burning up as if I were back in the desert. Just as I unzip my coat to cool down Karen stands up and looks my way. I suppress the urge to dive for cover, freezing instead. Did she see me? No. I can begin to breathe again. Now, she's pulling Lucy to her feet. Gathering others around. Behind me Santa is singing Silent Night. My old gang is joining in, lead by Karen's sweet soprano. For some reason there are tears in my eyes as slowly ease myself into a crotch onto a log, to steady myself. Making no sudden moves, I pull the laces tight with the skate key. Satisfied, I stand and slip the key in my pocket while at the same time withdrawing the little box. Once again I flip it open, just to make sure. Tiny fires reflect back up at me. I close the box and grip it tightly in my left hand, the good hand, take a deep breath, and glide effortlessly out onto the ice. I could not ask her before I left. I could not bear the thought of leaving her a widow. But now... Karen has her back to me. Some of the carolers see me coming, and they fall silent. Others notice, and their voices also still. Karen, sensing something's up, quits singing. Just as she starts to turn, I slide to a stop beside her and manage to mutter a quiet, “Merry Christmas, Karen.” She jumps away, startled, and then when she recognizes me, screams in disbelief. Suddenly she is on me, wrapped around me, hugging me so desperately it actually hurts. She's crying. I'm crying. A crowd is gathering around. Even before I ask the question I can see the answer in her eyes. I know, at last, I'm home.