Copyright © 1999 Richard R. Kennedy All rights reserved. Revised: November 9, 2003



Santa seemed on every block. Life, color, light were everywhere belying the evening's dark, heavy sky. Caroling floated on snow flakes. Smiling shoppers were eying decorated windows as children were pressing against panes flaunting busy toys. Last minute shoppers were rushing into stores while others were rushing out on the way to the many things left to do at home. A thin young woman clutching the lapels of her flimsy coat emerged from the bustling shoppers she seemed not to belong. She sneered at the last Santa tinkling for alms before turning into a dark side street. She tightened her grip on the collar and seemed to sink into her coat as the snow lighted on her makeup. The street barely acknowledged the approaching holiday but for a few windows from the tenements aglow with lighted wreaths. As she turned the corner an immense Christmas tree in the dooryard of a church illuminated a gold upon the falling snow.

Boys heavily scarfed and coated flung open the church door and immediately dug for frozen missiles and engaged in happy combat in front of the church. A clergyman followed and playfully threw a few snowballs himself, then shouted, "Off with you now and return at midnight with your angel voices."

The boys scampered off. Some brushed past her and beamed broadened cheeks as they wished her good cheers. She sunk deeper into her coat.

From the steps the clergyman waved to her and buoyantly said, "Merry Christmas, my child." She did not turn her head and quickened her pace into the darkened shadows of closed shops and headed for a neon light flickering on the far corner of this church street.

She descended the puffy steps of a café, which on any other night would be alive with wine, song and dance. The door was stuck; with some hesitancy she pushed hard against the door. The gaily decorated wreath fell onto the wet rubber welcome mat in the vestibule. She hung the wreath back up carelessly. She noticed most chairs were stacked on tables. She brushed the snow from her coat and shook the flakes from her bleached hair and descended the two steps.

Crossing the empty dance floor, she sat up on a bar stool and eased out of her coat, revealing a red blotch on her neck and barely perceptible bruises on her shoulders. Mechanically she draped her red coat on the backrest of the stool as she stared into the mirror behind the bar. She snarled. Over the bar mirrors was a painting of silhouettes on a mountain against a backdrop of angry flames. Removing a compact from her handbag, she flipped up its mirror and brushed away the circles under her lifeless eyes with the heavy mix. From a crumpled pack she drew out a bent cigarette and let it hang from chapped lips. It was discomforting. She balanced the cigarette on the bar ledge and traced her mouth with lipstick. Digging deeper into her handbag she came up with a heavy, masculine lighter. Its top clicked; she thumbed the wheel but it barely sparked. She spun the stool round the desolate tryst -- faced the bar again and tapped the lighter on it. Leaning over a centerpiece of shiny holly to look down behind the bar, she broke the deadening air by blurting, "Bartender!" Tailed to this, wailed Christmas music from a jukebox at the other end of the bar.

A youthful bartender reared up from behind the jukebox and rolled it back in its place. He brushed back his rather long brown hair and scratched his trim beard as he moved back behind the bar. Easing up to her with a warm smile. She flinched and fondled the lighter. "Good evening, Ma’am, and Merry Christmas to you," he said as his smile broadened. She squeezed her lighter.

"Give me a scotch on the rocks," she ordered bluntly. He chuckled and rolled his blue eyes as he turned to take down a tumbler. She tried the lighter again; the flint was gone. She watched the scotch splash over the ice, then looked up at him. His warm blue eyes splashed into her cold ones like soothing eye drops. She dug into her handbag.

"Oh, that's okay it's on the house Christmas, you know."

"No, I didn't know. But I wasn't going to pay for it, anyway," she said, pulling out an empty book of matches.

"My, you're as cold as your drink. You should have some egg-nog I made -- might lift your spirit."

"Don't have any except the spirits in this glass." She pulled out of her bag a folded memo, looked at it, put it back and said, "A Ugo called for me." She snickered, "Original, anyway, get tired of John....I'm sure you're not him."
He laughed to hide his embarrassment. "No, but he mentioned he was expecting a visitor....should be back soon." He flashed a glare but then washed it away and reached in his pocket for a lighter similar to hers. He struck it and edged it toward the bent cigarette still hanging from her lips. She sucked on it as he lit it. "So tell me, little lady,...why?" he asked, looking at her with quizzical eyes that seemed to clear away the puffs of smoke.
Her cigarette hand met her cheek and she looked up at him strangely not surprised by the question. "Seems to me you should be home with your family," he said softly but unable to subdue a trace of indignation.
Her eyes dropped to her drink; she tinkled it with the stirrer. The rough edges of the cubes were gone. "Don't have one;...Not sure I'd be home if I had a family."
"I can't believe that," he said with assurance.
"Oh, I mean, if I were what I am."
"Family doesn't see you for what you think you are that's the strength of it."
She laughed absently. "You don't know my brother."
"Why don't you call him?"
"That's impossible; besides I am what I am." She scowled.
"You could try to be what you feel you ought to be," he urged kindly, trying not to sound self-righteous.
"Only the strong can do that," she said with a sigh. "There's no real privacy in my line tough to grapple with the past in starting anew."
"Oh?...Then you have tried?"
"No."
"You could try a new town."
"This is a new town. It follows you."
"Sure, you don't take it with you?" He rang with bitterness.
"I suppose, hard to change, you know," she said coolly, peering over the rim of the glass.
"Granted, but surely tonight makes it easier, doesn't it?"
She crushed out her cigarette and replied, "More profitable during the holidays."
He abruptly turned away and walked to the swing gate and made a few more selections on the jukebox. He returned and said coldly, "What is profit if the soul is bankrupt?"
"Don't preach you're kind of nice and I don't want to dislike you," she pleaded, curiously searching his blue eyes.
"I'm sorry. I know it's none of my business." He dipped into a bowl of egg-nog and sipped from the dipper. "So you kind of like me, eh? I'm glad....Why not try some of my egg-nog? He offered the dipper."
She screwed up her face and grunted, "No thanks, not my style."
"You know, you're right about privacy...guess you do forgo it when you engage in...this sort of thing."
"Well, I didn't exactly mean I'm a street-walking exhibitionist!"
He chuckled and took another sip of his proud mix. "Oh, I didn't mean that. It's just that your success depends on word of mouth and performance men talk, you know. That's how my boss found out about you."
"One as holy as thou shouldn't be listening," she reminded him sharply. "And by the way, you're one to talk why aren't you home decorating the family tree?"
He dropped the dipper back into the bowl and reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to cast stones. It' s just that it saddens me to see you like this so awfully alone. Why can't you treat yourself to the grand feeling of decorating a tree in your own home? Everyone is entitled to that."
She gnarled and snickered, "Haven't had a tree in years." Her face softened. She glanced up at the painting, then her eyes moved to a leopard's head near it; icicles hung from its mouth and a white sprayed wreath was round its neck.
He touched her chin and urged her eyes back to his and said gently, "It's not the tree in itself. It's the value of breaking out of yourself, a time to feel good, draping a little sparkle over the world."
She laughed with sarcasm. "There's plenty of that in fashion and jewelry."
He shook his head. "Not the same. It's not like looking in the mirror before an important date... more like projecting a feeling, not an image."
"I have no feelings." She vacantly sipped her drink; to her surprise, she had barely touched it.
"Oh, all us have...some have to stir it up once in a while," he said good naturedly.
She asked for another ice cube. Ignoring tongs he picked up a cube and warmed it in his palm, then gently dropped it into the glass. He reached for a towel. She observed how smoothly glazed the cube was. She said, "Well, there's nothing left to stir, just like these ice-cubes will be forever lost."
"Ah, but they're not lost; they transform," he reached over and squeezed her hand again; he searched her mysterious eyes.
She let her hand dwell in the warmth; she thought it should be cold from the ice. She accepted his searching eyes, thinking of her brother. She extracted her hand, then glanced up at the painting. "Nice sentiment, but no chance."
"Perhaps with help," he said half quizzically.
"Perhaps, but that's buried," she looked into his eyes and saw the past.
"Only you can bury it."
"I wonder."
He turned his thoughts away. Do you like my music? I fixed the machine to play Christmas music all evening for the people without charge-- wouldn't be right to put a price on it."
"What people?" she chuckled.
He chuckled too. "Well, there's you. I guess the wise ones are home."
"True, I never had wisdom," she said solemnly.
"Forgive me I didn't mean that...still, everyone should be home," he added wistfully.
"Well, then. why aren't you home?" she asked.
"Believe me I would but I'm just a part-timer -- had no choice. Anyway, I need the money."
"Oh,...and I don't?"
"I need it for college."
She scowled at him. "I suppose that justifies it, eh? whereas I'm just a hooker."
"Said the wrong thing again," he said apologetically, slapping his forehead in rebuke. "But you could be less crude, you know, why refer to yourself that way?" He held up his hand. "Forget it. I don't want your answer. He deviated and added, "So do you like the Christmas music?"
She drank down half a tumbler and put it down hard. "It's all right, I guess." She took a few sips, tinkled the cubes, then toyed with the stirrer. "Got any livelier?"
" 'Rudolph' and 'Jingle Bells' ".
"I mean Rock."
"Now why on this night would you want that! Don't you feel the holy spirit?" He grimaced in disappointment.
"Holiness has passed for me. I don't want to be lulled," she snapped, "like an infant in swaddling clothes." She finished her drink.
"Beautiful sentiment is humbleness. It's affected people for two thousand years."
"I wonder why? Surely people don't want to be humble."
"Oh, but they do!" He reached for her glass. "Are you sure you don't want to try my egg-nog?" She shook her head vigorously. "Too bad," he moaned.
"I told you I don't want to be lulled by anything smacking of the holiday," she rejoined. He refilled her glass. "Take a real, hard look at me," she rasped. "I've been roughing it for years. I been humbled plenty, but never humble."
"Still people know it's good to be humble. The trouble is they don't trust the other guy to be that way."
"Yes, nice guys finish last like Dukakis," she said bitterly.
"Still, he lost nobly."
"Oh not humbly?"
"I admit," the youth said, "theie is much misunderstanding and apprehension about the word. But it doesn't mean you have to be an idiot even though Dostoevsky showed that it is perceived that way. Ah, to be humble in face of arrogance is to be noble in the end."
"Wow, that's a tall glass full!" She nodded emphatically, "Oh, you're Joe college for sure," she said with a half admiring smile. "But I do know about the arrogance of clients....Yeah, I've been pushed around, betrayed,...defiled by classy Johns." She gulped down half a glass, then hopped off the stool, disturbing her coat. "How old do you think I am?" The youth's face reddened. "No, really, it's okay," she said assuredly as she pirouetted before him. "Go ahead, look me over good!"
He sheepishly looked away and stared at her coat slipping off the stool. "Your coat will get wrinkled."
"Never mind the coat it's been through worse. Look at me -- how old?"
He looked over and saw what he did not wish to see: "Twenty- five," he lied.
She laughed hysterically and spun back to the bar, picking up her drink. "You're a horrid liar, a jelly fish!" She finished the drink, then added, "But you're a sweet boy."
He dipped into his egg-nog bowl again and sipped the foam. "All right, you're thirty -- satisfied?"
She tinkled her glass. He put down the dipper, tonged fresh cubes and poured her drink. She looked at him admiringly and said, "You really mean that, don't you, thirty, I mean?"
"I'm sorry, but I do," he said with genuine contrition.
"You are a sweet boy. Most men think I'm forty; of course, they say thirty-nine. They suffer the illusion that an older woman is in her prime."
He leaned forward. He asked, "How old do you think I am?"
"Oh, I don't have to think, I know: same age as my brother...was."
"Was?" he perked.
She reached for a cigarette. He was ready with the lighter. She touched his hand strong and warm. He lit it. "Your lighter is like mine," she noted.
"Not exactly a lighter for a lady," he said.
"Lady!...You are sweet!" she ejaculated. ""But why the lighter? you don't seem to smoke."
"It's for my pipe."
"My brother smoked one too." She picked up her own lighter, fondled it, looked at it wistfully. "They sent this back from Nam with his other belongings including his pipe."
He squeezed her hand. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry."
"Forget it; it's history now."
"One can't forget history."
"I suppose. But when I lost him, I lost myself." She tucked her brother's lighter in her bag. "When our parents died in an auto accident, he worked like a saint to keep me out of a foster home. He was only a kid himself. "Like my mom he was gentle with me; like my pop he was firm. I was 'May' when he was gentle; 'Mary' when firm which was most of the time, I'm ashamed to admit. Though I loved him deeply I never really appreciated him till he died."
"Ah, yes, the story of life and death, I'm afraid," he commiserated awkwardly. "Didn't you have any relatives to take care of you?"
"Oh, yeah...apparently they felt they didn't have any," she snickered while squinting at the leopard's head. "When I received his insurance money, I spent it madly. I guess I thought I was entitled to squander his money as they squandered his life. But I knew I was wrong. From his grave he taunted me crying out 'Mary, Mary' in a firm, angry voice. Yes, I knew that had he lived, he would have gone to college not for himself, but to secure comfort and dignity for me." She chugged down her drink and then tinkled the glass. "What a mess I've made what a betrayal of his memory."
"Then why continue this betrayal?" he asked candidly.
"I'm too deep in the muck."
"You can be pulled out and washed off." He could have bitten his lip for that last thought.
She looked at him indignantly, then rattled her glass. "You can start by washing my insides with another drink."
"You've had enough, Mary."
"Oh, no unlimited fringe-benefits go with the territory," she reminded him. "It's part of being a well-primed middle aged woman."
"I didn't mean it that way. I just think you should be careful and work on doing your brother proud."
"No use...you said it yourself. I'm dirty, in need of a wash. Ironically I'm a wash out," she said resignedly....In high school, I remember, we had to memorize a sonnet by Shakespeare. One line stuck in my mind all these years and it's not difficult to understand why that is....Alas, "...besmeared by sluttish time." She laughed from the belly. "Fits me beautifully horridly!" Then she sobbed into her palms. The youth, distraught, filled her glass. She looked up ingratiatingly. "Thirty-two. Do you hear? Thirty-two! Look at Jane Fonda for Christ's sake! She must be fifty! I'd have to play Katherine Hepburn in Golden Pond!" She chugged her drink and then folded her arms on the bar and buried her face.
He softly patted her pate and said, "Cheer up, May. It's just as easy to face the world with a new look as it is the other way."
She bolted up. "Oh, you think so, do you? Well, I've tried. Believe me it isn't easy. I suppose like you say, one can't do it alone. My strength died in Nam."
He reached out for her hand. "Oh, Mary, that's bunk a cop- out! Why, you're still a young woman and very pretty..."
She withdrew her hand. "Don't make me laugh. It would take a Hollywood makeup man to make me pretty again. And what do you mean – cop-out! My brother was everything to me."
"I'm sure he was; but you don't show it now. What would he think of you now? Why, the poor guy died in vain. He fought for you more than he did his country."
"And to think I called you a sweet guy!"
"To be sure, truth is bitter," he said softly. "But in the end it sweetens life."
She looked up at him tearfully. He noted her eyes could be beautiful. She asserted, "You college boys have all the answers." Her hand crept to his. She speculated, "Tell me, you have understanding. Would you want me, knowing what I am and you were near my age?"
In time perhaps," he weakly admitted. He was a little ashamed.
"Bitter truth indeed!...In time!" she echoed,
"Perhaps!...Time... my worst enemy!" She rolled her forehead on the bar edge.
He stroked her hair and was repelled by the sticky spray. "Correction," he said, "you are your worst enemy. Time can also heal; it need not always destruct. I say perhaps because in the final analysis it is up to you and only you to set things right again. Others can help, but only to help you help yourself. Yes, I can help you to make peace with your brother; yet you must really want to."
She sat up. "What do you mean make peace with my brother? He's dead what difference does it make?"
"Is he really? Not with you he isn't you admitted that. You know he cannot rest in peace because of what you are now." Mary bowed her head. He slipped his hand under her chin, urging her to look at him squarely. "May, be honest would your brother want you here tonight any night?"
The door forced open. A heavy set man stepped stomping the snow from his galoshes and shaking the snow from his turned up collar. Kicking off the galoshes, he went up to the bar, shrugging his shoulders at the youth. He said in a tone of disappointment, "I suppose, I should've closed down. The office party never showed up, eh?"
The youth shook his head. "No, guess they had too much at work. With the stricter laws, I suppose they decided against two or three for the road." He offered his boss an egg-nog.
"Na, Steve, give me the same as the little lady's." He removed his gloves and placed his hand on her shoulder. She recoiled, though his hand was not cold. "Hi,...been waiting long?...My wife stuck me with decorating the tree while she and the kids visited my in-laws. Just as well now we have the rest of the night to ourselves. Did Steve take care of you okay?"
She turned to size him up as she was wont to do when meeting clients for the first time. His looks were passable, but his nose was too long and bulbous. She hated to fight a big nose in love- making; her cheeks smarted after a while. His heavy build too would leave her with muscle aches in the morning. At last she said, "He -- Steven, you say -- ? was charming company. His helpful conversation was well worth the wait."
"Oh, he psycho-analyzed you, eh? Yeah, the college boy is notorious for that. He thinks he's everybody's conscience."
Steve heard and laughed. "That's what we bartenders get paid for, right, Ugo? Still, I like to think of myself more a philosopher than a psychologist."
"And why is that?" asked Mary.
"Psychologists are busybodies; philosophers lean to universals."
"That's a mouthful, but I gather you lean to the former," she said with sarcasm.
"Either way,” Ugo interpolated, "it's systematic confusion." He gulped down his drink. He seemed anxious. He turned to her. "They say you're high performance."
"They?" She thought back on what the youth had said about the wagging tongues of men.
"Well, you know, Marvin. He's a customer of mine too."
"I never make it a point to remember names all are John," she said coldly while squinting at the lettering on the stirrer.
Ugo squinted skepticism. "Really? Not even the Johns who perform as well as you and turn you on?"
She shook her head. Steve noticed that not a hair stirred. She said, "Nor do I keep score -- all the same to me."
"Wow, you're that good, eh?" He grinned lasciviously.
"No, I just do service for those whose wives' can't."
"Won't, you mean," he growled.
"Whatever." She poked the stirrer at him, then stared at its logo. "Strange name to have on this -- Inferno."
"Kind of fitting to me hope you live up to it," he said as he pawed her. she didn't bother to recoil as she dwelled on the youth, who kept his distance washing glasses, yet somehow she felt his proximity.
Ugo noticed her preoccupation. He turned to the youth. "Doesn't look as though you're going to earn your pay tonight, Stevie. Head for the kitchen and tell Joe to make some sandwiches just in case someone drops in, then tell him to go home to his old lady. I'll be in my office but I don't want to be disturbed you got me?" The youth nodded, but contorted his mouth. Ugo tugged on her arm. "C'mon, baby, we'll finish our drinks inside."
She shrugged him off. "What's the rush? let's stay awhile and listen to the Christmas music the boy of sentiment is playing for us,"
He stared at her icily. "See here, girl, you're expensive. You're here to entertain me unless you don't like my money, in which case you can pay for the drinks and get the hell out of here." The youth, drying his hands, grimaced and wrung the towel violently, threw it down and went in the back. This was the first Christmas Eve that ever depressed him. He wished he were home with his family. He no longer heard the music.
She glared at her client and rasped, "Don't be a Scrooge." She guzzled her drink, hit the glass bottom of the glass hard on the bar and demanded, "I want another drink."
"Plenty in the office, bitch. I'll fix you one there."
"No," she squealed, "I want Steve's gentle hand to mix it."
"Hey, what is it with you? You a cradle-robber?" He wrenched her off the stool.
"Easy, you hood, I'm not your inventory," she screeched while swinging her arm round to smash him.
He laughed, catching her arm in flight. "You are tonight, my pet, though why I pay for a pedigree and wind up with a mutt is not my idea of Christmas."
"Haven't seen the 'C-notes yet! I might just pay for my drinks and leave."
"Why, you little phony you wouldn't turn down two bills if I were a gorilla!" He grated as he jerked on her arm.
She laughed hysterically while fighting him off. "You are a gorilla!"
Steve emerged from the kitchen and quickened his pace toward them. He pleaded, "Give the girl a break, boss.... Jeez, it's Christmas!"
"Well, I'm, not Santa!" Ugo stared at him menacingly. "And you watch your tongue, boy; stay out of this!" He grabbed her blouse by the breast line and urged her toward the office door.
She squealed, "Like I said, gorilla!" Haplessly she punched him; he felt nothing with his heavy coat on.
Steve interjected, "Aw, boss, can't you see she's had too much to drink? let me get her black coffee."
She shook her head and waved her arms, squealing, "Oh, no, not on Christmas, Stevie! Let me try some of that warm spirited egg-nog of yours!"
Ugo snarled at him and warned, "You need this job, kid!" He tugged her along and she grabbed the end of the bar. Her blouse tore. He stumbled back with remnants in his hand. She screeched and crossed her arms over her bare, still firm bosoms. Steve ran to her side with her red coat to throw over her shoulders. She started to sob. He turned to his boss. "You'd better forget your plans for the night, Ugo. She's apparently not in the mood -- must be the season. Why don't you go home to your wife and kids. I'll lock up."
"You'd better forget you have a job, you college freak," Ugo scorched as he pushed him aside and jerked Mary to the door.
She looked back at the youth who was momentarily taken aback. "Steve, it's all right. Don't lose your job over me. I'm not worth it too -- late for me."
Steve clenched his fists and yelled, "No, it's never too late!...Your brother...no, never for him." He stepped resolutely and gripped Ugo's collar and forced him against the door. Ugo had never seen those happy blue eyes turn to ice before. "It's Christmas, boss. Go home to your wife."
Ugo looked over at the leopard he saw only the wreath and the icicles, then rolled his eyes to Mary. His dark brown eyes seemed to brighten. He smiled, reached into his pocket and retrieved a fifty dollar bill. He stuck it in her belt; took one final look at her bosoms, then smiled. "Buy yourself a new blouse, Mutt." He looked back at his employee. "It is Christmas, kid. What the hell, you're right. I belong with my wife." He reached up to Stevie's vice grip. Stevie relinquished and stepped back. Both looked on as the boss went to the front door and nonchalantly squeezed back into his galoshes. With a broad smile, he buttoned up his coat and said before departing, "Lock up early kid; it's Christmas for you too. Take tomorrow off we'll keep the place closed for the day." He wheeled round and left whistling "Jingle Bells".
They faced each other and laughed. Steve went to the kitchen to shut down while she struggled to tuck up her blouse then put on her coat. He came back and switched off the outside neon. Going to the juke-box to flick off the service switch, he hesitated when "Drummer Boy" came on. "Oh, this is my favorite....How about that egg-nog now, May?" he added, moving behind the bar.
"Love it, as you implied much more fitting especially now," she said wistfully. He poured the drink into a mug for her. He half filled the dipper again and raised it toward her. "Here's to your brother may he now rest in peace." She toasted then took a sip, looking warmly at him over the rim of the mug. "Yes, May, you've done him proud this great night. Let us hope it spills over to many other nights." He raised the dipper again.
"Yes, perhaps it isn't too late," she said half hopefully, raising her glass in acknowledgment.
"If we were to think it so with every human frailty, there would be not much point to this holy night now would there?" He put the dipper down and turned off the bar lights except for the advertising sign over the cash register. At the jukebox he waited for the carol to end. Waiting for him at the door she gazed at his face illuminating from the light. She sighed, smiled.
He switched off the jukebox and put on a mackinaw. He pulled open the door. The wreath fell into the snow. He shook off the snow and handed it to her. "Here, when you get home hang it on your door to welcome the world that is good." He saw a radiance in her eyes as though from out of the past. Her cheeks crimsoned youthfully from the contact with the fresh, tingly air. Her sprayed hair seemed to soften as the snow flakes condition it. "You are beautiful!" he said elatedly as the snow danced prankishly on his lips traced with egg-nog. "Yes, yes, a radiant twenty-five, in fact."
"You're very kind but foaming at the mouth," she chuckled. She pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped his lips. She beamed up at him as he reached for her hand. He squeezed it several times as they headed up the street, which did not as before seem to cast any shadows in the whiteness. The snowball skirmishers were now angels in a choir. Carols pierced the night, melting the flakes gravitating to the leaded stain-glass. For the first time she saw the tree and the gold lights in front of the church. Steve's warm hand in hers reminded her of how her brother always held her hand when they walked together. "Yes, I do have family," she sighed under her breath. She blinked her eyes and tears welled up as she imagined her brother standing by the tree under the golden shimmer, smiling peacefully.