Krampus' Tree Farm

Krampus’ Tree Farm

Shawn Winchell

1

I hate Christmas.

I always have. Maybe that makes me a Grinch, or a Scrooge. That’s what some people say. Well, to them, all I have to say is, Bah! Humbug!

But I have to admit, they do have a point. I’m okay with it, though. I started hating Christmas out of necessity. Growing up in a town called Santa’s Village with a name like Nikolaus left me with no other options. Kids are relentless. And in the town where Christmas spirit never dies, I wanted to kill it. At least my mom married my dad. If she hadn’t, I would have been stuck going through life as Nikolaus Klause. No way could I have lived through fifty-three years of that.

Being Nik Stein is just enough better to get by for most of the year, but when winter rolls in—which around here is usually sometime in mid-September—the jokes start again.

If I’m being honest, I don’t know why I stay. Once I finished school, I could have left. Probably should have.

See you tomorrow, Nik, Jeff says from behind the bar as I push the door open. He’s my neighbor, also the bartender at the Alehouse. I’ve known him for most of my life. We aren’t really friends, but I don’t hate him—which is more than I can say about most people in this town.

I don’t say anything back, but I turn and blindly wave into the building as I step out into the crisp, night air. I only feel a little guilty about not tipping him more. He really is a nice guy. But I’m trying to save as much as I can. I’m planning an early retirement. Haven’t figured out where yet, but it won’t be here. And it’ll be soon. Another two or three years and I’ll never have to see a candy-cane streetlamp again.

I turn away from the closing door and am just about to pass one of those candy canes when my face smashes into something. It’s red and velvety soft. And it shrieks when I run into it. A surprise-shriek, not a pain-shriek. The pain is mine. Nose-first into her shoulder. That’s how we meet.

Aargh, I say involuntarily. My eyes fill with water and I automatically wipe a finger beneath my nose to check for blood. There is none. That’s good.

I’m so sorry, the woman says. She is wearing a Mrs. Claus jacket and Santa hat and she bends down to pick a cell phone off the frozen sidewalk. I know I was standing right in the way, but aren’t these lampposts just the cutest? I had to get a picture, but all the others were too dark.

Everybody loves Christmas, that’s why they come here. I remind myself that it’s not worth getting into it with everyone I bump into. I grunt and nod. Wiping my nose again, I step past her, heading home.

Excuse me? she says. I stop and turn around. I hate to be more of an imposition than I’ve already been, but I can’t get a decent angle with this thing. She holds her phone out. Would you mind taking a couple of pictures for me?

I would, but don’t say so. When she hands me the phone, she tells me where to press to take the picture. I say, I’ve got it, and ask if she’s ready. She nods and smiles, then swings around the pole with one arm up in the air. She cocks her head to the side and bends one of her legs up behind her.

I press the button she showed me, but nothing happens. So I press it again, and again. The smile fades from her face.

Everything all right? she asks.

Yeah. I raise my hand up and put the tip of my finger into my mouth. Biting down, I pull my hand out of my glove. I got it. Do it again, I say, words muffled by a mouthful of leather.

She raises an eyebrow. What?

Spitting the glove to the ground, I say, Ready when you are.

She poses, I take a picture. She poses again, I take another one. And another, and another. I’m not watching her, though. I’m looking at the screen on the phone. I put two fingers on the screen and slide them toward each other like I’m trying to pinch the image of her.

Jeff’s son, Jasper, showed me how to do this last Christmas when they bought me an iPad. He said it’s pinch-to-zoom, but that’s not right. It makes the picture smaller. I swipe my fingers away from each other and it zooms more than I expect.

Her face fills up the screen. Her cheeks are wind-kissed rosy with a single dimple on the left. Her lips, the same color as the red stripe on the pole that is no longer visible. Gray eyes with a splash of icy blue stare at me from the palm of my hand.

Okay, she says. There’s got to be a good one in there somewhere.

I swallow hard. They’re all good ones. When she walks over, I hand the phone back to her without saying a word. Her forehead is dotted with the faintest hint of perspiration.

You’re a lifesaver, she says. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink for your trouble?

I try to say something, but my voice catches in my throat. So I grunt again and shrug.

Back inside the Alehouse, we don’t go to my usual spot at the end of the bar. This wannabe Mrs. Clause leads me by the arm to a booth between the jukebox and the restrooms. It’s the only open table in the place. Damn Christmas tourists always crowd out the locals this time of year.

Jeff sees us come in. He leans over to the other bartender and says something. Then he pulls the towel off his shoulder, wipes his hands, and heads our way, grabbing two paper menus from the holder on the side of the bar as he walks past.

With a smile so big that the back of my neck prickles with gooseflesh, Jeff sets a menu in front of each of us. What can I get started for you? he says.

Something with peppermint. And whatever he would like.

Just a coffee, Jeff, I say.

She turns her head to look in my eyes and reaches across the table, resting her hand briefly on top of mine. Really, she says to me, whatever you want.

I pull my hand back and look up at Jeff. Black. Thanks.

Coming right up, Jeff says, winking at me before returning to the bar.

She watches Jeff walk away, then turns to me again. How can I pay you back for taking all of those pictures if you order the cheapest drink on the menu?

Water’s free, I say.

She laughs. A nice laugh—hearty, but not too throaty or loud. You know what I mean. Come on, let’s take a shot. Or at least let me get you a beer or something.

I don’t drink. I look down at my hands. Not anymore.

Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, she says.

No reason for you to be. I was in a bad way a couple decades ago. Town was kinda getting under my skin. Decided it was for the best.

She doesn’t say anything while Jeff sets my coffee down on the table. He sets a mug in front of her, too. It’s hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps. The perfect holiday drink, he says. I try not to gag.

Once he leaves, she leans across the table and takes my hands. Do you want to talk about it?

Not really, I say, taking a sip of coffee. And that was that.

Her name is Helen. She tells me all about herself. She came to town to celebrate. She says she always thought it would be a fun place to visit, but her husband—soon-to-be-ex-husband—would never take her. He never wants to do anything for her, that’s why she left him. And when she packed her things, the first place she went was the airport. The second was here.

I don’t tell her much. There really isn’t much to tell. Somehow, she likes me anyway. Her weekend trip turns into an open-ended vacation. After a month, she leaves the hotel and moves into my guest room. Then, to my bedroom. We get married six months later, on the day after her divorce is finalized.

2

Helen and I have been married for a year and a half. A few more months and I’ll be retired. Working for the railroad is a young man’s game. And I’m nowhere near a young man. I’ll be fifty-six in the spring, but my body will be about a hundred and four. I hit the arthritis jackpot when I turned forty. Rheumatoid, osteo, psoriatic, and gout. Lucky me. Ever since, I’ve been planning my retirement. And it’s close. Finally.

I probably won’t move when I retire. At least not right away. Helen loves it here. I understand. She made friends with damn near the whole town as soon as she got here. And if it were up to her, the Hallmark channel would play Christmas movies 24/7 instead of just in the winter and July. But I won’t have to come out of the house in the winter anymore. That’ll be good enough for now.

We are walking down Santa Claus Boulevard, just past the corner of Jingle All The Way. God, I hate all of the gimmicky names in this town. Helen says there is something she wants to show me. We go another block and she says, Close your eyes.

You’re kidding, right?

Just do it, she says, jumping behind me and