The Perfect
Gift
Hillary Lyon
“Are you
trying to ruin my Christmas?” Vic motioned to the artificial tree set up in the
corner of the den. A string of lights blinked weakly behind plastic balls and
limp tinsel. The area under the tree was bare. No presents this year.
Suzanne took
a sip of her eggnog, and frowned. She walked over to the bar and poured a
generous slug of whiskey into her creamy drink. “Everything’s always about
you,” she answered without turning to look at Vic.
He ignored
her comment. “Did you forget my mother is going to be here in less than a
week?” Vic clenched his fists and moved closer to Suzanne. “Go get a real
tree.”
“Too
expensive,” Suzanne replied. “We’ve had to tighten our belts, remember? No gift
giving this year, no neighborhood party, no donation to the church.” She took
another sip of her eggnog. More whiskey made it better.
“My mother
deserves a real tree!” Vic said as he turned and stormed out.
“And last
year, my parents didn’t?” Suzanne called out after him. His reply was to slam
the bedroom door.
* * *
Suzanne
visited several Christmas tree lots in town, but this close to Christmas the
only trees left were sad and skinny. Charlie Brown trees.
At the last
lot, when she asked for a more robust tree, Dave the vendor suggested she get
an ax and go cut down her own. He wasn’t being sarcastic; he knew his selection
at this time was disappointing. Dave offered to sell her a used ax at a 50% discount.
When she hesitated, he said he’d loan her the ax on the condition she return it
when she was through. He also drew a map for her pinpointing a stand of
acceptable trees, not far out of town.
Suzanne
thanked him. As she was leaving, Dave added that the trees were on private land
and she ought to be careful. Great, Suzanne thought. I’ll get shot
cutting down a tree for Vic’s mother. An appropriate sacrifice for his
household goddess.
* * *
Dave the
vendor’s map was surprisingly accurate. After Suzanne parked her SUV and hopped
over a wire fence, she easily found the stand of trees. She was relieved when
she looked around and saw no farmhouse, no cabin nearby.
Suzanne chose
a tree that she estimated would be an appropriate height for their den. It was
fairly full and smelled wonderful. In the growing dark, Suzanne chopped down
the tree quickly and dragged it back to the fence. She was grateful it was an
unusually warm December; no snow this year, so no tracks left behind. Only a
stump as evidence she’d been there.
The next
challenge was hauling the tree over the fence. With grunting effort, Suzanne
maneuvered the tree across the wire and shoved it into the back of her
SUV. It made the car smell fresh and
clean—much better than those pathetic pine-tree shaped air fresheners.
In spite of
her resentment with Vic’s demand that she get a real tree, she smiled. He’d
never know that she cut the tree down herself, with a borrowed ax, to save a
buck or sixty. His mother would have her tree, Vic would be happy, and she
herself congratulated herself on being thrifty. It was a win-win all around.
* * *
Suzanne had
the tree set up and decorated before Vic got home from work. Her arms ached.
She poured herself a tumbler of whiskey with a splash of eggnog. It helped.
“That’s
what you came up with?” Vic laughed, walking through the front door. No hello,
no home-coming kiss. Just criticism. Like always.
“How hard is
it for you to do a simple thing, like find a Christmas tree that’s not
lop-sided?” He didn’t even look at Suzanne, much less thank her for getting a
real tree for his beloved mother.
He moved
closer to the tree. “I mean, look at this—there’s a huge bald spot—right
here.” He threw his hands in exasperation. “And these tacky ornaments—you need
to toss this garbage and buy some new ones, some classy glass ones.”
Suzanne had
left the ax on the bar when she came home. Next to the whiskey bottle. Without
thinking, she put her hand on the worn wooden handle as Vic continued his rant.
“Whatever you
paid for this trash tree—consider that your Christmas present.”
Suzanne’s ax
came down on the back of his head. She used the blunt side, so Vic was knocked
to his knees. And the blade wouldn’t get stuck in his skull; that way she could
hit him again. Which she did.
From the
floor, on his knees, he finally turned to look at Suzanne. He feebly held his
hand up to ward off the next blow.
“As far as
presents go,” Suzanne said, raising the ax, “my gift to myself this Christmas
is the end of this God-awful marriage.” The ax came down with so much force
that the blade did, in fact, get stuck in his forehead. She had to press her
foot against his groaning chest as she pulled the ax handle, in order to
dislodge the blade. She left him bleeding out under the Christmas tree.
Suzanne
cleaned off the ax, packed a go-bag, and turned off all the lights in the
house, except for those on the tree. Seeing those colorful twinkling lights
made as her happy as she’d been as a child, excited for the surprises she’d
find under the tree on Christmas morning. So she left them on.
This year,
Vic’s body was the only present under the tree. This, she thought with
great satisfaction, is the perfect gift for his mother. She locked the
front door behind her. She’d return the ax to Dave on her way out of town.
