Tearful Holiday

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month, the prompt is “the Christmas season.” Cathy continues with wacky, weird Melvin.  

Her novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel or stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2023.

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Tearful Holiday

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

It’s the twenty-third of December. . .

Marie’s in tears.

“Snap out of it,” I screech. “It’s been long enough. Your kids are gone.”

She glares at me with that look only Marie can give. “Your kids?” she says. “Aren’t they OUR kids?”

I don’t know if she’s being funny or sad. Sad, I think. No—more than sad. She’s enraged. Mad! “Yes, of course. OUR kids. But we have William. One’s better than nothing, right?”

She stomps her right foot. Flails her arms. Tears roll down her chubby cheeks.

What the fuck! I’m your husband. No need to treat me that way. But. . . that look of hers. Better to retreat in defeat.

Minutes later after retreating, I return to the kitchen, where she’s bent over the stove. “Sorry, Marie. Yes, all three are our kids. Well, unless you cheated on me and got pregnant.”

She glowers again. “Melvin, I swear, you’re something else.”

What the heck! “Sorry. You’d never do that. That’s a given. Love you, Marie. Love you as much as the day we met.” My fingers are crossed. My hands behind my back.

She leans into me. Hugs me. It’s a beautiful embrace. I grasp her to my chest, feeling her saggy old-woman breasts against my lean chest.

“Don’t ever let me go,” she mumbles.

I pretend I don’t hear. I don’t think she wants me to hear. She’s still in grief mode, which I can’t fathom. Someone dies, they die. My parents died. My grandparents died. Great aunts and uncles, too. Her kids died—well, two of them. She’s not surviving. I am. I’m stoic. Strong.

Yes, they were my kids, too. I’m okay, but I’m a man. Men handle grief better than women. That’s what we’ve been taught.

“Merry Christmas, Marie.” I let her out of my grasp. Kiss her sweaty forehead. Smell a weird scent in her hair. She kisses me. I taste garlic. “Gotta go to the can.” I kiss her again. Rub her back.

I do love her. She’s the mother of my one remaining child.

“Love you,” she says.

I head to the washroom. I glance back. She’s looking at me. I wave. What a dork, waving to my wife several feet away. But she’s waving to me, too. What the fuck! Two wavers? Two dorks.

I turn. Amble to the washroom. Close the door behind me.

I sit on the hard, cold toilet lid.

It’s white. Clean. But cold.

I cry. I cry for my two daughters. I cry for William, almost lost at sea. I cry for Marie. I can’t cry for me. I’m a guy; men don’t cry—not real men. And I gotta be strong for Marie.

Gotta be strong.

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/