What You Need Most: Finale

Following is the final installment of Tracy Hurley's Christmas story, "What You Need Most", which was published in Christmas is a Season! 2009. 

I hope you have enjoyed reading about Marshall, a recent widower, and how his wife influenced his first Christmas without her. Tracy was a very special person in the lives of many people, and it has been a pleasure to honor her this way.

What You Need Most

by Tracy Hurley

On the way home, Marshall pulled into the strip mall near his house to exchange the black boots for more practical Timberlands. He had a lot of yard work to do if he was going to sell the house. The mall was busy, so he had to park several stores down from the shoe store. Before he got of the car, he pulled out the Honey-Do list again and scratched off the last item. He crumpled it up and tossed it in the console, then grabbed the boots.

When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he activated a set of automatic doors. When they slid open, his heart clenched. He'd parked right in front of Pet Station. The last time he'd shopped there, he'd bought Buster's red rubber ball. He tucked his head and hurried up the sidewalk.

Behind him, he heard, "Santa! Santa, wait!"

Marshall remembered he was still dressed in the baggy red pants, holly covered suspenders, white shirt, and candy cane striped vest. He should have changed. He picked up his pace, sure he'd lose control if some nutcase asked to sit on his lap.

Too late. The nutcase tugged on his shirtsleeve. Marshall whirled, his fist clenched, ready to pummel the guy.

"Santa?" The young man wore a green Pet Station polo shirt. "I'm sorry, but when I saw you walk by, I had to ask you."

"Listen, buddy. I can't promise you'll get that tricycle you want. Or anything else."

The man laughed. "No, nothing like that. I'm Jason, the pet store manager. Were in a pickle, and you could really help us out." He steered Marshall back toward the pet store entrance. The door slid open again revealing the worst looking Santa that Marshall had ever seen. Painfully thin and no older than twenty, his cheap Santa costume hung lifelessly from bony shoulders. His cotton-ball beard drooped below his own dark stubble.

"Darryl stepped in when the real Santa cancelled," Jason said. "He's a great kid, but we're doing our Pet Pictures with Santa. It starts in twenty minutes, and the animal shelter people are already here for their annual adoption drive."

He glanced around, and his voice became a pleading whisper. "Kids come to this."

A tow-headed boy, holding a turtle stopped and stared at the awful. A puzzled line deepened between his hazel eyes.

"I'll do it," Marshall said. I will keep the magic alive.

"Great! I'll show you where you can finish dressing. You've saved our event, Mr. . . ."

"Santa Marshall."

"Name your price, Santa Marshall," Jason said, racing toward a woman holding a camera.

Most of the animals were well behaved. Marshall still got smacked, pinched, spit-up on, sneezed on, and peed on. And he was pretty sure that cranky bulldog thought he was "a bid old doo-doo head," but he was okay with that. Marshall smiled through dozens of photos with cats and dogs. He mugged with parakeets, turtles, ferrets, guinea pigs, a snake, and a goldfish in a plastic baggie. He beamed when a kid brought four boxers, one kissing his cheek, just as the flash went off. He was still smiling when he climbed into his car and headed for home. For payment, he'd picked out a puppy for adoption, a mutt with eyes the color of caramel.

After a quick turkey and stuffing sandwich, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He had some packing to do. He took Elaine's gardening Crocs out of his closet and set them in the Goodwill box. Shannon had left. By the time the news came on, the box was full. That's a start, he thought. Maybe more tomorrow. There was no rush.

When he folded his clean Santa pants over a hanger, ready for next weekend, a piece of paper fluttered form one of the pockets onto his bed. He had to hold it at arms' length to read the loopy writing.

Dearest Marshall, I know this gift isn't the one you most desired, but I knew it would be the one you needed most. All my love forever, Elaine.

Marshall kissed the paper lightly and slipped it into his shirt pocket.


 

A Very Merry Christmas to all of you. Thank you for being loyal followers and making our year bright.  Mahala

 

What You Need Most: Installment 4

Sorry to keep you in suspense. Here is more of Tracy's lovely story, a story that reminds us how hard it can sometimes be to bring joy into the Christmas Holidays.

What You Need Most

by Tracy Hurley

When Marshall got home from class that afternoon, he was met by the delicious and unaccustomed aroma of dinner cooking. Sarah, his youngest, had drawn the "Thanksgiving with Dad" straw.

"You didn't have to cook," he said, tousling his grandson's white-blond hair. "I was going to take you out."

Both boys chimed, "McDonalds! McDonalds!"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Clearly, it's been awhile since you've dined out with four- and six-year old wigglybutts."

"Wiggly butts?" Preston asked, wiggling in his chair.

Jayden, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, wiggled his bottom too.

"You're all wigglybutts," Marshall said, winking at the boys. "And when is Daddy Wigglybutts going to arrive?"

The boys giggled, but Sarah frowned. "He called. He can't get away. Something about a difficult client. He's going to the office on Friday."

"Then don't bother cooking Thanksgiving dinner," Marshall said, taking a slice of meatloaf. "While everyone else is dining at home, the Wigglybutt family will have the whole restaurant to ourselves."

"Da-ad," Sarah moaned. "The turkey's already defrosting, and I have pies in the oven. Besides I like to cook, and you'll have lots of leftovers after we're gone."

Marshall had taken a bite of mashed potatoes when Preston said, "Where's Buster, Grampa? I wanna play with him."

Marshall choked, but managed to sputter, "Sorry," through a coughing spasm. He pushed away from the table and headed for the kitchen, his eyes tearing up and still hacking into his napkin. He stood at the sink and sipped water while he caught his breath.

Although she spoke softly, he heard Sarah say, "Remember, I told you that Buster is up in heaven playing ball with Gramma. Talking about both of them makes Grampa sad, so let's not say anything else."

"Why does it make him sad?" Preston asked.

Because Grampa misses them."

"Can we come to live with Grampa? He wouldn't be sad then."

"No, but Daddy would be sad if we left him alone."

"Maybe Grampa can come live with us."

"Preston," Sarah said, "that's not a bad idea."

Marshall set his glass in the sink. He could sell the house and move closer to Sarah and the kids. He tapped the dog tags he'd hung from the hook that used to hold Elaine's spider plant. They spun, glistening in the fading November twilight. He' had spread Buster's ashes in Elaine's flowerbed just beyond the window. How could he leave Buster? How could he leave Elaine?

Fortunately, no one mentioned him moving again. Sarah cooked up a Thanksgiving dinner that would have made Elaine proud. While the kids were napping, Marshall took a cup of coffee and a slice of pecan pie out back. The barely-used, zero gravity chairs were put up for the winter. He sank into his old aluminum chair.

When he'd finished the pie, he pulled the Honey-Do list from his pocket and penciled out the next-to-the-last item, re-web chair. After his shift at the mall, he could cross out the last item on the list - Santa School.

*

On Sunday morning Marshall took Sarah and the kids to the airport before heading to the Remington Plaza Mall. He changed in the employee lounge and waited until Santa Carlos finished his shift. Marshall's stomach fluttered as he walked through Santa Land, a large expanse of fake snow with robotic, toy-making elves and animated snowmen singing Christmas songs. He sat in the large gold throne and pasted a smile on his face.

By the time the giant Santa Land clock struck his shifts end at 12:55, Santa Marshall had been smacked, pinched, puked on, sneezed at, peed on, and told he was "a big old doo-doo head." His head pounded and his cheeks hurt from forced smiling. Santa Ralph had told them seventy-five percent of children under the age of ten were terrified of Santa. By Marshall's reckoning, it was closer to ninety-eight. And those over ten didn't believe in Santa anymore, so they came for the fun of trying to make him break character. A couple almost succeeded.

When Santa Marshall finally trudged back to the employee lounge, he found Santa Ralph by the employee refrigerator eating from a Tupperware container. He took a big forkful and asked, "How did it go?"

Marshall sighed. "It wasn't what I expected." He pulled off the heavy black boots.

"It never is."

"Christmas isn't what it used to be. If the kids weren't asking for Xboxes or iPhones, they wanted hang gliders and ATV's and jet skis. What happened to baseball gloves and bicycles and pogo sticks?" Marshall slipped on his boat shoes.

"Mall duty is the toughest. In this economy, you're lucky the kids weren't asking for jobs for their daddies, winter boots for their sister or brother, or a sack of groceries. Playing a mall Santa isn't for everyone. My advice: find yourself a nice department store gig. Maybe a holiday parade. Office parties - now those are fun!"

"Thanks for the tip." Marshall was too tired to change into his street clothes, so he gathered up his coat and hat and headed for the door.

"Don't forget your diploma." Santa Ralph handed him a red and green certificate. "I have to go cover Santa Brad's shift."

Join me next Monday for the unexpected conclusion of "What You Need Most".   Mahala

What You Need Most Part 2: Tracy Hurley

 Scroll to archive below and click on December to find Part I of the story, "What You Need Most."

What You Need Most

Tracy Hurley

"Dad, I understand you want to hang onto Mom's jewelry," Shannon said. "Maybe even some of her personal things like her apron. But this is, well, just silly." His eldest daughter stood in the bathroom doorway and held up her mother's toothbrush.

"You're right, dear," he said, lifting Elaine's old gardening Crocs out of the waste can and placing them inside his closet.

Shannon dropped the toothbrush into the kitchen trash bag looped over her wrist. The toothbrush fell to the bottom, barely causing a ripple.

"Well, there. We've finally made some progress." Shannon peered into the nearly empty bag, but when she looked up into his face, she dropped the bag and wrapped her arms around him. "I know this is hard, Dad. It's hard for me, too. But it's been five months."

"Five months, one week, and three days." He backed out of Shannon's hug and forced a smile.

Marshall wondered if she had been designated by her two sisters for this duty because she lived the closest, or because she was the least sentimental.

Downstairs, a high-pitched whine grew louder and more insistent.

"What's wrong with Buster?" Shannon asked.

"Arthritis. He can't manage the stairs anymore. I got him that orthopedic bed in the living room, but he doesn't like being left alone." Marshall shrugged.

Neither did he.

Shannon nodded. "How about we start small and just tackle Mom's dresser for now?" she said a little too brightly. "We can make two piles. You choose what to keep and what goes to Goodwill. Okay?"

""Okay," Marshall said, though it didn't feel okay at all.

A half hour later, they'd sorted through three drawers in the highboy. Marshall was surprised to see that the Goodwill pile towered over the to-keep pile. Maybe he was beginning to heal.

"Two more to go." Shannon pulled open the next-to-the-bottom drawer. It was crammed full of Christmas presents decorated in brightly colored papers and ribbons, each with an envelope taped beneath the bow. She slammed the drawer shut and glanced at her father. "Sorry, Dad." When she eased the drawer open again, they both peered inside.

Marshall's mouth went dry. "Your mother always bought extra Christmas presents."

"I don't think these are extras. They've got cards on them with names on the cards. She must have sat wrapping these all the while knowing..." Shannon's voice squeaked. Marshall hugged her and she buried her face against his chest. He rubbed her back until the hiccupping sobs stopped.

Shannon disengaged herself. She swiped her cheeks, then handed him the large package on top.

All day Marshall had mustered a tight command on his emotions, tamping them down whenever they bubbled up too close to the surface. But one glimpse at his name written in Elaine's familiar loopy handwriting, and a raw ache flooded through him.

"I have to go check on Buster," he croaked and stumbled down to the garage. As he squeezed the large box under his arm, the silver wrapping paper blurred until it looked like he was carrying a ball of light.

Marshall set the package down on his workbench and blinked hard until his vision cleared. Behind him, Buster's toenails clicked across the kitchen tile and through the open door into the garage.

"It'll be okay, buddy." Marshall slid a thick finger under the cellophane tape, and the envelope slid loose. On the cover of the card stood a snowman and snowwoman in matching scarves sharing a milkshake under a starry sky. His hands shook as he took out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it, struck again by the familiar handwriting.

My Darling Marshall,

The next time I go to the hospital, I know I will be leaving for the last time. Please don't grieve too hard. I've had a wonderful life with you and the girls. While it saddens me to think I won't see our grandchildren grow up, I know you will tell them how much I loved them.

If I'm not home for Christmas, I suspect it will have long passed before you - or more likely Shannon - find these gifts.

Once I'm gone, I worry that you will cocoon yourself in this house with no one for company except Buster.

The words blurred, so he set the letter down and ripped the silver paper off the box. He removed the top of the box and pushed aside a layer of green tissue paper, revealing a manila file folder on top of something bulky, woolen, and bright red. Elaine knew he never wore red - with his round beer gut he'd feel like an over-ripe tomato. He exhaled, an uneasy disappointment settling over him. He realized he'd been hoping Elaine had left him some magical gift that would ease the pain and loneliness. Instead, she'd given him red pajamas.

He pulled a glossy brochure from the folder. On the front, a man dressed as Santa Claus smiled. He sat on a gold throne and a little girl, her head haloed with ringlets, perched on his lap. SANTA SCHOOL was written in bold letters across the top, followed by: "Santa Claus is coming to town, and that Jolly Old Elf could be you!"

What in the world? Marshall shook out the woolly bundle, and it unfolded into a big red coat cuffed with white fur and matching pants. A stocking cap fell to the floor. Buster sniffed the holly sprig on the fuzzy brim. Marshall picked it up by the pom-pom and tossed it back in the box before pulling out another paper from the folder. He squinted at the small type, a prepaid registration receipt and course syllabus.

"Putting the Ho! into Ho! Ho! Ho!" he read aloud. Then he turned to Buster, "Why would she think I'd want this?"

Buster nuzzled his hand in reply, and Marshall scanned further down the page. The course started in November, ending with a practical final exam during Thanksgiving weekend at the Remington Plaza Mall. Two weeks before the anniversary of Elaine's....

He slammed everything back into the box and mentally noted the deadline for a full refund. October first. 

*

When Sophie found them, Marshall was raking leaves in the backyard while Buster lay on the grass, bathing in the late morning sun. She carried two mugs, steam swirling around her gloved hands.

"Coffee, black," she said and handed one of the mugs to her father.

Marshall leaned the rake against the trunk of a maple tree. "There's a nip in the air."

Sophie sipped from her mug. "Dad, can I help you sort Mom's stuff while I'm here?"

"Naw. I'm getting to it. Besides, you're a worse packrat than I am."

Sophie laughed. "Come on, birthday boy. I've got a surprise for you." She took his hand and led him to the driveway. Buster padded behind. With a push of a button and a squeal of metal, the garage door rose revealing two patio chairs in the empty car bay next to his Ford Explorer. Buster trotted over and sniffed them.

"So what are these?" Marshall asked.

Sophie beamed. "Shannon, Sarah, and I chipped in together."

"Thanks." Marshall said, putting his arm around Sophie.

No webbing, he noticed. A single sheet of canvas-like material was tied to an aluminum frame that was bent into a sitting position. "Are they rockers?"

"They're zero-gravity chairs." Sophie nudged him. "Try one."

"I don't have anything against a little gravity. Keeps you grounded," Marshall said. "Does it recline?" He plopped down in the seat, then gasped as his feet swung out from under him, and he fell backwards. Buster started barking frantically as the chair swung to and fro.

"Sorry, Daddy!" Sophie grabbed his arms, slowing the swaying chair until it came to a stop. "I forgot to set the lock."

Marshall lay panting, still reclined with his feet higher than his head, the chair rocking slightly. He startled when something warm and wet squished in his ear. "I'm okay, Buster." The dog lay down next to him but continued a low growl at the chair.

Sophie dropped into the other chair, and it oscillated gently until she too rested in a semi-reclined position. "See, it automatically finds the perfect position based on your body frame. Good for your back and your heart. It helps relieve tension."

Marshall laughed and patted is chest. "I'm going to need it. He couldn't shake the feeling that the chair was about to pitch him on his head.

Sophie smiled at him. "You'll get used to it. Now you can get rid of that ratty old one."

"But I just put new webbing on it. It's like new."

"I can take the chairs back - "

"No. Like you said. It'll just take a little getting use to." He couldn't tell her that sitting in the zero-gravity chair gave him the same sense of imbalance that he'd felt after Elaine died.

I hope you are enjoying reading Tracy's special story.  Next section will be posted next Tuesday, December 9.    Mahala

Order Christmas Is A Season! 2009 edited by Linda Busby-Parker on Amazon.

Remembering Tracy: What You Need the Most

Taking a note from cj, my thoughts turn to Christmas. Since our fellow blogger, Tracy Hurley, moved to Heaven on December 1, 2010, memories of her abound this time of year. The consummate editor who taught many writers how to look deep inside their work and bring forth the kernels of emotion and truth, Tracy never used harsh words to critique our work. She guided and taught us how to be more articulate writers, producing stronger scenes and characters. It amazes me how often her name crosses my lips four years later as I teach and talk at workshops. It amazes me how often I hear her name cross other writers' lips as they talk about critiquing and revising their work to meet Tracy's standards. It amazes me the huge number of people she touched with her humor and kindness. Tracy, you are very much alive in our hearts and memories!

Following in cj's footsteps, I decided to share a Christmas short story that Tracy wrote and had published in Christmas Is a Season! 2009.  I open with her comments about why she wrote the story, because it tells so much about who our friend was.

"Every day for two weeks this past April, I sat in a lawn chair in the backyard with our dog, Riley. [ he was a very rambunctious boxer.] He'd been diagnosed with inoperable cancer and wanted to spend his last good days lying under his favorite tree. I spent many bittersweet hours enjoying his company and journaling while he watched the squirrels., listened to the mocking birds, and snuffled the various scents wafting on the spring breezes. The seed of "What You Need Most" was planted then as I contemplated facing the coming seasons and holidays without him."

What You Need Most

Tracy Hurley

For Riley

Marshall lowered himself onto the lawn chair, gripping the aluminum arms until he was sure the frayed seat would hold. Replacing the worn webbing had been on his Honey-Do list for months. He'd intended to get it done over the winter, but, as with everything else, he thought he'd have more time.

The chair settled into place, stable for now. Buster, who'd been fervently sniffing underneath the barbeque grill limped over to Marshall and lay down across his feet. He dropped his red rubber ball  between his front paws and panted contentedly.

When buster looked up at him, his caramel-colored eyes dulled by a milky sheen, Marshall rubbed his head. "When did we get so old, eh, buddy?"

A squirrel dashed past them and skittered up the trunk of the old sugar maple by the tool shed. Buster woofed once, but didn't stir. Last year he would have scampered gleefully after the trespasser, who now teetered on a low branch, chattering at them.

While Marshall wasn't paying attention, the buds on the maple tree had burst into leaf clusters. He remembered he'd had to wipe off a thick, yellow coat of pollen from the small cedar patio table before setting down his glass of Sprite. Spring had snuck up on him. The paper white crocuses in Elaine's flowerbed had come and gone, the bright yellow daffodils too. Already the heads of the late-blooming tulips drooped, red petals littering the flower bed. He'd planted the bulbs last fall while Elaine was getting treatments, savoring the look of surprise that would cross her face when her favorite flowers emerged. He sighed. He was old enough to know that things rarely turned out the way you expected them to.

The old chair lurched sideways. Marshall grabbed the arms and planted his feet, ready to abandon ship if the last of the webbing gave way. But the chair only listed to the left, sinking into the rain-softened sod he'd laid when he wasn't at the hospital. Buster picked up his ball and cocked his head at Marshall, now with a little surge of energy, ready to play.

"Sorry, buddy. False alarm." Marshall bent and scratched buster's back, and his stubbed tail wagged furiously.

Buster's tail would have been a menace had the breeder not docked it before Elaine picked him from a litter of seven puppies. Elaine had refused to clip his ears, thought, saying it was cruel. Besides, she'd told him the long floppy lobes were more expressive. Marshall hadn't cared either way. Twelve years later, he couldn't imagine Buster any other way. Elaine had dubbed him Otto's Maximilian of Ulrich on the AKC forms, but after Marshall kept referring to him as Buster, as in "Stop chewing my shoes, buster," or "listen, buster, if you pee on my pant leg one more time...," the name stuck.

A soft breeze scented by cut grass, loamy earth, and sweet lilacs ruffled Marshall's thinning hair. A leaf blower droned in the distance. He should lime the grass, clean the rain utters, sharpen the lawnmower blades. Instead, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his flannel shirt and unfolded it. As long as items remained unchecked on Elaine's last Honey-Do list, Marshall could pretend he still had time to take her on a cruise to Alaska, remodel the attic bedroom into a craft room, or go dancing at that fancy hotel at the beach. The should-dos were easy to ignore; it was the should-have-dones that kept him awake at night.

"Come on, Buster." He pushed himself out of the chair. "We shouldn't keep Shannon waiting."

To be continued on Friday, December 5, 2014   Mahala