"James Van Pelt - O Tannebaum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pelt James Van)

O Tannebaum

by James Van Pelt




as it appeared in Weird Tales, Fall, '98




Christmas is about friends. You have to believe this and not get discouraged. Look
around you. Everyone here is poor--some poorer than you--some are crazy, but look
at them, eating turkey generous people donated, opening baskets full of clothes that
are meant for them. All gifts of love. All symbols of human kindness. Today, of all
days, you can't give up.
Here, pull up a chair. Grab a plate of turkey. Go ahead. Fill it up with dressing too.
Everybody always shares. As long as I've lived, people have been kind. Maybe
today I can give you a little in return for all that's been given me.
So there won't be any surprises, let me tell you something straight up front about me
as an explanation. This Christmas day, I turned twenty-one--it's my birthday, I think,
but not for sure. It's different for me. Lots of people don't know for certain when
they're born. They're abandoned at birth, so a birthday is assigned to them, probably
one pretty close too. A baby, you can tell within a month or two how old they are,
but that doesn't work for me. See, I have to count days, because for me, it's always
Christmas.
Well, that's not exactly true. Lately it's been Christmas--the last five years ago or so,
and for the five years before that, it was the last day of the Saturnalia. And before
that, one kind of winter solstice celebration or another as far back as I can
remember. My years, of course. Not your years. Really, for me, it's always
Christmas.
Like this morning, I woke up in this shelter. The cot felt solid under my back, and
the bed roll was worn but clean. Smelled old, you know, but not bad. Some folks
were already stirring.
Guy next to me sat up coughing. Young looking fellow. Maybe my age, but a real
dry cough that doesn't bring up anything, and he kept going for a couple of minutes.
"Got to quit these coffin nails," he finally said, lighting one up, tears still streaming
down his cheeks. He took a deep drag. "Gonna be a good one today. I can tell," and
he offered me a smoke. See, first thing that happened to me today was an act of
generosity.
I shook my head. People moving all around. Elderly ones, or the touched ones,
talking to themselves. Bundled up, mostly. Like that guy over there--three trashed
coats and two grimy scarves. Hat pulled over the ears. It's warm in here, but
homeless folk hold their clothes tight.
Gina entered my head then. I hadn't thought of her at first, and that made me sad,
you know, 'cause every time we talk now it's probably the last. Without a miss for
two-and-a-half months I've called her in the morning to say hi, to see how she is.
My months, that is, not yours. Like I said, everyday is Christmas for me, and for
me, two-and-one half months ago was 1917 when this soldier I met, Humphrey,