Bonanza
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
* Day 3 *

Summary:  How can one get through the self-loathing and grief at a time like this?

Rating:  G
Word Count:  2,070

My Story Index

Merry and Bright

He had become accustomed to the face in the mirror by now. Lifeless, exhausted, haggard, gaunt, unkempt; bloodshot eyes, deep frown, worry lines, corners of the mouth hanging down: his face. Definitely his face. Not the one he used to have, but the one with which he and everyone else were familiar now. Everyone from his family to his friends to his business associates to his drinking companions in the Bucket of Blood saloon to every stranger on the streets of Virginia City. Well, not so much to his business associates as he didn’t see them anymore lately.

Business still goes on, so someone else must have been seeing them, flicked through his mind, but was dismissed as quickly as it had flashed up. It wasn’t of any concern. Not anymore. More urgent matters on his mind.

Like how to survive another day without her? Like how to as quickly as possible get filled with enough booze to forget for at least a couple of hours?

He ran a hand over his unshaved chin, somehow revelling at the feel of stubbles on his skin. Hard, scratchy, stubborn. Resilient. He wished he were like that. Resilient. Instead he was mindless, uncaring. And numb… So numb for anything except for grief and misery and…

Well, self-pity. He stared at his face in the mirror. Oh, a clear moment, he heard a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like her. She would have said that, certainly, would have frowned and then smiled and lain her soft hand on his stubbles and chided him for not shaving, kissed him despite the scratchiness and told him to get a grip. And then he would have gone and got a grip. But she wasn’t here anymore to do that for him, and so he wouldn’t go and get a grip. Just a hold on the next drink, the next train to oblivion.

And what sense would getting a grip make anyway? It wouldn’t change the fact that she was gone, that he was alone, again, and that he would ever love that much again. Would never dare to. Three times widowed, he wouldn’t survive another. Wouldn’t chance it. He barely survived this time.

He wasn’t even sure he wanted to survive. But thinking was hard when you were in the booze, and the clarity that came in the short interludes of soberness when someone would forcefully send him home or to sleep it out at Roy’s office was painful and not welcome.

The clarity certainly wasn’t welcome this time around. He would have preferred to spend the day at the saloon. He preferred to spend every day at the saloon, sure, but on this particular day he felt even more inclined to be away from home— Ha, home! What kind of home is this without her anyway? He’d be better off somewhere where he could drink and forget in peace. But well meaning people had delivered him to his doorstep last night—Paul Martin, he seemed to remember—and now he was trapped in this house. There was no way he could escape, not on this day, and he wasn’t certain he would be let to drink himself into a stupor here. Would allow himself to do it, anyway. He wasn’t gone that far. Yet?

He remembered being dumped at the front door, remembered the knock and Hop Sing answering it and dragging him in, and he remembered Paul’s—yes, now he was certain, it had been Paul last night—Paul’s voice bidding them, “Merry Christmas” as he took his leave.

Merry Christmas! How was he supposed to— What reason had he to be merry?

He stared at his face in the mirror. “What reason have you to be merry?” he said out loud, startled at the roughness of his voice. A drinker’s voice. Shouldn’t come as a surprise, really.

The knock at his door, though, came as a surprise, just as the soft voice outside. “Pa? Are you up yet?”

Was he up yet? He bristled. He was a rancher. He was supposed to be up at the wee hours of morning, and yet this impertinent… All right, he was also a drinker, so the question, perhaps, was appropriate. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I am.”

There was a short pause, and then the voice again, sounding faintly surprised. Hopeful, too, and timid, “Pa, won’t you come down? Joe says he doesn’t want to open his presents without you.”

Timid. His son shouldn’t be timid, not about a simple request as his father to come down for the opening of presents at Christmas morning, but considering the past weeks, perhaps that was appropriate, too.

“And he really wants to open them.” The voice again, Adam’s voice, this time with his trademark silent amusement in it. “You know how he is on Christmas morning.”

Yes, he knew how Joe was on Christmas morning. The boy wouldn’t give his mother a rest till she allowed him to open his presents. “Oh, all right then, go and open them,” she would finally say in mock exasperation. “Allez, mon petit!”

But Joe’s mother wouldn’t be around this Christmas or any Christmas at all. And still Joe expected someone to allow him to see his presents—and apparently this couldn’t be one of his brothers, as Ben was sure they had tried. Or have they?

He gave his reflection one last glance, grimaced at his poor attempt of looking merry, and just gave up on it. His boys were used to his new face anyway. “Coming,” he grunted out, and then turned around to go and face the music.

As he slowly made his way downstairs he noticed for the first time how well-groomed the house looked. There was nothing out of place, no trace of dirt, no broken or dishevelled pieces of furniture or decoration—even though he knew he’d smashed some pieces when grief and anger had overwhelmed him. And yet everything looked just as it used to around Christmas time: well taken care off, orderly and cosy. Stockings were hung at the chimney, evergreens neatly arranged on almost every surface, crudely made paper stars decorated in the windows, and the old broken and mended sugar bowl sat onto the coffee table where, as it was tradition, breakfast had been served.

Next to the chimney, a small fir tree stood adorned with the Christmas decorations they had assembled over the years and crowned with the angel Marie had crafted together with Joe last December. At the foot of the tree there lay an assembly of presents, not as neatly wrapped as they had been in the past years, but it was clear someone had made every effort to try and come as close as possible.

Joe sat in front of the tree, still in his nightshirt, but with thick woollen socks on his feet and an afghan draped around his shoulders. He watched every step his father made intently, an anxious expression on his face that only slowly, tentatively melted into the smallishest of smiles. “Merry Christmas, Pa,” he said shyly, and then all but ducked as Ben frowned on him.

What reason have you to be merry? Ben closed his eyes for a moment and then managed a nod and, “Joe.”

At that Joe scrambled to his feet. “Look what Santa brought us, Pa! I didn’t open a single one, though,” he said. “I wanted to, but Adam said to wait for you.”

“Did he now.” Ben’s gaze darted to Adam, who looked down, all of a sudden apparently very interested in his feet.

In a split second, Hoss was at Adam’s side. At eleven almost as tall as his older brother and already broader, he said nothing, just stood next to Adam like a sentinel.

This is what has become of me, Ben thought. My middle son feels the need to protect my eldest from me. Marie, where did I go wrong?

Adam took Hoss by the shoulders and steered him to back his place at the breakfast table telling him something undistinguishable. Then he looked at Ben and waved his hand in direction of the settee. “Why don’t you sit down and have a coffee, Pa?”

“Yes, why don’t I,” Ben said slowly, and then, when he was seated, “I could as well eat a pancake, if you left one for your old man.”

He proceeded to eat his first hearty breakfast in weeks, and it didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared. Hop Sing had prepared everything to perfection, as usual. The pancakes were still warm and syrupy, the buns soft and sweet, the coffee hot and strong. As Ben added sugar to the black brew, he fiddled with the lid of the sugar bowl, marvelled at how well the bowl had been glued. The split from so many years ago was almost invisible. Adam had a good hand for delicate work, an apprehension for fine things, and a good sense of what was important and what had to be done.

A good sense of what was important and what had to be done. Ben put the lid down and leaned his chin on his clasped hands. He closed his eyes and slowly and deeply breathed out. And what has to be done. Like seeing to it that the business goes on. Like watching over his brothers. Like making sure there will be stockings at the mantelpiece, presents under the tree, and a tree to begin with. Like a million of other things I’m going to discover once I’ll be part of this family again.

“Pa,” he was pulled out of his musings. “Do you want another pancake?” Hoss had a pancake hanging from his fork. A quick check confirmed it was the last one, and from the looks of it, Hoss had it almost on his plate before he reconsidered and offered it to his pa.

Ben smiled. The first real and heartfelt smile since…since then. “No, Son, that one looks just as if it wants to be eaten by you.”

The pancake was on Hoss’s plate quicker than any food on any dish in the history of breakfasts, and almost as quickly wolfed down. It left behind an empty plate and a very content boy.

A boy who surely has had his hand in this little Christmas miracle, too, Ben thought. Glancing around, his eyes shortly stopped on the paper stars in the windows that clearly showed Hoss’s hand. The stars and who knows what else. Because he’s become Adam’s trusty adjutant in many ways.

Ben felt the smile on his face spreading, reaching his eyes. And as if he’d been waiting for this invitation, Joe propelled himself from his place at the foot of the tree onto the settee next to his father.

He carefully tugged on Ben’s sleeve. “Can I…can I open my presents now, Pa?”

“May I, Joe,” Adam said, “please.”

“Dunno, ask Pa,” Joe gave back, a little irritated. “Can we, Pa? Please?”

He looked…like Marie, which hurt and delighted all at once. And he sounds like a little boy who lost his mother but hasn’t given up his life, which should teach me something.

Ben felt something give in his chest. “You can, and you may,” he pronounced then. “Scramble on, little scallywag.” Joe was already on his way back to the tree when Ben added, “Allez, mon petit!”

Hoss and Adam joined Joe, Hoss almost as enthusiastic as his younger brother. Adam just picked up one present and brought it to Ben. “Santa apparently left something for you, too,” he said awkwardly.

Ben weighed the parcel. “Don’t know if I deserve it, though,” he mumbled. “Not for those past months.”

“Well, here’s a present anyway. So I guess you must deserve it.” Now Adam smiled, and it was only very little mocking in it. “Merry Christmas, Pa, and welcome back.”

What reason have I—oh, darn it. Ben snorted and shook his head, unbelieving. He looked up, at Joe and Hoss unwrapping presents as if there was no tomorrow, at Adam who had his head cocked a little in anticipation…what reason, indeed. You complete idiot!

And then he laughed, laughed so hard he almost had to shout to make it clearly understandable:“Merry Christmas, everyone!”

 

Link to the 2019 Advent Calendar – December 4:

Wrapping the Present by DJK