The Bells

He stared out at the water as it lapped against the shore. The moon was slight, but it was enough to trace the outline of the horizon. The tide came and went with that familiar sound. It was calming like an heirloom clock. He stared out the window facing east.

The water was boiling now, the sound of a locomotive. Still, he looked out at the ocean, the brine seducing his attention. The steam insisted. He relented. He had already poured the honey in the mug. “Red, White, and Brew” it said on the side of it in patriotic letters with a date of Independence Day 1994. He moved the kettle to a burner he wasn’t using revealing a bright, orange-coiled eye staring back at him. He turned off the stove and the orange subsided; its ferocity subdued.

Pulling the box of Constant Comment from the cabinet he took one of the packets and shook it out of habit, ripped it open and set the bag into the mug placing the red tag onto the counter beside it. Picking up the kettle, he poured boiling water over the honey. Immediately the water turned cloudy, light brown. A spoon was placed into the mug and stirring it he created a small whirlpool. As he released the spoon, the water took it, small chimes as it hit the rim of the mug. He left it there to cool as he returned to the window.

Still the water lapped, still the moon reflected, still the light traced the black ocean. This had been the third night in a row he couldn’t sleep. His tongue smacked inside of his mouth, and he decided to discard his patience. He went to the freezer and pulled out the ice tray, ringing it like a dishrag until it released two of its icy prisoners. He only wanted one, and only one did he take and place into the still hot tea.

He stood over it and watched it melt, watched it dissolve. He returned the tray to the freezer and the box of tea to the cabinet closing the door. Then he picked up the mug, pulling at the teabag’s tag like a maestro preparing to conduct Stravinsky. He raised the mug to his lips and was immediately met with warmth and the sound of a bell.

He set the tea down, spilling some onto the counter and returned to the window. The sound of the bell continued. It was faint, but it was the only thing save the lapping of the waves that he could hear. His eyes scanned the water, still the sound of the bell. Seeing nothing, he grabbed a flashlight from the drawer that held old rubber bands and expired coupons; quickly changed the batteries relieving the remote of its fuel; and snagged a jacket that hung from the peg beside the door.

The flashlight illuminated enough so he was sure he wouldn’t trip over any errant rock or driftwood. He looked out across the vast expanse of wet darkness that laid before him, the pealing of the bell growing in intensity. He swept his gaze up and down the shoreline, the sound of the water and the ringing of the bell now being joined by his worried wheeze. He couldn’t see a thing, no silhouette of a ship or fishing boat could he find. Still the bells grew louder and louder until he dropped his flashlight, it’s light now showing the fickle topography of the sand. He fell to his knees clasping his hands over his ears, but still the bells grew louder and louder as his tea turned cold in his empty kitchen.

Suddenly there he was again on his grandmother’s porch swing. The wind whistled through the magnolias and sweat collected under his arms. It was July and it was hot. The porch swing squeaked a repetitive melody while the church bells down the street announced the hour. His uncle sat on the porch near him with ice melting in his green glass of grandma’s famous sweet tea.

“Hot,” his uncle declared looking out over the front yard. “When did you say your parents would get here? It’s already three.” His uncle stayed looking out at the road. No cars passed.

“I can’t remember,” his boy lips mumbled.

His uncle turned his head and looked at him. He looked at his hair, brown and tousled. He took in his un-tucked school shirt and his secondhand jeans. His uncle’s hand gripped the green glass and sipped at its contents as the condensation cried onto his protruding belly. After his uncle gulped down the tea, he sighed a sigh that started with contentment and grew into boredom.

“What’d you say?” this time his uncle looked at him with his questioning.

“I can’t remember.” He said again.

“You can’t remember two seconds ago?” a small puff of air shot weakly from the uncle’s nostrils in disbelief.

“I can’t remember when they said they would be here.”

The uncle took a deep breath while his free hand massaged a circle around his belly, “I guess that gives us some time to get to know each other.” The uncle walked over to the porch swing and joined him, the swing squealing under the added weight. “What grade are you in now,” a grunt, the coarse clearing of a throat, “at school?”

He looked up at his uncle, who looked down at him, “I’m in the fourth grade now.”

“Wow, you really are growing up aren’t you?” the uncle laughed and patted him on the leg with one of his hairy mitts.

With that, the bells grew again. Though this time not from the church tower. The pealing of bells grew as his uncle’s hand lingered on his weak denim leg. The bells rang louder and louder in his ears. He could see his uncle’s lips moving but couldn’t hear a single word for the racket of the bells. His uncle’s lips moved on and on, but his hand stayed still.

Then there he was, tucked away in the warm sanctuary of Mary’s Lodge. The fire in the hearth was crackling ever present. His snow boots relaxed beside him as his feet were propped up on the fireplace, his toes regaining their strength.

The door opened and the bell that hung above it rang with a warning.

“Mary, I need a beer! It’s colder than a yeti’s gonads out there!” The man who owned the voice was a small man, but wide. He wore a large winter’s coat and his red nose poked out from under his yellow knitted cap. He had a full beard going white and stomped toward the fire as he took off his gloves, putting them into one of his coat’s pockets.

“Have you ever heard of manners? A simple ‘hello’ perhaps?” Mary pulled down a stein and began to fill it with beer. Her brown hair was pulled back out of her face and hung down the back of her red sweater.

As he sat in a chair by the fire rubbing his hands, the man laughed, “Pardon me! Hello Mary! Did you know it’s damn cold out there?”

He was able to catch a glimpse of her smiling as she filled the mug. Her hands were strong and capable. And in her eyes was a wolf waiting to pounce. She walked around the counter carrying the beer and set it on the table beside the man.

“I’m worried about the weather,” he said picking up the beer, not taking his eyes off the fire.

“We’ll see if you’re still worried after you’ve sat a bit.” Mary walked over to the window, looking outside. She moved with assuredness.

“I’m serious, Mary! It doesn’t look good out there. Not one bit.” He took a swig of his fresh beer and suds remained on his moustache when he set it down again.

“Well then Wallace, will you be needing a room tonight?” Mary stayed with her eyes outside.

The man grunted to himself and readjusted his seated position.

Then her eyes were off the weather and onto him. She turned from the window and the wolf eyes had him in their gaze. She walked toward him with her hands on her hips. He sat up a little.

“You’re a quiet one.” Her head cocked to the side, “Is there anything you need?”

He sat up taking his feet off the fireplace and set them below him. “No ma’am, the warmth is enough for now.” He said trying to feign confidence.

“You sure I couldn’t pour you a coffee?” She threw a log onto the fire. Embers shot up like fireworks.

“Actually,” he coughed, “a coffee sounds perfect.”

“Perfect,” the man called Wallace laughed, “you haven’t tried it yet.”

Mary smacked Wallace on the back of the head on her way to the counter.

“Mary,” Wallace talked, “you really ought to turn up that radio. I don’t know how you can’t be worried about a snowstorm brewing.”

Steam rose in front of wolf eyes as blackness fell into a fresh mug, “Do you take it with cream or sugar?”

“Nothing, thank you, as is is fine.”

Wallace shook his head and clicked his tongue, “I’m telling you outsider, you’re sure to want all the sugar she’s got.”

He smiled.

Mary smiled in secret and brought over the coffee, set it in his hands. Warmth in an instant.

“If you want the radio up, you can do it yourself.”

The man called Wallace shook his head and mumbled something under his breath standing up and walking toward the radio. Mary looked down at him and smiled.

“Is that all you need for now?” The wolf was there. The wolf never seemed to leave.

“This is perfect, thank you.”

She looked away from him and into the fire. A calm washed over him; a shroud of safety enveloped him.

Then they returned, the bells. Their whining ripping the blanket of tranquility from him, leaving him alone in a room from the distant past.

The white plastic phone screamed as the storm continued to rage against the hotel’s cellophane windows. He grabbed at the receiver and raised it to his ear.

“Can you hear me now?” his brow furrowed slightly, painted with worry, absent of anger. “Hey baby, you can hear me?” His brow then ironed out, dripping relief. He looked to the window seeing the water cascading. “I had to pull over. It’s bad here.” He stood up taking the phone with him, “Then turn on the news, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s bad.” He stood there barefoot on the cheap and ragged carpet.

“It wasn’t much. And it isn’t much.” He looked around, “A bed, a phone, a window.” He sat himself on the edge of the bed and the sound of a braking eighteen-wheeler filled the room. “I wish I was there too. I wanted to be. But this weather — ” He quickly and unbeknownst to even himself yanked up his right foot and brought it careening down to smash the worthless carpet. “Damn it!” His head leaned forward as his free hand acted as a support for his forehead gaining regret. “I wanted to be there for her first birthday.” His head shook back and forth, his body a cheap marionette at the mercy of the puppet master, his movements not his own, agony his guide. “Our first anniversary as a family.”

His thumb and middle finger turned white as they dug into his temples, his palm shielding his sight. “I know,” evaporated from his lips, “I know,” he mouthed. “Hold it to her, would you?” his back bent, rain against glass.

His ears filled with the sound of sloshing, then his puppet master pulled the strings as he warmly straightened his back and sat up. He could hear her breathing, his beautiful, healthy daughter just one small state away. He could hear her perfect pink lungs pulling in the terrible world and releasing vapor for the forests. His eyes unknowingly glistened. His own breath stolen from the moment he could hear hers and then immediately the iron curtain of silence

He stood faster than a gunshot and threw the phone on the bed turning to slam repeatedly the tabs that would end any call. “Hello? Hello? Mary? Damn it!” His fingers entered and re-entered the ten-digit code that connected him to his heart, but the silence was ever present. He couldn’t even get a dial tone. The storm rapped against the glass as he fell to his knees, the sound of her breathing echoing like thunder.

In the distance, a rolling hum; soft, seemingly imperceptible. Then it grew, slowly crescendoing as an old box of thingamajigs fell from the top shelf of the closet hitting the ground with a cacophony. Old keys to nowhere, class rings, pins, spelling bee medallions, they all rang together like bells. He bent down, cleaning up the lousy heirlooms, putting them all back into the old packing box repurposed for storage. The fall had rattled the dust and he felt the unmistakable tickle that would soon erupt into a sneeze. His chin rose from muscle memory and guided his eyes to something he hadn’t seen before.

The sneeze dissipated like a flu shot you don’t feel as he stood to reach for the object. His fingers gripped wood and he shimmied it out from under stacks of old clothes and photo albums. Soon enough he was holding it, a stained wooden box carved into the shape of a heart.

He weighed it in his hands. It was dense. The heart itself was bisected down the middle and holding the pieces together was a small, golden latch. His first instinct was to open it right away, but on second thought he considered what might be inside.

His mother was a private woman in her life and, despite this one closet, was a pretty neat person. She kept her house in order and her life was not so different. She was married to one man until he passed, and she never remarried. He couldn’t remember her ever raising her voice or losing her temper at all. From his point of view, she had everything together, but this box, this heart-shaped box had an air about it. He imagined what she would have done if she had seen him holding it. Would that have been the moment, the proverbial straw that caused her to finally lose her composure?

He walked the box over to the dining room table. He pushed aside a half-solved Norman Rockwell puzzle, a girl leaning forward over a church in the distance ready to kiss, it seemed. He set it on the table and looked at it. He went to sit, but only got as far as placing his hand on the back of the chair. It felt wrong, there was a pit of betrayal pulsing in his stomach. The latch was so inviting, but it had to be stashed away for a reason.

He felt his eyes begin to swell. He had to walk away from it all. His hands found the cabinet and a green glass inside. He pulled at the faucet and ran his hand under the water checking it was cool. He filled the glass and turned the water off. He tried to look out the window, but only saw his own reflection. He turned away leaning his backside against the counter and killed the drink.

His eyes traveled back to the heart. It truly was beautiful craftsmanship. It looked taken care of even though it was obviously quite old. He thought of his mother, taking it out and cleaning it from time to time. He thought of his mother opening it and delicately holding whatever it contained. He thought of his mother, his beautiful, quiet, thoughtful mother and decided.

The glass was placed on the counter as he walked over and grabbed the wooden heart. It was sturdy in his hands as he walked it back to the closet. Finding a nice, secure spot, he gently placed it back into the confines of the shelf and continued to clean the mess that remained. He leaned down to pick up the sundries and as they collected and collided in his hand, they rang out like the bells that now overtook him.

The man in the red suit rang the bell with less enthusiasm than a tenured lecturer. His beard hung down from his scraggly chin like cobweb decorations on Thanksgiving. Still, the occasional passerby would drop their pocket change into the red plastic bucket.

They didn’t talk as they walked hand in hand to the truck. He placed the groceries in the shotgun floor and then picked up his heart and placed her into the seat with a kiss on the forehead. He shut her door, knocked twice on the glass with his gloved knuckles, like he always did, then circled the Toyota and got into his own seat. As he pulled out the keys she asked,

“Does Santa know God?”

He looked over to her as he slipped the keys into the ignition unturned, “What makes you ask that?”

She fumbled to get comfortable sitting on her hands and looking out the window perplexed, “Only because they go to work together, right?”

He smiled, “Work?”

“Yeah!” she said, focused on her investigation, “because of Christmas. Santa must know God.”

His head nodded slowly finally understanding, finally piecing the puzzle together. “Well God knows all of us, he always sees us, and he loves you very much.”

Proud of his answer, he patted down the pom-pom of her winter hat then used the same hand to turn the key, the engine sputtered into existence.

“But Santa sees us too. All the time, right?”

He had thought the conversation was closed.

“What?”

“That’s what the song says,” her eyes met his, “That’s not real.”

His throat puffed up; something was stuck.

“What do you mean?” he spoke slowly, treading carefully.

“There’s no way for him to get around the whole world in one night.” She was rigid, “it’s impossible.”

He opened his mouth without any intended words and so only air left him. She continued,

“Unless he knows God. Like from work!” Her eyes lit up in discovery, “Right dad? Because God can do anything.”

His head nodded while he kept listening, an “of course,” slipped out.

“So they know each other,” she said it plain as day.

He reached over to turn the radio up. Chestnuts roasting as the truck began to back up.

“But Santa only visits Christians, right?” she kept on as he decided to commit to driving. She whispered under her breath for a moment, clearly working something out.

His hands tapped on the wheel, though not to the rhythm of the Christmas Song. Red brake lights filled the windshield like ornaments.

“And only Christians go to Heaven.”

A slight snow fell and collected. A man stood outside with a cardboard sign. A woman crossed the parking lot with a great big umbrella.

“Christmas or Hell. Those are the two choices, right?”

Whatever had been stuck in his throat cemented causing him to cough slightly. He reached for the radio, then without touching it returned his hand to the wheel. He didn’t know what to say. Then his hand reached out and completed the task, a silent cabin.

He took a slow breath, “What did you say, honey?”

“You either have Christmas or you go to Hell and burn forever. That’s it. That’s life.”

He took to nodding again. He just had to vamp long enough to get home. Damn holiday traffic. Then she shook her head and clicked her tongue.

“Who wouldn’t choose Christmas?” She looked out the window and he looked to her. A distant memory of another one he loved looking out at the snow. His mind could have gone in any direction, but it bee lined for proud.

He laughed as he agreed, “Suckers, that’s who.” He turned the radio back on.

Her eyes stayed pressed to the winter scene.

“Yeah, suckers.”

The groceries jostled in their plastic bags as the snow began to swell. At first, it was soft and beautiful like a dandelion wish gliding over a field. But then the snow shifted. Where before it was gentle, it quickly erupted into thin, icy razors cutting at the windshield; the sound of hail on a tin roof, a marching band drummer, offbeat and speeding up.

The snow became a blizzard in a matter of moments, large sheets of white dropping from the heavens onto the truck. He couldn’t see, blinded by frost. His right arm reached over to shotgun in an effort to protect his beating heart from any injury, fatal or otherwise, but all his hand felt was the tattered faux leather of the truck’s lackluster upholstery. Still the ice fell like white sharpened guillotines. He turned his head, and she was gone. Before he could register anything that was happening, the windows caved in, shattering like millions of crystals, diamonds filling the truck, glass and snow pouring in like whitewater rapids.

He dug through it all searching for her. The broken glass cut his hands and arms as he excavated the cabin, his red blood mixing with the white snow to make a pink slush of natural elements and the human condition. Still the snow gushed into the truck until it was overflowing. He screamed her name and with nowhere else to go, the malignant mixture of snow and glass and his own blood streamed into his mouth. Locking his jaw open, it forced its way inside, tunneling down his throat, through his broken esophagus and into his weak stomach. He could feel it, every freezing, tortuous bit of it as it quickly filled the balloon of his gut. It enlarged and stretched until it popped open, and the mixture spread throughout his entire person.

Soon there wasn’t one part of him that knew warmth. It wrapped around his lungs and sliced open his intestines. It cut through his innards and filled him like a rotting cadaver before it explodes into an avalanche of maggots.

He was ice when they returned, louder than ever before. Their resounding chimes tolled, giants playing with the instruments of the gods. Holy cymbals crashed and exploded with incredible ringing as he was entirely surrounded by ice and sound and frozen mortality.

Then with one final crash the bells ceased.

And so too did the snow.

The moon still was slight, a sharpened scalpel. Still, the water lapped against the shoreline, it ebbed and flowed with familiarity as his tea too turned to ice.