C8 Christmas Day

In the dream, he was just a boy. He was fishing with his father in the small bay. The fishing wasn’t so important. It was being with his dad. Fishing was what they did together.

His father was sitting in the rear, by the small outboard motor. It was not a powerboat. The powerboats raced up and down the channels, displaying their speed and glitter. The powerboats never noticed the humble rowboat with the small motor on the back, still and anchored.

Billy and his dad ignored them, lost in some quiet meditation upon the quiet surface of the water and the unseen fish below and the affectionate union they shared, in spite of the fact that they said very little to each other, except for the excitement that erupted once a fish was hooked.

The net was within reach once they were hooked and lifted out of the water. Billy had learned to imitate his father in letting the fish just hang there and wriggle at the end of the hook once he lifted the fish out of the water.

It was always good for a laugh before one of them grabbed the net and let the fish fall into it before bringing it into the boat.

Once the bucket was filled with fish, they’d steer the boat back home, with Billy sitting on one side of the motor and his father on the other, his father letting Billy steer while keeping a careful eye on his seamanship.

Then Mom would fry fresh fish in the kitchen and boil up some fresh corn and cut fresh tomatoes on a plate.

In the dream, Billy snagged a fish. It was a small fish at first, but as he began to reel it in, the fish seemed to grow larger and stronger. Before long, he could barely wind the reel.

“You’ve got a big one, Oscar!” his father shouted.

He was Oscar McBain then. His father came over to help. They both held onto the rod, while his father tried to reel it in.

“It’s getting bigger every minute, Oscar!” his father shouted and both of them became giddy over the size of it.

Then the fish leaped out of the water. It was a big, ugly thing, with fangs rather than teeth. It was big and black and the size of a whale, it seemed. The one dead eye on the side of its head seemed to glare at the two helpless fishermen.

Suddenly, huge waves of black oil poured into the bay from either end of it. One wave overcame another and the rush of oil seemed mountainous as it hurried toward their little boat from every side. Billy was fascinated and terrified. His father seemed paralyzed.

Then just as the waves were about to break over the boat, the large fish spun on the tiny hook and, twisting its head, the mouth of fangs fully open. It snapped the little boat in half as the oil rushed over it.

Then the fish dove toward the bottom of the bay, pulling Billy and his father with it, still clinging to the rod. Everything was dead beneath the water. The seaweed was dead. The fish was dead. The crabs were dead. The lobsters were dead. The clams were dead. His father was dead.

His father drifted off in the oiled water, tumbling like a shirt in a dryer, his limp figure fading in the dead sea of night. Oscar drifted upward. He longed for light. But the closer he came to the surface of the water, the slower he drifted.

He began struggling toward the oxygen he thought awaited him and a sky filled with sunlight. But the oil-filled his lungs. The oil clogged his nose. The oil-sealed his eyes shut. His muscles became powerless. The oil resisted his desperate struggle. He struggled, even more, suffocating now, gasping, and finally letting the oil pour into his mouth in a desperate effort to save himself.

And then he reached the top, coughing and spitting oil, grasping the side of the rowboat, hoping to pull himself in, where he assumed he’d be safe.

Billy came out of his dream in the same way, as if he could not awake or reach the boat or find safety on any shore. He struggled toward consciousness, the world of daytime reality, something he assumed was more comforting than the dream oil sucking him back into the sea.

He felt a thump on the head. It was a hard thump. Even inside the sleeping bag. Even with his head covered. Even beneath the cape that lay over his sleeping bag.

He had crossed that line from dream to reality, and he knew he was awake and back in a world that was, he assumed momentarily, safer than his dream world.

But he couldn’t open his eyes to see what the thump was about. He was too exhausted to open his eyes. But then he felt the second thump. It was a harder thump. Something large and soft fell on top of him. He was lying on his stomach.

He rolled over to throw the thing off. He lay there frightened. He blamed it on the gods. Nothing had ever disturbed his peace in this part of town before. Except for the band of Sarah’s Soldiers on Christmas Eve.

He pulled down the zipper of the sleeping bag. He pushed the cape away. He peeked out of the sleeping bag. He saw the gun resting on the cardboard bottom of the Dumpster. He saw the body.

It was as if she was sleeping beside him, a lover turned toward him, perhaps waiting for him to wake and discover her gazing back at him.

He rubbed his eyes with his fists. She was still there. He ran the palms of his hands back and forth over his eyes. Hard. As if to shake his eyes alive and make them more accurate in what they represented. But she was still there.

She was an Asian woman. A tiny thing. Like a China doll. She had blond hair. Her eyes were done up like a Dragon Woman. She wore one stiletto heel. She was dressed in black leather, her bosom bursting out of the small tight jacket. She had a bullet hole through the center of her forehead.

Billy dragged himself upright. He pulled himself up to stand. He lifted the lid of the Dumpster. He saw a car driving off in the distance down a dirt road that surrounded the abandoned site.

Billy took a long look until the car was out of sight and then he lowered the lid. It was a Bentley. It was silver-gray.

Billy and his father loved cars with a passion when Billy was a teenager. They could spot a car by make, model, and year, and never be wrong. Billy and his father loved guns back in their hunting days. They could identify a gun by make, model, and year, and never be wrong.

Billy looked down at the gun. It was a Beretta. It had a sleek gray-black look. It was semiautomatic. Billy picked it up. The gun was still warm. He smelled the tip of the barrel. It burnt his nose. He removed the clip and slipped it into his pocket. He stuffed the gun in the rope belt that held up his pants.

Billy was in full panic. No time to think. Just time to move.

He lifted the lid of the Dumpster and propped it open with the two sticks that stood in the corner. He took a broad look around outside. He saw no one. His shopping cart was still there, lying on its side.

He looked back at the dead girl. He wondered what to do with her. Someone could find her here and come looking for him. But his sacred objects came first. He must secure their safety.

He climbed out of the Dumpster and set the shopping cart upright. He climbed back into the Dumpster and counted his objects three times.

• Small lamp, no shade, no bulb, no wire

• Golf club

• Flattened football

• Ouija Board

• Suntan lotion

• Handcuffs

• Whip

• Skateboard

• Broken toaster

• Purse

• Book in Japanese • Broken radio

• Frisbee

• Newspaper

• Sleeping bag

• Umbrella

Everything was still there. Nothing had disappeared while he was sleeping. So much had disappeared in the past that he couldn’t trust anything now. Then he lifted them out of the Dumpster, one by one, and set them in the shopping cart. He climbed out of the Dumpster with the American flag and lowered the lid. Then he counted all his objects again, to make sure nothing had vanished in the transition. Satisfied, he covered the cart with the flag. Then he pushed the cart down the dirt road.

After a while, he turned down the descent carved out of the site for trucks to pass into the deep wide hole. The hole was carved out of the landscape to build foundations for buildings that never were. He pushed the cart across the basin of the earth to the other side. He noticed that the band of Sarah’s Soldiers had removed the cross and body of the crucified homeless man. Only a light surface of ashes showed anyone had been there on Christmas Eve.

Billy suddenly realized it was Christmas. He had a sprig of holly in the Dugout. He had a bulb for a Christmas tree. He had bottles of prescription drugs too.

Billy began humming, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”