CHECKERS

A Christmas Story By

James Strauss

The hike was not a real challenge. It would have been impossible without his mom’s last gift, the special aluminum snowshoes. Tomas floated across the top of the pure white surface even though his backpack weighed almost as much as his own eighty pounds. He counted one out loud every fourth thrust of the webbed shoe, keeping track of the fingers of both of his mittened hands. With the day beginning to wane, and his count reaching ten thousand, he flowed between the huge pines, knowing he had covered just a bit more than nine miles. Nine miles of deep snowy pines, leaving the horror of his life behind, all the while knowing that even the large state of Maine wasn’t big enough to hide him. Only the hugeness of Canada could do that Tomas knew from his intense study of old geographic maps collected by someone who’d left them at the bottom of the cabin’s firewood box before he and his mom moved in.

            In two days, Tomas would be nine, big and strong enough to make his escape but not big or strong enough to confront his fake stepfather.  The thought of that manmade Tomas counted louder, until Harold began to protest, raising his meow with each voicing attempt. Although the sound was not his loudest complaint, the cat’s muzzle was squeezed through a crack in the cover right next to Tomas’s right ear.

            “Alright Harry, we’ll call it a day.  I’ve got to gather some dry wood from under the trees and you have to sniff everything in sight.” Tomas knew he would not lose Harold, as the fifteen-pound predator refused to step on snow. Tomas searched for the biggest pine among the giant evergreens until he found what he was looking for.

       It was a great wide branched pyramid of a tree, with extremely wide branches spreading at the bottom. Covered with over a foot of snow from the night before alone it looked to Tomas like a colossal gingerbread cookie with thick frosting. It was not a Christmas Tree really, because it had no lights or decorations, but it would have to do for both of them.

           There had been no real Christmas since his mother had died.

            Tomas crawled under the lowest of the branches, Harry complaining at the jostling.  Once underneath the boy laughed. It was wonderful.  He laughed out loud.

            “Plenty of old dry branches right here, “he informed the cat, before gently unstrapping the pack and easing the animal out. Before letting him loose, Tomas massaged the scarred lines of missing fur, six of them in number, one for each time Tomas had run away in the past.  Releasing Harold, he then removed the snowshoes, as the cat climbed inside the center of the tree, winding upward around the trunk until the boy could only hear him.

            “Don’t stay up there. As soon as I get a fire going, you’re going to want dinner. The only mice here are out under the snow, and you know how you are,” he yelled quietly with cupped hands.  It would not due having anyone having heard, as both of his last two attempts to get away had been thwarted by well-meaning strangers.  But this time, Tomas just knew it would be different. It was why he’d decided to take Harry. They were going to make it together or die together in the wonderfully beautiful forest of Maine.  There would never again be a terrible punishment delivered by the man his poor sick mother had thought would take care of Tomas when her disease became final.

            Before unpacking any of his supplies Tomas took out the roll of tin foil stored vertically on the side of the big pack.  He unwrapped four long sections of foil, approached the trunk of the tree, and began to work the material up against the bottoms of the lowest branches until he had what he thought resembled a flattened silver umbrella.

            Tomas read a lot. A lot. His mother said it was the people of the past teaching the people of the present about how to do things. You didn’t have to learn everything yourself.  The ‘Terrible Times Survival in Hell Guide’ had given up all of its information to the boy’s prodigious memory. He gathered and stacked pieces of wood, the smallest at the bottom. His stack eventually resembled a short thick Eiffel Tower, just as the guide said it should. With his Swiss Army Knife blade extended he opened a small can of Sterno, gouged out a good-sized chunk, and then shoved it carefully through the slots at the bottom of his ‘tower.’ Unscrewing the back of his knife handle, now his and not his fake stepfather’s any longer, Tomas took out a single waterproof match. He scratched it once, firmly on the shaft of the knife.  Quickly he pushed the burning sulfur tip into the Sterno. In moments he had a wonderful small fire, with its ascending heat drawing the cat back to his side.

            Tomas was nearly exhausted from his long escape. After consuming four cans of Vienna sausages with Harry’s assistance, he unfurled a piece of rug, covered himself with a shoplifted space blanket, and instantly fell asleep.  His last thought, with the cat lying on top of his small chest, was that he should have put more wood on the fire.

            An inner alarm awakened the boy.  It was too warm.  Adrenalin shot through him while fear froze him to the point where he could only lie and stare upward. A man sat, legs crossed, only inches away from him, one hand feeding small pieces of wood into the fire the other stroking Harold’s back.

            “You’re awake,” the man said, that’s good.  The snow’s so thick on these trees that carbon monoxide from your fire can be dangerous.

            Tomas stared at the huge man; his eyes unwilling to blink.

            “What’s his name?” the man asked, smiling softly at the pleased animal.

            “Harry,” Tomas squeaked out, trying to come to a sitting position as far from the man as possible.

            “Named after Harry Truman?”

            Tomas shook his head, having heard the name in school but not remembering.

            “No, after Harry Houdini.  Harry can get away from almost anyone or anything.”

            “Hmmm,” the big man observed, “seems like he’s had a few close calls.”

            “My fake stepfather hurt him,” the boy replied, surprised at himself for answering truthfully.  Tomas clutched the willing cat back to his chest, dislodging his shirt and sweater. He quickly pulled the material back into place, noting the man’s eyes becoming more in tentful.

            “What’s your name?” the man asked, looking away to stare deeply into the fire.

            “Tomas.”

            “I suppose that’s after somebody famous too?” The man inquired.

            “Tomas Aquinas,” the boy responded.

            “Who’s that?” the big man asked, frowning.

            “The famous saint!” Tomas said, forcefully. “Haven’t you been to school?”

            The man smiled but did not respond.

            “But they call me Checkers at school.  How’d you find me so quickly?”

            The man frowned again. “Find you? I wasn’t looking for you. I’m hunting.” He pointed toward a nearby branch, against which a rifle leaned.  A rifle like none Tomas had ever seen.  It looked more like a machine gun from a television movie than a hunting rifle.

            “What are you hunting,” Tomas asked, a glimmer of hope beginning to glow in his chest.

            “I don’t know. I’m trying to learn to hunt again. I just can’t seem to do it. So, I’m out here trying. Maybe I’ll shoot a Christmas buck,” the big man answered, scratching the top of his totally bald head.

            “How can you forget how to hunt? Nobody forgets something like that. That’s just dumb,” the boy shot back.

            The man massaged his forehead for a long moment, until Harry pawed him for a bit more attention, which surprised Tomas as the cat did not normally take to any humans but him.

            “I was in some places you probably have never heard of.  I was in something called Desert Storm, and then Afghanistan.  After I got home, I went out to hunt, which I always loved, but found out I couldn’t do it.  The man shrugged with both long arms extended when he finished, revealing a blue tattoo atop his right wrist.

            “Don’t you just aim that rifle at something and then pull the trigger?” the boy inquired, pointing at the menacing weapon.

            “Yeah. But I can’t do it. I can’t pull the trigger anymore. And it’s like the animals all know it.  Earlier, just after dawn, a big buck walked right up to me, snorted, and then walked away, like he knew.”

            “He did know. Like Harry knows,” Tomas concluded. “It’s okay though, ’cause I’ve got plenty of Vienna sausage. Harry and I love Vienna sausage.” He rummaged through his pack pulling out two cans before handing one to the man.

            “What’s your name and how’d you get that tattoo?” the boy asked, as he and Harry rapidly consumed the small, canned sausages.

            “I was with the French Foreign Legion, but I wasn’t a Legionnaire.  I was a Marine, but hey liked me so they gave me the tattoo.” He held the bluish-gray patch with a big two in the center for the boy to see.  “Names Jim Nelson, but they call me Hugo.”

How’d you get your scars?”

            Tomas ignored the last question.  “After the author, Victor Hugo?” he inquired, proud of himself for remembering.

            “Nah, ‘You Go,’ not Hugo.  They looked at each other for a few seconds and then began laughing.

            “The scars.  Where’d you get ‘em. That’s why they call you checkers?” Jim asked, his tone turned back to serious.

            The boy nodded with a sigh, unconsciously rubbing his stomach.  “My fake stepdad takes hangers and straightens them out.  When you get hit by the end of the wire it leaves a very small mark, like a little ‘v’ or checkmark,” he held up his hand very close to Jim’s face so he could see.  One of my teachers said that the marks would probably fade with time, so I’m just waiting.  He put his hand down and finished eating what Harry had left of the sausages.

            “What are you doin’ for Christmas,” Jim asked, to change the subject.

            “Goin’ to Canada,” Tomas answered, wiping his mouth with one sleeve of his sweater.  “We’re staying here for Christmas.  This’s our Christmas tree,” he waved one hand up and around at the tree surrounding them.  Harold jumped up and crouched down on a branch just over their heads.

            “What about music, decorations, and presents?” Jim asked, in a disconcerted tone.

            “We don’t need any of that, and I brought this.” The boy hauled out a thick two-piece flute and started screwing it together.  “My Mom taught me,” he went on with a great smile.  “And we’re not going back.  Not ever.  Even if we don’t make it.” Tomas’s smile left his face, as he stopped his labor for a moment to look Jim in the eyes. “We’ll die here in the wonderful forest before we ever go back.”

            “Okay,” Jim said, after a moment’s reflection.  “Okay.  We can do that. You can go with me.  Barbara, my wife, is back at the cabin a few miles from here.  She’ll think you are just great, and she loves cats.  Her cat died awhile back so you’ll have to watch Harold, or he’ll run off with her.”

            The boy looked at Jim with a frown, then laughed when he realized that the big man was teasing him.

            “My fake stepdad will come looking for me.  I’ve got to keep moving,” he said, in a whisper.

            “Why do you call him fake?” Jim asked.

            “Cause he’s not real.  He and Mom never got married.  Never did the adoption thing they’d talked about.  But nobody really knows that.”  He finished assembling the flute and blew a few experimental notes.  Holding the instrument like a professional, he delayed for a moment.  “You can’t help me.  He’s really tough and he’ll hurt anybody who helps me. Said he would kill them.”  The flute sank to his crossed legs in surprise as he watched the big man across from his start to laugh.

            “Oh, that would be so wonderful,” Jim said when he settled down. “I haven’t gotten to do anything like that for some time.  That would be such a Christmas gift from God.  And you won’t have to go to Canada, I’m thinking unless we want to.  And Checkers isn’t your nickname anymore.”

            The boy stared at the smiling man, seemingly so elated at the idea of meeting his brutal stepdad.  He took him in, eyes sweeping over to the automatic rifle leaning against the branch, then down at the man’s tattoo.  Suddenly a warm feeling began to flow through his entire being.  Being with the man felt safe.  He realized that he had not felt that way since his mom died.  And the man had said “we,” not “you” about going to Canada.

            He started to play the flute, moving through the haunting notes of the entire piece without error until he was finished.  The man before him brushed a tear from one eye, trying to hide the fact.

            “What was that song?  I’ve heard it before, but I didn’t know it was a Christmas song.”

            “Mom said it was the best one of all.  It’s about not being loved and being sad about it and how everything turns out okay anyway if you keep on going.”

            Jim nodded, putting a few more sticks on the fire.  His life had changed again, and he knew it.  They would leave the Christmas Tree soon, but he wanted to stay under it, with the boy and his cat, for as long as he possibly could. Besides, he thought to himself, it would take some time to work out a new nickname for the boy.