artwork: ralph murre
Christmas Night with Ukulele
by
John Sierpinski
I am twelve, sitting in a chair in a new striped
polo
shirt, and cuffed, corduroy pants. My
hair
is slicked with Vaseline and water, shaped
and
parted like Roy Rogers’. When I smile,
there
is a gap between my front teeth. The new
transistor
radio I unwrapped earlier crackles,
“Chestnuts
roasting…” Tinny. The radio
is
the size of a brick. Uncle Ted appears
at
the top of the basement stairs and says
“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christ…” He stumbles,
swallowed
into the great white, flocked tree.
The color coordinated ornaments and spotlight
shatter. Crunch.
Are pulverized. At the end
a
remote sick, little bell tinkles. Aunt
Junie,
Ted’s wife, curses like some deranged drill
instructor. Ted lies on the thick shag, fine
shards
of red and green glass sprinkled in
his
graying hair. He attempts to get up —
a
slow motion roll, a shuffle of feet.
“I’m
sorry,”
he drones, with a faint smile. Aunt
Hilda comes to on the sofa, looks at Ted,
and
declares, “Let’s all take our clothes off!”
I sneak a glance up her pleated skirt. My
mother
catches me (a scolding look). I feel
more
and more uneasy, and steal down
the
stairs to the knotty pine, rec. room bar.
My father is singing, “All is calm…” Uncle
Sy strums four strings, the little woman-
shaped
body of the ukulele. I ask, “Can we
go
now, Dad?” He continues to sing: shot
glass
in one hand, lips slack, a lopsided
oval.
I ask again, “Can we go?” I touch his sleeve.
His hand slaps hot behind my ear, pushes me
away. Tears slip from my eyes, the enamel
orchid
on the stringed instrument grows fuzzy.
Later, I’m in the backseat of the car. Wheels
slide in rapidly falling snow, and my mother
shouts,
“Be careful, dammit!” The dashboard
light
like a match flame, illuminates their bloated
faces. The falsetto speaker hums, “I’ll be home
for
Christmas.” I stare out the
window. Crystal
snowflakes
fall without menace or harm.
~
first published in North Coast Review
