It’s ten o’clock Christmas Eve. Carols play softly on the radio. Five candles flicker in the Advent Wreath sitting on a small table in the front hallway. The tree lights add a multi-colored glow to the pine-scented, living room. Santa has left toys for our three children–Linda, 6, Lisa, 5, and Kurt,3–who are sound asleep upstairs.
I’m relaxing in Ken’s lounge chair. It’s the first chance I’ve had all day to sit down alone and put my feet up. I’ve changed into a lace-trimmed, long, turquoise nightgown and peignoir. My cop husband will soon be home from working the three to eleven shift with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Police. I’m looking forward to a romantic interlude. We will exchange gifts while he drinks a beer and I sip a glass of wine.
A large box wrapped in red and green, wreath-printed paper waits under the tree for Ken. It contains a burgundy-colored, wool sport coat that I’ve made. His brother, Tom, who’s the same size, served as my clothes dummy for fittings so I could keep the garment a secret.
I see no package for me under the tree, but I have large expectations. A few days ago, my husband made a big deal of going shopping.
Earlier in the evening, my parents and my cousin, Doris, with her husband, Bob, joined the kids and me for supper and presents. I took over hosting my family’s traditional Christmas Eve observance after we had children. It’s easier to just put them to bed than to gather gifts and bundle up little ones to drive home from Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
Last week, when I stopped at my parents’ rural home to get eggs to do my holiday baking, I broke the news that Ken would be working instead of spending the evening with us.
“How can you have Christmas Eve without Ken?” Dad asked.
“It’s something we have to get used to,” I responded. Last October, my husband climbed down from a tractor on Irish Acres where he was his brother-in-law’s hired man and slid into a squad car. We moved from the farmhouse that went with his job into our own home in the village of Durand. We’re still adjusting to the change in lifestyle.
The back door closes softly. Ken’s home. I jump out of the chair to greet him with a kiss.
“What a night!” he exclaims. “We got a call for a welfare check and found a man who had probably been dead for a couple days. It must have been eighty degrees in that house. The stink was terrible. Then the coroner’s people spread some sweet-smelling stuff and that was worse.”
He doesn’t need to describe the smells–the odors cling to him like fermented after shave. He strides into the bedroom to remove his gun belt and uniform so he can take a much-needed shower.
My romantic ambiance is shot by reality.
Have you had plans for a holiday celebration go awry?