The Night before Christmas

By Hazel Hart

The Night before Christmas

It's Christmastime and Wes Myers prays to Jesus, asking for help in reconciling with his wife, Betty, so he can keep her from teaching their children pagan beliefs.

His prayers are answered. Betty takes him back and the couple has a few good days. Then Wes loses his job. He reaches for a bottle of vodka first and the Bible second. On Christmas Eve, Jesus speaks to Wes again.

The message is chilling.

If you've ever wondered why a woman stays with an abusive husband, or why a father would kill the child he loves most, then you must read the story of Betty and Wes and what happened on The Night before Christmas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hazel Hart
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465744210

Hazel Hart

Hazel Hart has won awards for her short fiction, including "Amanda Marie," published in Kansas Voices, and "Confessions," published in Words out of the Flatlands. She has two published suspense novels, The Night before Christmas and Like Mother, Like Daughter, and has co-authored two books of short stories, Dark Side of the Rainbow and Edge of Nowhere, with Bonnie Eaton aka B.J. Myrick.

Book preview

THE NIGHT

BEFORE

CHRISTMAS

by

Hazel Hart

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Published by Hazel Hart on Smashwords

Copyright © 2008 by Hazel Hart

Cover photo and design by Hazel Hart

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

***

CHAPTER ONE

December, 1971

A loud pounding pulled Betty Myers from a dreamless sleep into a groggy semi-consciousness. She sat up in bed, trying to make sense of the banging sound coming from the front of the house.

Betty!

It was Wes. Her grogginess vanished.

Andrea, her six-year-old, stirred in the bed.

The pounding started again. Come on, Wes called. Open up!

Betty kicked her feet free of the warm blankets. There was no time to search for slippers. Bare-footed, she stumbled toward the door, grabbing her coat from the dining room chair as she passed by, her mind reeling in panic.

She reached the door and made sure the chain lock was on before cracking it open just enough to speak to her husband in a loud whisper.

What is it? she hissed, hoping the children were still asleep.

Wanna talk. Wes shoved the door. The chain raked across the wood, jerked taut, and held.

Betty pressed her weight against the front door, praying the chain lock would continue to hold. On the other side, Wes pushed back, then hit the wooden barrier between them hard, sending out vibrations that spread through her body and balled in the pit of her stomach.

Wanna see my girls, Wes demanded.

His slurred speech told her he'd had a lot more than a couple of beers.

He hit the door again. Wanna see 'em now!

It's almost midnight, Betty said, trying to keep her voice low when she wanted to yell at him to go away. They're asleep. Come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow? His tone was questioning, as though she had given him a brand new idea. Tomorrow, he repeated.

Mama! Andrea called from the bedroom.

Betty hoped that Wes hadn't heard Andrea, that he would leave before the child came looking for her.

Wes mumbled something.

What? Betty asked, fearing the question would take their argument into a new round of the same old thing.

Said okay. But no money. You got that? Not until my girls are raised right.

Tomorrow. She shoved the door shut and pressed her ear against it. The screen door banged and Wes's heavy work boots thudded across the porch and down the steps. Betty took a deep breath just as five-year-old Melissa reached her side.

Melissa clasped her arms around Betty’s waist. Who was that, Mama?

It was just someone wanting directions. Betty was suddenly aware of how cold her bare feet were. They couldn't have been colder if she'd been standing on frozen ground instead of the linoleum covered floor. She always kept the flame of the gas heating stove low at night to save money. Let's get you back to bed where it's warm.

Melissa stood back and peered at Betty's face. You sounded scared, Mama.

Betty put her hand on Melissa’s shoulder and gently turned her toward the bedroom. It’s the middle of the night, for goodness’ sake. I woke up and someone was banging on the door. I was startled, not scared. She bent down and kissed the top of Melissa’s head. "There is a difference."

Why've you got your coat on?

I couldn't answer the door in just my nightgown, she said, wishing she hadn't thrown away her old robe even though it had been threadbare. It had looked almost new when she'd bought it at a thrift store before Andrea was born, but nothing lasted forever.

Andrea was standing in the bedroom doorway, shivering, her bare feet moving restlessly, one rubbing the top of the other. Her eyes were wide with fear. Who was that, Mama?

That question again. Shhhh! Betty put a warning finger to her lips in hopes that at least Tina would sleep through the disturbance. Don’t wake your little sister. Back to bed, both of you.

Andrea got into bed, pulled the blankets up, and clutched them under her chin. But who was that?

Just someone wanting directions. Betty repeated the answer she had given Melissa, impatience creeping into her voice. She paused until she could go on more calmly. He’s gone now. Go to sleep.

But they couldn’t sleep, of course. They had to have water, followed by trips to the bathroom, and, finally, a story.

About Santa Claus, they chorused.

Betty removed the library copy of The Night before Christmas from its hiding place in her underwear drawer and slipped into bed between the two girls. Toward the end of the second reading, their breathing deepened and their bodies relaxed.

Merry Christmas to all, Betty read, all the while thinking that Christmas this year wasn't going to be merry after all. She had hoped that with Wes out of the house, she and the children could celebrate Christmas, but this Christmas wouldn't be any better than last year's. With Wes's threats to stop the support money, the prospects for 1972 were even bleaker.

Betty finished the last words of the story, her soft voice breathing good night in a barely audible whisper. She edged off the bed and tucked the blankets around the two girls, then stood and watched as they slept peacefully, trusting her to keep them safe.

Trust. Her cheeks warmed. She had lied to them about who was at the door. The truth would have kept them awake all night. She returned the book to the drawer, sliding it underneath the underwear and socks and checking to make sure it was hidden from sight. Wes would be here tomorrow. She imagined him finding the book and ripping it to pieces, all the while pacing and raving, accusing her of ruining his children with pagan beliefs like Santa Claus. Then she would have to explain to the librarian why she didn’t return the book. More lies.

What was she going to do? If there were only Andrea and Melissa to consider, the answer would be easy. When Wes was around, they were quiet and withdrawn, always wary of sudden swats that signaled they had done something—who knew what—that he considered wrong.

But there was also Tina. Betty moved to the crib where her three-year-old slept soundly. She smiled at the round-faced child with the short brown curls framing her face. Physically, Tina looked much like the pictures of Betty when she was that age. But Betty could only wonder at the way her daughter met life, at her bright smile and the confident way she ran into her parents’ arms, always certain of acceptance and love.

Tina was Wes’s favorite, the one he let climb in his lap, the one he listened to with patience, the one who made him smile. Every evening since Betty had made him leave, Tina went to the window and watched for him, asking over and over, Where's Daddy? When's he coming home?

Last month, on Tina’s third birthday, she'd happily opened her presents and blown out the candles on her birthday cake, but during lulls in the party, she kept glancing toward the door with sad eyes.

That night when Betty was putting Tina to bed, the child asked, Where's Daddy? Didn’t he know it was my birthday?

Betty mumbled something about Daddy having to work, but it didn’t ease the hurt in Tina's eyes.

By the time Wes showed up, Tina was asleep. Betty had been ready to wake her, but Wes's wobbly stance changed her mind. When he offered Tina's present, Betty said, I'll give it to her tomorrow. If you want to see her, come back when you’re sober.

According to Wes's religion, drinking was a sin. His feelings of guilt when she confronted him always gave her an edge. After arguing for another minute or two, saying he wouldn't leave until he saw Tina, he gave up and left.

The next morning, Betty gave Tina the present, a doll with dark brown hair almost the color of Tina's. There was a ring attached to a string at the back of the doll's neck. When the ring was pulled, the doll said, Hi, I'm Susie, or Let’s play, or I love you.

Tina loved the doll, too, and carried it everywhere. And every day, Tina asked, Where's Daddy? When's he coming home?

As Betty watched the sleeping child, Tina turned, and the blanket slipped down. Betty pulled it back over the girl’s shoulders. What should she do about Wes? If only he’d get sober and stay that way, they might be able to work things out. But should she even try? She closed her eyes and dredged up the painful memory of the day four months before when she had forced Wes to leave.

It had been a normal Saturday afternoon. Wes was working on his pickup while she cleaned the kitchen. Tina was asleep on her parents’ bed. Andrea and Melissa had awakened from their naps and were playing quietly in their room, which was a curtained-off portion of the living room.

Suddenly, the September afternoon calm was shattered by Wes's angry shouts from the living room. He must have come inside for something, but Betty couldn't imagine what had upset him so. She ran to see what was wrong and came into the room to find Melissa huddled on the floor by her bed, her hands twisting the sheet. Wes was shaking Andrea by the arm and shouting about makeup and sin. There was something white on Andrea’s cheeks. Wes jerked a bottle of talcum powder from the child’s hand and threw it across the room. Then he drew back his hand and struck Andrea's face. The sound of the slap was followed immediately by Andrea’s shriek of pain.

Aghast, Betty stood frozen.

Wes raised his hand again,

Betty, shocked out of her momentary stupor, screamed, Stop it!

She lunged at Wes in a haze of fear and anger. He let go of Andrea and turned toward Betty. Her hands hit his chest. He stumbled, caught hold of a chair, and managed to stay on his feet. But when he straightened up, he wobbled and almost fell, then grabbed the chair again to steady himself.

He turned toward her, a look of disbelief on his face.

She had never shoved him before. But he had never struck one of the children on the face before either.

Look at what you've done, Betty said, breaking the silence.

He looked at Andrea, at the red print of three fingers on her cheek, and hung his head. Then he looked at Betty. His watery eyes lacked focus.

He had often been too quick with a slap on the hand or a spanking when talking would have been better. But this was the first time he had left a mark on one of the girls.

Leave, she ordered.

He gave her a blank look.

She raised her voice, almost shouting, and pointed toward the door. Now!

He left.

She packed his clothes in a cardboard box and set them outside. Sometime in the night, she'd heard him stumbling about on the porch. The next morning, the box had been gone.

Betty sighed and touched Tina's curls. What should she do? After four months, Tina still went to the window every night, still asked when her daddy was coming home. Betty always put her off with I don’t know, and We’ll see, not knowing how to tell her Maybe never.

* * *

The headlights cut a narrow path through the darkness. The rhythmic sound of the pumps reached Wes as his Ford pickup bumped along the rutted oil lease road. He patted the stock of the Winchester .22 that lay in the seat beside him. That gun was one thing he could depend on. He needed something after the way the night had gone. Late Saturday afternoon, he'd been called to work on the water main break, so he couldn't see Betty about their getting back together like he'd planned. Then Al hadn't shown up for work. Wes had complained to Collins, but Collins said Al had something important to do.

Wes's jaw tightened. Favoritism. That's all it was. Al could do no wrong in Collins's eyes.

Something moved up ahead. Wes jammed on the brakes and stopped in the middle of the road. He grabbed his rifle and opened the door. As he stepped down from the cab of the pickup, his foot slid off something, his ankle turned, and pain shot up his leg. Cursing, he caught hold of the door and steadied himself.

Down the road, a cottontail sat frozen in the beam of the headlights. Wes could still get him. He centered the rabbit's head in the cross hairs of the telescopic sight and pulled the trigger. The sharp crack of the rifle's report intruded momentarily on the rhythm of the pumps. The rabbit fell.

Got him. Wes limped forward to inspect his kill. He'd always been a good shot. Any time Gram wanted a rabbit for supper, Wes got out his gun and got her one.

He knelt beside the cottontail and fingered the soft fur, his satisfaction fading. Gram didn't want a rabbit. He hadn't killed it for food, the only reason a sportsman like him should kill. He'd just been so damned mad at Al that all he'd wanted to do was go out and shoot something to let off steam. Wes fought down a familiar churning in his stomach. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he rose unsteadily to his feet and limped toward his pickup. Halfway there, he broke into a run, stumbling down the rutted road.

By the time he reached the pickup, his breath was coming in short gasps. He jerked the door open and shoved the gun onto the seat. Stepping back, he reached for the open bottle of vodka he kept behind the spare tire. Only a couple of swallows left. He drained the bottle and tossed it away, thankful he still had an unopened half pint. He slid his hand beneath the seat. Yes. The bottle was still there. His hand closed around it, and clutching it, he climbed behind the wheel.

Wes stared down the road at the still mound that was the rabbit, his guilt mixing with the frustrations that faced him everyday. He never got a break. Not like Al. His free hand curled into a fist, and he smashed it against the steering wheel, wishing it were Al’s face. All the other workers had had to show up to repair the water main break this afternoon, but not Al. He had important things to do. It wasn't hard to picture what they were. He'd probably spent the day boozing it up and making passes at every female in sight while the rest of them spent five miserable hours in an icy water-filled hole.

Wes was the one with more important things to do. He'd tried to tell Collins that, but Collins cut him off with That can wait. We have a job to do.

Wes shivered. After all those hours in freezing cold water, not even the vodka could warm him up. And by the time he got to Betty's, it was after ten, the evening shot, and she wouldn't let him in. Too late, she'd said. You’ve been drinking, she'd said.

So what if he had? He'd gotten the last word. She wasn't getting any more money out of him. Not until he had a say in how his kids were raised. But she'd still shoved the door shut in his face. After that, he'd needed another drink, so he'd headed for Sam's. Sam charged twice what a liquor store did, but the liquor stores were closed. Then Sam was out of pints. What a rotten night.

Wes started the pickup. He raced the motor before shifting into drive and speeding down the dirt road past the shadowy forms of the pumping wells. He emerged onto the gravel section road so fast the pickup slid sideways. He slowed to regain control, then gunned the accelerator, only hesitating at a stop sign before hitting the gas pedal again as he turned onto the highway. The speedometer climbed past sixty. His sense of power faded as he topped the rise and remembered the sharp curve at the bottom. He hit the brakes too late and careened off the road. His rifle slid off the seat and hit the floorboard with a thump. The pickup skidded in the soft ground, coming to a complete stop with a crunch of metal against a tree.

Wes reached for the rifle, his heart thudding in his chest, and ran a shaky hand along the walnut stock. His father’s rifle. It was all he had from his father. Wes turned on the cab light, inspected the gun for scratches, and checked the telescopic sight. Nothing was broken. Relief flooded him and he leaned back, sighing.

A heavy weariness drained his energy, and for a moment lethargy overtook him. He closed his eyes, and his head nodded until it rested on the steering wheel. He leaned into the horn and jumped at the blaring honk. Puzzled, he looked around. What was he doing here in a ditch? Then he remembered the crash. He needed to get out and check the damage. Wait. The motor was still running.

Wes switched off the ignition and opened the door. When he stepped out and put