Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty-year writer and the author of 11 published books of fiction and poetry and 5 stage plays. She has been nominated 20 times for the Pushcart Prize in both fiction and poetry. Her play ‘The Crooked Heart’ concerning artist Jackson Pollock premiered on October 25, 2022 at the Irish Repertory Theatre in NYC. Adapted from an earlier novel, it was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Another play, LADY IN A POST BOX, co-written with poet and writer Ciaran O’Driscoll is moving toward production in Ireland. Her third play, 28 MARVIN AVENUE is making the rounds. A new Novel ‘Hair of a Fallen Angel’ will be out in the winter. Susan is a Brand Ambassador for The Galway Review. http://www.susantepper.com
Christmas is Gone
By Susan Isla Tepper
They made due with the little they had. When the roof on the cabin began leaking, Willard had scoured the woods for abandoned houses, picking up enough corrugated tin to fashion a patch roof. Mostly it held, but for the occasional drip.
In the early years, Clemmie dug a sizeable vegetable garden carefully tended to extract the most the land would allow. Canning helped them through the long winters.
The cabin wasn’t heated. But despite his advancing age, Willard still went out and chopped wood. This concerned her. His arthritis was also advancing, and she worried this task, easy enough for a young man, would weaken him. She dreamt of being alone in the cold cabin. And sometimes she dreamt of her garden swept away.
When they first came it had all felt so free and glorious. And for the most part things continued along that way. The baby arrived— Little Will. Bringing a great deal of happiness to them both. He was a bubbly little fellow, round and sturdy with big eyes that swallowed everything in his sphere.
Willard saw him becoming a naval officer, and often spoke to his growing son about the sea, how he had sailed the world as a young man, and one day it would become Will’s chance, to learn new ways and different cultures.
Though Clemmie wished he hadn’t stirred this desire for flight in her son, she never complained to Willard. Young Will was from both of them; but inwardly, in her deepest soul, she felt he belonged to her and only her. She knew it was selfish but didn’t care.
When war broke out Will didn’t wait to be drafted but signed up for naval duty. Her heart trembled while Willard looked proud. In the General Store, some twenty miles away, he told the proprietor, George, and some others in there, that Will was certain to win medals and honors for bravery. George and the rest of them agreed heartily, saying if anyone could protect the country it would be Will. Clemmie fingering some yarn gulped, cringing inwardly.
Four months in to the war Will’s ship was torpedoed. They didn’t find out for a while since Willard only picked up the mail twice a month. He’d almost overlooked the letter which had gotten jammed into a Penny Saver brochure.
Despite it being summer, the cabin seemed dark as winter without candles. Clemmie had to force herself up from the bed. Eating little. Dragging herself through the planting and gathering. Not having much to say if Willard started a conversation which wasn’t often. They ate quietly in the small kitchen with the empty third chair that seemed to loom. When she had to cry she made sure Willard was out on some task. She couldn’t bear to think of Will on that ship, whether he died right away or drowned. She clawed at her breasts leaving long indented red marks, but it didn’t much matter since Willard no longer looked. The space between them grew wider as the years marched on. Then it all seemed to come to a halt. As if there’d never been a Will to begin with.
They thought about moving closer to the town but never got around to it. There was always some chore, or someone had a cold, or whatever. Clemmie told him it wasn’t in the cards. They both knew. Specifically they’d chosen this place and this place had held them; often wobbly, in the crook of its arm.
In 2013, Willard bought Clemmie a snow globe as a Christmas present. The year 2013 was stamped into a goldish plaque attached to a frothy white base. Every Christmastime, she took the globe from a cupboard and set it on the kitchen table. It had a key that when turned played Silent Night. Willard would turn the key, then he’d turn over the globe making it snow. It snowed perfectly. Coming down heavy over a little bridge holding people in a horse-drawn carriage, with a stand of green, snow-tipped trees hovering in the background. It snowed a good five minutes before it began to slow down. Then he’d wind it again.
It brought them both happiness. They were old, now, and any bits of happiness were great gifts. Clemmie said she believed this snow globe was a gift from the Magi. Willard just laughed and said it was a gift from The General Store, and it wasn’t cheap.
Last year the snow seemed slower. He had to turn it over quite a few times to get the snow to continue through Silent Night. After Christmas it went back in the cupboard for another year.
This year it hardly snowed at all over the little bridge and people. Willard said it must be running out of steam, and they both agreed that nothing lasts forever.
Then one morning when he picked it up to turn the key, turning it over he let out a startled noise. No snow came down. Look he said— the trees are blooming with summer and the little people in the carriage are dressed without hats and coats. Clemmie looked closely and sure enough.
Christmas is gone, he said.
Glenn Bowie is a published poet, lyricist, and photographer from the Boston area. He also owns and operates an elevator company that supplies custom-built elevators for clients from New England to Hollywood. Author of two poetry and photograph collections (Under the Weight of Whispers and Into the Thorns and Honey) on Big Table Publishing, he donates all profits from his books to various charities for the homeless and local animal shelters.
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