A Christmas Swan Song - Susan

The fir tree stood tall and twinkling next to the mantle decorated with fresh evergreens and fragrant pine cones. The smell of burning wood in the fireplace and a roasting turkey in the oven filled the spacious house, declaring that Christmas Day had arrived. The tree was regal, worthy of the effort it took Evelyn and her son, Roddy, to cut it down on a freezing day in rural Wisconsin. Not for the first time Evelyn’s husband, William, had failed to join them in the snowy woods, saying he had a meeting at the medical school. Over the ten years of life in Wisconsin, Evelyn and Roddy had morphed into a pack of two, with Evelyn trying to make up for both William’s absences and his emotional separation from them. She hoped that the resentment and anxiety that had crept into their marriage might be set aside today, might even be resolved without a permanent rift. 

Evelyn wrapped a cashmere shawl around her shoulders and sat down on the ottoman near the fireplace. “You can be Santa, Roddy,” she said to her man-child of 15. As Roddy handed out the presents spread under the tree, Evelyn breathed in the warmth of the comfortable room, the beauty of the art on the walls, and the sounds of a boy choir singing carols in the background. 

She picked up the box Roddy had laid beside her. William’s gift. The tag read only her name, not the nickname he gave her when they were newlyweds and still in love. She held the box on her lap, staring at it. A shirt box smelling vaguely of strawberry, no, of vanilla. So, something to wear. He never bought her clothing, which made her both curious and apprehensive.

The present was beautifully wrapped. William was very good at picking unusual wrapping paper and contrasting ribbon, the kind with a wire, molded into a perfect bow. He squared the corners of the paper, no crumpled edges or crinkles. He tucked the greeting card under the ribbon, always a card with the right sentiment, not too romantic, not too neutral. 

Evelyn slipped the card from under the ribbon and held it a moment, suspended between fear of getting a generic Merry-Christmas-to-Anyone card or a sincerely romantic card that she would mistrust. But, true to form, he had picked a perfectly balanced, barely sentimental greeting: “You make Christmas special….” The signature line caught her breath: “I will love you forever.” She sat without moving, trying to decode the message, suspicious of what lay in wait beneath the words.

Gently and precisely, she pulled away the wrapping paper – white swans wearing Santa hats on a green background. Swans, she thought, how interesting. Prescient? A subconscious swan song? Opening the lid of the box, she moved aside the white tissue, which reminded her of her mother’s perfect gifts from Neiman Marcus all those years ago. She sat staring, no, more like fascinated, as she examined a pink short-sleeved, loosely knitted pullover with little knitted flowers all over, front and back. She held it up, turning it first one way then another. Again, the faint scent of vanilla. She carefully folded the sweater back into the box, managing to mouth “thank you” to William, and laid the box back under the Christmas tree. 

She returned to the ottoman, where she sat watching, but not seeing, Roddy opening the pile of gifts on his wish list. Always analytical, Evelyn pondered the pink knitted sweater. Twenty-five years of marriage and still he didn’t have a clue about her. She was an Ann Taylor suede blazer kind of woman. Of course, she thought. He had taken someone to Christmas shop, another woman, younger, with a taste for floral pinks and scented candles. Evelyn wondered who the woman was this time. 

With a flash of insight, she knew could not escape now; fate had intervened with its inevitability, not entirely unwelcome, like losing an ache one has gotten used to. Confronting William, she knew, would mean the end of everything. She had lived with his betrayals for years, so what was different now? Why today? The sweater. Not the garment itself, but the sheer audacity of it, like sharp scissors that snipped the remaining delicate thread of a relationship that had slowly unraveled around her. 

Evelyn shrugged off the shawl as she stood and looked around the festive room, not allowing herself remorse or regrets. It was Christmas, and the severing would come later, after the presents, after the toasts and the eggnog. She straightened and breathed in the changes to come. As she turned, she bent and kissed her smiling son on the head, then moved resolutely to the kitchen.