The Night Before

Outside in the courtyard, a Santa hat sits crooked on the top of a tall saguaro and sparkling fairy lights hang down from its outstretched arms. A couple of units down, Christmas music drifts out into the chill of this December twilight. Silent night. All is calm. All is bright.

Like hell it is.

Peter leans out of his armchair and switches on the tabletop lamp. The sun has gone, leaving behind a trace of lavender and gold on the mountains, and he realizes he’s been sitting here in the dark for an hour, thinking of Netta and how she loved this time of the day here in the desert.

But then, she’d loved everything about the desert. It’s why Peter’s here right now, staring at that stupid red-hatted cactus and listening to an amped up version of “Feliz Navidad” while the twilight settles all around this silent house.

Christmas Eve isn’t much when you’re thousands of miles from home and all alone. He wonders if there’s snow on the Beltway now, thinks of the lights in DC bright against a black winter sky. Thinks of Netta, taking his hand as they walked Dupont Circle on that first Christmas Eve long ago.

On a road trip through here a while ago, she’d fallen in love with these wide open spaces and all that went with them. And he, because he loved her, had taken early retirement and packed it all up and bought the pretty condo here in the middle of this goddamn dry prickly sandbox of a place. Just so she’d be happy.  

He glances at the framed picture on the table, a candid snap of the two of them standing smiling out in front of some tourist trap ghost town, just about this time last year. She was happy then. And so, he’d been happy too.


But now - he blinks back tears.

Don’t let the memories get you, boy. Time to move on. Time to take action.

So he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the smudgy piece of paper he’s taken to keeping with him, waiting for just the right time to use it. He unfolds the scrap, staring at the address scrawled there.  He doesn’t really need to look again; he’s read it so many times he knows it by heart.

But this time, he doesn’t just re-fold the paper and return it to his pocket. Instead, he pushes himself up out of the chair and reaches for the little pistol on the table next to the photograph. Scooping up his jacket and keys, he heads for the door.

They’d just be sitting down to dinner now, Netta smiling across the table the way she used to smile at him. With the address of Netta’s lover hot in his mind, Peter gently pulls the door shut and crosses the courtyard to his car. The saguaro’s upraised arm seems to wish him well.

Feliz Navidad.

Behind the Scenes: This bitter little story is inspired by the iconic image of the saguaro in a Santa hat that pops up every winter in the Southwest, and by the many gated condo enclaves that dot the foothills north of Tucson.