Just Like the Ones He Used to Know: Part VI

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[Being the sixth installment of Robert J Wiersema's original holiday tale of the ghostly and the miraculous. To read the previous installment go here; to read the first installment go here.]

The next time Dustin woke up, his bedroom wasn’t nearly as bright. He had the feeling that hours had passed while he slept, that the day was growing late.

He got out of bed slowly, drawing the covers up in a vague semblance of neatness before he put on the clothes he had dropped on the chair the night before. He caught sight of himself in the mirror over the desk: he looked good. Not as good as he felt, though. Clearly sleeping in his old bed again was exactly what he had needed. He felt better rested, just better, than he had in longer than he could remember.

He padded down the stairs with bare feet. The floor was cool and smooth, but the house was warm, lazy with the soporific ebbing of the wood stove, heavy with the smell of turkey.

His mother was in the kitchen. She didn’t hear him at first, so he watched her bustling, bringing trays of food out of the fridge, stirring things on the stove, her apron tight over a Christmas dress.

When she finally noticed him, she stopped and smiled. “Nice to see you, sleepyhead.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She waved it away. “Clearly you needed it.” She glanced up at the clock. “And now you need to get ready: everyone’s going to be here soon.” She stopped and looked at the clock again. “And your father. Could you please–”

He smiled. It was always the same, every year. “Sure.”

“He’s down in the basement.”

“I figured.”

He took the steps slowly, running his hand along the wall to keep his place in the dim light. His father was sitting on a rough cut round of cedar in front of the wood stove, feeding a chunk of wood into its roaring mouth. He looked up when he heard Dustin.

“We were starting to wonder if you were going to sleep all the way through,” he said.

“I guess I needed it.”

“That’s what your mother tells me.”

Dustin spent a moment looking around the dim room. The basement had always been his father’s domain. The stack of wood against the west wall, the piles of boxes, the work bench with its vice and tools, the shelves above it crammed with parts and gadgets, were as much a part of him as the flannel shirts he wore and the mud-caked, steel-toed work boots by the back door.

Dustin had loved the hours he spent in the basement, stacking wood or helping with the fire or working on a project. It was always warm, always cozy.

“So let me guess,” his father said, bringing Dustin back to the present. “She sent you down to tell me to stop playing with the fire and get ready?”

Dustin nodded. “She’s hit that point.”

His father nodded and closed the stove door with a heavy metallic thunk. As he stood up he smoothed his flannel shirt against his chest. “What about you?” he asked.

“I’ve got the same marching orders,” Dustin said, as they started toward the stairs, then he stopped. “But–”

His father shook his head and put his hand comfortingly on Dustin’s shoulder. “Your suit’s in the closet, cleaned and pressed.”

Dustin smiled.

“You didn’t think she’d leave anything to chance, did you?”

“That wouldn’t be like her at all,” Dustin deadpanned, and his father cracked up.

“What are you boys laughing at?” his mother asked them at the top of the stairs, wielding a wooden spoon as if she meant business.

Dustin and his father looked at each other conspiratorially, then burst out laughing again.

[Return tomorrow for the seventh installment of "Just Like the Ones He Used to Know."]