A. Jarrell Hayes

This Christmas, Joyce and her husband Scott did something new. They invited Cory over for Christmas dinner. Cory had been in Scott and Joyce’s life for two years, but the three only met during other festive occasions. Such as a threesome, or Cory and Scott alone together, or with Joyce watching.

This Christmas, Cory wasn’t able to fly home for the holidays. The first time since Joyce and Scott knew him that Cory was a “holiday orphan.” That’s what Scott had sympathetically called him, a holiday orphan. Joyce suggested they invite him over for dinner, since it was just going to be the two of them.

This Christmas, Scott and Cory shared a kiss while sitting at the table waiting for Joyce to return from the kitchen with the ham. Scott put his hand on Cory’s thigh. Cory relished the taste of Scott’s tongue. They breathed through each other’s mouth.

This Christmas would be Joyce’s last. She had known for weeks. When she emerged from the kitchen and saw Scott and Cory kissing, she carried the ham back into the oven. She went upstairs to the safe and grabbed Scott’s handgun. In their bedroom, she grabbed a letter from her doctor.

This Christmas, Scott and Cory got caught making out at the dinner table. They stared at Joyce passively when she entered. Their faces resembled teenagers whose parents had found a bag of weed in the laundry. They were more embarrassed than ashamed. Scott said, “Ham’s not done yet, honey?”

This Christmas would be Joyce’s last. She threw the missive from the doctor onto the table. An ominous centerpiece. “Read it,” she commanded her husband. Scott removed the folded out letter and read. Cory, being nosey and concerned, leaned in to read the letter with Scott.

This Christmas, Scott found out it would be his last  with wife. She had AIDS. Not HIV, but full-blown AIDS. In later stages. Aggressive. Discovered too late. The doctor’s note confirmed it; said she had six months to live. He threw the note onto the table and hung his head. Theyhad gotten tested the same day. She had lied and said she was clean. They both were clean. Scott heard a click. He raised his head to face his wife. He was a gun fanatic; he recognized the sound of a bullet entering a gun’s chamber.

This Christmas, Joyce was going to do the unthinkable. She will celebrate the birth of Jesus with death. Someone would die. She aimed the gun at her husband, and then at Cory. Which one will it be? “I knew you were bisexual.” She pointed the gun at Scott. “I should have never caved in and gave you Cory. Who else are you screwing?”

This Christmas, Scott discovered who meant the most to him in the world. Joyce. His wife. Confronted with her mortality, he didn’t care that she aimed his gun at his chest. He hoped she would pull the trigger. What would his life be without her smile greeting after twelve hours laying cement, her honey-glazed pork chops for Sunday dinner, her fingers massaging his worn muscles at night? “Baby, I know this is a tough time, but please, please, put the gun down. Put it away. I haven’t been with anyone but you and Cory.”

This Christmas, Cory realized it was a bad idea to get involved with a married couple. Marriage made people do crazy things, like pick up strangers at a club to have threesomes, or wave around guns at Christmas dinner as if they’re passing the mashed potatoes. Married people are crazy. “I got tested the same day you two got tested. I’m clean. Scott’s clean. You’re the only one infected, Joyce. It sucks that you are, but you are.”

This Christmas, Joyce’s past caught up with her. She began scratching her gun arm with her free hand. She scratched it faster, nearly tearing skin. “Baby,” said Scott as he slowly rose, “why are you scratching like that? Oh God… did you relapse?”

This Christmas, Joyce needed a fix. The last hit felt so good; who cared if she had used a communal needle. She had used one the time before, and the time before that. Her husband came to her; not as a man but a sea monster covered in green algae. His arms, open to embrace, became tentacles to strangle. Joyce’s eyes grew wide. She didn’t recognize this creature shuffling towards her. “Back away from me, you…you thing!” Scott did not relent in his advance. She clutched the gun in her shaking hand. Her finger hovered around the trigger. He reached for her, to wipe the sweat cascading from her face. She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Copyright by A. Jarrell Hayes
From the upcoming short story collection Popular Television.