A CHRISTMAS STORY

The hammering out back started early in the morning. It reverberated around the square and echoed off the small, barred window in the back wall, waking him from a deep sleep. He sat up on the hard bunk and rubbed his eyes.

"Do they have to start that ruckus so early," he asked the deputy, sitting feet up on the desk on the other side of the bars.

"Ain't much time left," was the reply. "You wouldn't want them to do a fast, sloppy job on the monument to your last moments on this mortal coil."

"I'm really not in that much of a hurry. Take another year or two to finish it, I won't complain. Where you get that mortal coil stuff? You been reading them dime novels again?"

"Friend of mine used it. He wrote some powerful stuff. Better than Zane Grey."

"I wrote some powerful stuff once. Probably what got me started on my life work. I began acting out my frustration, instead of writing about it."

"They won't bring breakfast for another hour. I got some God-awful coffee, you can stomach it."

The deputy brought over a mug and handed it through the bars.

"I shouldn't tell you this," he said, "but you used to be some kind of local legend to me. If I had met you on the street I'd probably have tipped my hat to you and pretended not to know you. You got even with the banks that took people's homes during bad times. Stood up to the forces of evil in white shirts and pin striped suits. My opinion changed, though, when you shot that guard. He didn't have the training for the job and only worked there because his pension wouldn't cover the care of his retarded son. In fifteen minutes you changed from Robin Hood to a ruthless killer of over-the-hill bank guards."

"That bothers me, too. I didn't even know I was squeezing the trigger. I looked at him there on the floor, his life slipping away in scarlet gushes, and wondered what crazy son-of-a-bitch would do that. A bank robber was what I was. Not some violent gunman. Man says guns don't kill people, people do. But people don't find it nearly as easy without that hunk of metal in their hands."

"That woman who thinks you might be her long-lost son hasn't been around lately. Think she gave up on trying to see you?"

"She didn't give up. Sheriff said he got a letter from her. Too sick to make the trip anymore. Doctor tells her she won't last long, and she wants to know if it's her son you're going to hang."

He sat quiet for a moment, then spoke again.

"You're pretty good with words. I want you to do me a favor . Write her a letter. Tell her I think I met her son down Pemberton County way. Had the same name as me. Worked for some church group. Brought me a bible and tried to show me the evil of my ways. If I had listened to him, tell her, I wouldn't be where I am today. Waiting for them to build the scaffold where I'll hang by the neck until dead. Tell her not to lose hope. He just might show up for Christmas next week."

"That the truth about meeting him?"

"As much truth as you're going to get. Damn, this coffee is bad. Condemned man should get better than this."

"Here comes breakfast. I better give Joe a hand." The deputy got up and went out the door.

The prisoner sat, head in his hands.

"Merry Christmas, Mom," he said, "That boy you're looking for died ten years ago when he went out the door and left you standing there crying in that gingham dress with ruffles and a frilly apron. Man you been asking about never had a mother. He just crawled out from under a rock some place and started robbing banks. He sure isn't worth a single one of your tears."

The deputy came back, carrying a divided metal plate and a cup.

"What you mumbling about," he asked

"Just saying grace for that which I am about to receive," the prisoner answered, rubbing a dirty sleeve across his eyes that were fixed on the small window on the rear wall.

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