The Nutcracker

The Nutcracker By Drew Hunt For Dave, because he loves the magic of Christmas. “You look frazzled, dear,” Garth Morgan’s mom said when Garth and his son Adam came through the door of his parents’ home on Christmas Eve, heavily laden with gifts. “I told you not to leave it until the last day.” She set down her wooden spoon and took some of the bags. Garth kissed her cheek and tried not to roll his eyes. His mother could spot an eye roll even when her back was turned. She’d embraced online shopping in a big way and had had all her gifts delivered, wrapped, and put away by mid-October. Garth, as usual, had left everything until the last minute. “Did you remember to get me a Poinsettia for the bay window in the den?” she asked. “Oh, s**t, I forgot. Sorry.” He glanced at his son, who was dancing excitedly in place. The redheaded eight-year-old was happy to finally be at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house, where he would be spoiled rotten for the duration of their stay. “Never mind, it wasn’t important. I should have got one last week,” Garth’s mom said, helping Adam out of his thick parka. “I’m sorry, mom, but it’s been a hell of a—” “Cookies!” a newly unencumbered Adam said, making a beeline for the cooling rack on the kitchen island. “They’re still warm from the oven,” Garth’s mom cautioned. “I haven’t even decorated them yet. I thought you could help me with that later.” “Too late,” Garth said, watching his son stuff a cookie into his mouth. He knew he should try and impose some discipline, but as he’d almost said, it’d been a hell of a day. Garth just wanted to sit down, kick off his shoes and… “Looking forward to Christmas and Santa?” Garth’s mom asked Adam, who, despite a mouthful of partially-chewed cookie, made a sour face. “What?” she asked. “Later,” Garth mouthed. “Okay,” she said, looking from Adam to Garth. “Do you have any eggnog?” Garth asked, knowing this would be a long explanation, and he was in need of fortification. She frowned. “Yes, but you don’t like…” His mom shook her head in confusion, but for once didn’t ask any awkward questions. “Just make sure it’s more nog than egg. I need it.” She shot him a concerned look over her shoulder as she opened the fridge door. “Adam, dear, why don’t you go help Grandpa set up the toy train around the Christmas tree?” Garth could hear Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker drifting down the hallway. “Can I take Grandpa a cookie?” Adam asked, picking up two. “I’m sure he’d like that,” Garth’s mom smiled and ruffled her grandson’s hair. The old man was diabetic, but would eat a cookie just to please his only grandchild. A jug of eggnog and two glasses were placed on the table in the breakfast nook. Garth sank down on a chair and poured himself a large measure; his mother settled herself in the chair opposite, waiting expectantly.