Some Peace At Last

Short fiction

Photo by Elliott B on Unsplash

Losing his job before Thanksgiving cracked Francis O’Keefe’s foundation. Receiving the diagnosis caused his world to crumble.

Tunnel vision and devastating thoughts consumed his being. His wife, Elaine, turned to God, while he turned to finding the bottom of bottles. The children tried to piece together these sudden changes in mood and behavior, but they were left emptier than the Jameson bottles left in the sink.

Christmas Eve came and went—the children glum, the parents still scraping together cash to pay for medical appointments, for answers. The thought of presents more distant than a flight to Fiji.

Francis and Elaine sent the kids off to bed without reading ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. No cookies for Santa; no carrots for the reindeer. What did any of it matter now, anyway?

But in the morning, they woke to presents under the tree. The carefully wrapped gifts had been signed by Santa Claus himself. Even more miraculous, glancing outside, the world was covered in a thick layer of white.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Francis whispered. He turned to his wife and she to him. The quick exchange—the tilt of the head, the pursed lips followed by the hand over speechless mouth—told what they both knew to be true in their hearts.

Neither of them had bought or wrapped these gifts.

How, then? Francis wondered as the kids leaped about the living room, taking his hand, and yelling, “Santa came, Daddy! He came!”

Francis stumbled toward the kitchen, telling them all he’d be right back—he needed to put the coffee on. He felt his heart in his throat.

That’s when it hit him.

He walked to the front door, opened it, and looked out across the street. There were footprints in the snow, leading to Mr. Morris’s home. There were tracks upon tracks—two dozen journeys back and forth between the properties.

The light in Mr. Morris’s living room was on—movement and shadows.

“You old son of a bitch,” Francis murmured into the cold, tears stinging his eyes. He let out a low laugh into the dark yet light waking world.

But how’d you do it?

As if on cue, he spotted the house key hanging from a piece of twine around the doorknob. His spare.

Francis took the key and offered a wave toward his neighbor’s home.

When he rejoined his family by the tree, his wife handed him a small, unopened envelope. Francis was written on the front.

“It was sticking out of your stocking,” Elaine said, misty-eyed.

Francis gently opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. It read:

Dear Francis,

Please accept these gifts (and my intrusion) as my strange and roundabout way of saying thank you. Since losing Marjorie, I have enjoyed our talks and visits more than you know. You are a good man. Don’t ever lose sight of this.

Enjoy Christmas with your family and figure out the rest tomorrow. If you ever need me, you know where to find me.

- Edwin

PS – I left your spare key hanging on the front door. Sorry, I forgot to return it to you after your last trip.

Francis wiped his eyes and folded the letter. Elaine slid next to him. “Who was it?” she whispered.

Francis couldn’t help but crack a smile. “An old man with a white beard.” Not entirely true, but not entirely false, either.

He pulled her in close and watched the children as they began to sort through the small piles of presents. The what-ifs, regrets, and booze washed away as he saw their joy—heard their laughter. Francis took in a deep breath.

The lights on the tree and the star on top twinkled, and all of it brought him some peace at last.

Thank you so much for reading “Some Peace At Last” today. I hope you enjoyed it! Please consider sharing it with a fellow fiction reader and pressing that heart icon.

I hope you all find some peace this holiday season and get a chance to rest, relax, and spend time doing the things you love with the people who matter most to you.

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays,

Justin

PS—Fifties by the Fire will resume in 2025. See you in the new year!