Below you’ll find the responses to the Sage Challenge for November 2024.
Entries to the Challenges published previously are found in individual issues of the SouthWest Sage. Links to the issues from February 2023 to the present are on the Sage News page. SWW Members have full access to the Newsletter Archives starting in 2004.
Go to the Sage Challenge page for details about the current Challenge open to SWW members.
Challenge:
Write a poem or short story around the theme of Holiday Magic.
No more than 1,000 words.
Decorating the Tree
by Alissa Dickey
When my children were little,
they anticipated
Christmas Tree Decoration Day
with great joy –
and sometimes frustration.
They’d ask, why can’t we decorate earlier?
ALL of the neighbors
decorate the day after Halloween.
I’d reply, and miss Thanksgiving?
They’d ask, so why not the day after Thanksgiving?
And I’d reply, because the Christmas season
begins on the first day of Advent
and ends on Twelfth Night,
so that’s when our tree will be up.
Now that my children are grown,
they still join their father and me
for Christmas Tree Decoration Day.
My husband retrieves
the Christmas boxes from the attic,
and I set up the 1999 Dillard’s Christmas CD
to play its grand orchestral and
choral versions of the Christmas songs
we all know.
As “Joy to the World” rings through the house,
my husband and son put together
the eight-foot tall artificial tree.
(We used to cut a real tree,
but watering it enough
to survive the six week season
is tricky in our desert clime.)
To the tune of “In the Bleak Midwinter”,
the two of them string lights,
testing all the bulbs and
replacing the ones that no longer blink.
They string the gold garlands around the tree
and as if on cue,
the “Hallelujah Chorus” plays.
I help when the garlands reach
the fattest, lowest part of the tree
while my daughter makes
hot chocolate with marshmellows –
not the kind from an envelope,
but with real milk and cocoa and sugar.
We all take short break
to enjoy our warm, satisfying cocoa.
Music still playing,
I hand out the ornaments, one by one,
and the others place them on the tree.
Two glass ornaments are left
from the box of twelve
my husband and I bought
when we were first married.
I see the treasured hand-beaded angel
given to me when I was pregnant.
Vestiges of my children’s childhoods –
gingerbread men, clay handprints,
and cornstarch crosses –
no matter how bedraggled,
still grace our tree.
Three penguins are hung,
our original penguin and
each child’s own penguin,
avoiding the annual sibling argument about
who got to put the penguin on the tree.
Newer ornaments appear as
each grandchild places
their own ornaments on the tree,
one for each year since they were born.
When the ornaments are all hung,
my son (he’s the tallest now) places
the burgundy and gold angel on the tree top.
I spread the matching tree skirt
around the bottom of the tree,
hiding the metal tree stand,
smoothing it for
the presents yet to be wrapped.
Atop the tree skirt,
I place a rustic open barn
with Mary, Joseph, and
baby Jesus in a manger
surrounded by
a cow, a sheep, and an ox.
I step back to survey the tree.
It is perfect!
My daughter pours more hot chocolate,
I restart the Christmas CD,
and we sit around our tree,
reminiscing about
past Christmas Tree Decoration Days,
admiring this year’s rendition,
laughing and smiling at each other.
The Boy with the Wooden Toys
by Dita Dow
“Nicholas, come down for supper!” his mother called from the kitchen. The scent of fresh bread floated up the narrow, creaky stairs to his room.
“Coming, Mother!” Nicholas called back, setting aside the small wooden horse he’d been carving all afternoon. Tiny shavings covered his desk. His fingers were splintered and sore, but his eyes sparkled as he admired his work.
At the dinner table, his father looked at him sternly. “Nicholas, what’s this?” He gestured to Nicholas’s roughened hands, full of tiny scratches and wood slivers.
Nicholas smiled, tucking his hands under the table. “I was making something.”
“Another toy?” his mother said, shaking her head. “That’s the third one this week, Nicholas. Seems like a waste of time.”
“No,” Nicholas replied. “I saw the Jensen kids yesterday, staring into the toymaker’s shop. They looked sad… They don’t have any toys, so…”
His father sighed, setting down his spoon. “Son, we hardly have enough for ourselves. And you’re hurting your hands over scraps of wood.”
“But Father, I’m careful!” Nicholas protested. “Mr. Pemberton even gave me the wood. I help him sweep his workshop, and he’s been teaching me.”
“Mr. Pemberton?” his mother said, raising her eyebrows. “The toymaker?”
Nicholas nodded eagerly. “Yes! He says I’m getting good, and if I keep practicing, maybe I can make enough for every child in the village by Christmas!”
His father shook his head. “Enough, Nicholas. That’s a fine dream, but we’re not in a position to be giving things away.”
“But Father,” Nicholas said quietly, “why can’t everyone feel special, at least once? It’s so dark and cold this time of year. The children should have something to smile about.”
“Life is difficult for everyone,” his father replied. “And no one expects you to solve that.”
A silence fell over the table. His mother placed a hand on his. “Oh, Nicholas,” she said softly. “You have a kind heart, but you can’t carry the weight of the whole world.”
Nicholas looked up. “Maybe not the whole world, but I could help a little bit.”
His father sighed again, rubbing his temples, but before he could speak, his mother asked, “And how would you even get these toys to the children?”
Nicholas leaned forward, his face glowing. “I could go out at night and leave the toys on doorsteps, or in windows. No one has to know it’s me!”
“Secret giving?” his father said, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like a lot of work for a boy your age.”
“But I could do it,” Nicholas insisted, excitement buzzing in his voice. “Think of it—waking up to find a toy you never thought you’d have. It’d be like… magic!”
His mother watched him, a hint of wonder in her eyes. “Magic from giving,” she murmured. “It’s a beautiful thought, Nicholas. But you’d have to work harder than ever. And no falling behind in your studies.”
Nicholas nodded fiercely. “I’ll study every night, right after I finish at Mr. Pemberton’s. And I’ll be careful in the workshop, Father.”
His father looked at him for a long moment, then sighed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “If anyone can do it, it’d be you, Nicholas.”
Nicholas’s eyes gleamed. “Then… you’ll let me try?”
His father chuckled, glancing at his mother. “One village, Nicholas. No more.”
Nicholas grinned. “One village,” he agreed.
***
In the weeks that followed, Nicholas threw himself into his work, carving and painting toys whenever he found a free moment between his studies and chores. Winter settled over the village, bringing bitter cold and long, dark nights. Although his room was as frigid as the streets outside, Nicholas didn’t mind. His determination kept him warm, driving him to finish each toy, one by one.
By Christmas Eve, his room brimmed with colorful creations, each packed and placed in a large bag. As he looked over his work, a deep sense of satisfaction filled him. The moment had come.
Wrapping himself in a thick coat, Nicholas slipped out into the snowy night.
For hours, he walked the streets, placing a toy on each doorstep. A doll here, a wooden horse there—a gift for every child. The stars overhead sparkled, watching him in quiet awe.
By the time he finished, Nicholas’s cheeks were red with cold, but his heart was bright. As he made his way home, he imagined the smiles that would greet his gifts in the morning.
He slipped back into bed, his parents were none the wiser. And as he drifted to sleep, he thought he heard something on the wind—a soft jingle, like bells, and a whisper of laughter.
On Christmas morning, joy swept through the village as children awoke to find the mysterious gifts. Their laughter and delight spread like wildfire, but the identity of the secret giver remained a mystery. In time, he would be known by many names: Saint Nicholas, Father Christmas, Santa Claus.
But for now, his parents saw only a boy with wooden toys, unaware that his kindness would one day light up the world.
Christmas Stocking
by Charles J. Garcia
One of my happiest tasks to prepare for the holiday was to find a Christmas stocking. My parents would not be shopping at a department store to find stockings for their children. Our Christmas stockings would not be grand affairs of bright red cloth decorated with white fur. My Christmas stocking would not be over-sized and deep. My entire arm would not fit into my stocking.
On Christmas Eve my brothers, sisters, and I would carefully search the drawers that held our socks. My sisters had a drawer, and I shared one with my brothers. Our socks were loosely tied together in pairs. Pairs would be quickly untied while we all searched for that elusive holiday sock. We would dig through our socks and somehow try to find the just-right choice. For some of my brothers this was an easy task.
I always took my time. Even though I was familiar with every sock in the drawer, I still searched for something special. There were no colorful socks. Most of the socks were either black or white in color. A few white socks had some faded blue stripes ringing the opening. Some socks were worn out with holes on the heels and toes. Usually, I pushed my hand into the socks I was interested in. I would spread my fingers far apart to check how wide the sock could expand. I was probably determining which sock had the potential to hold the most treats.
My patient search was always rewarded whenever I found a sock to my liking. My soon-to-be Christmas stocking had to have material that was still thick and sturdy. There should be no signs of holes or unraveling of threads. The sock should not be stretched out as if it had been worn by one of my older brothers.
I would take my just-right sock to the kitchen table. I held my sock on my lap and wrote a short note to Santa. I remember asking for little green army men, a watch with hands that glowed in the dark, a giant bag of marbles, or maybe an electric football set. I let Santa know that I wouldn’t mind sharing the gift of an electric football set with one of my brothers.
Once I slipped my note into the sock, it became an official Christmas stocking. Our notes to Santa tucked within the stockings helped us identify who it belonged to. I carefully placed my Christmas stocking alongside the others under the tree. Christmas morning could not come soon enough.
On Christmas morning, once the excitement of opening presents had passed, we always had our stockings. My stocking would be bulging with special candy I only see during Christmastime. There were beautiful and shining striped ribbons curled into tight waves. There were stripes of every color imaginable. I delighted in small-round cherry flavored candies that were filled with a chewy center. Rectangular peanut-butter-filled brown sweets had such a satisfying crunch of flavor. I devoured fresh peanuts and let a sweet and salty taste dance in my mouth. We triumphantly held up walnuts and looked forward to smashing them with Father’s hammer. I found pecans stashed in my stocking and tried to remember what they tasted like. The almost-impossible-to-crack Brazil nut traveled such a long way to be a part of our Christmas. Tasty hazelnuts rolled around the floor like marbles. Giant thick-skinned navel oranges released a faint citrus smell that fought to be known above the powerful aroma of tamales. Apples of red, yellow, and green shined like traffic lights trying in vain to control the pandemonium of this exceptional moment of happiness. Every apple appeared to have been hand polished by someone who cared deeply for us. Rare pomegranates were cuddled and cradled by all of the children.
I sat on the floor and dug a hand into my generous Christmas stocking. I burrowed my fingers through an abundance of candy. Candy danced across the palm of my hand. A pleasing tackiness gripped my touch. From the dozens of sweets, I selected one. I pulled it out and it was my favorite, a cherry candy. This candy would be a memorable taste of Christmas. With my brothers and sisters swirling about, the tree towering above me, and through my parents’ smiles, I held the candy up to the early light of Christmas day pouring in through our frosty windows.
The cherry candy was full of details. Small bumps rimmed the circular shape. It appeared to be a tiny UFO. I looked closer, there was something else. Clinging to the candy were small bits of fuzz. I looked even closer, the lint was the same color as my Christmas stocking. I rubbed the candy in my hands, trying to remove some of the minute threads. The material only held tighter, embedding itself into the surface of the candy.
I didn’t care. I popped the candy into my mouth and thoroughly enjoyed a classic seasonal flavor. I did not taste the lint from my Christmas stocking. I only tasted the sweetness of the love that surrounded me. I melted with the candy into the harmony my parents worked so hard to create.
I reached into my very own Christmas stocking for another bit of candy. I pulled out the first one I touched. I didn’t bother to see what flavor it was. I felt absolutely no need to check my candy for any signs of lint. I rushed over to Mother and hugged her and hoped the tamales were ready.
Tamales
by Charles J. Garcia
I knew Christmas was ever so close when Mother’s kitchen bustled with happy and purposeful activity. She was like one of Santa’s elves, making something just for us. The kitchen turned into a workshop, complete with noises that played like a holiday waltz. Pots clanged together as they were dug out from deep within the cabinets. Shiny and dented lids clanked on top of assorted vessels. Spoons tapped rhythmically on the edges of bowls and pots. Boiling water overflowed and hissed on the stovetop. Glass bottles of spices and herbs clinked together to toast the celebration.
My heart skipped when my eyes fell upon the sink full of water and hojas, cornhusks. Mother was soaking hojas in the sink to soften and clean them. It was at that moment I knew Mother was making tamales for us all. Like a visit from Santa, tamales made Christmas complete. Every Christmas must have snow and tamales. Our family was very fortunate to have a mother who knew the secret of creating tamales.
Mother boiled a large piece of pork in a great silver pot. The smell of the meat cooking was irresistible, all the while teasing us of what was to come. The fragrance of red chili sauce tickled and awoke the deepest part of my nostrils. An earthy smell of corn blossomed while mother transformed vital ingredients into tamale masa.
Mother removed the steaming hunk of pork from the boiling pot. She placed the meat on an old cutting board full of countless nicks, gouges, and scrapes. She quickly shredded the pork until it became a mountain of pieces that reminded me of wood shavings. Without a word she would hand out tiny bits of meat to the captive audience that surrounded her like needy puppies. The taste energized us, and we began hopping and shouting for more. With a simple wave of her hand she would send us scampering away. We understood if we ever wanted to have a tamale we must let Mother do her work without interruption.
Mother dropped the shredded pork into a rich and red chili sauce. With a large spoon she dug into the mixture and stirred deeply, making sure every morsel was covered in goodness. She reached into the sink and began removing the dripping-wet hojas. She shook them off and stacked them on a large towel. She examined her masa and decided to pour some more of the broth from the boiled pork into it. She looked satisfied and placed everything on the kitchen table.
Father helped by heading down into the basement. He knew exactly what he was looking for. He returned with the largest pot I have ever seen in my life. It was the color of a very old nickel. The bottom of the pot was covered in deep-black scorch marks from countless flames beating upon it. A million scratches were etched on its entire surface. This was the fine tamale pot that greeted our family once a year to help usher in the happy days of Christmas.
Father rinsed out the pot with hot water and set it down on the floor next to Mother. Mother placed a brown clay bowl upside down in the bottom of the tamale pot. She arranged the hojas, the masa, and the seasoned meat around her. She was in total control.
Mother reached for the first hoja. She flattened it in the palm of her left hand. The silky brown color of the hoja shared the same color as the coffee with milk Mother enjoyed every morning. Now the supple hoja blended into the color of her skin.
She took a large spoon and dipped it in a cup of water. The spoon dug into the masa. She plopped the masa on the hoja and began to push it evenly across the surface of the husk. It spread like peanut butter on a slice of bread. Mother’s hand softly guided the masa across the hoja. The brown masa made from ground corn was much like the color of my skin.
She grabbed a dollop of the meat mixture and placed it down the center of the masa. Finally, she began neatly folding the husk. With a skill she must have learned from her mother, she wrapped the tamale up in movements much too quick for my eyes to capture. It seemed as if she was folding the tiniest piece of laundry in the world. She placed the folded shape into the bottom of the pot, leaning it on the clay bowl.
Mother repeated this process over and over. She never tired or slowed. She did not take a break. I watched in amazement as the masa disappeared and the pot filled. Her hands knew exactly what to do. There was nothing wasted.
When she finished making the last tamale, Father lifted the heavy load and placed it on the stove. Mother added some water to the pot. She lit the stove and adjusted the flame. Soon every inch of our house would be saturated with the fantastic smell of tamales being cooked. There was no escape. The hearty aroma even found its way outside and swirled about alongside us like a welcome playmate we haven’t seen for a year. We eagerly accepted this delicious companion into our circle while we played and waited for the holiday to begin.
Put a Candle in the Window
by Thelma A. Giomi
Put a candle in the window.
Strike the match and light the wick.
You’ve performed a sacred act,
Begun a holy rite.
Put a candle in the window.
Shine hope into the longest night.
Exchange new and tender mercies
For old wounds of friends and strangers alike.
Put a candle in the window.
So, we know that someone cares,
And we find Redemption manifest
In the simple acts we share.
Put a candle in the window.
Vanquish tears and cares tonight.
Open wide your welcome door
Inviting joy and festive new delights.
Put a candle in the window.
Shine your bright and healing light,
On those we love and those we’ve lost,
And those whose struggle is a secret fight.
Put a candle in the window
For everyone tonight.
Winter’s Tapestry
by Thelma A. Giomi
This winter tapestry,
This woven art,
Created by so many hands,
Envisioned by such trusting hearts,
Depicts the ancient rites,
Along with dazzling childhood delights,
Amid a winter’s scene,
Where we are gathering the holly and the evergreens,
Into a fabric, elegant and fine.
Because the strands of yours
Are interlaced with threads of mine,
They weave a pattern so powerful,
It’s named “Divine”.
Now, as we celebrate this waning year,
Weaving daily courage into resilient cheer,
The tensile strengths of
The lives we live,
The love we give,
Entwine into
This winter tapestry,
This woven art,
Created by your willing hands,
Made luminous by your shining hearts.
Keeping Vigils
by Thelma A. Giomi
It is
Winter Solstice,
Christmas Eve,
New Year’s Eve,
A time of keeping vigils,
With advent wreaths
And menorahs,
With candles in windows,
And farolitos along paths,
With lights woven through trees,
And Moravian stars above all.
This is a time when we, Soul Searchers,
Stand in the mingled stardust of all who were,
And all who will be,
Recalling an ancient belief
That each soul’s essence began in a star,
And left its memory sparkling in the night sky around us.
This is the time of radiant wisdom
When knowing that stars are seen most clearly in dark places,
We realize that our invincible luminosity cannot be resisted.
This is the time we sanctify long-night-vigils
With ancient rituals
That celebrate the Divine Light,
Reborn moment-by-moment in our resilient hope.
This is the time that transforms
Keeping vigils into seasons of beginnings.
Deep in December
by Thelma A. Giomi
When the night sky is clear,
Expanding infinitely before our eyes,
And the stars shine singularly bright,
Intensely wise,
Possessed of a silent serenity,
The whole exquisite darkness
Shelters a sweet stillness
Permeating the hectic holiday season,
Allowing a settling peace to find us,
As if calm were made of snowflakes
Falling in drifts of quiet elegance
Soothing the landscape of our hearts.
On that profound night
Surrounded by sparkling stars
And gentle quiet
We feel sheltered from harm and hurt.
With one breath
We recall that long ago, Sacred Birth.
An awareness slips into our thoughts.
The night sighs,
And our hearts fall open,
Inviting our personal epiphany
To fill us with awe and wonder,
And a certain and abiding knowledge
That we have within us
A powerful gift‒To begin the world again.
Teddy and Me
By Lynne Sebastian
On Christmas Eve in 1947, Santa Claus brought me a teddy bear. He was a plush panda bear with a white body and head and black arms, legs, and ears. Black ovals on his face surrounded googly-eye buttons; a black nose and mouth were outlined in stitching on his white muzzle.
I was only five and a half months old at the time, so I don’t remember this Christmas, but the bear was apparently an instant hit. When I was old enough to walk, I hauled Teddy along everywhere I went, indoors or out. And every night he slept on the right side of my pillow, bravely putting himself between me and any scary things that might come through my bedroom door in the dark.
Teddy was my playmate, my accomplice, and my friend. On rainy days, we curled up on the couch, wrapped in a quilt, and I told him long complicated stories and fairy tales. On sunny afternoons, we made a playhouse among the branches of a boxelder tree in the back yard or a castle out of the pile of surplus cinderblocks behind the garage. We made mud pies and played on our swing set. We picked dandelions and Queen Ann’s Lace, and I wove matching daisy chain necklaces for us.
These adventures took their toll on my Teddy. The googly button eyes disappeared early in our relationship; the white plush body and head took on a tanish-gray color; and much of the fur was loved off his arms and legs. His muzzle became a bit squashy and shiny from innumerable sticky kisses. None of these changes mattered to me. Teddy looked exactly as he was supposed to look. Some of the adults in my world, however, viewed his sartorial shortcomings less positively.
Christmases came and went. The year that I was five, my paternal grandmother surprised me with a new teddy bear. He was a rich, rust-brown color with soft plushy fur and a bright blue satin bow around his neck. I was smitten. I played with him all during Christmas day.
Smug with the success of her strategy, my grandmother said to my mother, “I’m going to take that nasty old bear of hers down to the basement and throw it in the furnace.”
Knowing how that would turn out, my mother said, “Hmm, I wouldn’t do that just yet. I’ll put him up on the closet shelf out of sight until we see how this goes.”
Bedtime came. I put away my new toys, looked all around, and asked, “Where’s Teddy?”
My grandmother said, “Oh, Honey, you don’t need that dirty old thing. Here’s your pretty new bear,” and tried to put it in my arms.
My face began to crumple. My eyes brimmed with tears. The storm clouds gathered. “I don’t want that bear,” I warbled. “I want Teddy! Where’s Teddy??”
Without a word, my mother fetched Teddy down from my grandmother’s closet shelf and handed him to me. I hugged him fiercely. The clouds faded. As bidden, I kissed everyone goodnight, even my grandmother, although somewhat less willingly in her case, and Teddy and I went happily off to bed.
Years later, my mother told me that I never again would even look at that brown bear, much less play with it. She finally gave it to the daughter of one of her friends.
More Christmases came and went. Teddy and I remained inseparable. He grew shabbier and more worn. The seam attaching his left arm to his body kept unraveling; my mother kept sewing his arm back on. To me, he never changed, but changes were coming, nonetheless.
We all know how these stories turn out, though. Children grow up. New interests replace the simple games and imaginary friends of childhood: best friends and slumber parties and school dances; homework and exams and term papers; first dates and boyfriends and romance. Life grows exciting, full, and sweet. And even the best-loved toys are left to gather dust on a shelf.
As still more Christmases come and go, the child leaves home, and the beloved toys are relegated to a box in the attic. For the former child, life holds college and dorm life, pledge formals and all-nighters, career plans and graduation, the wonder of growing independence. Then one Christmases brings an engagement ring, and the next a wedding.
Eventually. the mother of the woman who was formerly that child grows tired of giving house room to the detritus of a childhood long since left behind. And the shabby, abandoned old toys are thrown away with barely a thought.
Except that sometimes . . . rarely, but sometimes, the bond between the child and the toy is too strong to allow any of this to happen. Sometimes, the child refuses to entirely grow up, not if it means a cold indifference to her loyal, brave, and dearly loved companion. Sometimes, the child and the toy instead share all these happy and sad moments as life unfolds. Sometimes they make a vow to grow old but not grow up and to spend all the Christmases remaining to them as they have spent every Christmas since the beginning. Together.
Boxing Day
by Suzanne Stauffer
The weak, gray light of a winter dawn slid down the narrow passage between the tenement houses as Jim Young opened his eyes. He took a deep breath. Was that bacon? How had Della managed to afford bacon two days in a row? First for Christmas morning and now for the day after? She was a marvel, that young wife of his!
He threw back the covers and, shivering in the cold, washed quickly in the icy water from the pitcher on the washstand. He pulled on his clothes and, bending down to peer in the mirror, slicked his hair back. He smiled wryly at the jeweled combs lying on the top of the dresser next to the brush that Della no longer needed for her once beautiful hair. He shook his head as he tucked the platinum fob chain into the empty watch pocket of his vest and went into the kitchen.
“Oh, Jim, you’re up, my darling,” Della spun around and danced over, throwing her arms around his neck. He returned the hug and added a kiss.
“Something smells good, my sweet,” he smiled down at her, his hands on her waist. “Bacon twice in one week?”
“Oh, I know how you love it, and I still had that eighty-seven cents left from selling my hair,” she paused and brushed a hand sadly across her cropped head, then smiled bravely. “What else could I do but buy my dearest his favorite breakfast! Now, sit down while I serve you.”
Jim sat and Della poured coffee for him, then placed a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast in front of him.
“Eggs, too? And butter on the toast?” Jim exclaimed. “Such riches!”
Della smiled again as she sat across from him, her plate of food before her. What if her pile of eggs was smaller and she had only one slice of bacon and no butter to her bread? Her Jim was happy and that was better than butter.
Jim took a forkful of eggs and bacon, followed by a bite of toast and a swig of coffee.
“The very best eggs and bacon I’ve ever eaten. What’s your secret, my angel?”
“Why, they’re made with love, sweetheart!” Della beamed at him.
Jim finished his food, then sat back, sipping his coffee and watching as Della tidied the kitchen.
“Well,” he said, setting his cup on the table. “I guess I’d better be off to work. This isn’t England where people get Boxing Day as a holiday as well as Christmas.”
Della followed him into the main room and helped him on with his old coat. He held his hat awkwardly in his hands.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you, honey,” he said.
“Yes, my beloved?”
“Well … it’s about those combs I got you for your hair…”
Della’s eyes narrowed and a crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes, what about the combs?”
“Well … I wondered if maybe … well, if maybe I could return them to the jeweler and get the money back and get my watch out of hock.” Jim spoke in a rush, as Della’s eyes grew wide with astonishment.
“You want to do WHAT?” she demanded.
“Well, it’s not like you can use them right now, but I could use the watch with the chain that you got me, and isn’t that what you want, my dearest darling?” Jim hurried through his justification, backing slowly toward the door, as Della began breathing harshly through her nose.
“I know your hair grows awfully fast,” he continued, feeling for the doorknob behind his back, “but it will still be months before you can use them and by that time I’ll have saved up the money and I could buy the combs …”
Della cut him off. “You want them back?!” she snarled as she turned to the dresser and snatched up the combs, then advanced toward him, waving her first under his nose. “The only decent things you’ve ever given me and you want them BACK? My mother was right! I should never have married you!”
Jim heard this last as he slipped out the door and closed it behind him. He had only taken a few steps when it flew open and Della appeared in doorway, her arm raised above her head.
“You want them?” she shrieked. “They’re yours!” She flung her arm forward and the combs flew out of her hand and landed on the hallway floor in front of him. She stepped back into the apartment and slammed the door.
Jim stood staring at the door for a moment, then slowly bent down and picked up the combs. He looked at them in his hand and was relieved to see that they were undamaged. He sighed gratefully as he slipped them into his pocket and headed down the hall to the stairwell.
