The ice cubes rattled in the empty glass when he put it back down on the table. Chase Jackson swirled the bourbon around in his mouth before swallowing, then stared at the fire, feeling a warmth provided by either the alcohol or the fireplace. He wasn’t sure which.
He turned up the stereo to near-deafening volume. The floor shook to the strums of the stand-up bass, as precision saxophone runs bounced off the walls and carried throughout the cabin. Noise complaints were hardly a concern when the nearest neighbors were more than a mile away.
Christmas alone with my friends, and I couldn’t be happier, he thought to himself.
He managed his way into the kitchen to fetch cookies and more bourbon. Finding a bag of carrots in the crisper, he added one to the plate. He scrawled a shaky note that simply read: For Santa.
The plate found its rightful place on the table near the hearth. Between air-saxophone licks, Chase munched the carrot to a nub and took a bite from one of the cookies. The bourbon washed it all down nicely.
“The family tradition continues,” he announced to the empty room.
Thinking that two more fingers would make good company, he returned to the kitchen for a refill. Sadly, the bottle was empty.
“Goodnight Mr. Beam,” he muttered as he tossed the bottle in the dustbin.
On his way past the fireplace, Chase revisited the plate of cookies. Sucking on the last ice cube from the rocks glass, he was struck by the thought that the cookies-and-carrot thing was pathetic. Not only was he an adult, he was the world’s most renowned action hero. What was he doing entertaining foolish notions under the pretense of tradition? Ridiculous.
He crumpled the childish Santa note into a ball and tossed it into the empty rocks glass. As the last few beats of “A Love Supreme” resonated from the speakers, he reached for the remote.
“Goodnight Mr. Coltrane.”
He powered down the stereo and soon fell asleep in his chair, wrapped only in the glow of the dying fire.
----------
Even with his senses dulled by the alcohol, he awoke in the dark with the sudden awareness that something was wrong. Then he heard it:
Hiss!
It was the sound of snow falling through the chimney onto the gray yet still warm embers. Delicately crunching footsteps followed from above.
Someone was on the roof.
In a flash, Chase leapt from the chair. His head was instantly clear. Beside the door he kept his favorite sidearm. It was in his grasp before his hand hit the doorknob.
There was an audible woosh as he opened the door. The cold air pouring in was as abrasive as a snowball to the face.
Barreling into the elements, Chase found his way to the old oak tree. His father had planted it here, shortly after finishing the construction of the cabin. In the years since, the oak had grown to heights that far exceeded the trees that had been on the property before it. Chase’s mother once said that it was the best seed that her husband had ever planted.
Chase never really knew what to make of that comment.
The folds of the bark served as finger holds, as Chase expertly scaled the tree trunk. A sturdy limb provided an avenue to the roof, and he took it, albeit somewhat clumsily. Perhaps the bourbon had not worn off entirely.
He leapt from branch to roof with a resounding thud. After gathering his legs beneath him, Chase surveyed the area.
No footprints, no marks in the snow whatsoever. In truth, the undisturbed snow upon the roof looked kind of pretty, especially with all the trees beyond it lit so nicely by the moonlight.
Chase was confused. Perhaps he was roused from his slumber by his own excitable defense mechanisms. An action hero has to be alert at all times, after all.
Would an enemy really attack on Christmas Eve of all times?
Even enemies have families.
----------
After two logs and some work, Chase restarted the flicking fire, laughing at his own idiocy. He always had been too quick to jump at the nearest sound, too “on the ready”.
He was in the middle of nowhere for gosh sakes. Nothing to worry about here.
One more drink would sure be nice, he thought with a sigh.
Settling into his fireside chair, his eyelids felt heavy.
In the fireplace, the logs shifted, crackling and swirling sparks into the room.
Jerking awake once again, Chase noticed a brownish glow to his right. Upon the chair side table was a full bottle of Jim Beam bourbon, with a crumpled paper attached.
The note simply read:
For Chase.
-From Santa.