Page 51 of Kit
Together, we put out a red and white plaid blanket with cushions to sit on.
In the kitchen, I prepared a tray of cold cuts, cheese and bread and butter. To a second tray, I added bowls of nuts, carrots and celery with dip, and pretzels. I brought out a bag of marshmallows and two long cooking forks.
When I set down the second tray, Kit looked at the bag. “Marshmallows? Ohhh. We can roast them over the fire.”
“For dessert,” I added.
We sat together and made little sandwiches and ate samplings of everything else. We went back to the Christmas movie channel on TV.
Just before we were ready to roast the marshmallows, I brought us hot cocoa.
“We can put some marshmallows in the cocoa, too,” Kit said.
“Yes, we can. But I love mine roasted to a soft brown crisp over the fire.”
“I like mine all burnt up.” Kit grinned.
True to his word, Kit kept catching his marshmallows on fire. He had more soot on his fingers than sticky sugar.
When we were full and the plates almost empty, we lounged back on the cushions and watched A Christmas Story.
After it was over, the fire had burned down to low. I picked up the trays and bowls, and said, heading to the kitchen, “I’ll build that fire back up as soon as I get the dishwasher going.”
It was going to take at least two trips. When I returned to the living room, Kit had the poker out and was prodding at the fire.
“Don’t touch it, Kit. I’ll build it when I get back.”
I cleaned up the rest of the dishes and left him lying on the blanket, poker in hand, staring up at the ceiling. I planned to get my phone and take some pictures. With the tree, the fire, and the lights in the window, plus a beautiful boy lying on a blanket, it was a scene I never wanted to forget.
I rustled around in the kitchen, starting the dishwasher and cleaning the counters when I heard a soft pop. Then Kit was screaming.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
I threw down my wet cloth and ran to the living room.
There, on the hearth rug right where Kit was kneeling, a mostly blackened log was burning, flames rising up blue and gold.
“It rolled out when I poked it, Daddy! It hit my knee.”
He had his hand over his knee so I couldn’t see it. But at the moment I needed to take care of things. I certainly didn’t want my house to burn down three days before Christmas.
I grabbed the large tongs and half lifted, half rolled the log back into the fireplace.
Kit was rocking, body shaking. “Daddy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m bad.”
“No—” I started.
“Oh no! I burned your rug. I wrecked it.” He sounded panicked.
“Baby boy, it’s?—”
He interrupted again, not hearing me. “I almost burned your house. I can’t believe I did that. I’m bad, I’m bad!” He jumped up. “Ow. It made a hole in my pants and burned my knee. I’m bad. I disobeyed you. Oh no!”
Before I could respond, he ran toward the front door.
“Kit,” I yelled. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go home. I just have to. I’m sorry.”
