Wilson Koewing ~ Mill Valley

They drove from San Anselmo to Mill Valley for a Christmas cel­e­bra­tion in the town cen­ter.  Both towns were in Marin County, just north of San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge, but Mill Valley, being clos­er to the city, and more seclud­ed amongst the red­woods and nes­tled in a val­ley sur­round­ed by lush hills was the more afflu­ent of the two.

Price had spent much of the dri­ve using his daugh­ter as a con­duit through which to good-natured­ly crit­i­cize what he believed to be Delancey’s unapolo­getic and ram­pant mate­ri­al­ism with regards to the Christmas sea­son. While Delancey respond­ed with humor, a ten­sion formed, which Price real­ized arose from his cow­ardice in not con­fronting her directly.

Upon arrival, the three were briefly sep­a­rat­ed before Delancey found Price and his daugh­ter stand­ing in line to ride a small elec­tric train.

Everybody here is so low-key wealthy,” she said, almost fondly.

Price nod­ded with­out look­ing around. He was kneel­ing and strug­gling with his daugh­ter who was try­ing to stop him from zip­ping her coat. When he final­ly stood and took in the crowd, the accu­ra­cy of Delancey’s state­ment became appar­ent. He was sur­round­ed by peo­ple who paid full price for win­ter coats. Expensive hair­cuts. Whitened teeth. Electrically smoothed skin. Subtly osten­ta­tious jew­el­ry that only announced itself when the light shifted.

The elec­tric train looped around the town square. He watched his daugh­ter, hair lift­ing in the breeze, wave to those they passed with the con­fi­dence of know­ing they would all wave back.

Stepping off the train, he lin­gered, his gaze drawn to a moth­er adjust­ing a child’s scarf, the blind­ing dia­mond of her ring catch­ing briefly in the wool.

Standing beside Delancey, amongst the crowd out­side the café in the town cen­ter, he became aware of the effort he was mak­ing. His own coat, while pur­chased on sale, was cho­sen more for sta­tus than for func­tion. He grew con­scious of his pos­ture. The posi­tion­ing of his hands. The almost sub­con­scious deci­sions he was mak­ing to affirm that he should be there.

A stage had been erect­ed in front of the café’s patio where dozens brunched. A trun­cat­ed per­for­mance of The Nutcracker by stu­dents from the Marin Conservancy of Dance end­ed and a selec­tion of Christmas sta­ples sung by the Carolers from the Marin School of the Arts began.

Their daugh­ter grav­i­tat­ed toward anoth­er lit­tle girl of sim­i­lar age, and they held hands and swayed to the car­ol­ing. Price and Delancey looked at each oth­er and smiled. It was, despite the accom­pa­ny­ing bag­gage, an idyl­lic hol­i­day scene. And it swelled—marvelous under the red­woods and a low, thick fog that seemed to hug the pic­turesque town and its inhab­i­tants, the eyes of which were all trained on the exquis­ite caroling—into a total­i­ty that exud­ed a col­lec­tive aware­ness of its near perfection.

As the hol­i­day cheer and glee reached a fever pitch, into the open space near the stage wan­dered an elder­ly man, wear­ing a gar­ish Christmas sweater and a Santa hat, who stopped, uncer­tain, as if he had arrived some­where with­out remem­ber­ing why.

Two men, extreme­ly well-bar­bered and adorned in cash­mere sweaters, appeared almost at once and lead him away on their arms, but it was clear the veneer had cracked. Eyes dart­ed. Bodies shift­ed uneasi­ly. Children wept, aware of their par­ents sud­den alert­ness. The stop/start of “O Holy Night” shocked the brit­tle con­ti­nu­ity of the merriment.

Price felt an embar­rass­ment he could not quite place as he watched relief quick­ly spread through the crowd in the elder­ly man’s absence. He even felt his own anx­i­ety lessen against his will. It was as if he were trapped in a snow globe of a town, so frag­ile that the slight­est brush with the grim­ness of real­i­ty could send it spin­ning into mania like the shake of a giant hand.

~

Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His books JADED, QUASI and ROLLING ON THE BOTTOM are avail­able from Main Street Rag/Mint Hill Books, Anxiety Press and Cowboy Jamboree Press, respec­tive­ly. His fic­tion and essays have appeared in Wigleaf, Pembroke Magazine, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gargoyle and New World Writing. He is cur­rent­ly at work on a new short sto­ry col­lec­tion titled THE MELANCHOLY OF DAD and his debut nov­el WEDDING CRASHER, MARIN COUNTY. He lives and writes in Marin County, California. You can pur­chase his books and read more of his work on his web­site www.wilsonkoewing.com. He is active on X @jadedwriter_