Greatest Intentions

Mam, tell me he's not doing what I think he's doing.

Oh, Ryan, come on now. It's Christmas. Can't you give the old man a break?

Ryan shook his head and bit his lip to prevent his thoughts from firing out of his mouth. He turned his attention away from his Grandad, who was outside and slowly staggering back towards the house from the old lambing shed with a net of logs on his back. He looked at his mother bent double over by the table in the centre of the kitchen, trying to wrestle an enormous dead turkey out of a bucket of orange and clove-scented brine by her feet. The water was going everywhere, and she was already soaked through.

Jees, Mam, you'd have thought that bird had come back to life, given how much flailing about there is.

Orla O'Connor dropped the bird back in its bucket, and ignoring the small tidal wave of water that slopped over her slippers, she stood up straight, put her hands on her hips, and looked squarely at her eldest son. If he wasn't careful, she thought, somebody in the family, before Christmas was through, was going to knock him off the perch he had flown home to sit on.

What? Ryan, recognising the look, shrugged. Then, he said, I don't know why you do this to yourself. What's a dead turkey got to do with baby Jesus anyway?

Orla looked up at the ceiling and started to count to ten silently. One, her son was still young. Two, this was the first time he had come home this year, and she had missed him. Three, he was only being true to himself. Four, she should be proud that she had a principled son. Five...

You know. It might be best if I go over to Joe's for Christmas Eve. There's just too much going on here that compromises what I stand for. It's probably for the best I don't stay. Fires, dead birds, and Mam, there's a crazy amount of tinsel in the front room. You know that's plastic, right?

Orla took a deep lung full of air. Five, just let him go. Six, he will learn in his own way. Seven, he will probably save the planet one day. Eight...

Bang! The back door swung open with a clatter, and a net of logs slid across the floor.

Ryan! The old man's voice boomed into the kitchen as he stepped in from the cold, grey outside.

Oh, no. Orla looked down at her turkey. She could tell from the tone where this was going.

So, the old man began, peering at his grandson over his glasses, which had misted from entering the warm kitchen air. You think it's okay to stand here in your socks in the warm while an old man like me goes out to get the logs for the fire, do ya?

Well... Ryan began, trying to think how best to point out to the old man that he had already negated the critical point of his argument by stating that it was warm enough to be in the house in only your socks without lighting a fire to poison the atmosphere.

The old man stood still and watched his grandson's arms move like a malfunctioning robot trying to pull some unfathomable logic from the air. After a moment, he said, You gone soft?

Dad! You can't say that! Orla put her hand to her chest and looked at Ryan, praying he wouldn't rise to the old man's bait.

It's okay, Mam, said Ryan, I know what he's like.

What, exactly, am I like? The old man spoke very calmly without taking his eyes off his Grandson.

Forget it. Ryan shook his head and looked at his mother, whose eyes were pleading with him to leave it be. He looked down at his feet and then back up at his grandad. Times have changed, that's all I mean.

Ugh. The old man grunted. Times have not changed so much that you can't help an old man out when he needs you. Get your boots on. I have two more nets to bring in. We are lighting a fire whether you like it or not. It's Christmas Eve, for heaven's sake.

The old man turned and walked out, the door clattering shut behind him.

Ryan looked at his mother. Oh my God, he said, I may as well send a plane out circling over the farm with a banner behind it that says: Ryan the hypocrite lives here.

Oh, Ryan, you are overreacting. Orla protested as Ryan walked over to the back door to put on his boots.

No, Mam, I'm not. Jees, I have spent the last six months campaigning against deforestation in South America, and now, just because an old man thinks it can't be Christmas without lighting a fire in the hearth, I'm going to compromise all that I believe in. If anything, he's the one that's overreacting. I should be offended, not him.

Of course, Ryan was right. Orla knew this. She knew that the family should stop eating meat, lighting fires, and decking the house with tinsel and plastic baubles. There were alternatives. Why could they not all embrace the change? As Ryan lumbered out of the door, reluctantly going to help his grandad out in the yard, she looked at her dead turkey floating about in its flotsam of salt, spice, and orange peel. She wiggled her toes in her sodden slippers and thought about going to get a mop to soak up all the splashes and puddles.

Instead, she sat down at the kitchen table and looked out through the window. The sky was darkening fast. It was a dank, dirty, grey night. The fog was already rolling in. The lights in the yard had come on, but they only seemed to make the whole place look colder in contrast, haunted in a way.

She could see her Dad and Ryan sketching their way about, shifting things, doing things—old motions, ways of times past when there had been sheep in the shed and horses in the stables. She hated to think what they were saying to each other. She picked up the bottle of cooking sherry, which she'd readied next to a pile of sage and cranberries— the ingredients of her grandma's secret family sauce recipe for tomorrow's big lunch.

Meh, who cares? She said, toasting nobody and taking a swig from the bottle.

Mam! The shrill little voice of her youngest, Niamh, shrieked out from down the hallway. Aunty Maria and Uncle John are here with the baby!

Dear God, thought Orla, there wasn't even space between the rock and the hard place for a moment or two of self-pity. She sighed and called back, Righty-O, and took one more swig of sherry as she kicked off her wet slippers. Go on and open the door, Niamh; I'll be right there.

From down the hallway, Orla could hear her sister come in. As their father would joke, she was always a woman you'd hear before seeing, Jees, that fog's wet. Goes right through yer, so it does. Bloody treacherous coming down that coast road. I hope the old man's got that fire going, Orla!

Orla shouted back, He's out the back sorting the shed, Maria. You make yourselves at home. I've got some hot chocolate on the stove and some whisky to warm you properly. I'll bring it through.

None of that oat milk stuff, I hope, Orla?

No, it's from a cow.

Orla began pouring the hot chocolate into her festively decorated mugs. Down the hallway, she could hear her sister chuntering to her husband, See, John, nobody's cancelled Christmas. Just because Ryan has some fancy ideas does not mean that you mess with tradition.

The back door clattered as Ryan threw two nets of logs on the floor.

Hot chocolate? Orla asked him.

No thanks, Ryan said.

Okay. Your aunt and uncle are here if you want to go through and say hello.

Ryan nodded, leaned against the wall and kicked his boots off.

You and the old man sorted now?

Ryan rolled his eyes. Like we will ever be sorted. Do you want me to carry those through for you, Mam?

Thanks love.

Together, they walked into the front room and handed out the hot chocolates. Niamh already had the baby on her knee, and everyone was looking expectantly at Ryan.

Come on, son, said John. Let's get that fire lit.

Grandad will be here in a minute; he'll do it. I think I am going out.

Oh no, Ryan, please don't go, protested Niamh. Don't you want to sit with us and watch the flames send new stars up the chimney to heaven?

I'm sorry, Niamh. It's best that I don't. If I stay, I am afraid I will only ruin Christmas.