I am, to a fault, a last-minute person. Every year like clockwork I say that I’ll set up my decorations the day after Thanksgiving, have all the gifts done weeks in advance, etc. And every year I’m scrambling. This year was no different, which is why on December 17 I found myself at the tree stand in my neighborhood, willing to drop way too much money for something that I’d only have up for two, three weeks max.
The tree stand was the same one I always belatedly frequented. But the tree stand guy was new. That didn’t phase me, of course—they always seemed to be staffed by a combo of one older man or woman and a bunch of college kids clearly looking to make a quick buck, not make that their career.
But there was something off about the fellow who eagerly peppered me with questions and mundane tree facts as he guided me from one potential purchase to the next. For starters, his eyes were seriously bloodshot. He looked like he was in dire need of some rest—but who didn’t, and this had to be a crazy time for him. It wasn’t just that though. The eyes were frozen in a wide, almost manic gaze, and he hardly took them off of me.
There was also the tick with his mouth. He would never really stop talking. But every few sentences his jaw and teeth would do like frantic clicking action. “Click, click.” “Click, click.” I’d never seen anything like it. To top it off, he was unusually pale, like he’d been living in a sunless arctic land for years. All of this was striking, but at the time it didn’t seem like a red flag. And I thought, who am I to judge. He was nice and helpful enough.
After what seemed like an eternity of learning way more about Christmas tree varietals than I could ever want to know, he brought me to the one that he told me I just had to have. And I was indeed impressed. An 8-foot Douglas Fir that was beautifully full and rounded out nicely—none of that weird lopsidedness that so many trees can end up having once you’ve gotten them home and it’s too late. He was right: I had to have it, and I told him without hesitation (or even asking the price) that I’d take it.
The man’s eyes widened even further at this—something I thought impossible—and his jaw and teeth clicking seemed to become even more pronounced and frequent. An unnaturally large smile opened across his face and he took the tree over to cut the trunk and net it.
As he began to saw, I heard it: the slightest, high-pitched cry, almost like a dog whining. I looked around. The street was busy—the city always is this time—but no dogs in sight. But we were in the thick of things, cars buzzing around and people weaving past us. The momentary cry could have been anything.
As the man put the net on and rang me up, his smile suddenly disappeared and his look became serious for the first time. “You have made a wise choice with this tree. It’s very good. But I must warn you, you cannot let it dry out. It can get very thirsty and you won’t be happy if the tree isn’t happy. Understood?”
Fair enough, I thought.
The setup process was remarkably easy. And it was a glory to behold, lit up to holy heaven and decked out with twice as many ornaments as any reasonable person would ever use. The man was right. I’d made the right decision and I was happy. Optimistic, I filled its water to the brim and went to bed.
The next morning was devastating. The tree wasn’t dead, but it had transformed and was hardly thriving. It was as if two weeks had passed without me watering it at all. The needles were dry and brittle and the branches were no longer supple and spongy but far too stiff to be healthy. I checked the water and saw it was empty.
Weird. Maybe it’s just because it’s a big tree, or the varietal, I thought. Or maybe it’s too hot in the room. But I’d never seen a tree devour a full bowl of water in a night. And certainly not one whose condition deteriorated so quickly.
I went back to the tree stand that day. A college-aged kid greeted me and offered to show me around. I told him about my purchase and asked to see the guy from yesterday. But as I described him, the kid’s look went from initial confusion to complete ignorance. He hadn’t seen any guy like that and he worked most days. The day before another kid around his age was manning the shop, not some middle-aged man with pale skin, bloodshot eyes, and an odd tick. Weirder yet, I thought. But maybe he didn’t know who all was working there. He was just one employee and he hadn’t been there the day before.
I explained the situation with the tree to him and asked for some guidance. He said I’d done everything right and I might also check to make sure it wasn’t close to the heater but that was all he could think of. I knew it wasn’t. Dissatisfied, I headed home.
When I got back, I was shocked. The tree had reverted to its former beauty. No. It was even better. I didn’t know how but I wasn’t going to complain. I quickly refilled the bowl and even made sure the heater was off in that room for good measure.
A few hours later, the apartment building was filled with a piercing scream. Footsteps, crying, and an ambulance outside. One of the older tenants had passed. Sad, of course, but we’d all known the reaper would come for Mr. Canning soon enough. His wife, a few years his junior, was devastated. The next day, not wanting to bother her but wanting to offer my condolences, I left a card and flowers on her doorstep.
Over the coming days the tree continued to thrive. It was a sight to behold. I was so pleased that I took the rare step of hosting my own party. Nothing huge, just a handful of friends, but I wanted to show it off to someone. My friends ooo’d and aah’d and made me feel even better about my purchase.
My festive mood was dampened when Nick, one of my neighbors who I’d invited, pulled me aside. After some small talk, his voice quieted. He had heard from someone else, close to Mr. Canning and his wife, that the old man’s death was being marked as due to natural causes. But his body had some odd conditions. Mr. Canning had lost many shades of color—not just the hue that departs us when we leave this world—and he had a few small incisions on his wrist and neck. Weirder still, his body was far lighter than you’d expect for a 170 pound man. This had caused Ms. Canning, ever the rumormonger, to claim there was foul play. But the coroner ruled it out. Other than anemia and the few cuts, which anyone could have, there was nothing. And the most obvious reason Mr. Canning would have died was because he was just very old.
I kept this story with me as I waved goodbye to the last of my guests and shut the door. I turned to admire the tree again, which seemed to get even more luscious and green with each passing day. In the glow of its lights I took in the smell, the room’s silence making the moment feel almost solemn. And in that moment, as I let the spirit of the season wash over me, I heard a familiar sound: “click, click.” “Click, click.”