M. Sellars: In the bleak midwinter

After sifting through the pages, she eventually found Joseph Wayne Garrity. He was supposed to be serving seven to twenty-five for repeatedly molesting a nine-year-old girl in a Kansas City suburb.

Until yesterday morning, that is.

Apparently Merrie Frances Callahan had amended his sentence.

On the remainder of the drive home, Greg Lake’s voice filled the interior of Constance’s sedan as he lamented the broken promises of Christmas and a man in a red suit who was not what he seemed. Whenever the song would reach its end, she focused on the last line, which so eloquently claimed that the Christmas we get is the one that we deserve. The rap sheets of the eight dead predators would flash through her mind, and in that moment she would believe the words to be true.

Then she would thumb the controls on the steering column and skip the CD backwards to start the tune again from the beginning. Now and again, as the song echoed in her ears, she would splay out her hand atop the steering wheel and look at the fresh lacquer of pearlescent pink polish on her nails, then smile.

Unfortunately, her smile would soon fade. She would flash on the dozens of rap sheets in the file for child molesters who were still alive, and realize that for Merrie-and Rebecca-Christmas would forever be Hell.

Then her vision would begin to blur as tears welled in her eyes.

AD Graham was correct. She was definitely going to need a few days…