Joshua Cohen - Witz

As outside there’s the freeze of the snow to make necessary the shelter of house, in which it’s warm, with heat central, up from the ventings at baseboard; and as there’s a house to make necessary the refrigerator inside, which sustains that that might sustain our own lives, and is the house within the house upon which our world is presently founded (this is how Benjamin thinks when He’s hungry) — how far we have come from the garden! Better to banish the house, go out and greet exposure, scattering the perishables to keep out on the lawn. This refrigerator, the kitchen’s, a rectangular white monolith, set into the wall, doorsurfaced, is kept fresh of new food, right from the supermarket, taken right from the bag and unwrapped only then, to be cooked and consumed — this isn’t the refrigerator He needs. The refrigerator He needs is the downstairs refrigerator, the downstairs-downstairs, in the basement, partially unfinished, meaning wholly; it keeps the leftovers sealed for eternity in their containments of plastic, foiltopped bowls and the trademark of tupperware, the foods best forbidden for better than a moon after their initial cooking and partial consumption, the headless fowl, the frozen appetizers, minipatties and tiny weiners wrapped in pastry, the gallons of a pareve substance marketed as premium tofu dessert, suspected poison. And so choices and decisions; choices, decisions. He can either turn, grope toward the second stairwell, the ignorant steps leading downstairs-downstairs, and maybe further, maybe ever, tenebrously descending; to stalk a walk quietly, meticulously miraculous progress, down to where even Hanna had feared to tread, from the table through the kitchen then walking down the stairs and a right to the fridge of the hemieaten, partidigested foods sealed for storage — as if an offering to the underworld, its famished goddess Wanda, a famous other mother.

And then how she’d return, sacrifice made, with empty hands.

Or, to settle — for the new that is the fresh over the old though untold.

Here, this refrigerator, with its condiments and crisper, twoliter of seltzer lemonlime. Mustard, and syrup. Ingredients and not form.

Snacks sugared in the pantry to the left of the fridge, enough salt to make a decentsized pillar.

To reach for the fridge right here in front of Him, easy — to fingerprint its hum, stroke at its moist gurgle, in the dark to feel for its handle, to open, reveal, tugging with one hand while the other for leverage feels at the rubberized seam. And then there’d be light.

Morning’s night. To let the heated air in. Host of a bulb burning compulsion. Freshkept. And His glasses, too, their fog.

Benjamin stands, feet at the foot of the stairs, gazing from the refrigerator beyond to the steps below, intending thought though drowsy. To risk or not. To decide, it tires. Fate’s for the lazy, dessert as a meal for the toobored to choose. Then, to head the wrong way from everything, into the livingroom, the familyroom, who knows where He lies, atop the sofa of three pillows, as opposed to the two other sofas of four pillows each, then five, He spreads Himself out with the knife of a hand like a condiment, as if buttery marge, to rest His head in the spoon that is His other palm.

A mousy quiescence — and yet, He senses a stirring.

A preparation: thoughts of food digested to fear, an expectancy, and, finally, room for a real hunger — a pregnant yen.

O, to be as ravenous as a dove — craving even an olive of sunlight, a far branch of peace…

The goy up there knows from chimneys, does he ever, knows them like he knows his own throat, windpipes whether of brick or metal, he knows their flues and their fires, too, and the smoke in the eyes and lungs, had squeezed through them, all these years, too many now, immemorial, generations turned to smoke, their mouths smirching sky; how he’d shimmied through them and whatever had stuck them up: a fallen pigeon, a downed owl, summer neglect. His sleigh, a green cabriolet cutter hung with lit lanterns, he’s parked against the slope of the roof at its lowest scarp; racingstriped runners tearing up the shingling, his team of flying reindeer idling patiently, letting rest the awesome ripple of their legs: lashed trunks, ragged fundaments; giants of meat and raw, with eyes that are nothing if not oily mad, anything but jolly, more like violent in their majesty, lidded hoary and hardened; they’re scraping their hooves as if to herd forward, butt heads, to charge the chimney down which he dove; they give soft snorts from their nostrils, then quiet, to graze upon stars. On each of their antlers hangs a crown: tarnished gold for one, the others are rotted, wormtwisted wood. None have a red nose — they have snouts.

Him, he sucks it in, in his motheaten suit down he goes the dark throats of houses and into the warm of their guts.

One night only, year after year — the fullness of good little wellbehaved boys & goyls…

Most are expecting a stockinglike sack, though that’s so last season, roll the eyes, snigger: the sack molders up north, in the attic of his bungalow, yearround doneup in Millennial Terrific, though itself without chimney, only a Pole, kept topped with an ostentatious antenna, festooned with the flags of the world.

Tonight, it’s a can he carries, a metal battered can as if of paint; it’s a bucket, for the record — filled with the blood of the lamb, cut with that of goats when the Arctic slaughterhouse went short on a stray flock.

A chute through the chimney, no fire, lucky for him this fireplace is for appearances only, an arched validation of a mantel above upon which to display photographs, more of them, those of the immediate family, at home, on vacation, which was Florida, Mexico, anywhere always July, flushed at weddings, at graduations proudly awkward — and then, at the furthest gilded edge, the newest immortality, made in a gaudily mirrored frame: it’s Him — at the hospital, in the arms of His mother if no longer living then sleeping, still, upstairs-upstairs, have patience, have pity, have dreams. Benjamin’s head propped atop the pillows atop the sofa, Claus ducks in then prods aside the screen, steps soft gingerbread tread over the brickwork ledge then onto the carpet, proceeds into the kitchen and beyond, to the frontdoor trailing blobs of blood, to dearm the alarm, unlock the door from the inside; he dips his chin, a beard’s brush, a patch of stain flecked with soot and then, with tense shakes of a hackneyed head begins to mark the jamb, not even acknowledging Benjamin to spit a gift on Him.

A poor guest, we’ve known worse.

The problem with this tradition has always been once he’s gone down the chimney, how does he manage to get back up to the roof? If the devil Satan must fall, one might argue, then a saint like Santa must rise; once finished with his swathe and slather, he might lick clean the plate of warmed goodies, gargle the icy milk of mothers left behind — more time to think his way up and out, though this house would never provide. Maybe they have a fowl in the fridge, he thinks, and a little shot of schnapps, helps to hope.

And then, there’s always a ladder in garages like these.

This year, though, another task, each house its own — he doesn’t ascend, doesn’t rise to the roof, to fly off into the air, full reindeerpower ahead. Maybe later. Work to do. Not for nothing he’s the patron saint of our kinder.

To dry his hairs on the Rag, which drawer he knows.

And where the laundryroom, too.

He and with a silence that seems to twinkle returns to the den, if den it is, takes Benjamin by the hand. He’s a body come to life from the photographs on the stairwell. He’s the father of His father, whose father he might otherwise be. To take him slow, and as gently as you’d expect, naked fist in mitten fringed in tinsely poms, to lead Him to the stairs then up them, three at a time, and down the hall of shutdead doors to His room above the garage and its angelic ladder expected — forget it, you might as well stay a while, won’t you, make yourself comfortable, my house is yours, there’ll soon be beds empty enough; the two of them, Santa and son almost of equal size, stepping high, huge, and damn sleep loud into His room — and then Santa, holding a forefinger through the loose skein of yarn worn to his lips, slams the door bang behind them, though there’s no one left alive to awake.