Despite yourself the words ‘why were you in prison’ tumbled out of your mouth, like you were asking for a favourite flavour of ice cream. You and the Christmas tree salesman had come to stand next to a medium sized cedar tree,. It had taken several circles around the perimeter of the chain linked fence that had been erected at the corner of Bridgeport Village shopping mall before you had found the tree, you could smell it’s life in the forest, where you imagine it had grown. The salesman at your side talked casually like one might to a cousin you hadn’t seen for sometime, about the death of his sister, the price of cigarettes and being released from prison. I was imprisoned for Crystal.’ said tree salesman. He looks much older on account of the missing teeth that makes his mouth sag and hollow when he speaks, but is otherwise no older than you were. And you were real young not so long ago and you still have lots of life to live. It occurs to you that he is the scarecrow of a man you had seen on a number of occasions that summer, sitting open shirted at the mall entrance, loading a crate of beer into a pickup truck. And, you’re pretty sure you saw him sleeping under a tree in the park. You remember thinking that taking in the outdoors was what parks were for and it didn’t matter if he was missing one of his shoes and socks. ‘Oh yeah Christal,’ you say in a way that sounded casual and knowing. You imagine a box of crystal glassware being loaded into the back of a truck. ‘ I was a cook,’ he snickers and lifts a silver flask to his flapping mouth. His eyes seem to shift between you and something in the distance, something he’s lost sight of. It wouldn’t be until later that you’d realise that “Crystal and cooking” referred to the manufacture of an illicit drug that had become a real problem in the state of Washington. You had come to learn that crystal methamphetamine was especially harmful to rural communities. You had seen a program about it and your wife would sometimes refer to it as a medical emergency and she assured you that it was a problem in Canada too. ‘It’s a symptom of a problem,’ you would say in conversations like that. But really you don’t understand why there’s a symptom or a problem so you don’t talk about it as much as you think about it. You’ve come to accept that things have changed and that people are less trusting of everything. It makes you wonder if things were better when you were growing up. You would wonder how a tree salesman would learn how to make drugs at home. Before Christmas you would return the chemistry kit, the Christmas present you bought for your oldest daughter. It was better not take any chances. Not in America. Not now.

You remember there were problems for people when you were growing up. Sure people suffered and died and got into all sorts of trouble, but you don’t think the problems with drugs were ever this bad. Maybe there was more hope to go around then. You wondered if Maria’s mum had hope when her breast cancer caught up with her. Driving home you think that maybe you should have bought the Christmas tree from the treeman, he looked so surprised, almost as if he’d been caught in a flashlight like a raccoon in your garbage. But he had made you feel like there was something not quite right, about him, about prison, and you already had an artificial tree anyway.

The day after the snow storm had been a real problem for your mother who had to call in to say she wasn’t going in to work because of all the snow piling up over the family car, the roads and everything. You couldn’t even see Fairlawn plaza from your window.. You had thought she was going to say that you needn’t go to school either. It wasn’t safe, the roads were dangerous and you could face a weather system even a good pair of snowpants couldn’t deal with. ‘When she said,’ come on son you’re going to miss your bus,’ you made your eyes open wide, wide enough to imagine you eyeballs bulging out. ‘But mum, the snow you say.’ ‘I’ve not heard that school has been cancelled.’ she said. ‘Come on Michael we don’t want you getting behind again.’

David Gladman lived at the corner of Aaron road and Lenester the same intersection where you came to wait for the school bus. David would wait till the last minute before strolling over with a big kid kind of swagger . It was still snowing when you arrived, just a little. Not the big snowflake kind of snow. This was a dry small snowflakes kind of snow that came with a little icy wind. The kind of snow that might make you lonely. You waited hoping the bus wouldn’t come. In time, Nasser arrived in his misshapen and crumpled assembly of winter gear. His Mother waited a few paces off, as usual looking worried. You waited and wondered if David was going to come to school that day. You didn’t think it would. So it surprised you when he did emerge from his home. Swaggering slightly less that day. You noted his cheek was purple and his eyes slightly puffy and closed. His timing was precise as usual coming alongside just as the bus crunched to a stop. ‘All aboard said Mrs. Hayley, she had a pink bandana today you notice. Piling inside the bus you see that David sat next to Nasser. Nasser nodded his head as he did when expressing how well he was listening, whatever the subject. Richard exchanged a glance over to you that you assumed expressed the whole mess of life. Maria smiled at you. Nice lunch box she said. You were thinking about telling her about the El Camino, about her Dad and that you knew, knew for sure about him. But you didn’t. You didn’t know how to say something like that. ‘How’s your mum? ' you said. ‘Oh she’s fine she said. ‘You know something, Sandra has had cancer before.But she kicked its ass. Plus she has us. Me and my sisters Ana and Michelle.’ You think about what it would be like to have a sister or a brother.

When the school bus crashed that morning you were inspecting the contents of your lunch box. You were going to offer to share your cheese sticks when the bus started to swing sideways. It kept sliding along the road for that seemed like ages. Long enough for you and Maria to look at each other with what’s-going-on faces as cheese sticks and a ham sandwich floated like you were in the space shuttle.

The dog is licking your hand. She does that at dawn. You open your eyes. No, close them again, it’s cold. It’s Christmas. You scan your body for Christmas sensations. You’re forty nine years old. Not fifty though. Does Christmas still feel the same? Your window is painted in frost but you can see the light of dawn. What are the possibilities today? ‘Possibilities,’ you form the word in your mouth. This is what Christmas is about. You hear thumping steps. Small feet in pajamas. Your daughters. Both awake. You swing your feet into your slippers. It’s cold but not too cold. What are the chances you whisper to yourself. The ground is covered in a light dusting of snow. Your eleven year old daughter tugs at your pajama bottoms, ‘Daddy,’ Santa has come. You are going to tell her about the real Christmas tree in the backyard, but there’s something about your daughter that’s not quite right.‘Daddy,’ she says. Now you see, what it is that’s set you off. Her hair has been cut. ‘What’s this,’ you say. But you already know. ‘We are getting ready for Santa, ’ she says in a timid shy way, noticing that you are inspecting the bangs of hair that are no longer straight. You look at your three year old who is beginning to tear the wrapping off one of the gifts. Her hair is also cut, hers is much more haphazard, but still far less the previous haircut disaster. ‘What did I tell you about playing with scissors,’ you say, trying to have a serious voice. But you’re distracted by the tearing and crumpling sound of wrapping paper. Your three year old is opening a gift, you think it is the one addressed to you. You see it is the rectangular box wrapped in red paper that had been pushed under the tree, you had found it on one of your sleepless 3 am nights and repositioned it to the very back of the present pile. It’s the box with the tag that said, ‘Merry Christmas Michael, Love Santa.’ You look outside and remember the bus crash happened the day before the Christmas break. The cedar tree at the end of your yard is tinselled with snow. You’ve heard its not supposed to snow in Portland. The seat of the swing you built from a sawed plank of wood has a little white blanket, your tool shed is gabled with snow that makes it look like a small home in a Swiss mountain village, where a small Swiss person would live, making Christmas toys. You know its not supposed to snow, so it’s a good luck thing you decide. You can handle the snow and not just the cold of it. But the isolation. It could make you feel like the only boy in a white desert. Look across the field behind Fairlawn Plaza on a snowy day and you might as well be on your own, in the Arctic, without dogs or supplies. You remember that. But you also remember the closeness you could feel after pushing through a snow path to somewhere warm where friends would welcome you and make you warm again. Sure you can take a little snow and you could handle the roads in winter too. You might be the only one in Portland who could handle snow roads. But, you’ll stay inside today. It’s Christmas. It’s safe here. You remember these things as you listen to your present being opened.

You remember the back end of the bus had hit something hard and the front swung sideways. You had heard a loud creaking and what sounded like a rushing river under the floor. You remember seeing blue sky in the front window of the bus, clouds, the flash of sunlight, and then a sudden shuddering halt, silence. Your first thought was of the cars that blew-up on TV, but then that was TV and it was just for show, maybe. Your ears hurt.

‘Everyone ok,’ said Mrs. Hayley walking along the aisle of the bus. Robbie Fairservice who had sat behind but was now on the floor said, said,‘Holy cow.’ Marie nodded as Mrs. Hayley passed your seat. A Moment passed and she returned in the direction of the front of the bus. ‘Everyone’s ok. That’s the important thing, ‘ she said. ‘Get your things. We’re going to file out.’ You looked back to see David Gladman dazed and half smiling, cross legged on the aisle floor of the bus. You see several children there sprawled haphazardly. Ahmed Daher was eating one of your cheese sticks. Richard Bradley looked dazed, but he usually was most of the time. ‘That was cool Mrs. Hayley said David Gladman.’ Nasser nodded enthusiastically. Richard rubbed the side of his arm and managed a smile. ‘Yea she duked the hazard,’ he said which made everyone laugh. It would be the way the accident would be explained later to the kids at school. The Dukes of Hazard being a television show about car chases and car crashes, it seemed the best way to figure it and made Richard the main spokesman for the rest of the day. Richard as spokesman meant that the accident would become more harrowing as the story was retold with Richard playing an increasingly central role in saving the children from the fireball.

Soon you were all lined up on the side of Lenester Ave. A great big snow bank lined the road behind you. What if it blows up, asked Richard, referring to the silent hulk of a bus canted ominously, its back wheel vanished into the towering snowbank. Mrs. Hayley looked stern and serious as she re-boarded the bus. This meant the bus wasn’t going to blow-up, just as you thought. Elias Papadolous said he had a bloody nose caused by the crash and was showing people where it had been pushed up against the green valour of the bus seat. It did seem coloured but the cold gave everyone’s nose the same pink glow. ‘I know how you could get a real bloody nose,’ said Steven Jones. He looked to see if David agreed. David stood quietly next to Nasser his thoughts were elsewhere. You thought the purple of David’s cheek might not be so bad, people might not notice.It was hard being a kid, everyone knew that. That’s all they really needed to know. Nasser nodded at Steven agreeably. ‘The CB is broke kids,’ said Mrs. Hayley stepping down from the bus, she hadn’t yet noticed the blue Ford El Camino had come to a stop and parked behind the bus.

Gerardo was smoking as he crunched past you in his tan leather Kodiak boots. Maria held his hand as he talked to Mrs. Hayley. He was crushing his cigarette in the snow when Mrs. Hayley hugged him. You saw her mouth the words ‘thank you’ and then she announced that we would be taken two by two to school, until another bus could be notified to come. Everyone nodded and agreed to being good as gold by saying, ‘Yes Mrs.Hayley,’ in unison. Who is coming first? We all shot-up a gloved hand to signal our willingness to be the first to be sagve. ‘Come on Michael,’ she said.

Inside the El Camino you remember the smell of artificial strawberry and cigarette smoke. Maria sat next to you. She smiled at you once but was otherwise watching and listening to her parents. You both watched them in their broken way trying to rescue you. Mrs. Hayley said to Geraldo that she had to come with him and that she can’t have him drive the children without an authorised driver. You sensed Geraldo resented this. He seemed tense, his movements just slightly exaggerated, the way he pushed the gearshift, how he angled the rearview mirror and revved the roar of the engine. Mrs. Hayley She looked back at Maia and smiled like mums smile. Gerado pulled the El Camino onto Lenester Avenue. You looked to Maria who watched her Mum and Dad together, you imagined what it might be like to be a brother, to have a sister, to have a Mum, to have a Mum that maybe you wouldn’t have much longer. You would have to be strong for them when she died. You might need to need to become the man of the house, get a job, maybe with the police. The thought worries you. It would be hard. You would miss everyone at school. You wondered about Gerado. You wondered if after Mrs. Hayley died he could support everyone with his cigarette operation, and for how long before he was caught.

‘Here,’ said Gerado holding up a carton of what you assumed were cigarettes for Mrs. Hayley. It shocked you that Mrs. Hayley knew about the cigarette operation. She opened the cardboard packet and slid out a small package of medicine. ‘Thanks,’ she said. You could see a flash of something in her face like she was going to cry, but it wasn’t just about being just sad. ‘Thank you,’ she said. You wondered if maybe it wasn’t cigarettes Gerado had taken from the back of the pharmacy afterall. Maybe it was both cigarettes and medicine. Maybe it was just medicine and Gerado was trying to just help people. But he was still a criminal that was the thing. Even helping can become a crime when you can’t afford things you had come to realise.