EUCALYPTUS DROPS

         It's squat and round like photos I've seen of field mortars from the siege of Petersburg in the Civil War. It is about nine inches high. It's wrapped in cellophane with a red-checked ribbon on top, the ribbon material lying flat on the package and not puffed out. It came in a box I just took to the cellar to join the other recycling papers. It is just what this house needs, a eucalyptus scented candle, complete with instructions for burning.

         Do I need to be taught how to burn a candle? Does the manufacturer suspect that I burn my candle at both ends, and though it will not last the night? I won’t discuss that, even though the late Ms. St. Vincent Millay lived for a time in Austerlitz ten miles up the road. Better to read that the wick is lead-free, and that I should let the candle cool an hour before lighting it again. How informative!

         I am sure the maker thinks providing a manual, even if it is printed on cellophane that shall soon be in the wastebasket, will cover its butt should trial lawyers, those dastardly enemies of the American spirit, launch a frontal attack after I burn my house down. I will plead ignorance. I struck the first match at one in the morning when the power failed and I could not read the instructions. My lawyers and the state Attorney General will claim Mr. Candle Maker committed unconscionable negligence. They will try to collect a fortune for me, which I will be required to share with the family of field mice that became collateral damage when the house went up.

         Other suspects will be rounded up. My brother-in-law Peter and his friend Rhonda will be named. They brought the candle into this house when they visited Sunday. They claimed it was a present from Morgan's cousin MaryBeth. I am sure my legal eagles will not let her escape either, and for good measure will sue her husband and two children also, since their names appeared on the gift card that I saved in my wallet to remind me to write a thank you note.

         It should be a hot time in the old courthouse in Hudson, or wherever cases are heard in this part of the world. The defense will seek to turn the evidence back on the plaintiff. Mary Beth's lawyer will ask me if I have ever received a candle from her as a Christmas gift, and I will be forced to recall baskets chock full of jellies, coffees, teas and candy canes, along with the obligatory photo of her two sons, but no candles. I shall be asked if a photo was included with the candle. I will reply in the negative. My attorneys, on cross examination, will try to raise the defense that her sons have reached the age of shaven heads and backward baseball caps and therefore are not subjects for photography, but her lawyers will cut this line off. The jury will be left to draw the conclusion that the candle must have been in the house originally or brought to the house by Peter and Rhonda.

         Peter's lawyer will follow up this line by asking me when was the last time Peter gave his sister, my late wife, a Christmas gift, or even a card. He'll have me there. If I do mention a past present, he will produce an affidavit from their octogenarian mother stating that she bought all his gifts and wrapped them so that my wife would feel her brother remembered her.

         By the time I climb down from the stand, things will look dark for my side. The Attorney General will cut his losses and realize that to get re-elected, it will look bad to be prosecuting a poor artisan from Vermont or some other trendy place on behalf of this degenerate liar. He will call a press conference and announce that the State will turn about and sue me on behalf of the mice. Appearing at the press conference behind him will be my dog and cat, joining in to collect damages for their injured lungs.

         Eventually all parties will realize that negotiation will produce more than litigation and an out-of-court settlement will be reached. I will promise to deposit 17.5% of my consulting fees into a fund to be split by the Dream Team of lawyers involved in the case. They have promised to see that the mice, dog and cat be recompensed at least 11.2% of the fund. All sides will publicly thank the Attorney General for intervening in the matter. Peace and goodwill will reign.

         The warriors will retire to my newly refurbished house where they will serve themselves buffet style at a fondue dinner from my groaning board. Naturally the lawyers, the press and the other hangers will gobble up most of the spread, even the little jars of jellies from MaryBeth’s past Christmas baskets. My breakfront will be festooned with the photos of Scott and Mark growing up. MaryBeth will beam with pride. Her boys did not come, having better anti-social things to do. Peter will scavenge the cupboards and find the coffee grinder and frying pan he picked out himself, refuting my claim that he never gave us a present. The dog, cat and mice will retire to the cellar to play a game of trivia and wait for the call to clean the scraps off the floor.

         I will stand in a corner, a silent observer to the Human Comity that has overtaken the room. I will be the ‘poor player’ that struts and frets his time on the stage and is seen no more. I will take on many other guises, as many as I can plagiarize from authors whose copyrights have lapsed. Peter, Rhonda and MaryBeth will leave the mob of scavengers and try to comfort me. I will borrow words again, asking “Oh Cousin and Brother-in-law, where art thou?”

         “Why, MaryBeth, can’t you be like your sister or brother? She mails her yearly history with her Christmas card and is not heard from until the next December. I learn of your brother’s doings from traveler’s tales. And Peter, would my year have been less complete had I not received the candle? If someone inquired, I could have faked it. You’ve let loose the Armies of the Night upon the heath.”

         Having soured the milk of human kindness, I will cheer the room by telling ‘the second gotcha’ joke, but before I can finish there will be a knock on the door. A man in a down vest and flannel shirt will enter and announce that he needs to use the telephone. His truck has hit a deer just up the road. On hearing this, the press and lawyers will trample the man in their rush to get to the scene. Dazed, he will follow. My family will take this opportunity to get away from this bore that married into their flock. They fear being embarrassed by the punch line of the joke. I will lock the door after them.

         Out of the basement will come the animals. The cat will jump on the table while the dog cleans the floor. Up the road, the claque will discover that not only has the truck hit a deer, but also it has run off the road and into a pole. That piece of wood will topple over, the live power line wiping out half of the mob gathered at the scene. The other half will rush to file claims. Back at my house, the lights will go out. From the breakfront I will pull a pine-scented candle and light it, this time at both ends.