Free A Redbird Christmas by Fannie Flagg

what they wanted. As they walked farther up the street, Oswald noticed that one side of the sky seemed to be glowing red off in the distance. Frances told him it was caused by the fires the Creoles lit along the riverbanks every Christmas Eve to light up the night for “Poppa Christmas” and help him find his way to the homes of the Creole children. “We used to go and watch him come up the river, but we don’t go over there anymore,” she said.
    Although it was around ten o’clock, the night was still mild and it was very pleasant with the moonlight shining through the trees, walking past all the houses with their Christmas lights twinkling in the windows. As they strolled along in silence listening to the night birds singing, Oswald suddenly began to experience an unfamiliar feeling he could not quite identify. He was actually glad he had gone to the dinner; it had not been that bad after all.
    When he got home, Betty, who was downstairs in her nightgown with cold cream on her face, said, “You don’t have to worry about waking Mother up tonight, she’s as drunk as a skunk and out like a light, so maybe I’ll finally get some rest.”
    When he got upstairs to his room, he unwrapped his present and saw that it was a brand-new hardcover copy of
Birds of Alabama.
It was signed
Merry Christmas, from the Lost River Community Association.
It was just what he wanted. And he had not even written Santa a letter.
     
    The gift was really from Claude and Roy. A few days before Christmas, Claude had told Roy he felt sorry for Mr. Campbell.
    “Why?”
    “Aw, the poor guy, he comes down to that dock waiting for the mail, and all he ever gets is some pension check from the government. The whole time he’s been here, he hasn’t received one personal letter, not even one lousy Christmas card.”
    What they did not know was that Oswald did not expect to receive any mail. He was down at the dock every day only because he did not have anywhere else to go, except to the store and back to his room again. All he was doing was just sitting around killing time, looking at the birds and waiting to die.
    Being aware that his days were numbered was not easy. Oswald found the hardest part was to wake up each morning with nothing to look forward to but getting worse. From what the doctor had told him, Oswald had assumed that as time passed he would start to feel weaker and weaker. However, on December 31 he woke up and noticed he was not coughing as much as he used to. He was really starting to feel pretty good, and somehow for the first time in his life, certainly for the first time since he was fifteen, he had actually managed to get through Christmas sober. In the past he had never been able to get more than one year in AA because he could never make it through the holidays without falling off the wagon, usually on Christmas Day. And also for the first time, he was experiencing another unfamiliar feeling. He was proud of himself and wished he had someone to tell. Not only had he made it through Christmas, he had also put on about five extra pounds since he had been there and he noticed in the mirror that he had a lot more color in his cheeks. This place was obviously agreeing with him. Damn, he thought. If he hadn’t known better he could have sworn he
was
better.
    On New Year’s Day, Frances and Betty and everybody up and down the street made him come in, and they all insisted that he eat a big bowl of black-eyed peas. They said it was good luck to eat them on New Year’s Day, and by that night he was up to his ears in black-eyed peas. Maybe they were right. Maybe he would get lucky and last a little longer than he had expected.
    A few mornings later when Oswald sat down for breakfast, Betty announced, “Well, Mr. Campbell, you’re famous. You’ve made the papers,” and she handed him a copy of the local newsletter that came out once a month.
    ALONG THE RIVER
    The Lost River
Community Association Newsletter
    Oh, my, what a busy