The Cardboard Star

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Paul Wyath left the fireside and walked out onto the flagstone terrace. He left the terrace door open behind him. The wind swung it shut with a clattering smash.

“Break, damn you! Break!” he muttered. The wind was something that fled in mock panic out of the black northern sky — a wind that hurt his teeth, pasted his shirt coldly against him. fingered through the brandy-thickness behind his eyes.

Lights shone through the cedar hedge. The Turbells were having their annual Christmas Eve binge. Paul and Martha Wyath were not attending this year, nor would they ever again.

Joe Turbell had crunched over through the ice at dusk wearing a five highball grin. “Come on, boy! The festivities are about to begin. I’ll send Alice down after Martha. Christmas always softens them up, boy. You know that.”

“Not this time, Joe.”

“Hell!” Joe said. “Hate to see it. Nice neighbors, you two. Had a lot of laughs together. Like to fix it up for you two.”

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