Michael's Wish, part 12

The family awoke at a leisurely pace. There was no rush to get up and see what was under the tree. Michael disabused the children of any notion that Santa would stop at their mansion. He taught them that Santa only gave to children who needed the joy and hope of a surprise gift. He also taught them that as people of privilege, they had a responsibility to be generous and helpful to Santa's recipients. The tradition was one of many passed to him from his father.

Snowstorms are rare in December in New Jersey. A beautiful blanket of snow greeted Michael that morning. It looked to be three or four inches deep. He let the curtain fall back over the window as Margaret stirred. He smiled and slid back into bed as her eyes opened. He kissed her deeply as his hands unworked the lacefront of her gown. They were well on their way to conceiving another child when a trio of servents came in with a light breakfast. Both parties ignored each other and continued on in their respective activities.

After hearing his wife's exultant cry of joy, Michael eased himself back down onto the pillows by her side. “Happy Christmas,” he whispered. She laughed and pulled him into another embrace. He softly kissed her cheek as his line of sight rolled upward toward the door... and he noticed a crowd watching them.

Michael quickly pulled the bedclothes up to their waists. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Um, two or three orgasms ago?” “Two minutes before you made that odd grunting noise..” “Five minutes before her fanny got exposed.” “Is that a kind of gymnastics?” “Nah, I'll bet it's wrestling.” “May I try that?”

Margaret turned a deep purple and buried her face in Michael's chest. Michael's face acquired an odd tic seemingly caused by equal parts indignation and amusement. Amusement won out in his facial expression while he ordered, “Floor shows over. Everyone out while we try to salvage our dignity.”

“But we were having breakfast in here!”

Alexandra was firmly marched out the door with the rest of the giggling rubberneckers. Margaret said into his chest, “I don't think I'm getting my dignity back after that.”

“You will always have your dignity, Margaret. And at least you now have corroborating witnesses to your lovely ass.”

She smacked him with a pillow. Then, a suspicious look crept into her eyes. “Wait a minute. Why would the breakfast be brought in here, anyway? It would normally be in your sitting room.”

Michael smiled guiltily. “The children cornered me the other day and asked me where babies came from because they wanted more brothers and sisters. I tried to explain to them as best I could then said I would try to do it for them on Christmas morning. Then, they asked if they could watch...”

She hit him again; this time with her open hand. He continued, “I'd rather they see it as a healthy activity between a married couple than learn from pornography.”

The look of incredulity on her face was priceless. “Did your father teach you this way?”

“Yes, actually. Well, he copulated with his mistress, but it was to show me what normal sex looked like. Life has never been boring for me.”

He willingly submitted to another slap on the cheek before she stormed out.


Michael had Karen cover the bruise on his cheek with foundation. “Do you think she'll forgive you?”

“Maybe, eventually, but I know if I'd asked, I would've ended up with a slap and no sex at all.”

Michael gave the youngsters a perfunctory explanation of what Margaret and he had been doing. The rest of the day proceeded almost normally. Margaret wouldn't speak to or look at Michael but he did not press her, either.

As the hall clock chimed three, the family was gathering for the holiday meal. Michael suddenly felt a familiar tingling in his brain. He left the formal dining room at breakneck pace. He ran to a set of french doors facing the back courtyard and threw them open. He swallowed hard and stepped out towards a black-cloaked figure kneeling head down. Breathlessly, he exclaimed, “Morgan?”

Morgan raised his head at the sound. He smiled and stood, using a mind-crafted rifle for support. A scarlet puddle was collecting near his feet. A sucking wound could be heard. “Happy Christmas, Michael.”

Michael raced forward and hugged his brother. Tears fell as he kissed Morgan's cheek. “You made it.”

Morgan crumpled returning Michael's embrace. Too weak to stand, he sank until Michael's arms held him in a cradle over one knee. Morgan coughed up blood from his lung. “Yes, I made it. Forgive me if I'm not around for the entire remainder of the day.”

Michael slid his other arm under Morgan's legs and lifted him up. The rifle dissolved into nothingness as Morgan swooned from pain. Michael laid him down on the floor just inside the doors. There were others about, but Michael paid them no mind, except to bark, “Get me something sharp!”

Michael slid back Morgan's shirt and peeked under some makeshift bandages and saw an exposed rib. Someone passed him a kitchen knife. Michael slashed open his hand and recited a long cantation. He pressed his incision against Morgan's large wound. He then pointed the knife tip at his own ribcage, still reciting. After about ten minutes of rhythmically stabbing himself and continuously chanting, he stopped and almost fainted. Morgan shakily sat upright and coughed up blood clots, but death no longer looked imminent. The two embraced tightly again. Michael finally looked up at everyone else and flipped, “I think we all need to eat. Some of us, more than others.”

Morgan, sensing the feelings of those around them, responded, “I think a good portion of truth is warrented, too.”