Cranberry Cocktails

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through her house, not a mister was sober, not even her spouse... 

Inside the walls of 8313 Ebony Ave., Brenda Lee’s “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” fills the space, combining with the perfectly curated aroma of nutmeg and pine. Booming laughs that reek of upper middle class masculinity bounce off every corner of the room, almost overpowering the radio. This was classic fashion for the annual company Christmas Eve party. The corporate men of Her Paradise believed that they owed it to themselves to celebrate all of their groundbreaking accomplishments. The company prides themselves on being #17 in the top 20 of the best perfume brands in the midwest region. Their preferred way to celebrate such things was getting drunk enough to allow themselves to rudely speak their mind but not too much to where they would put their reputation at risk. Even for them, it’s pretty calculated.

Amongst the sea of men, there was one outlier: Mrs. Nancy Green. Dressed in her best replica of a coy Mrs. Clause, her ensemble consisted of a red velvet dress with faux white fur on the hem of the sleeves and of the bottom, white stockings with lace detailing, and a pair of pomegranate red heels. She tops it all off with a ribbon tied in her hair that matches the shade of the heels. Scott, Nancy’s husband, liked her to dress up for the party. Scott was the CEO of Her Paradise, deeming the Greens the token party hosts for the past seven years. Nancy was tasked with cleaning, dusting, decorating, cooking, baking, setting up the music, and dressing up. Scott’s job was to open the door whenever he heard the bell ring.

The hum of “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree” slowly fades and transitions into Wham’s “Last Christmas” as Nancy flows through the crowd, handing out cranberry cocktails as she sits in on the conversations.

Nancy swivels to two men dressed in black suits, a stark contrast from Nancy’s festive appearance.

“Hello boys!” She greets, her voice seemingly twenty octaves higher than her regular tone of voice and a manufactured smile plastered on her face.

“Nance! Oh you look great!” One of the men, Mark, exclaims. “Richie doesn’t she look great?!”

Nancy does a little twirl in her dress as Richie looks her up and down and agrees, “Another Christmas Eve party, another night rethinking my marriage.” He turns to Mark. “God, how do I get Brenda to look like that?”

Mark interjects with a laugh, “He’s right Nance. Better pull that dress down before every guy here tries to get a piece of you!’

Nancy lets out a forced giggle and gestures to the two men’s clothing, “Well you two don’t look too shabby yourselves”. Nancy winces as she takes note of their brown shoes that grossly do not match their jackets and pants. “I’m just...I’m so lucky to be hosting such...respectable men!”

Nancy turns away and faces the one corner of the room that is not infested with guests and lets her expression drop. She grits her teeth and stares at a miniscule spot on the wall where the paint is chipped. She is interrupted by her husband.

“Hey! How’s it going Sweetie? The guys seem really impressed with it all this year”. Scott plants a sloppy kiss on Nancy’s cheek, leaving an unpleasant residue that she wipes off with her sleeve.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” Nancy looks to the ground. “They sure seem to like what I’m wearing”

“I mean...can you blame them?” Scott’s eyes darken as he moves in closer to Nancy. “Look at you”.

Nancy takes a step away from her advancing husband. “Not now, Scott...please...later”.

Scott disregards her words and places his hand on her chest as he says, “Come on, Nance. I’ve been working like crazy this month. I need this.”

“Scott, I said no!” Nancy erupts louder than she meant to, but she isn’t sorry. A startled Scott stumbles back as his work buddies catch a glimpse of the scene.

Nancy walks to the kitchen at a speed that will get her there as soon as possible but will not let her guests know that anything is wrong. Not because she’s embarrassed or ashamed, but because they wouldn’t understand. None of them would. After seven years of this, you would think that Nancy would've gotten used to these boneheads by now. She’s always prepared, but it always comes crashing down. And she shouldn't really be surprised. What does she have in common with a group of men who believe that the way to a woman’s heart is through a cheaply made perfume that smells like rubbing alcohol and dollar store candy? Nancy’s thoughts are interrupted by a conversation that she hears outside of the kitchen door.

A muffled voice that sounds like Scott’s says, “I just cannot believe the fucking audacity of that woman. I put my everything into this company for over a decade. I bring home the money. I pay the bills. And what does she give me? Nothing. That bitch is such a tease. I asked her to wear that tonight for a reason, and it’s not because I’m just oozing with the Christmas spirit. Jesus Christ.

Another voice replies, “You gotta show her that you’re not just gonna take no for an answer. You provide for her by bringing home the dough, she’s gotta provide for you in another way. Fair and square.”

A third voice chimes in, “That’s how it is with Lisa sometimes. You gotta understand Scott, women don’t know what they want. You have to show them what they want. That’s the only way it’ll get through to them. They’re too clouded with emotions and shit.”

And another, “And besides, you can’t give up on Nancy. She’s the love of your life man...and more importantly, she’s got the best rack I’ve ever seen”.

The group explodes in laughter. They laugh and laugh and laugh. The noise combined with the constant ringing of jingle bells that seems to be in every song on the radio is driving Nancy insane. Her brain tells her that she should go out there and confront every man out there and scold them for the way they talked about her and women. Her heart tells her that she needs a shot.

Nancy rummages through the cabinets searching for the spare bottle of Vodka she keeps for emergencies such as these. With each cabinet that is devoid of the alcohol that she is searching for, Nancy grows angrier and angrier. She slams the doors out of frustration until she comes upon the final cabinet.

No luck. Nothing but some pots and pans and a bottle of bleach that she used to clean the countertops in preparation for the party. Nancy puts her hands on her face and covers her eyes. She tries to calm down by keeping control of her breathing like her friends advised her to do. Was it inhale for four seconds and exhale for eight? Or was it the other way around? This confusion just made Nancy more stressed. She ultimately decided to fetch the men another round of drinks, because what else was there to do at this point?

Nancy had made the drinks in this beautiful red and green glassware set that she had picked up from her favorite boutique. She came up with the recipe herself, even trying to perfectly coordinate it to the palettes of her guests. Sipping from Scott’s glass, she tested the drink and immediately made a sour face. It sure was strong, but that’s how the boys like it. They like it to taste like poison.

Poison. The word made Nancy shiver, not out of fear or disgust, but out of...possibility. She walked back over to the final cabinet that she had opened when she was on her treasure hunt for her beloved vodka. She opened the door and laid her eyes on the bottle of bleach. That glorious, beautiful bottle of bleach.

Now before I go any further, I would like to inform you that Nancy Green is a kind woman. She is a woman who cares, a woman with poise, a woman who garners respect. Whatever you believe Nancy is about to do, don’t think of it as a reflection of her character, but as a reflection of the guests looming in her home.

The finishing touches are put on the cocktails, and Nancy walks into the living room with her classic smile plastered on her face yet again.

She takes a deep breath, “Who wants another round?!” Cheers begin to flow from the group. Nancy carefully hands a drink to each of the begging men, their thirsts quenched and ready for whatever was being handed to them, not actually caring about what it is that they are consuming. That’s where true greed came from, Nancy believed. Taking simply because one has the ability to take. It didn’t matter what it is, just the confidence that comes from having ownership.

Once Nancy had passed out each and every drink, she walks to the front of the room and taps a spoon on her glass.

“Attention! Everybody, listen up!” 

The room was silent for the first time tonight.

“Hi. I just wanted to say how grateful I am to be standing in front of all you successful businessmen. You all inspire me every day. And to Scott, my adoring husband: thank you. Thank you for opening my eyes to what it truly means to be a good wife. The least I can do is offer you and all of our guests my new cocktail creation. I made it extra strong for you all. Enjoy and Merry Christmas!”

The corporate men of Her Paradise clap for Nancy and her speech, and start downing the liquid in their glasses. Nancy walks over to an empty chair at the heart of the room, and grabs a book from the glass coffee table. She opens the book to a short story titled, “Lamb to the Slaughter” by Roald Dahl, and begins reading every word, blissfully unaware of her surroundings.

Scott approaches Nancy. “Nance, look. I’m sorry if you heard all that earlier. I didn’t mean it. I love you and...and whatever is going on, we can work it out.”

Nancy looks up and calmly replies, “I think we both know it’s a little late for that, don’t we Sweetie?”

Before Scott can even begin to think of a reply, he drops to the ground, shattering the coffee table. The guests gasp in horror; Nancy continues to read. It’s not long before Mark then drops too. And Richie. And more. Exclaims of terror are heard in combination with the sounds of guests dropping.

“What is happening?!”

Drop.

“Get up man! Get UP!”

Drop.

“Are they fucking dead?!”

Drop.

The noise would normally be all too overwhelming for Nancy, but all that she is focused on is the sound of John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas” playing on the radio. As she reads, she hums the lyrics, “War is over, if you want it. War is over now”.

And at that moment, Nancy believed those lyrics. At that moment, as Nancy finished reading her book, she believed those lyrics. At that moment, as Nancy sipped her far less strong cranberry cocktail, she believed those lyrics. At that moment, as the last man standing dropped dead to the floor, she believed those lyrics. She believed it. She believed that war was over now.