Cruel Christmas Trick

For the most part, I was a demure, conscientious kid. But once, I unknowingly crossed the line in the worst possible way. A few days after Christmas, sometime in the mid-1990s, my Aunt Nancy, my parents and I lethargically sat around the dinner table. I listened attentively while they talked about things that probably interested me precisely because they didn’t concern me. Eventually, though, the dimly lit kitchen and the slow, blow-by-blow pace of the conversation began to bore me and I tried to think of something I could do to draw attention to myself.

 

I had an absolutely brilliant idea and, just as Aunt Nancy got up to leave, I slipped around the corner into the alcove that housed our archaic stereo system and heaps of cassette tapes. Though I had no idea why she detested such an inoffensive holiday classic, I’d heard Nancy mention her hatred of Ave Maria at a recent family function. While my mother and Nancy stood continuing their conversation in the doorway, I blasted The Carpenter's Ave Maria at full volume, peeking around the corner to see how my aunt would react. The affect was far more severe than I could have imagined. My father made a brisk dash toward the stereo, flipping it off just as Nancy’s face turned bitterly cold. She gave me a quick, lifeless look before bolting out the door.

 Later, I discovered that Ave Maria had been played at the funeral of my Aunt Greta, the sister my father and Nancy lost at a tragically young age. Ever since that funeral, the song has made Nancy queasy and now, in light of my stupid prank, it makes me queasy as well.