The Ghost Who Didn’t Believe in Herself

 by Paula Gail Benson

From: Pixabay

 

           Pressing the buzzer on the entrance’s stone column caused the towering wrought iron gates to open sedately. As Miles Henshaw drove onto the estate, his new wife, Clare, and Clare’s ten-year-old daughter Dorrie watched in silence as they passed the clean, well-tended, seemingly endless lawn. When the mansion came into view, Miles stopped, allowing them to take in the enormity of the structure.

The stillness was interrupted by a gnarled fist rapping against the driver’s window. When Miles opened it, an elderly, humped-back man wearing a dark work uniform asked if he could be of service.

“No, thank you,” Clare answered. “We’re expected.”

They parked the car in the drive beside the mansion and stood before the massive exterior entrance doorway. Clare simply swooned.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” Her voice purred as she squeezed Miles’ hand. Turning back to Dorrie, who carried a packed duffle, she said, “Darling, you must try to make a good impression. Aunt Astrid never really fancied me, but if she took to you, she might leave you everything. She has no one else.”

Miles nodded as he turned about taking it all in. “Not to mention, what a great place this is for you to spend school holidays when your mother and I are out of the country.”

Dorrie assumed from the eagerness with which the lovebirds planned their Christmastime delayed honeymoon, their trips outside the country could be quite frequent. Of course, having a place to deposit the bride’s daughter during school breaks would be advantageous.

The great door opened. A tall blonde woman, past middle age, but still youthful in appearance, greeted them.

 “Serenity Walcott!” Clare exclaimed. “You simply never age, do you?”

“Only in unexpected ways,” Serenity replied with a smile. “Please come in. Your aunt is waiting for you. Mr. Henshaw, she’s especially looking forward to meeting you.”

The newlyweds exchanged a glance. “And I her,” Miles said.

Serenity took a moment to observe Dorrie. “Miss Pandora Whittaker, it’s been too long since last I saw you.”

“Oh, we’ve simplified things a lot these days,” Clare said. “She’s just Dorrie and I’m Clare instead of Clarissa.”

Serenity looked skeptical, but spoke as if in agreement. “Very sensible, considering modern technology, particularly with the limited characters on Twitter responses.”

Henshaw laughed. “Seems anachronistic to be talking about modern social media in this ancient edifice,” he observed.

Serenity gave him a discerning look. “You might be surprised how often discussions of technical advances have taken place in this house. Some family members were quite enamored with the sciences.”

Extending her arm toward the hall, Serenity ushered them inside before closing the door. Then, she took them through a series of front rooms adorned with heavy curtains and furniture upholstered in velvets and tapestries. Above a massive mantelpiece hung a life-sized portrait of twin girls, likely in their early twenties. One stood straight and tall, peering out with piercing eyes. The other sat, misty-eyed, with a dreamy expression. They wore identical flowing pastel dresses and posed at the edge of a garden bursting in blooms. An ancient wooden fence rose just behind the flowers. One of the fence boards seemed to contain writing or drawing. It was difficult to see clearly.

Dorrie stopped, transfixed by the painting. Her mother and stepfather moved forward toward the back of the house. Serenity remained at the connecting doorway, watching Dorrie’s face.

“Hurry, darling,” Clare called.

Serenity walked over and placed her arm around Dorrie’s shoulders. “After you meet your aunt, you’ll have to tell me which twin she is.”

“Aunt Astrid has a twin?”

“She did. Miss Ingrid passed away many years ago. Not long after that painting was completed.” Serenity stared up at the portrait. “Her death changed your aunt’s life dramatically.”

 They walked into a large room with a wall of windows. Through the sheer drapery panels, hazy shapes of a portico and bushes were visible. In the center of the room, a white haired woman sat on a wheelchair, her right elbow perched on the arm support so her hand could cup her chin. She gazed toward the shrouded grounds as if not really caring about the view.

“Auntie, how glorious to see you,” Clare cried out, clutching her husband’s hand tightly. She stopped a few feet in front of Aunt Astrid.

Lifting her head, Aunt Astrid gazed at the group assembled before her. She sighed. “I presume this is your spouse?”

 “Indeed it is!” Clare smiled and grasped her husband’s hand more tightly. “Aunt Astrid, this is Miles Henshaw. Miles, darling, this is my aunt, Astrid Eagerton.”

“Such a pleasure, madam.” Miles made a step in Aunt Astrid’s direction, but Clare pulled him back beside her.

Aunt Astrid’s lower lip bulged forward. “I would have come to your wedding if I had been invited.”

“I know, Auntie,” Clare chattered. “The elopement was very romantic for us, but completely dissatisfying for family and friends. We mean to make amends by having a huge party in the new year. We promise that you’ll be the guest of honor.”

“How perfectly ridiculous to honor an elderly spinster at a wedding reception. I suppose you suggest it because you want me to host it here.”

The response genuinely stunned Clare, and confirmed that Aunt Astrid had never really fancied her. “Of course, we would have no right to expect such an extravagance,” Clare said.

“You seem confident enough to leave your daughter here for the holiday while you head off to tropical locales.”

This time, Miles took his step forward. “Please know how grateful we are for your generous hospitality. If you would be willing to have our reception here, I would certainly pay all expenses as well as a rental fee.”

Aunt Astrid took a moment to look him over before dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “This home is not a rentable event venue, but I gladly open it to family celebrations. We can discuss details later. I’m sure you’re anxious to begin your journey.”

Clare moved to tentatively kiss her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you so much. May you have the best ever of holidays!”

“It will be what it is,” Aunt Astrid replied.

Miles bowed. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Eagerton.” He gently cuffed Dorrie on the shoulder. “Take care, young scamp!”

“My sweet darling.” Clare pulled Dorrie close in an embrace. “We will miss you dreadfully, but how we shall celebrate when we are all together again.”

As Serenity escorted the couple out, Dorrie found herself alone with her aunt, who took the time to examine her from head to toe.

Finally, Aunt Astrid spoke. “Pandora seems a bit pretentious. What do they call you at school?”

“Dorrie.”

“Like that fish in the cartoon?”

“Yes. Except spelled with two ‘r’s’ and an ‘ie’ instead of a single ‘r’ and ‘y.’”

Aunt Astrid shook her head. “A poor choice.”

Dorrie traced a pattern in the carpet with the toe of her shoe. “I suppose it’s preferable to ‘Panda’ or ‘Ora,’ although there’s nothing wrong with either of those.”

“Huh.” Aunt Astrid rolled her eyes. “Your father was a fanciful sort, but I rather admired his desire for you to have a classical name. I doubt he’d approve of having it shortened. I shall take the matter under advisement and let you know when I determine how to address you.”

“May I call you Aunt Astrid?”

The question seemed to please her. “Yes, thank you. I can think of no alternative.” When Serenity reappeared at the doorway, Aunt Astrid turned to her. “Please escort the child to her room. Whichever one you think appropriate, just not the one we discussed.”

Serenity led the way back through the rooms they had passed. Dorrie took a moment to look again at the portrait. She wasn’t sure which twin was Astrid and which Ingrid.

As they went up the broad staircase, Dorrie asked, “What room did Aunt Astrid not want me to stay in?”

Serenity gazed back, then continued climbing. “Don’t take any offense. Miss Astrid doesn’t like for anyone to go into the rooms she shared with Miss Ingrid when they were young. She barely lets us keep them dusted.”

“Why?”

“That’s a good question. Miss Astrid used to go there often herself, until her arthritis left her dependent upon the wheelchair and restricted to the first floor. I believe she hoped to find a message from her sister in their childhood suite.”

“What kind of message?”

Serenity stopped at a door. “You should be very comfortable here. Let me help you get your things put away.”

With its mahogany canopy bed and writing desk, the room seemed a very dreary, adult place to Dorrie. They unpacked her bag, and Serenity showed her the connecting bathroom where fresh towels awaited.

“Now, is there anything else I can do for you?” Serenity asked.

Dorrie was about to ask for more information about the twins when a bell rang.

“Please excuse me. I need to check with your aunt. Dinner will be at six o’clock sharp. Come downstairs a little before that time and I’ll take you to the dining room.”

Serenity hurried off. Dorrie looked around the room. No reading matter or television. Dorrie didn’t feel like spending the time on her tablet.

Exiting, she made her way along the upstairs hallway, passing by portraits of stern looking ancestors and closed doors. As she neared the end of the hall, and was ready to turn around, she heard the soft tinny notes of an old-fashioned song, “My Wild Irish Rose.”

Listening closely, Dorrie located the room with the music and opened the door. For a moment, she felt blinded by the sunlight. When she could focus, she saw white furniture groupings and white bookcases lining the walls. In the center, twin desks and chairs faced the windows. A tall woman--her hair cut short in a bob; her dress long and straight, ending just below her knee; and her skinny legs in dark stockings crossed and propped across one desk--sat holding a music box.

She glanced in Dorrie’s direction. “Took you long enough.”

Dorrie had become fascinated by the image on the top of the music box--a painting of a sweet, cherub-like face ringed by curls and wearing a morning glory blossom upside down on its head, like a pointed hat. She turned her attention to the woman. “I beg your pardon?”

“You might well do so, since you’ve taken so much time to get here.”

Dorrie didn’t understand why she was being criticized. “I just arrived.”

“You’ve been well on your way to this spot since you saw the portrait. Hearing that you shouldn’t be in one room of the house piqued your curiosity to find the forbidden place.”

Dorrie had to concede that was true. “Have you been waiting for me?”

“Of course not.” The woman swung her legs off the desk, closed the music box, and put it down. “You’ve been conjuring me up. I’m a figment of your imagination.”

Dorrie hadn’t conversed with an imaginary figment before. “You look very real to me.”

Standing, the woman shrugged her shoulders and took a few steps toward the windows. “I would expect nothing less from your imagination.”

“Thank you,” Dorrie said. “Could you tell me who you are?”

“Ingrid, of course.”

Dorrie took a closer look. “Yes, I see a resemblance to the portrait.”

“But, to which twin?”

Dorrie examined her critically. Ingrid seemed sharp and direct, like the twin with the piercing gaze. But, somehow, Dorrie couldn’t imagine Aunt Astrid as dewy eyed and dreamy.

“I’m not sure. Both, I suppose.”

“Many people confused us, mostly because they didn’t know us and took no time to learn about us. They’d say, ‘Those are the Eagerton twins.’ Never, ‘that’s Astrid, whose drawings capture the essence of their subjects, or that’s Ingrid, who’s brilliant at the sciences.’ Only Wilton Smythe looked deeper.”

“Who’s Wilton Smythe?”

“The portrait painter, of course.” Ingrid sighed dramatically, crisscrossing her arms around her waist. “Astrid always suspected that he loved me instead of her.”

“Did he?”

Ingrid turned to face her. “Why are you asking me questions for which you don’t have the answers?”

“You’ve already provided information I didn’t know.”

Ingrid shook her head. “You’re mistaken.”

Dorrie remained resolute. “I didn’t know Wilton Smythe’s name until you told me.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Then you must have seen his signature on the portrait.”

“But, I didn’t,” Dorrie insisted. “I was looking at the faces.”

Ingrid stamped a foot. “Well, Wilton’s always skulking around pretending to look after the landscaping so he can be near Astrid. He’ll never quit hoping that she’ll forgive him for helping me.”

Dorrie thought back to the man they met after coming through the gate. “We did see someone on the lawn.”

“Bent over and wearing a black jump suit?” When Dorrie nodded, Ingrid continued, “That’s him. You must have seen his name stitched on a pocket.”

Dorrie shook her head. “No, I didn’t. Look, why are you purposely trying to hide your identity?”

Ingrid tilted her head and scrunched her eyebrows. “How dare you accuse me, and what on earth do you mean?”

Dorrie gave her a quick nod. “On earth exactly. Since Ingrid is deceased, you can’t be here, except as a ghost. That’s what I believe you are--a ghost, not something I’ve made up.”

Ingrid threw her head back, laughed, and flopped back into the desk chair. “You are fanciful. Just like your father.”

“You couldn’t have known my father.”

“But, you did.” Ingrid propped her legs back across the desk. “Which is why my contention, that I’m a figment of your imagination, is more probable than me being a ghost. What you’ve made up about me is based more on your own creative speculations than any facts. Besides, as a student of science, I know ghosts aren’t real.”

Remembering her own scientific studies, Dorrie recognized something false about that statement. “How do you know ghosts aren’t real? Can you prove it?”

Ingrid stared at her coolly. “I don’t have to prove nonexistence when there is no credible evidence of a being in reality. Ghosts are the stuff of legends and belief systems. They have been used by charlatans to manipulate, storytellers to entertain, and . . .,” she paused, maintaining eye contact, “by children to analyze situations they don’t understand. That is why you have conceived me.”

As Dorrie formulated a response, she heard Serenity’s voice calling to her from below. “Please wash your hands and come downstairs, dear. Your aunt has decided to have dinner early.”

Ingrid stretched out her arms and legs. “By all means answer the call. No doubt your mind can summon me up at a later time, if you’re still interested.”

Dorrie headed to the door, looking back to see if Ingrid had levitated from her position across the desk. No one was there, which convinced Dorrie all the more that Ingrid was a ghost.

“If I had imagined you, then I would have made you polite enough to not disappear until I had left,” Dorrie said to the empty room.

#######

The meal offered simple fare: a hearty beef and vegetable soup accompanied by a crusty roll with creamy butter. Dorrie figured it was to let her know that a great house did not always provide sumptuous cuisine. She didn’t mind, particularly when served a treacle tart for dessert.

She remained preoccupied with the ghost or figment she had experienced upstairs. She didn’t realize how quiet she had been until Aunt Astrid asked, “Why are you so lost in contemplation?”

Dorrie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Aunt Astrid made a huffing sound. “Of course you do. You’re just reluctant to tell me.”

Dorrie considered that Aunt Astrid was always forthright. Perhaps she should be, too. “That’s true,” she admitted.

“Good.” Aunt Astrid nodded. “Tell me anyway.”

How was the best way to put it? “It’s hard to explain.”

“Tell me the question you’re pondering.”

“Have you . . .,” Dorrie hesitated, took a deep breath, and continued, “ever had to convince someone they were real?”

Aunt Astrid sat back in her chair. “That’s a very peculiar thought.”

“I know. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“What would you consider doing, to convince someone?”

Dorrie thought for a moment. “If it were a usual situation, I would pinch the person.”

Aunt Astrid laughed. “Good answer. Show the person by a sensory response. My scientific sister would approve. Why can’t you pinch the person?”

Dorrie was elated to hear her aunt mention Ingrid, but puzzled as to how to answer the question. “This person is difficult to get close to.”

Aunt Astrid straightened her back, holding her head higher. “I hope you don’t mean me.”

“Oh, no, Aunt Astrid. I’m very sure you know you are real.”

Aunt Astrid laughed again. “And, I presume you don’t question your reality, because if you pinched yourself, you might still wonder if that action was real or imagined.”

“True.”

“You have admirable intelligence. Let me ask you a question. Have you ever heard of pareidolia?”

Dorrie shook her head. “No.”

“Well, it’s how a brain processes information by putting all the sensory pieces together. Have you ever looked at the clouds and seen shapes of animals or thought there was a face on the moon?”

Dorrie had to admit she had.

“That’s how pareidolia works,” Aunt Astrid continued. “It translates what a person sees or experiences based on what the person knows of life.”

Dorrie nodded without really understanding. “Yes, ma’am,” she said to be polite. “How did you learn about it?”

“From my sister. We talked about it while having our portrait painted. But, I see that you don’t truly comprehend. If you did, I’d see the light in your eyes. Never hesitate to ask questions. Let me try another example. Do you know the musical, Hello Dolly?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I will tell your mother that your education is lacking. Hello Dolly is the story of a woman who acts as a matchmaker for others while seeking a spouse for herself.”

Dorrie didn’t see the connection with pareidolia, but continued to nod politely.

“The matchmaker’s first husband had a saying. ‘Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It’s not worth a thing unless it’s spread around, encouraging young things to grow.’”

Dorrie still had no idea what it all meant, but she had to stop nodding. She was getting dizzy.

“The matchmaker picked out her new spouse, but wanted a sign from her first husband that he approved.”

“Her dead first husband?” Dorrie found this remarkable. She couldn’t imagine her mother seeking her dead father’s permission to remarry.

“Exactly.” Aunt Astrid’s eyes twinkled. “Do you know how she got the sign?”

“No.”

“She heard her intended speak the same words her first husband used to say about money. To her, that confirmed that her first husband approved and that she could continue to live as a community benefactress.”

Dorrie pondered what she had just heard. At first it seemed to support the argument that Ingrid was a figment rather than a ghost, but then she thought a little more. “It was sort of like the matchmaker’s intended channeled a message from her first husband.”

Aunt Astrid thought about that for a minute before agreeing. “Yes, particularly since the intended seemed to be a stingy man while the first husband had been generous.”

“Thank you, Aunt Astrid. You’ve given me a lot to consider.”

#######

During the next morning, while a huge evergreen was being delivered and set up in the room with the portrait, Dorrie wandered outside onto the portico. In the winter, the garden had only short green bushes along dark patches of ground where flowers would bloom in the spring. Following the path, Dorrie reached the place where a set of weathered boards remained anchored in the soil, remnants of a fence. As she drew closer, Dorrie noticed a pattern on one of the boards. She reached out to touch it, wondering if it had occurred naturally or been drawn there.

“Young miss, you’ll take care, please,” a voice called to her.

She turned to see the dark-uniformed caretaker who had asked if her family needed assistance when they arrived. He took off his cap and bowed his head slightly.

“Might be you think it silly,” he told her, “with those boards so close to falling down, but they have a sentimental meaning, you see, so I mean to preserve them as long as possible.”

“They are in the portrait with the twins,” Dorrie said.

Smiling, the man replaced his cap. “You noticed.”

“Oh, yes. And this one,” she pointed to the pattern, “reminds me of an image I’ve seen. A child or maybe a fairy wearing a morning glory blossom as a pointed hat.”

The man’s face turned ashen. “You saw it drawn? Where?”

“In the twins’ room. On a music box that played ‘My Wild Irish Rose.’”

Somehow, the man’s face grew paler. “But that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “That box left here long ago.”

“With Ingrid?”

He looked frightened by her question. “How is it you know?”

“The same way I know you’re Wilton Smythe. Ingrid haunts this place and told me. She carries the music box with her.”

He stood, eying the cold, hard ground as if reasoning out what he had just heard. Finally, he sighed. “I can’t say I’m surprised. She wouldn’t let go of this place without her whole story being told. She only left because she thought she might never have another chance to work at a lab and that was her life’s dream, to make wonderful discoveries and better the world. How she would have loved to work on a cure for the arthritis that plagues Astrid.”

“Tell me about her. Tell me about the three of you.”

He pointed toward a bench. After Dorrie followed and sat, he perched beside her and began the telling. “We grew up in this community, the three of us the same age. The twins had private tutors while I went to the small public school, with all the year-groups in a single room. When Mr. Eagerton learned I had some artistic talent, he invited me to take drawing lessons with his daughters in their home. I’d finished public school and had no means to go to college, so I gladly accepted, along with a job to keep up the landscaping. Astrid and I loved composing pictures and painting, while Ingrid excelled at copying images with precision and detail. She adored filling her notebooks with sketches of plants and animals. Observing how things were put together gave her the same joy as solving a mathematic equation.

“Back in those days, the goal for young ladies was to marry well, have families, and keep organized homes. Astrid’s love of art seemed an appropriate hobby that provided decorating skill, but Ingrid’s wanting to be a scientist was viewed as odd. Her father forbade her to study the biology and chemistry texts she found so captivating. She defied him by finding a position with a lab in Birmingham. I agreed to take her to the station after the rest of the house had gone to sleep.”

He leaned against the back of the bench, breathing hard, as if talking had taken something out of him. “Late that night, Ingrid snuck out of the house and got into my old truck. We rode along in silence for a bit. Then I noticed she was crying.

“‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘I’m leaving without a remembrance of my sister,’ she said. I felt like saying, can’t you look in the mirror, but that seemed unkind when she was so forlorn. So I did a thing I shouldn’t have done and now live to regret.”

Dorrie patted his hand. “You loved her very much.”

“No!” He drew his hand away. “Oh, I liked Ingrid well enough, but my heart belonged to Astrid. Always has. If only I’d just consoled Ingrid that night, or even taken her back home, things might have been different. Instead, I gave her the music box I’d made for Astrid. The one with the image you described, the fairy wearing a bloom for a hat. What, as young art students, we thought we saw in the plank from the old wooden fence.”

“That’s why you included the fence in the portrait.”

“Yes. That’s why. For Christmas that year, I had found a music box that played ‘My Wild Irish Rose,’ the song I hummed for Astrid, and painted the image on the cover. I planned to give it to her and ask her to marry me. Sadly, that was all I had to offer Ingrid. She took it with her to Birmingham. When she was killed in a traffic accident, crossing the road as she left the station, her bag was returned to the family. Seeing the music box among Ingrid’s possessions, Astrid thought that meant I had loved Ingrid instead of her. I heard Astrid threw the box away. She’s only spoken to me in passing since.”

Dorrie took his hand. “I have an idea.” She whispered her thoughts in his ear.

As he listened, he became more animated. “Yes, yes,” he agreed. “That I can do.”

“Then, bring it with you and return tonight as we are finishing the tree.”

#######

Following dinner that evening, Serenity had a fire going in the room with the portrait and Christmas tree. She wheeled Miss Astrid in to admire the decorations while having a cup of tea.

Giving it a thorough once over, Astrid agreed, “It is quite handsomely appointed. I commend your efforts.”

“There is one ornament more, Aunt Astrid,” Dorrie told her. “May I invite in a Christmas guest?”

“It seems a late hour for visiting.”

“But, this is important and already has been delayed too long,” Dorrie said.

The doorbell rang. Serenity went to answer it and returned with Wilton Smythe, still dressed in his black uniform and holding his cap in his hands.

Aunt Astrid flinched. “We have no need to communicate.”

“Please Aunt Astrid,” Dorrie begged. “See what he has brought.”

Wilton handed her a flat, round wooden circle with a painting of the fairy wearing a bloom hat. “I drew this for you many years ago, placing it on a music box that played ‘My Wild Irish Rose,’ the tune I always hummed for you. I gave the box to Ingrid because she was sad about leaving home. I thought I could make another for you, but after she was killed and you found the box in her bag, you presumed my love had been for her.” Slowly, he knelt beside the wheelchair. “I admired Ingrid’s intelligence, but I loved only you. I still love only you.”

The logs in the fireplace crackled. The firelight shone in Wilton Smythe’s and Astrid Eagerton’s eyes.

“I’ve been such an old fool,” Astrid said, dropping the ornament in her lap and reaching for Wilton’s hands.

He lifted her fingers to his lips. “No more so than I.”

Quietly, Serenity stepped forward to retrieve the ornament. “We’ll place this on the tree and leave you alone to talk.”

As Serenity hung the ornament, Dorrie looked at the portrait. It had a third figure. A younger version of Wilton knelt beside the sitting girl who looked at him adoringly. Meanwhile, her standing sister looked out toward Dorrie and winked.

Declining Serenity’s offer of hot chocolate, Dorrie took the steps two at a time to the second floor. She opened the door to the twins’ room. The moonlight shown on the white furnishings making them glisten. The music box sat on the desk where Ingrid had lounged.

Beside the music box, Dorrie found a note with her name. She opened it to read: “I concede you are correct. I am a ghost, haunting this place until I could find someone to believe me and return the music box to my sister. I entrust that task to you. In your future, may you come to value pareidolia as we did. With gratitude, Ingrid P.S. Despite being incorrigible, pinching me would have been a sound method of proving reality, if it could have been accomplished. Farewell.”

#######

When Miles and Clare returned to the mansion on the morning of December 30^th, they found themselves surprisingly intruding upon a rollicking party.

Greeting them at the door, Serenity welcomed them warmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilton Smythe will be so delighted you returned in time for their wedding reception.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Wilton Smythe?” Clare asked.

“Your Aunt Astrid, of course,” Serenity explained. “She wanted to have the ceremony while Pandora was still here and could be her attendant.”

“Pandora?” Miles asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Smythe and your lovely stepdaughter much prefer that to a nickname. Come join them. The bride is about to toss the bouquet.”

Miles and Clare found themselves following Serenity into an unexpected world.

 

You're not Here by Warren Bull

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The Christmas Cuckoo by Tammy Euliano

 This story is from the universe of my novel, Fatal Intent. A view into Dr. Kate Downey's childhood.

Christmas means gifts. Of course, it means much more, like cookies and time off and church, but in our house, opening gifts Christmas morning was the highlight, at least to my fourteen-year-old self. Except at fourteen, I had no money to purchase gifts. Instead, Christmas meant creativity.

That November, Dad sat my older brother, Dave, and me down for our annual, “what to make mom for Christmas” discussion. No joke, we did this every year, as far back as I could remember. The evidence decorated the house, and Mom, year-round.

“This year she definitely wants to fly in a glider,” Dave said. He always claimed she wanted something related to an airplane. Before Dad could argue, Dave added, “It’s the Golden Rule. Do unto others…”

“Then she wants a puppy.” I always pushed for our Lab-mix, Pep, to have a buddy. “One with long floppy ears and—"

“Yeah, Kate, I don’t think that’s what Jesus, or any philosopher for that matter, had in mind,” Dad said. “Nice try, though, both of you.”

Dave and I nodded in our sibling way, heads tilted, wry smiles. We tried every holiday. One of these days we’d break him. But not that day.

Dad tried again. “What does Mom want for Christmas?”

“Not clothes,” Dave said. “Guys don’t sew.”

I laughed. The hilariously uneven hem of the dress we made for Mom last year remained a source of pride for her, shame for Dave, and humor for the community at large. Perhaps encouraged a little by me pointing out Dave’s haphazard contribution as a fashion trend-setter at every opportunity.

“You could sew a puppy-blanket,” I said.

“Nope. You could sew a neck pillow for the plane ride.”

“Kids! This is about Mom.” Dad’s hands went into his hair, a sure sign of frustration. He would be bald soon. “She admired a cuckoo clock at Auntie Lori’s.” Mom’s sister lived in England. While our parents went to visit last summer, Great Uncle Max stayed with Dave and me. He lived on the property, in his own little house across one of the fields.

We had a blast with him in charge. He’s like the coolest substitute teacher ever, who didn’t bother to read the lesson plans and didn’t know the meaning of the word "boundaries." Maybe it means something different in his native German. No curfew, no lights out, no limits on dessert.

Back to Christmas planning. A cuckoo clock sounded fine to us. Next step, research. Always research—figure out the options, including costs, and come up with a proposal. Our next meeting would be Saturday morning when Mom went to book club.

***

At school, I asked my friends if anyone had a cuckoo clock—nope, had seen a cuckoo clock—nope, knew where I might find a cuckoo clock—nope. Someone suggested watching the Sound of Music and Dave agreed to drive me to BlockBuster to rent it for the night.

For the record, there is no cuckoo clock in the Sound of Music, only a song about a cuckoo clock. In fact, there are a lot of songs, about raindrops and roses and whiskers and kittens; about turning seventeen, which seemed a long way off; about female deer and pronouns for self; and on and on. Turned out, Mom loved the movie and could sing nearly every word.

Afterward, she kissed the top of my head before getting up from the couch. “Why did you choose this movie?”

I debated my answer. I could say it was assigned, but she might see the lie on my face. I was a terrible liar; a tragedy for a teenager. “Someone at school said it was good.”

She seemed to accept that. “What did you think?”

“I liked it.” And I did. Later I would realize I loved it, and later still I would realize why—because it made Mom happy. At the time, though, it got me no closer to a cuckoo clock plan.

On Thursday, Dave picked me up after school and drove to the clock store in the mall. They had hundreds of wall clocks on display but none with a cuckoo inside, or outside for that matter. They did have a catalog, though, and we stared with wonder at cuckoo clocks from Germany’s Black Forest Clock Association. Besides being beautiful and amazing, they all had two things in common: a price tag well beyond our means, and intricate details well beyond our skill set. We would have felt discouraged, except we knew this to be the beginning of every great Christmas gift for Mom.

Saturday morning, Dave, Dad and I went to the flea market for our weekly visit. We went most weekends. And most weekends, Dad found treasures; because who doesn’t need a fourth set of wrenches in “perfect condition, and for this price?!” Sure, Dad, whatever.

Dave and I strolled away while Dad haggled over a hammer that might have been discarded by George Washington’s carpenter. We passed tables of “antiques” that just looked like old junk rescued from a dumpster. I found the craft tables interesting if still beyond my meager means.

Dave stopped at a booth with, what else, an old wood propeller painted as a wall hanging.

I started to pass him and froze. “Dave, look.”

No response.

Without looking back, I stretched my arm out and patted his shoulder. “Dave, look.”

“Excuse me.”

Oops, the shoulder belonged to someone else. “Sorry.”

I took a step back, poked Dave in the ribs, then ducked to avoid his flying elbow response. “Look.” I pointed.

“What?...Oh.”

We walked side-by-side, probably in slow motion, toward the final table in the row, staring at the piece hanging on the back wall, a cuckoo clock. It was beautiful-ish. Not like the Black Forest clocks. And not like anything Mom would choose. It was painted a crazy mix of colors, like someone barfed rainbow sherbet all over it. But it had the hands, and the little door at the top for something to pop out on the hour, and the pendulum and other dangly things underneath. It was perfect-ish.

“That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Dave whispered as we neared the table. “Like someone barfed…”

I nudged him. The booth’s owner watched us approach with a too-wide grin. He knew suckers. What he didn’t know was we were suckers without money.

“Interested in the clock, are ya?” he said, still grinning.

“Yes, sir.” Then I remembered Dad’s haggling instructions: Don’t appear eager. “Maybe. A little.” Whew, that was close.

He chuckled. “Would you like to see it?”

“Ye…” I stopped myself. This guy was good. Instead, I raised my shoulders in a shrug. “Whatever.”

He pulled the clock from the wall and lay it on the table. Dave examined it. “How’d you make it?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I repurposed a classic as art.”

Dad appeared then. “Wow,” he said as he took in the clock.

I coughed to cover a giggle. It was Dad’s that’s-hideous “wow.” Still, the artist beamed.

“Do you have any you have yet to restore?” Dad asked.

“Restore? This isn’t a restored clock. It’s a piece of art. An expression of…” The rest of his words were drowned out by Dave’s coughing. I’m pretty sure I heard some swear words in his cough.

Dad smacked him on the back, partly to help with the cough, mostly to tell him to cut it out. “I could not hope to match your artistry,” Dad said. “I am just hoping to find a project I can do with the kids for their Mom’s Christmas present. She needs a clock and we can’t afford something like this.” He went on before the artist could start haggling. “It will mean so much to her if it’s something the kids paint themselves.”

The artist now eyed Dave and me. I put on what I hoped was my please-sir-it’s-for-my-mama face. If such a face exists.

The man reached into a box beside him and pulled out the ragged shell of a cuckoo clock. This one was from whatever’s the opposite of Germany’s Black Forest. It had a plain wood front of chipped gray paint. The clock had only one hand, and the small hole above had no doors.

“I bet the cuckoo took off in search of better housing,” Dave said.

“We can make a new one,” I said.

“The whole thing needs work,” Dave said.

“Don’t all our presents for Mom?”

He grunted.

“This wouldn’t involve a sewing machine or a stove,” I said. The clock’s bottom had an oblong hole. “Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of pendulum down here?”

“Yep.”

I scanned other items on the table. “Is it here somewhere?”

“Nope. Clock comes as-is.”

“It’s not a clock if it doesn’t tell time.” I was getting good at this.

“It’s mostly right twice a day.” He winked at me.

The sundial at school was just a stick in the ground, and it did better than that.

With the owner’s permission, Dad opened up the clock. There were all sorts of gears and metal pieces inside. “What do you want for it?”

“Hundred bucks,” the stall owner said.

I swallowed. Dad put it down and turned to leave.

“Fifty,” the stall owner said.

“It’s not worth twenty,” Dad said.

“Okay, twenty.”

“He said it’s not worth twenty,” Dave said. But at the same moment, Dad said, “Deal.”

Back at the car, Dad turned the key in the ignition. “That might be the best deal I ever made.”

Dave and I looked at each other over the seat.

“You’ll see,” he said.

For the next few weeks, we worked on the clock most evenings and for several hours on weekends. We stripped the paint and stained the wood, rebuilt the mechanism, bought a few replacement parts, like the pendulum and weights. Dave and I worked together on the cuckoo, using scrap wood and fabric.

The last Saturday before Christmas, while Mom was out shopping, we were ready for the first test run. Dad wound the mechanism, and we watched and listened. It took a little work to get the pendulum timing right, but eventually it was close, and the metal bar shot out on the hour. The only thing left was the cuckoo, but Dave and I wanted it to be a surprise. We took the clock back to his room and installed our creation.

Christmas morning, I woke eager and excited and a little worried. Mom had liked everything we’d ever given her, but this one had been a bit more ambitious, and couldn’t compare with Auntie Lori’s clock. At last it was time, three minutes ‘til eight. I covered Mom’s eyes while Dave brought out the clock and placed it on the mantle. I uncovered her eyes with one minute to spare. She stood and took a good long look. “It’s beautiful. Oh my gosh, you made this?”

“Hang on.” Dave looked at his watch.

“Keep watching,” I said as my own watch clicked past eight.

Mom and Dad stared unblinking at the clock and its swinging pendulum. I wondered vaguely if hypnotism was real. As the sound began, the tiny doors swung open, and out flew a tiny airplane piloted by a miniature dog, only distinguishable by his floppy ears.

Made-for-TV Christmas Movie

by KM Rockwood

 

I don’t know why I was making such a big deal about Christmas this year.

Last year I spent it sitting on the front porch all wrapped up in an old woolen army blanket. Drinking beer. Just like any other cold winter day.

But this year I wanted to do something special. Maybe it was because I was eight months sober. Not drinking left a big hole in my life, and I felt like maybe I deserved a little celebration.

A week and a half ago, I’d bought a fancy Christmas card, wrote a letter to put in it, and sent it to my daughter.

Ricky, my sponsor from AA, didn’t think that was such a good idea.

“Y’know, Carson, Christmas ain’t all shiny and magic.” He waved a hand at the tired tree in the corner of the church hall. The tree’s brave lights glowed on the tinsel and candy canes among the branches. It almost made the dingy church basement look warm and inviting. Almost.

Shifting in his seat, Ricky said, “I was gonna go to my cousin’s place tomorrow afternoon for Christmas dinner. But that’s no big deal. I could come over and pick you up instead. They got that big turkey dinner at the rescue mission…”

“Nah. You got plans. No sense changing them now.”

“Well, okay.” He looked up at me. “I guess to you it seems like you been sober a long time. I don’t want to put down progress you’re making—you’re doing great—but how long has it been since you’ve seen your daughter?”

I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. Pain from my leg travelled up my spine and into my left arm, burning all the way to the fingertips. Only I didn’t have a left arm any more. Phantom pain, they called it. But it feels real enough. “I don’t know exactly. Ten years?”

“Ten years.” Ricky looked down at the inky coffee in his paper cup.

At least it was supposed to be coffee. I was never sure that the oily hot liquid they served at AA meetings really was coffee, not used motor oil. Or that those hard, little round balls were really donut holes, not stones pilfered from some landscaping site.

“And what kind of a relationship did you have with her at that point?”

“She was still a kid. Her mom fed her a lot of crap, and she didn’t want to see me. Couldn’t see any point in insisting, even with the court-ordered visitation.”

Ricky raised one eyebrow. “And I suppose you were an upstanding dad? Always showed up on time to pick her up? Sober?”

“Told you, she didn’t want to see me. Then I was deployed overseas.”

“How about child support?”

“Army took care of that. Came right out of my paycheck and got sent to my ex. Would have come out of the disability, too, only by then she was eighteen.”

“You haven’t been in touch with her since?”

“Well…”

“So the only way she remembers her dad is from before you and her mom broke up?”

I stared down at the cup clutched in my hand. A rainbow sheen danced on the surface of the coffee.

Ricky pushed a little harder. “And she’s supposed to jump for joy because this shadowy character that she only knew as a drunken bully wants to get in touch with her?”

Not the way I remembered it. But if I was learning anything, it was that I couldn’t trust my memory. And Ricky usually knew what he was talking about. I sighed. “When you put it that way…”

“It’s not me ‘putting it’ any way. It’s you being a whiny SOB feeling sorry for yourself. You gone a few months without drinking and think the whole world’s gonna pat you on the back. Don’t work like that, buddy. This isn’t some made-for-TV Christmas story.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away.

Ricky leaned back. “How’d you even figure out a way to get in touch with her, anyhow?”

“Public library. They got computers you can use. This lady helped me. Found pictures of Mandy on Facebook. And got an address. She don’t live but about two hours away.”

“I’m impressed.” Ricky glanced toward me. “You went to the library? Must have taken guts. And you actually asked somebody to help you?”

“Didn’t really have to ask.” Usually the only place I went was AA meetings. Store if I really needed something. And to the ATM to get money after my disability check got deposited. I used to go buy beer, but I don’t do that these days.

“I didn’t know how a computer worked. This lady was there. She asked what I was trying to do. I told her and she found it for me. Even gave me a piece of paper and a pencil to write the address down. Phone number and everything. She was real nice.”

I wasn’t used to people being real nice to me.

“And now Mandy’s supposed to drop everything ’cause her old man calls after ten years?”

“Not call.” I took a deep breath. “I figured that would put her on the spot. Wrote a letter—that way she can think about it before she answers.”

“If she answers. I think you ought to give it more time. Especially now—right around the holidays.”

“I think that might be a good time. Holiday cheer and all that.”

“You think wrong. I bet the memories she has of ‘holiday cheer’ are all about you being drunk and ruining everything.”

My throat was closing. Had I ruined past Christmases for Mandy? I remembered trees with fancy lights and piles of wrapped presents. I didn’t remember drinking so much back then. I dunno, maybe I did.

I sat up straighter. “How about Step 9? Make amends?”

Ricky snorted. “This ain’t about making amends. You’re not thinking about her. You’re only thinking about you. This is all about you wanting to feel better. Step 9, my ass.”

Sometimes Ricky can tell when I’m trying to kid myself better that I can. And he calls me on it. That’s one of the good things about having him for a sponsor. He doesn’t pull any punches.

“So in my humble opinion,” he said, “wait a while before you write.”

“Too late.” I took a deep breath. “I mailed it early last week.”

“You did, huh?” Ricky stood up. “And did you hear back from her?”

“No.”

“So good luck with that.” He crushed his cup and tossed it toward the waste basket.

With a lump in my throat, I stumbled to my feet. The meeting had broken up. A few people were putting up the chairs, washing out the coffee pot, mopping up. The scent of disinfectant floor cleaner overwhelmed the smell of burnt coffee.

We went into the windswept alley. Trash swirled along in front of us. Spits of freezing rain drummed on the dumpster.

“I been sober eight months,” I reminded Ricky. “Not one relapse in all that time.”

He laughed. “Yeah. Eight months. And what—90 days?—of that was pretty much forced ’cause you were locked up, right? That little drunk and disorderly charge?”

The comment stung. “Not totally forced. Lots of hooch being brewed in that joint.”

“And I suppose you had the connections and the coin to get a regular supply?”

It might have been a while, but Ricky’d been locked up, too. He knew how jail worked.

“You’re right. It did give me a chance to dry out. Time to think. But I had to work with it, get transferred to the cellblock where they had the AA meetings. The first thing I did after release wasn’t go get drunk.”

“And you wanted to.”

“Damn straight I wanted to. But instead I went to a meeting that afternoon. And another one that evening. Pretty much the same every day since.”

Ricky nodded. “You done good. You still going to that veteran’s PTSD group?”

“Yeah.”

“Way to go. Keep it up. You’ll make it yet.”

I flipped up the hood of my sweatshirt and tucked my hand in the kangaroo pocket.

“Where the hell is your jacket?” Ricky shoved his hands in the pockets of his warm coat. “It’s cold out here.”

I shivered. “In my garage. It got really soaked so I hung it out there to dry.”

We parted at the end of the alley. The daylight was long gone. Streetlights cast uneven shadows. I
pulled my hood even lower on my forehead and bent into the cold, damp wind.

I passed a now-deserted Christmas tree lot with sagging lights and bits of twine on the ground. A whiff of pine needles and hot chocolate lingered in the air.

The walk home in the wavering shadows gave me the shivers. Leaves danced across the sidewalk.

My eye caught a movement in the bushes. Some damn guy in dirty white robes with a rifle? Or a hand grenade? Should I hit the ground and roll under a car?

No, I told myself firmly. I was back here on good old USA soil. Not that nothing could ever happen, but this wasn’t a combat zone. Nobody here waiting to take me out. I hoped.

Whatever it was that was moving slid out from under the fence and scuttled toward a storm drain. Just before disappearing down, it turned and looked at me with a furry, masked face. A raccoon.

I realized I was holding my breath. I exhaled slowly.

Some kids on bicycles rounded the corner. I straightened up a little and deliberately didn’t look toward them.

A bit dark for them to be out on their bikes, but if parents or anybody ever kept an eye on them, I’d never been able to tell.

Damn kids liked to taunt me, and I didn’t used to handle it well. In fact, they were the reason I picked up those 90 days on drunk and disorderly.

They’d do things they knew would set off my PTSD. Sneak up next to my porch and holler, “Incoming!” knowing that it would make me dive for the floor. Put a cherry bomb firecracker in my garbage can to watch me panic when it went off.

Before I sobered up, I’d stand on the porch, shake my fist at them and spew threats. They’d laugh and ride up and down the street on their bikes, giving me the finger and popping wheelies.

Then one afternoon they caught me out on the street, coming home from the beer outlet. One of them rode close enough to knock the 24-pack out of my hand.

I grabbed his bicycle by the handlebars. He tried to wrest it away from me, but even though I had just one hand, I held on tight. Screaming and cursing, spraying spittle, I brought my face within inches of his startled eyes. He finally jumped off the bike, stumbled and ran.

Still ranting, I took the bike and smashed it against a big tree again and again.

Somebody called the cops. I was still slamming that bike into the tree when they arrived. It put a big gash in the trunk. Every time I walk by, it reminds me I need to keep myself under control.

The kid ended up with an ugly scrape on the side of his head.

He must have fallen as he scrambled away from me. I’m pretty sure I never touched him. But I was looking at an assault charge. Of a minor.

All things considered, I got off easy. The kids said they were just pranking me. The judge took a dim view of that, what with my military service and missing arm and all. I got away with the 90 days on a misdemeanor charge. I had to pay for a new bike. Plus a stern warning to deal with my anger issues.

Turns out that was just what I really needed. I spent the first month in jail sulking and wallowing in self-pity. The second month I pondered where my life was going, or not going, and decided I didn’t like what I saw. Not that long ago, I’d been a proud soldier. Now I was a bum. If I were willing to work for it, I could reclaim my dignity. Even in jail.

I asked for a transfer to the addictions treatment cellblock. In that third month, I worked hard on the AA twelve step program, and I left jail determined to change my life.

When I got back, the kids didn’t quite know what to make of it. They could pull their pranks and still get some kind of a reaction. But not get that rise out of me. I’d grit my teeth and ignore them as much as I could. They didn’t find it nearly as much fun anymore.

Every once in a while, they’d still pull some trick or other, but even if I went into panic mode, I learned to focus on my own reaction and not them. A panic attack never actually killed anybody, even if at the time it felt like it would. Or so the counselor told me.

Headlights rushed up behind me. I tensed as they swooped by and continued on their way. Just an ordinary car.

The bicycles stopped down the street a bit. Nothing to do with me. When I got to my mailbox down by the curb, I reached in. A surprising amount of mail. I hadn’t brought the mail in yesterday. Maybe not the day before, either. Probably mostly ads and catalogues. How did I ever end up on so many mailing lists? Not like I had a lot of money to spend.

Just as I turned to go up the walk to the front door, a loud burst of staccato clatter filled the air.

My muddled brain screamed, “Ambush!”

I dove to the ground and rolled toward a bush. I felt frantically around me. Where was my rifle? Where was my arm?

The noise ended as quickly as it had begun. I didn’t move. My stomach clenched and my one arm twitched.

Not an enemy attack. Firecrackers.

Damn kids.

They pushed off on their bikes and rode away, their laughter floating on the air behind them.

I lay there, forcing my eyes open and concentrating on my breathing like they told us in the PTSD group. Cut the panic attack short.

Count to ten, inhaling slowly. Count to ten, exhaling.

Force myself to look at the familiar surroundings. The mailbox. The cracked concrete walk. The wooden steps up to the porch. They needed a paint job.

Repeated my mantra. I was safe. This would pass. I would survive this.

Gradually my muscles relaxed. I could stop paying attention to my breathing. I felt a little dizzy, but I could sit up.

I rose to my feet. The wind had blown the mail around. I picked up the pieces nearest me. My head spun.

Some of the talk in the group had dealt with how to deal with the kids. Not much I could do about what they did. What I could control was how I reacted. Not let them get to me.

It wasn’t easy.

The catalogs lay on the sidewalk, but the wind had picked up some of the flyers and envelopes, blowing them under the hedge that the neighbors had wrapped with Christmas lights. Some might even have slid into the grate by the curb. They were probably just ads. Trash. I could take a look in the morning.

Now was one of those times when it was pretty obvious why Ricky said never to keep any alcohol in the house, even for visitors. Not that I had any visitors. But if I’d had any alcohol then, I’d have drunk it.

I took a shower and got dressed, but I left my boots on the floor in the bedroom. I couldn’t go out to buy beer without boots. A small thing, but putting them on would give me a few more minutes to remind myself I didn’t need a drink. I heated up a bowl of tomato soup.

Had to be a sappy Christmas movie on TV. With a happy, magic ending. I flipped through the channels, settling on something called “Christmas in Worthington Square,” which opened with an insipid scene of a pretty young lady and a handsome man having a ridiculous spat in the middle of an overly-decorated village square. Everybody knew how that would end. They’d solve their misunderstanding, apologize, gaze into each other’s eyes, hold hands and sing Silent Night as the credits begin to roll.

Predictable. And comforting.

Tomorrow I could go to one of the churches in town, sit in the back, and listen to the choir sing Christmas carols. Then I could go to the turkey dinner at the rescue mission.

Maybe not a great Christmas, but an okay one. Better than the last few. As long as I didn’t drink.

Damn, I wanted a beer.

I could always call Ricky if it got too bad. I patted my pocket. No phone. I looked around, puzzled. The charger was lying unplugged on the kitchen counter, but no phone. Not on the table.

Probably I’d left it in my jacket pocket, out in the garage. I opened the side door. Freezing rain was slashing down. In the light from the house, puddles glistened in the driveway between the house and the garage. I’d have to put on my boots if I wanted to retrieve my phone. Not worth it.

The video on TV churned along toward its inevitable ending. Tinkly sentimental Christmas music played. I collapsed into my chair. Handle this on my own.

I fell asleep before those perfect people living perfect lives in that perfect town shared the perfect Christmas hug.

***

Overnight the rain turned to snow, which stopped at dawn. Enough to have a textbook white Christmas, but not so much that it would interfere with anyone’s holiday plans. Except, of course, for the poor souls who drove the snow plows and gravel trucks. They’d miss Christmas morning with the kids, but if they were lucky, they’d get home in time for dinner.

The front walk needed to be cleared. I went out to the garage for the snow shovel. My jacket was cold, but it was dry. I slipped it on. The cell phone was in the pocket.

Ricky came along, bundled up against the cold. “I’m on my way to my cousin’s place. I wanted to check in with you. Your cell phone’s dead, so I stopped by. You okay?”

“Yeah. I guess I haven’t charged it in a while, is all.”

“Wish I could take you to my cousin’s, but I don’t think my family would go for that.”

“Can’t blame them. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. Church first, then the rescue mission dinner.”

“Okay, but I can stay if you want me to…”

“I’ll be fine,” I said again. “You go on.”

Ricky shrugged and walked down the block.

I was tempted to call out to him that I didn’t want to be alone. But he had family who’d invited him to dinner, now that he was a few years away from drinking. I didn’t have either family or a few years away from drinking. But I could make it on my own. Without a drink.

The snow was heavy, but not deep. I got the front walk and the sidewalk shoveled. Only having one arm made a lot of things tougher than they used to be. No need to do the driveway. I didn’t have a car anymore.

Ice coated the Christmas lights on the hedge. The low places on the sidewalk, where rain had puddled before it changed to snow, had slick patches of ice, too.

Up next to the garage, I had a bin where I’d kept gravel for the driveway. It was left over from before I started drinking so much and I still had a car. A few shovelfuls ought to take the skid out of the icy spots.

The lid on the bin was frozen shut. I got a crowbar from the garage and went to work opening it.

Something smacked the back of my head. A snowball crashed against the side of the bin. I heard derisive laughter. The kids were back.

What were they doing out on Christmas morning? And on their bikes? The snow wasn’t too deep to ride in, but it had to be slippery.

Sure enough, as I watched, a tall, lanky kid with spikey green hair charged toward me on his bike, arm poised to launch a snowball.

As he let loose with the snowball, his bike skidded sideways, its front wheel lodging in the grate by the curb. He landed on his butt, but he jumped up and yanked at his bike.

It wouldn’t budge.

The snowball hit the ground next to me.

Crowbar still in my hand, I started toward him.

The others scattered.

As this kid gave the bike another desperate tug, his feet slipped out from under him and his boot slammed into the curb cut for the storm drain.

He tried scooting backwards, but his foot was stuck.

As I approached, his eyes opened wide, staring at the crowbar. He began to whimper.

I stopped in front of him. I was tempted to say something like, “What goes around comes around.” But I remembered my military training and took a deep breath. Proper bearing and dignity regardless of the provocation.

Inserting the crowbar in the grating under the tire, I gave it a quick jerk upward. The bike popped free.

I turned my attention to the kid. “Think you broke your leg or anything?” I asked.

“N…n…no,” he blubbered, snot bubbling out of his nose.

“Try turning your foot sideways and see if it’ll slip out. Otherwise you might have to take your foot out and let me pry the boot free.”

A good twist and a few wiggles and the boot came loose.

I dropped the crowbar and held the bike upright with my one hand.

He flexed his foot a few times, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and climbed on the bike. “Thanks, mister,” he said so low I could barely hear it.

I shrugged.

He turned the bike and rode down the street. Just before he reached the corner, he turned back and gave a tentative wave.

After a few seconds, I waved back.

I spread some gravel on the slick spots on the sidewalk and bent to pick up the crowbar.

A car pulled over to the curb. None of those rotten kids were old enough to drive. Had one of them gone to fetch a parent or a big brother or something? I deliberately ignored the car.

But the driver got out and approached me.

Aside from the problems with the kids, I couldn’t think of anything I had been involved in lately that would make anybody want to approach me. And I didn’t need trouble. I turned away and took a step toward the porch.

The person stopped.

“Dad?”

I turned and looked up.

A young woman. I’d know her anywhere even though I hadn’t seen her in years.

My heart leapt into my throat. “Mandy?” I managed to choke out.

“I tried to call, Dad. But your phone was turned off or something. And I mailed you a note. It should have gotten here by now. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about getting together for Christmas, but I decided to come anyhow…”

A tear trickled down her cheek. “I’ve wanted to look for you for a long time, but I was afraid if you didn’t want to see me, it’d hurt too bad. Then I got the card…”

Now a tear trickled down my cheek, too. She reached her hand out. I took it. We gazed into each other’s eyes.

I could’ve sworn I heard Silent Night playing somewhere in the background.

The End