The Elf's Shoes

by Paula Gail Benson

From: https://pixabay.com/users/b0red-4473488/

I’ll never forget the joy of that Christmas morning—racing down the steps to my grandparents’ living room, hearing the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace, and seeing the beautifully decorated tree surrounded by presents. I was only five, but I could read my name—TEDDY, written in large, capitalized letters—on the tags and see that a pile of those gifts was meant for me, hopefully filled with Hot Wheels and Legos. I plopped down, legs cris-crossed, not minding that I could feel the chill permeating from the wooden floor through the rag rug and my thin Dr. Denton pjs.

As I reached for the first package, I noticed the green shoes with the curving toes at the edge of the fireplace’s hearth. They looked like they had been kicked off carelessly—as if the wearer had decided to take a nap on the nearby sofa, without marking it with—what were those black lines? Soot?

I became so fascinated by the shoes I didn’t realize my family had begun to enter the room, my twelve-year old sister, Suzanne, yawning and stretching, and my grandmother, Nan, with a tray of mugs. Grandpa—just Pa to us—sipped at his cup, quickly pulling away and blowing at the steamy coffee inside.

Our parents were in the military and had been assigned to posts without family housing. Suzanne and I were staying with my mother’s parents until we got back together.

Nan tried to explain it to me once. “Your parents went to college, learned different languages, and got special training so they could represent the United States in other countries.”

“Yes,” Pa had agreed with her. “They work to make our world a safer place. So, we need to support them by waiting patiently.”

Some days were easier than others. 

“Whose shoes are those?” I asked pointing at the green pair on the hearth. Even though dirty, they had something of a magical quality about them. Maybe that was just the curled toes.

Pa frowned. “I haven’t seen them before. Have you, Nan?”

“No.” She put the tray down on the coffee table. “I don’t think they belong to us.”

Suzanne came forward to give them a closer look. “They look like what an elf might wear, only the size seems too big. Maybe a goblin’s shoes?”

I remembered seeing goblins in the Harry Potter movies. They had sharp noses, pointed ears, and worked in banks with other people’s money and possessions. “What would a goblin be doing in our house at Christmas?” I asked.

Suzanne stuck out her chin. “Could be he wants to propose a trade. Like swapping a goblin baby for a human one. We read a story about that at school. The substitute is called a changeling. The supernatural creature leaves one of its own or an item to symbolize the exchange.”

It sounded like the weird kind of story Suzanne would read and remember.

“Perhaps you could be right,” Pa said. He put down his cup and picked up the shoes. “These are finely made.” He ran his finger along the outside stitching, then glanced at the presents beneath the tree. “Santa sure has left a lot of gifts for us this year. Maybe his elf force is ready to make a change—to be on the receiving end for a while.”

“But when would the change take place?” Nan asked as she sat down on the sofa and drew her robe tightly around her.

“Hard to say, without some clear message,” Pa said. “My guess is that the swap would occur when someone in our house fits into these shoes.”

We all looked at each other, then at the shoes Pa held. We had completely forgotten about opening presents.

Pa looked at his feet, then at Nan’s. “Our feet are already too big. We’re going to have to check the children’s. Suzanne, you’re the one who had the idea. Come try them on first.”

Suzanne balked. “What if they have something poisoned inside?”

Pa shook the shoes, inside down, against the hearth. No contents emerged. “Nothing. Just the soot on the outside. Besides, poison wouldn’t be wise if they wanted to make a trade.”

“I don’t want to be a changeling for an elf or goblin,” Suzanne said. I could tell she was near crying.

“There, there, my dear.” Pa put his arm around her shoulders. “With this being Christmas Day, it’s more likely one of Santa’s elves than a goblin. Besides, for someone to leave behind this fine pair of shoes, they seem to be trying to make a good offer for the exchange. They wouldn’t want to hurt the person being substituted. And, if they do want to make a trade, maybe we can negotiate with them and offer them something so we could keep you.”

“Not Jinx or Patti.” I worried about losing our dog and parakeet.

Pa was less protective of our pets. He grumbled a lot about having to feed them.

“I’m guessing they would rather have a worker than another eater to add to their numbers,” Pa said. “Take off your slipper, Suzanne, and hold your foot up against the sole of this shoe.”

With a grimace, Suzanne did as she was told. As she looked at the comparison, I heard her sigh in relief. “My feet are already too big,” she said.

Slapping them against the court as she raced back and forth between the hoops playing basketball, I figured. That had to have flattened and lengthened her feet out.

“Your turn, Teddy,” Pa said.

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“No, but you saw the shoes and brought them to our attention. Come on. Let’s see if they fit you.”

I stood, the cold from the floor penetrating my bare feet. “Wouldn’t Santa have to fill out some special forms for me to live with him—like you did when we came to live with you?”

Pa gave my question some thought. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to face that situation when we reach it. If we do. Come on now. You’re not going to let a pair of pointy toed shoes scare you, are you?” He shook the shoes at me, and I noticed each had a bell on the end of the curve. They jingled. I wondered if searchers would follow that sound if you got lost at the North Pole.

Reluctantly, I approached Pa. He set the right shoe down. I eased my foot inside. It was lined with something like fleece, that seemed to surround the coldness and banish it away. My sole thumped against the bottom and my toes stretched forward. The words, “don’t let it fit, don’t let it fit,” kept echoing through my brain. Suddenly, I realized my heel had inched into the middle and room remained at both the front and back.

“They’re too big.” I practically shouted.

“Well, then.” Pa helped me pull my foot out. “This must not be the year for an exchange.”

Suzanne gave me some fluffy socks she had in the pocket of her robe. “Maybe next year Mom and Dad will be home and Santa’s elf will have to look elsewhere to make the switch.”

That sounded like a good plan to me.

A year passed quickly. I moved up from kindergarten to the first grade. Suzanne and I had weekly Facetime parental chats. We settled in with Pa and Nan, but hoped we’d soon be back with our parents.

More swiftly than it seemed possible, we were seeing Christmas decorations and listening to Christmas music on the radio again. I had forgotten all the gifts I’d received last year and had a new, longer list for Santa. When we decorated our tree, I saw Pa place the green toe-curled shoes on the hearth.

“Why did you keep those?” I asked.

“They are perfectly good shoes,” he replied. “Just a little sooty on the outside.”

“But what if they mean I have to go live with Santa?”

Pa sat on the sofa and stared at the shoes. “He must be a nice enough man to bring presents to all the children of the world.”

“I belong here with you, Nan, and Suzanne. And, then with my parents when they come home.”

 “Huh, is that so? I don’t think I saw that on your list for Santa.”

“I didn’t think I needed to write it out.”

“You know, Teddy, Santa and his elves work hard for us, getting ready all year so we can enjoy celebrating Christmas. Sort of like what your parents do—work real diligently to make sure our country is safe and protected. Maybe this year, we can show them how much we appreciate all they do.”

“How?”

“I read at the mall they are filling a bus with toys to distribute to children in need. We could go get a few things from the store to donate. Things you think someone like you would like.”

“When do I have to try on the shoes?”

“Hasn’t been a year yet since last Christmas. If they are still here Christmas morning, we’ll check then. Meanwhile, let’s try to make a nice holiday for some other people.”

What he didn’t say made me wonder—was he getting me used to collecting Christmas toys in case my feet fit the curvy toed shoes and I would have to go to work at the North Pole? Would Santa leave a baby elf in my place? What would my parents say about taking in an elf changeling when they returned?

I forgot about my worries as I looked over the action figures to buy for the toy drive. Suzanne selected some games. After we gave them to the people in charge of the bus, Suzanne suggested that we go get a photo with the mall Santa.

“We could send it to our parents,” she said.

I was leery about encountering Santa, even a mall version. I’d heard he wasn’t the one from the North Pole, but a representative, like our parents representing our country. Even so, I figured the mall Santa had a direct line to the man himself, and I didn’t want confirmation that I was being considered for an elf swap.

Pa and Nan escorted us to the Santa’s mini wonderland at the shopping area’s center court. I hesitated to join the line until Nan said, “It would give your mother a nice remembrance of home. We used to bring her here to visit Santa.”

“C’mon, Squirt,” Suzanne challenged me. “It’s just a photo op.”

We inched our way forward until one of the tall elf guides—a female with long dark hair, and pointed ears shaped from cloth and attached to her hat—led us forward toward Santa’s throne. I noticed her pointy toed shoes had no jingle bells. Before taking her place on his right, Suzanne told Santa we wanted to get a picture for our parents and talked with him about them being in the military.

Santa scrutinized me. “Maybe this young man would like a consultation.” He patted his lap for me to take a seat.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I sent my list in already.”

He wrinkled his nose, making his wire-rimmed glasses move up and down. “Somehow, I sense you have a question for me.”

I looked straight into Santa’s eyes and felt like they saw more than I wanted him to see. He might just be a representative, but I think he exercised some of the real Santa’s powers.

“You’re wondering about seeing your parents again,” Santa said. “You miss them a lot.”

I nodded.

He watched me for a moment. “They miss you, too.”

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know so badly. “When will they be home?”

He smiled. “You mean, when will you all be back together?”

I nodded again.

“Things have a way of working out.”

Our elf guide called out it was time for the photo. I looked forward as our grandparents snapped some shots with their cell phones. In the next minute, we were whisked along to rejoin them.

 I didn’t like the way my talk with the mall Santa ended. I would have preferred reassurance I would not become an elf substitute.

 That night, after everyone went to bed, I snuck downstairs and placed a bare foot inside one of the elven shoes. My heel stayed firm against the back and my toes reached the place where the point started.

 A perfect fit. I was doomed to be an elf substitute.

 With Christmas Day approaching, I withdrew from more activities, fearing that I might enjoy them too much and be even more miserable if I couldn’t participate next year. Did the elves have time for caroling or eating cookies and hot chocolate? While Santa might be kind to people he brought gifts to, he must be a taskmaster to keep the elves working to make the presents.

 Suzanne’s sports and school schedule kept getting busier. Pa and Nan had a hard time keeping up with all her events. Maybe things would be better for them if I was out of the way.

 When we spoke with our parents, we heard their tours had been extended. Mom sounded worried and asked to talk to Pa and Nan. Suzanne and I left the room but listened at the door.

 Mom apologized about the uncertainty. “I know it’s meant a tremendous change in your lifestyles,” she said.

 “The ability to adjust is what makes us human,” Pa told her.

 I figured I had done a decent job adapting to human conditions. I wondered if I would do as well as an elf substitute.

 Could that be why Santa was looking for a human changeling? To make elves more human-like?

In a way, I’d be like an explorer, infiltrating a different culture and learning to live by its rules. Kind of like what my parents had to do with their military assignments.

Also, like the mall Santa representing the real Santa Claus.

It took me a while to work it all out, but I knew what I had to do.

After everyone had gone to sleep on Christmas Eve, I snuck downstairs. Santa would be coming for me this year. I had determined to go quietly, to do my duty, leaving a note behind for my family so they would understand. Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Pa, Nan, Mom, Dad, and Suz,

Don’t worry. I am with Santa. I love you.

                                                Teddy

I wrapped myself in a blanket and waited behind the Christmas tree, where I would be out of sight. I didn’t want to make my grandparents or Santa mad about me being awake and waiting up for Santa’s arrival. Even facing changeling-hood, I didn’t want to risk getting on a bad list.

As the hour neared midnight, I found myself huddling within the blanket’s folds and dozing off. Finally, I gave up fighting sleep and let the dreaming overtake me. I heard a sound and realized I wasn’t alone in the room. But I couldn’t open my eyes, and I wasn’t able to move.

I saw the room, as if it was part of my dream. The lights of the Christmas tree twinkled brightly. A small figure dressed all in green—must have been an elf—stood on the hearth and reached for the elven shoes. Beside him was the man in red I’d been waiting to see.

Santa watched the elf before saying, “The family kept your shoes. I had a feeling they might.”

The elf hung his head briefly, then turned to look at Santa. “We had been so busy preparing for Christmas. I thought I had time for a short nap. Before I realized it, you were pulling me up the chimney and I had left my magic shoes behind. What a year it’s been having to learn to get along without them.”

“Yes, but you adapted. That’s what we creatures of the earth must do to keep surviving.” Santa walked over to me and picked up the letter I had written. “Interesting. This young man feared he might have to take your place when I returned.”

The elf groaned. “Oh, dear. Now I’ve made things worse by scaring a child.”

“As I’ve learned over the years, children can be very resilient, particularly if they are well taught. This child has adapted to his circumstances, but he’s also learned something important.”

“What’s that?”

“That you can manage almost anything if you act out of love.”

Nodding, the elf said, “That’s an important lesson.”

“For all of us. Come now, we must get back to our journey and Teddy must return to his slumber until he wakes to see his Christmas gifts.”

After that, I fell into a deep sleep, so restful and quiet that I don’t remember dreaming. The next morning, I heard a door close and voices through the house. There was laughing, and crying, and several people were calling my name.

“Where’s Teddy?”

“He’s not in his room.”

“Teddy, where are you?”

I struggled to get up. Even with the blanket, I felt frozen to the bone. Moving was a challenge, and speaking seemed impossible. Finally, I croaked out, “Here!”

A mad rush invaded the living room. Arms surrounded me and I was pelted with human kisses. Not just licks from Jinx.

“Mom and Dad are home,” Suzanne sang out.

“How?” I asked, looking up into their smiling faces.

“A new set of orders,” Mom said.

I had forgotten how sweet her voice sounded. “You’re home for good?”

“Home for good, Teddy.” Dad’s hands lifted me high off the floor.

From above the group, I looked at my sister, parents, and grandparents, all gathered in a circle. But, maybe best of all, when I glanced at the hearth, I saw the green pointy toed shoes were gone.

 

THE END

’Tis the Season – A Glenmyre Girls Story by Sarah E. Burr

A Note from Sarah: Season's Greetings, everyone! I'm delighted to share a special short story featuring the two main sleuths from my Glenmyre Whim Mysteries, Hazel Wickbury and her aunt/bestie, Poppy Glenmyre. The award-winning Glenmyre Whim Mysteries is a paranormal cozy mystery series set in the world of Crucible, New York. I hope you enjoy taking a trip down memory lane with the Glenmyre Girls!

“Hazel? Dinner’s almost ready.” Poppy’s voice was muffled by the door between us.

I pressed my face deeper into the pillow. “I’m not hungry.”

My twenty-five-year-old aunt—who was more like my sister and best friend—sighed so heavily, I’m surprised she didn’t blow down the door to her guest room. “Ruthie will be here soon. I know she really wants to see you.”

I cringed at the word “see.” I hated seeing things these days. “I’m not in the mood for visitors.”

“You can’t stay holed up in there forever.” The kind sympathy that laced Poppy’s response was marred by slight irritation. She was growing tired of my dramatics, I could tell. “I know you’re dealing with a lot of pain and uncertainty right now, but you’re strong. You can’t let this defeat you, Hazel. You’ve got to figure out how to live your life.”

I heard her unspoken words, like so many Glenmyres have done before, loud and clear. And deep down, I knew she was right. I couldn’t stay hidden away in her guest bedroom forever. I had to figure out how to deal with my whim, my morbid new ability. But that was easier said than done.

“How, Pops?” Tears returned to my eyes for the fifteenth time that day. “How am I supposed to live like this?” Most members of the Glenmyre clan considered their whims—our family’s term for the unique, supernatural powers we were “gifted” with—a blessing. Mine felt more like a curse.

I heard a click, followed by the sounds of a door hinge squeaking. Scrunching my eyes closed as tightly as I could, I rolled over on the bed to face the direction of the doorway.

“You don’t have to do that, silly,” Poppy reminded me.

“What if my whim starts behaving like yours?” I countered, my eyes still screwed shut. “You can see my aura, right?” Poppy’s ability allowed her to see colorful, glowing hues around people that indicated their emotions. “What’s to say I won’t suddenly start seeing the lifeclocks of our family?”

Soft footsteps approached, and the bed shifted under the weight of Poppy’s slender frame as she perched beside me. Her fingers soon began stroking my long, dark hair. Just like Mom used to do when I was little. “Our abilities don’t evolve like that. I’ve always seen Glenmyre clan auras. Right from the moment my whim awakened.” She paused to let her words sink in. “You’re safe with me, little niece.”

At twenty-three, I was hardly little, but I still snuggled up against her, calmed by her comforting words.

“And you’re safe with Ruthie.” Poppy’s palm rested on my shoulder. “She can help you figure this all out, Hazel. If anyone can, she will.”

Reluctantly, I inched open my eyelids, and Poppy’s pretty features swam into focus. Seeing her supportive smile, my entire body relaxed. There was nothing hovering above her head. No glaring, bizarre digital clock countdown that revealed how much time she had left on this earth.

Her rosy lips widened into a toothy grin. “There, see? We’re gonna get through this. Together. Now, come help me set the table.” With a firm grip, she began to drag me out of bed. This wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

My aunt had given me weeks to mourn over my misfortune, for which I was grateful. Yet, her attitude today suggested that her coddling had finally reached its limits. I could have fought against her, but I honestly didn’t have the willpower to combat Poppy’s vibrant personality. When she wanted something, she made it happen. So, feeling I had no choice, I obediently shuffled in her wake and followed her downstairs.

“Holy hexes!” I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sight that awaited me in the foyer of the old Victorian Poppy had inherited from her parents. Lush, green garland snaked across every surface imaginable, peppered with glowing white lights and red bows. Sprigs of holly and mistletoe dangled from the ceiling, and the scent of pine overwhelmed my already fragile senses.

Poppy must have seen the surprise in my gaze. “I thought a decorated home might brighten things up for us. Besides,” she added, her eyes growing misty, “Iris loved Christmas.”

My throat tightened at her mention of Mom, and a wave of grief threatened to drown me. “She did,” I managed to croak out.

We made our way into the kitchen, which was also decked out for the holidays. “You look like you raided an entire aisle at HomeGoods,” I murmured as I toyed with a snowman-themed tea towel.

Poppy dashed over to the stove, where a large pot bubbled. “Retail therapy at its finest.”

Her comment was light and joking, yet I couldn’t help but feel a shadow of guilt pulse through me. Poppy had lost her sister. A sister who had also been like a mother to her after their parents died. I wasn’t the only one grieving here, and I needed to do a better job of remembering that. Poppy deserved to have someone looking after her, too. I’d all but abandoned her to wallow in my own heartache. Not anymore, Hazel Wickbury. Get it together. It’s time to be there for Poppy like she’s been there for you.

With a renewed sense of purpose, one I hadn’t felt in weeks, I moseyed over to her side to peer into the pot. “So, whatcha brewing?”

She chuckled at my witchy phrasing. “Butternut squash bisque.” She nodded toward the far corner of her large kitchen. “Could you take the salad into the dining room for me?”

I hurried over to a blue ceramic bowl painted with white snowflakes and scooped it up. The dining room, adjacent to the kitchen, had been given the same Christmas treatment as the rest of the house. Once the salad bowl was on the table, I took the initiative to grab the holiday-themed plates, bowls, and silverware atop the antique buffet and organized our place settings. Poppy had bought ’Tis the Season mats that sparkled in the overhead light. I frowned as I read the looping script, unable to keep out the darkness clawing its way back into my mind. ’Tis the season for what? Misery? Grief? Despair?

A sharp knock echoed through the stately Victorian, and a familiar sing-song voice rang out. “Helloooo! Where are my darling nieces?”

My heart hammered against my chest as I hurried into the foyer to greet our new arrival. Relief spiked through me when I caught sight of the spry older woman hanging her bright red poncho on the coat rack. The space above her head was blissfully empty. “Hey, Aunt Ruthie.”

She whirled at the sound of my voice, her green eyes wide. “Hazel! You’ve left your lair.” She rushed toward me, wrapping me in a bone-crushing embrace despite her thin arms. “I’m so happy. I wasn’t sure you’d be joining us.”

A shy smile curled on my lips. It was nice to see her. “When did you get glasses?” I hadn’t exactly been present these last few weeks, but I didn’t remember Ruthie having problems with her eyesight—other than her whim, that is.

“Yesterday.” She modeled the loud pink-and-teal frames. “What do you think?”

Her giddy antics turned my smile into a giggle. The weightless feeling in my chest surprised me, and I treasured it. “They are very you.”

“What was that noise?” Poppy came rushing into the foyer, waving Santa potholders in her hands. “Did Hazel just laugh?”

Her joking incredulity coaxed even more laughter from me. It felt…amazing.

Ruthie nodded, her stylish salt-and-pepper bob swishing across her enviable cheekbones. “’Tis the season to be merry.” She pulled me in for a one-armed hug. “Your mom’s favorite saying this time of year.”

The tightness returned to my chest. No wonder Poppy had scooped up those new placemats. How could I forget? A silly memory of Mom yelling the merry phrase at our ornery mailman wafted through my mind. “You’re right. She wielded it like a weapon against the Scrooges of the world.”

Poppy herded us into the dining room and instructed us to take our usual Saturday family dinner seats. As I claimed my spot, I did my best to ignore the empty chair where Mom always sat.

“Nice glasses, Ruthie.” Poppy collected the soup bowls I’d arranged around the table. “I didn’t realize you needed them,” she called over her shoulder as she floated into the kitchen to ladle out her bisque.

With a flourish, Ruthie laid a red-and-green plaid napkin across her lap. “I’ve needed them for the longest time, but nothing ever seemed to work until now.”

I studied my great-aunt, noting how her lips had twisted into a satisfied grin. Despite the challenges she faced regarding her whim, Ruthie had always been a bright, bubbly soul, but tonight, she practically radiated happiness.

Considering how I was still processing my grief over Mom’s death and the awakening of my own morbid ability, Ruthie’s outlook seemed foreign and a bit out of place for this particular family dinner.

Poppy returned with a tray of soup bowls, which Ruthie and I eagerly accepted. Once she was seated at the head of the table, we thanked her for the delicious-looking meal and dug in with our spoons. Appreciative murmurs made up our conversation for several minutes before Ruthie cleared her throat.

“Girls, I’d like to host Christmas at my house this year.”

“W-what?” Poppy’s silverware clattered against her bowl. “Really?”

Ruthie dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Yes. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do but…couldn’t.”

Poppy and I shared a suspicious look. “Ruthie,” my bestie began hesitantly, “if you’re worried I won’t be able to host the annual Glenmyre Christmas party for the town, you don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I can handle it.”

For as long as I could remember, our clan—one of Crucible, New York’s founding families—had hosted a grand holiday party to which everyone in Crucible was invited. While it had started as a way for my great-grandparents to open their home to people spending the holidays alone or who perhaps didn’t have the resources for a festive Christmas dinner, it was my mom who’d changed the invitation to include the whole town.

“My dear,” Ruthie tutted, reaching across the table and patting Poppy’s hand, “I know you’ve taken on the mantle as Glenmyre matriarch, and for that, I am grateful. My…condition hasn’t always allowed me to be out in public much.”

The soup sliding down my throat turned into a hardened lump. Ruthie had spent her entire life shuttered away in her beautiful manor for fear of seeing lifeclocks above the heads of everyone around her. Each rare journey out into the world had always been filled with pain and jarring realizations for her. Mom, Poppy, and I were the only people—the last of the Glenmyres—whom she could be around without having the glaring lifeclock blinking in her face. Before Mom’s death, I’d always held deep sympathy and compassion for Ruthie’s situation. Now… I was besieged by fear. Her condition was also my condition. Was I really destined to spend my life alone, as Ruthie had?

Poppy’s cerulean eyes pinched with anxiety as she examined our aunt. “Why the sudden desire to host the party, then? There’s always a lot of people, Ruth. And they all won’t have long lifeclocks like Cynth.” For the past several years, Hyacinth Hartwick had worked as Ruthie’s personal assistant, often serving as her public stand-in when the need arose. Cynth, at twenty-seven, had a good ninety-some years left on her lifeclock. Readings like that were easier to deal with when it came to our whim.

Ruthie’s wrinkles multiplied as she broke into a grin. “I know. But I thought it might be a nice way to reintroduce myself to Crucible and to give you girls a reprieve.”

Reintroduce herself? “Why do you need to reintroduce yourself?” A light bulb suddenly went off inside my head. “You’re not doing this for me, are you? To prove I can somehow still have a normal life with this whim or something?”

Ruthie chuckled. “I wish I could say I was being altruistic, my love, but I’m not. I’m doing this for me. To make up for all the years I’ve missed being a part of this world.” She twiddled absently with the frames of her new glasses.

Poppy’s forehead furrowed with confusion. “What exactly brought about this sudden change in perspective?” Her right eye twitched, and I knew she was using her aura-reading whim to see if she could decode Ruthie’s strange behavior.

Her shrug was coy. “’Tis the season.”

My gaze dropped to my soup bowl, tears clouding my vision. What was going on here? I thought I had an ally in Ruthie, that perhaps we could commiserate over our whims together. While I was happy to see her ready to face the world after decades of being a shut-in, I knew I wasn’t prepared for the challenges such a lifestyle would bring. No. I was planning to hide away in Poppy’s guest room for as long as she’d let me.

Poppy’s hand found my knee under the table, and she gave me a reassuring pat. It was good to know she had my back.

“I know Christmas isn’t for another two weeks, but I’d like to give everyone their gifts tonight.” Ruthie clapped her hands in excitement, clearly not able to see the sour mood of the room with her new glasses. She darted away from the table with the agility of a ten-year-old and returned a moment later with a large gift bag, which she handed to Poppy.

Poppy accepted it with a strained smile, her eyes revealing the lingering confusion I still felt about Ruthie’s whole demeanor. Who was this person, and what had they done with our aunt?

My bestie gingerly tugged at the tissue paper and extracted a steel, futuristic-looking piece from the bag. “Wow. This is heavy duty.”

“It’s a research-grade desk lamp,” Ruthie explained. “Historians and book restoration specialists use them for their work. I thought it might be a nice tool for the Glenmyre opus.”

Poppy's smile turned genuine at the mention of our family’s ancient historical record containing centuries of Glenmyre secrets. “Thank you. This will definitely help me sort through all those pages. Someday,” she added with a sheepish wince. Since inheriting the house and the opus from her parents, Poppy had wanted to investigate every inch of the old tome but had yet to find the time.

“And now, for you, Hazel.” Ruthie scooted a small, wrapped rectangle across the table. “I hope you like the style.”

Curious about what she had gotten me, I tore off the decorative paper to find a sunglasses case covered in irises. Just the sight of the flowers made me picture Mom, which was why I suspected my great-aunt had given me such a practical gift. “Thanks, Ruthie.” I smiled gratefully. “I’ll put this to good use.” I planned to spend the summer staring out at Lake Glenmyre, enjoying what beauty I could in my now-sheltered life.

Ruthie batted away my thanks. “Oh, please, Hazel. The real gift is inside the case.” She tsked in joking offense.

Wondering what shades she had picked out, I cracked open the container. My bemusement turned to bafflement as I stared at the purple-and-gold frames resting within the case. These weren’t sunglasses, though. The lenses were clear.

   

 “Um, aren’t I a bit young for readers?” I joked awkwardly as I lifted the glasses and held them up to the light.

“Not these. At least, I hope.” Ruthie giggled. “Put them on.”

Doing as she instructed, I slid the frames onto the bridge of my nose and blinked a few times.

“How do they feel? Good? Comfy?” Ruthie peppered me.

I nodded, although the frames inched downward as my head moved.

“Ooo, let me fix that.” Ruthie whipped the glasses off my face and started manhandling the temple tips.

As she did so, Poppy shot me a worried look. “Is she all right, you think?” she mouthed.

I shrugged. “I have no clue.”

A knock echoed from the front hall, jolting us from our silent conversation. Poppy’s lips curled downward. “I wonder who that could be.” She hurriedly excused herself from the table and flitted toward the front of the house.

“There you go. Try now.” Barely acknowledging Poppy’s departure, Ruthie handed me back the glasses.

I followed her orders, the frames feeling comfortable yet secure as I slid them into place. “What are these for, Ruthie?” I already had great eyesight. The lenses didn’t change the way I saw the world.

She steepled her fingers together, looking quite smug. “Oh, you’ll see.”

“—I’m sorry, Poppy.” A familiar, muffled voice caught my attention out in the foyer. “I got a weird request from Ruthie that I said I’d help her with.” The voice was getting closer.

“Hey, Cynth.” Poppy sounded stressed as footsteps grew louder. “It’s probably not a good time—”

Before I could shut my eyes, Hyacinth Hartwick skidded into the room, her graceful pose akin to “Ta da!”

I stared at her, open-mouthed, wondering what in hexes was going on.

As quickly as she entered the room, Cynth dropped her hands on her hips and glared at Ruthie. “There. I did what you asked, you kooky old bat.” She tossed her wavy hair—dyed cherry red for the season—with a sniff.

Ruthie laughed at her personal assistant. “And you did it with such flair, sweetie.”

Puzzled by their little exchange, I glanced back and forth between the two women. Even though Cynth didn’t know about Ruthie’s “condition,” the twenty-seven-year-old had been my great-aunt’s personal assistant for years, landing the position while she was still in college. She was probably the closest confidante Ruthie had, outside of Poppy and me.

Wait…Ruthie’s condition. Curses, my condition! Where was Cynth’s lifeclock?

Ruthie must have seen the question in my bewildered expression, for she tapped knowingly at her new glasses and winked at me. “Merry Christmas, Hazel.”

 

∞

 

“You ladies having a good time?” Cynth popped up between Poppy and me, the jingle bells on her ugly sweater—her words, not mine—ringing out with twinkling cheer.

We clinked our champagne glasses with hers. “You threw together a fabulous party on short notice.” Poppy motioned to the glitzy banquet hall that looked like something from The Great Gatsby.

Cynth batted away her praise. “Ruth’s infectious holiday spirit made it easy. It also helped that my best friend is an event planner. She really came through with the catering and decorations.” Cynth motioned to the indoor winter wonderland that was Ruthie’s home. She then lowered her voice, despite the fact no one in the crowded room was paying us any attention at the moment. “I don’t know what’s gotten into your aunt lately, but she’s been a completely different woman these past few weeks. Totally new lease on life.” She studied Ruthie on the opposite side of the hall, where she talked animatedly with the Crucible mayor. “Who would’ve thought a new pair of glasses could do so much to boost her confidence?”

Poppy and I shared a joyful look. “Who would’ve thought, indeed.” Poppy took another sip of her champagne, her cheeks rosy with delight.

I gazed out at the room filled with festive Crucible partygoers. The simple act was something I never thought I’d be able to do again after my whim awakened. But Ruthie—bless her—had finally found a way to suppress our morbid power, to hide those dreadful lifeclocks that glowed above the heads of everyone around us. Apparently, it had been something she’d been working on in secret for years with little success. After learning I’d been beset by the same dreadful power, Ruthie had doubled down on her experiments and finally discovered a viable solution. By infusing the lenses of these purple-and-gold glasses with a special protection enchantment involving thyme, she’d saved me from the loneliness and suffering she’d long endured. It was the best gift imaginable.

“I’m tempted to call it a Christmas miracle.” Cynth wiggled her eyebrows playfully.

I took in Ruthie, who brimmed with happiness as she greeted her party guests, and chuckled. “’Tis the season for them, after all.”

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Tree by Nancy L. Eady

I wasn’t sure why Father Patrick decided to host a blessing of the animals two weeks before Christmas. He had just taken over the parish at the beginning of November, Father McCarthy and his wife having lain their charge down after forty years. But since he had, I brought the whole menagerie with me – Frances on her leash, Sarge on my shoulder and Scout in his carrier. Scout protested his imprisonment the entire five-minute drive up the street from my house to the church.  (I found out later an old carol about animals in the stable kneeling at Christmas was a favorite of Patrick’s mother, which is why he does a blessing of the animals every December in her honor.) 

I wasn’t late, but the church’s parking lot was almost full, with a couple of spots in the back available. As any well-behaved golden retriever would do, Frances waited patiently, sitting once I left the car, allowing me time to give Sarge a seed from my pocket and to open the back door to retrieve Scout’s carrier. Scout’s yowls didn’t stop when we left the car, either. It’s hard enough to carry Scout when he’s still; he’s a huge cat. I’m glad I didn’t speak cat; even though he has some Maine Coon cat in him, Scout was originally found in an alley, and I suspect he was using words not appropriate for church.  

When I reached the lawn in front of the church steps, I knew Scout was not alone in his disdain of carriers. Several other cat carriers had even louder occupants. Dogs younger than my five-year-old Frances acted like they’d never been out in public before, and poor Minnie, the aged schnauzer that lived next door, couldn’t stop shaking even while Dorreen Conover held her. 

Father Joseph checked his watch and cleared his throat. I blushed when Sarge loudly said, “Atten-shun!” Sarge knows better, but he likes to show off. It’s something African Gray parrots do. 

Father Patrick, a smile twitching at his lips, spoke solemnly in a sonorous voice that lifted over the assorted barks, growls, hisses and yowls. I wondered if that was part of his seminary education. 

“Let us begin the procession of the animals.” Procession was a loose description.  Straggling in a rough line would have been more accurate. At least we made it into the church without incident. 

When the service was over, the church emptied faster than it had filled. I was one of the last to leave; my leg was giving me more trouble than usual, and I didn’t want other people to see me if I struggled with the carrier or had to adjust my prosthetic.  I never liked the reminder of why I was unable to continue working as a school resource officer.  

When I reached Father Patrick, his face brightened. “Vanessa, I’m so glad you could come today. And you were able to bring your entire crew.” He bent over to scratch Frances’s ear, telling her, “Frances, you’re looking well.” Typical golden; a little praise went right to her head and her tail waved madly. Scout turned around in his carrier, unimpressed, and went to sleep. Sarge, unwilling to be ignored, announced, “Blessings, Father, blessings.” Father Patrick’s lips twitched even more as he straightened up. He looked younger and more approachable with his eyes twinkling. 

“I wonder if I could impose upon you to meet with me in my parish study for just a minute before you go? Your animals are welcome, too.” 

“Why?” 

“I need some advice and help if you have time,” Father Patrick answered. 

“Okay, Father.” 

“Please, call me Patrick.”

I blushed again. A poker face was not in my repertoire.  “Patrick.” 

“Go on into the study, and I’ll be there shortly.”  

I picked Scout’s carrier back up and walked through the entryway into the study. I was surprised to see someone already in there once we got in—a young boy, in a chair in the corner, frowning with his shoulders slumped. As we entered, he looked up. 

“You’re not Father Patrick,” he announced. 

“No, I’m Vanessa Handley, but Father Patrick should be here in a minute. And you are?” 

The kid flashed me a look, shrugged, then said, “Jim.” 

“Well, hello Jim.” As I sat down, I pointed toward the parrot on my shoulder. “This is Sarge,” Ever the showoff, Sarge fluffed up his feathers. I then lifted the carrier up briefly before putting it back down. “This is Scout.” And then as Frances sat beside me, I introduced her as well.

The boy looked a little more interested, studying the carrier. “That cat is wicked big, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, he’s got some Maine Coon in him.” Jim gave me a blank look. “Maine Coon cats are particularly big house cats. I rescued Scout from an alley, and he adopted me.” 

“It must be nice to have animals. Mom says we’ll have some again one day.” He was quiet for a second. “Do you think – I mean, is it okay if I pet your dog?” 

Frances didn’t wait for me to answer but walked over and put her head on his knee. I laughed as her tail wagged.  “Frances never met a stranger.” 

“She’s beautiful,” he said. “We had a dog once, but he died and then Dad…” He stopped as abruptly as he started. 

He was silent for a minute, stroking Frances, then asked, “Do you think I can pet your cat, too?” 

“I can’t really let him out of the carrier,” I answered, “But let’s try opening this hatch on the top and see what kind of a mood he’s in.” 

Jim came over to me and lifted the top hatch, which was just big enough to let Jim put his hand on Scout’s head and rub his ears. Scout started purring, and Jim pulled the carrier with him back to his seat, steadily petting both animals.   

As soon as Patrick walked in, Jim slumped back in his seat. 

Patrick took a seat behind his desk, his eyes no longer twinkling and a furrow on his brow. 

“Vanessa, I need your help…” 

Dorreen Conover burst through the door, her gray hair windswept, and her aged schnauzer still nestled in her arms, shedding grey over the long-sleeved black sweater she was wearing. It hadn’t seemed that cold but everyone’s internal thermostat is a little different. She gave me a quick dismissive nod, glanced at Jim, deeming him beneath formal recognition, and then rounded on Patrick. 

“Father Patrick, I must protest!” 

“About what, Mrs. Conover?” Patrick said, with polite interest. 

“About the trees, Father, about the trees.” 

Since I was on the Christmas decoration committee, I asked, “What trees, Dorreen?” 

“The ones on the outside walk. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed!” 

“Noticed what?”

“There are six trees on the right hand side of the walkway into the church, and only five on the left hand. You know how dear Mrs. Conover” (Dorreen was referring to her husband’s mother) “liked things to be symmetrical. Harold will be beside himself when he notices.” 

Patrick answered, “Mrs. Conover, I apologize. I was not aware how important symmetry would be to your family…” 

I started to interrupt, to tell Dorreen I was on the vestry committee and I knew darn well that we had bought and decorated twelve trees for the church walkway, but I noticed Jim hunching over to make himself smaller, and his hand clutching Scout’s fur instead of stroking it. Based on my experience at the elementary school, he was the perfect picture of a boy about to be caught. 

Patrick continued, “I was not aware how important the symmetry of the trees was to your family.” 

“Oh, but Father, the symbolism of the twelve trees is sacrosanct, based on the twelve days of Christmas!” 

I wanted to explain to her that the Twelve Days of Christmas was a secular carol but chose not to. She and I had a rocky enough relationship because of Scout’s tendency to slip out of the house and wander through her yard. She particularly despised it when he left paw marks over the cars they kept outside. I tried to keep him inside, but he was an escape artist.  At least he always came home. 

“Again, all I can do is apologize for the oversight, Mrs. Conover, and be sure it does not happen next year. Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

“Well, thank goodness Harold’s mother isn’t here to see this! I will do my best to explain the situation to him,” she huffed, and then stormed out of the room. 

Once she was out of the room, Jim relaxed, then tensed up again as Patrick and I both turned to look at him. Patrick motioned at me to start. 

“Jim, is there anything you might want to tell Father and me?” 

He shook his head, then answered quietly, “No ma’am.” He kept petting Scout as if his life depended on it. 

“It certainly would help us to know what happened,” Patrick said. 

Jim’s eyes filled with unshed tears, but he shook his head no again. 

Patrick tried again. “Look, I’ve noticed how you’ve been hanging around the church ever since December 1st picking up leaves and trash off the grounds and the parking lot, and I really appreciate it, but the missing tree is important as well. Are you sure you don’t know anything about that? 

“No sir,” Jim answered, looking at his feet, “I don’t.” 

“We’ll have to leave it at that, then. Could you stay here for a moment?” Patrick said, as he motioned for me to follow him into the hall. 

“Jim, could you hold Frances’s leash and watch Sarge and Scout for a minute?” 

His eyes got wide as I handed over the leash and settled Sarge on his shoulder. “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled his hand out of the top of Scout’s carrier, closed it, grabbed the leash and started petting Frances while trying to study Sarge through his peripheral vision. 

Leaving him thus occupied, I stepped out into the hall with Patrick. 

“Vanessa, I hope I’m not bringing up painful memories, but I’m a little at a loss here. Several members of the congregation told me that you used to work as a School Resource Officer at the elementary school.” 

“Is that all they told you?” 

He was still for a second, then said, “No, they told me why you stopped working at the school and how proud they were of you, but it’s your experience with children that I need your help with, since I have zilch.” 

Relieved I didn’t have to rehash my past, I said, “I’ll help, if I can.” 

“Like I said in the study, ever since December 1st, Jim has been hanging around the church once school gets out, trying to do chores.” He paused. “November 30th was when the tree disappeared.” 

“So you want to know if I think Jim had something to do with it?” 

“Yes. I think so, but I have no proof.” 

“It’s not proof, but based on his expressions, I have to say yes, he does.” 

Patrick sighed. “I was afraid of that.” 

“Do you know anything else about him?” 

“Not much, besides his name and address. I don’t even know who his parent or guardian is. And the thing I find puzzling is that he’s still hanging around here even though the tree is gone.” 

“That part’s easy,” I said, “He feels guilty about the tree, and he’s trying to make amends.” 

“So now what should I do? I don’t think it will help him if I just look the other way, but this isn’t a matter for the police, either. He’s so young and he seems like a nice kid otherwise.” 

I laughed. “Yes, he scarcely looks like a hardened criminal. What I would suggest is that you take him to his home to try and meet his parents and see what his living situation is. He won’t want to do it, but he probably won’t turn you down if you ask him to let you drive him home.” 

“I’m pushing it, and I know I am, but do you think you could come with me? I don’t know what I’m walking into, and I’d like an impartial witness with me to be sure no misunderstanding arises. 

“I guess that makes sense. When were you thinking about doing it?”

In an unconscious imitation of Jim, Patrick hunched his shoulders as if to ward off a blow. “Do you think we could do it now?” 

“Because I have nothing better to do?” I asked bitterly. 

Patrick’s eyebrows lifted. “Not at all. Because as a former school resource officer and a respected hero in the community, you would carry a lot of weight with whoever is responsible for Jim.” 

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for on my part.” I started to tear up, turned away for a second, then turned back. “It’s just that I do miss the job, very much.” 

“And there’s no way you can return?” 

I shrugged, then answered his earlier question. “I can go with you now, but I need to get my animals home first.” 

“Perfect,” Patrick said, “Why don’t we and Jim take your animals back to the house? He seems enamored by them.” 

“The animals like him, too, and they’re good judges of character.  But you’ll be pulling cat fur and golden retriever hair out of your vehicle for months.” 

“I’m willing to risk it,” Patrick said, smiling. “Then once we get them set in your house, we can tell Jim we need to run one more errand and stop at his house. When we’re done there, I can drop you back here to pick up your car.” 

“Deal.” 

Jim gave me a big smile when I asked for his help in returning my menagerie back to the house. 

“Why don’t I sit in the back seat and hold Frances’s leash and put Scout’s carrier beside me so I can pet his head?” he asked. 

“Fine with me,” I answered. 

Scout seemed to really like Jim; Scout was much quieter on the way back to the house than he had been going forward. Because the carrier was so heavy, Patrick insisted on carrying it into the house. He was so matter-of-fact about it, I didn’t resent the offer like I did sometimes, such as when a person stared at my leg, realized I knew they were staring and then abruptly asked if I needed help.  Even when I was wearing slacks, some people noticed the prosthetic. Jim insisted on walking Frances, while Sarge remained on my shoulder. 

When I let Scout out of his carrier, instead of wandering off to a bedroom to hide like he normally did, he stopped to rub Jim’s ankles and purr. Jim was fascinated by Sarge’s cage, and the fact that I left the door open to it. 

“Won’t Scout bother Sarge?” 

“Not hardly. Sarge won that fight the first day Scout arrived.” 

When we got back into the car, and headed back out, Jim was quiet for a second then said, “We’re going to my house, aren’t we?” 

Patrick looked at me, asking me to answer. I decided not to lie to him about our destination. 

“Yes, we are.” 

Jim nodded, then crossed his arms across his chest and scowled the rest of the trip. 

Jim didn’t live far from my house, in a faded old Georgian two-story house that had been divided into four apartments. He lagged behind Patrick, and I followed him as we walked to his apartment on the bottom floor. Once Patrick reached the door, he knocked. Jim immediately rushed past him, unlocking the door with his key, then running in and yelling, “Don’t get up Mom! It’s just me and two visitors.” 

We heard a metal clicking against the worn, hardwood floor, and a young, brunette women hesitantly using a walker appeared in the doorway. 

“Mom, I told you not to get up!” 

“Yes, Jim, but you know it’s just as important for me to move around as it is for me to sit still.” She looked past Jim to Patrick and me. “Hello, I’m Monica Sewell.” 

I introduced myself, but when Patrick introduced himself as the pastor of our church, her face lit up. 

“I am so happy to meet you. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. Please come in.”

Without waiting for an answer, she began walking back into her sitting room. We walked behind her patiently, then sat down when she gestured for us to do so. Pointing to a corner of the room, she said, “Thank you again for the beautiful tree. Jim told me how you agreed to let him have it in return for doing afternoon chores around the church.” Patrick and I exchanged a glance.  She turned to Jim. “Jim, honey, would you mind checking on Amy? It’s almost time for her to get up from her nap.” 

Waiting until Jim was out of the room, she continued. “Amy is my three-year-old.  I wanted to explain to you while Jim was out of the room why this tree was such a godsend.” 

Patrick nodded. “I’d like to hear more about it. Obviously, you have a disability?” 

She frowned. “Yes. I was in an accident in October with a hit and run driver and broke my femur. My husband and I… I mean, I owned a cleaning business but obviously I can’t work right now until my femur heals. The doctors say I might be able to go back to work in another month.” 

“I certainly understand that,” I said, gesturing at my leg, “I had a major leg injury two years ago, so I have an idea of how difficult your recovery must be.” 

Monica put her hands up to her face. “Oh! Vanessa Handley! I am so sorry; I didn’t put your name together with the news story. My husband and I had just moved here when you were shot. It’s such an honor to meet you. There’s no telling how many lives you saved at the school that day because you reached the shooter before he could get past the front desk.  And one of those lives was Jim’s.” 

I shied away from remembering that day; the few minutes before I could make sense of what I was seeing, the panic and rage that filled me when I realized the man was about to start a shooting rampage at the elementary school over his divorce, and the terror that I wouldn’t be able to stop him before someone got killed. Since a revolver usually won’t win an argument against a AK-47, I wouldn’t have been able to stop him, except that he was trying to shoot out the security cameras when I walked in.  Even distracted, he still managed to shoot my upper leg before my bullet entered his chest. 

I shrugged. “I don’t talk about it much, but I’d love to know more about you and your husband.” 

Her face clouded. “Dan, my husband, died a year ago from cancer that we caught too late. He left me some life insurance, enough to carry us through, until I got hurt. Now that I can’t work, I am limited to essentials only.” Then she brightened again. “That’s why the Christmas tree from Father Patrick was so welcome. When we had to move after Dan died, we had to get rid of our Christmas decorations except for the box with the Christmas stockings and a few special ornaments because we had no room. I had planned to get more decorations this year, but …” She gestured helplessly. “Even if I can’t afford presents, I appreciate having a tree.” 

Patrick stood up. “You are more than welcome. Is Jim done with school now until the New Year?” 

“Yes, they are on Christmas break.” 

About that time Jim returned, holding a little girl’s hand. She broke loose from him and went to hug Monica. Jim admonished her, “Amy, remember to be careful.” Amy stopped just shy of the couch and nodded. “Yes, Mama has an ouch in her leg.” Then she gently reached out her hand to touch her mother’s hand. 

Patrick turned to Jim. “Jim, your mother was explaining how grateful she was for the Christmas tree.” 

Jim looked at Patrick and me, his eyes pleading. 

Patrick continued, “Since you are on Christmas break, how about meeting me at the church tomorrow at 9 so we can see what else you can do?” 

I added, “And when you’ve finished whatever Father Patrick needs you to do, would you like to come over and visit my animals for a little bit?  You can bring Amy and your mother if you’d like.” 

Jim swallowed and looked at both of us gratefully. “Yes, thank you.” 

As we turned to leave, I saw Patrick’s face and knew three things. One, the Sewell household was about to have a better Christmas than they expected. Two, my animals were going to be spoiled until school started again.  Three, a dinner invitation lay in my future, and for the first time in two years, I was ready to say yes. 

The End