
the Christmas Box (1993)
Evans, Richard Paul
Published:
2010
Richard Paul Evans
The Christmas Box
\*
"Whatever The Reason, I Find That With Each Passing Christmas the story of the Christmas Box is told less and needed more. So I record it now for all future generations to accept or dismiss as seems them good. As for me, I believe. And it is, after all, my story."
So begins The Christmas Box, the touching story of a widow and th e y oung family who moves in with her. Together they discover the first gift of Christmas and learn what Christmas is really all about. The Christmas Box is a Christmas story unlike any other.
Merry Christmas
Chapter I THE WIDOW'S MANSION
It may be that I am growing old in this world and have used up more than my share of allotted words and eager audiences. Or maybe I am just growing weary of a skeptical age that pokes and prods at my story much the same as a middle-school biology student pokes and prods through an anesthetized frog to determine what makes it live, leaving the poor creature dead in the end. Whatever the reason, I find that with each passing Christmas the story of the Christmas Box is told less and needed more. So I record it now for all future generations to accept or dismiss as seems them good. As for me , I believe. And it is, after all, my story.
My romantic friends, those who b elieve in Santa Claus in particular , have speculated that the ornamente d b rown Christmas Box was fashione d b y Saint Nick himself from the trunk o f t he very first Christmas tree, brough t i n from the cold December snows s o m any seasons ago. Others believ e t hat it was skillfully carved and polished from the hard and splintere d w ood from whose rough surface the Lord of Christmas had demonstrate d t he ultimate love for mankind. My wife , Keri, maintains that the magic of th e b ox had nothing to do with its physica l e lements, but all to do with the contents that were hidden beneath it s b rass, holly-shaped hinges and silve r c lasps. Whatever the truth about th e o rigin of the box's magic, it is th e e mptiness of the box that I will treasure most, and the memory of the Christmas season when the Christmas Box found me.
I was born and raised in the shadow of the snow-clad Wasatch range on the east bench of the Salt Lake Valley. Just two months before my fourteenth birthday my father lost his job, and with promise of employment, we sold our home and migrated to the warmer, and more prosperous, climate of Southern California. There, with great disappointment, I came to expect a green Christmas almost as religiously as the local retailers. With the exception of one fleeting moment of glory as the lead in the school musical, my teenage years were uneventful and significant only to myself. Upon graduation from hig h s chool, I enrolled in college to lear n t he ways of business, and in the process learned the ways of life; met , courted, and married a fully matriculated, brown-eyed design studen t n amed Keri, who, not fifteen, month s f rom the ceremony, gave birth to a s even-pound-two-ounce daughter whom we named Jenna.
Neither Keri nor I ever cared much f or the crowds of the big city, so whe n a few weeks before graduation w e w ere informed of a business opportunity in my hometown, we jumped a t t he chance to return to the thin ai r a nd white winters of home. We ha d e xpended all but a small portion o f o ur savings in the new venture and , as the new business's initial returns , albeit promising, were far from abundant, we learned the ways of thrif t a nd frugality. In matters financial, Keri became expert at making much from l ittle, so we rarely felt the extent of our deprivation. Except in the realm of lodging. The three of us needed more space than our cramped, one-bedroom apartment afforded. The baby's crib, which economics necessitated the use of in spite of the fact that our baby was now nearly four, barely fit in our bedroom, leaving less than an inch between it and our bed, which was already pushed up tightly against the far wall. The kitchen was no better, cluttered with Jenna's toy box, Keri's sewing hutch, and stacked cardboard boxes containing cases of canned foods. We joked that Keri could make clothing and dinner at the same time without ever leaving her seat. The topic of overcrowding had reached fever pitch in our household just seven weeks before Christmas and such was the frenzied state of our minds when the tale of the Christmas Box really began, at the breakfast table in our little apartment, ove r e ggs over-easy, toast, and orang e j uice.
"Look at this," Keri said, handing m e the classifieds: Elderly lady with large Avenues home seeks live-in couple for meal preparation, light housekeeping, and yard care. Private quarters. Holidays off. Children/ infants welcome. 445-3989. Mrs. Parkin I looked up from the paper.
"What do you think?" she asked. "It's in the Avenues, so it has to be large. It's close to the shop and it really wouldn't be that much extra trouble for me. What's one extra person to cook and wash for?" she asked rhetorically. She reached over and took a bite of my toast. "You're usually gone in the evenings anyhow."
I leaned back in contemplation.
"It sounds all right," I said cautiously. "Of course, you never know what you might be getting into. My brother Mark lived in this old man's basement apartment. He used to wake Mark up in the middle of the night screaming at a wife who had been dead for nearly twenty years. Scared Mark to death. In the end he practically fled the place."
A look of disbelief spread across Keri's face.
"Well, it does say private quarters," I conceded.
"Anyway, with winter coming on, our heating bill is going to go through the roof in this drafty place and I don't know where the extra money will come from. This way we might actually put some money aside," Keri reasoned.
It was pointless to argue with such logic, not that I cared to. I, like Keri , would gladly welcome any chang e t hat would afford us relief from th e c ramped and cold quarters wher e w e were presently residing. A fe w m oments later Keri called to see if th e a partment was still vacant and upo n l earning that it was, set up an appointment to meet with the owner tha t e vening. I managed to leave wor k e arly and, following the direction s g iven to Keri by a man at the house , we made our way through the gaily li t d owntown business district and to th e t ree-lined streets leading up th e f oothills of the Avenues.
The Parkin home was a resplendent, red-block Victorian mansion wit h o rnate cream-and-raspberry woo d t rim and dark green shingles. On th e w est side of the home, a rounded ba y w indow supported a second-stor y v eranda balcony that overlooked th e f ront yard. The balcony, like the main floor porch, ran the length of the exterior upheld by large, ornately lathed beams and a decorative, gold-leafed frieze. The wood was freshly painted and well kept. A sturdy brick chimney rose from the center of the home amid wood and wrought-iron spires that shot up decorously. Intricate latticework gingerbreaded the base of the house, hidden here and there by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs. A cobblestone driveway wound up the front of the home, encircling a black marble fountain that lay iced over and surrounded by a snow-covered retaining wall.
I parked the car near the front steps, and we climbed the porch to the home's double door entryway. The doors were beautifully carved and inlaid with panes of glass etched with intricate floral patterns. I rang the bell and a man answered.
"Hello, you must be the Evanses."
"We are," I confirmed.
"MaryAnne is expecting you.
Please come in."
We passed in through the entry, then through a second set of doors o f e qual magnificence leading into th e h ome's marbled foyer. I have foun d t hat old homes usually have an olfactory presence to them, and though no t o ften pleasant, unmistakenly distinct.
This home was no exception, though t he scent was a tolerably pleasan t c ombination of cinnamon and kerosene. We walked down a wide corrido r w ith frosted walls. Kerosene sconces , now wired for electric lights, dotted th e w alls and cast dramatic lighting th e l ength of the hall.
"MaryAnne is in the back parlor,"
the man said.
The parlor lay at the end of the c orridor, entered through an elaborate cherry-wood door casing. As we entered the room, an attractive silver-haired woman greeted us from behind a round marble-topped rosewood table. Her attire mimicked the elaborate, rococo decor that surrounded her.
"Hello," she said cordially. "I am MaryAnne Parkin. I'm happy that you have come. Please have a seat." We sat around the table, our attention drawn to the beauty and wealth of the room.
"Would you care for some peppermint tea?" she offered. In front of her sat an embossed, silver-plated tea service. The teapot was pear-shaped, with decorative bird feathers etched into the sterling body. The spout emulated the graceful curves of a crane's neck and ended in a bird's beak.
"No, thank you," I replied.
"I'd like some," said Keri.
She handed Keri a cup and poured i t to the brim. Keri thanked her.
"Are you from the city?" the woman a sked. "I was born and raised here," I replied. "But we've just recentl y m oved up from California."
"My husband was from California,"
she said. "The Santa Rosa area." She s tudied our eyes for a spark of recognition. "Anyway, he's gone now. He p assed away some fourteen year s a go."
"We're sorry to hear that," Keri said p olitely.
"It's quite all right," she said. "Fourteen years is a long time. I've grow n q uite accustomed to being alone."
She set down her cup and straightened herself up in the plush wingbac k c hair.
"Before we begin the interview I would like to discuss the nature of th e a rrangement. There are a few item s t hat you will find I am rather insistent about. I need someone to provide meals. You have a family, I assume you can cook." Keri nodded. "I don't eat breakfast, but I expect brunch to be served at eleven and dinner at six. My washing should be done twice a week, preferably Tuesday and Friday, and the beddings should be washed at least once a week. You are welcome to use the laundry facilities to do your own washing any time you find convenient. As for the exterior," she said, looking at me, "the lawn needs to be cut once a week, except when there is snow, at which time the walks, driveway, and back porch need to be shoveled and salted as the climate dictates. The other landscaping and home maintenance I hire out and would not require your assistance. In exchange for your service you will have the entire east wing in which t o r eside. I will pay the heating and ligh t b ills and any other household expenses. All that is required of you i s a ttention to the matters we have discussed. If this arrangement sound s s atisfactory to you, then we may proceed."
We both nodded in agreement.
"Good. Now if you don't mind, I have a few questions I'd like to ask."
"No, not at all," Keri said.
"Then we'll begin at the top." She d onned a pair of silver-framed bifocals, lifted from the table a smal l h andwritten list, and began the interrogation.
"Do either of you smoke?"
"No," said Keri.
"Good. I don't allow it in the home.
It spoils the draperies. Drink to e xcess?" She glanced over to me.
"No," I replied.
"Do you have children?"
"Yes, we have one. She's almost four years old," said Keri.
"Wonderful. She's welcome anywhere in the house except this room. I would worry too much about my porcelains," she said, smiling warmly. Behind her I could see a black walnut etagere with five steps, each supporting a porcelain figurine. She continued. "Have you a fondness for loud music?" Again she looked my way.
"No," I answered correctly. I took this more as a warning than a prerequisite for cohabitation.
"And what is your current situation in life?"
"I'm a recent college graduate with a degree in business. We moved to Salt Lake City to start a formal-wear rental business."
"Such as dinner jackets and tuxedos?" she asked.
"That's right," I said.
She took mental note of this and n odded approvingly.
"And references." She glanced up o ver her bifocals. "Have you references?"
"Yes. You may contact these people,"
said Keri, handing her a scrawled-out l ist of past landlords and employers.
She meticulously studied the list, the n l aid it down on the end table, seemingly impressed with the preparation.
She looked up and smiled.
"Very well. If your references are s atisfactory, I think we may make a n a rrangement. I think it is best that w e i nitiate a forty-five-day trial period, a t t he end of which time we may ascertain if the situation is mutually favorable. Does that sound agreeable?"
"Yes, ma'am," I replied.
"You may call me Mary. My name is MaryAnne, but my friends call me Mary."
"Thank you, Mary."
"Now I've done all the talking. Have you any questions that I might answer?"
"We'd like to see the apartment," Keri said.
"Of course. The quarters are upstairs in the east wing. Steve will lead you up. They are unlocked. I think you will find that they have been tastefully furnished."
"We do have some furniture of our own," I said. "Is there some extra space where we could store it?"
"The doorway to the attic is at the end of the upstairs hall. Your things will be very convenient there," she replied.
I helped myself to a cracker from the silver tray. "Was that your son who answered the door?" I asked.
She took another sip of her tea. "No. I have no children. Steve is a n o ld friend of mine from across th e s treet. I hire him to help maintain th e h ome." She paused thoughtfully fo r a nother sip of tea and changed th e s ubject. "When will you be prepare d t o move in?"
"We need to give our landlord two w eeks notice, but we could move i n a nytime," I said.
"Very good. It will be nice to have s omeone in the house for the holidays."
Chapter II THE CHRISTMAS BOX
It is not my intent to launch upon a lengthy or sanctimonious dissertation on the social significance and impact of the lowly box, well deserved as it may be. But as a box plays a significant role in our story, please allow me the indulgence of digression. From the inlaid jade -and-coral jewelry boxes of the Orient to the utilitarian salt boxes of the Pennsylvania Dutch, the allure of the box has transcended all cultural and geographical boundaries of the world. The cigar box, the snuff box, the cash box, jewelry boxes more ornate than the treasure they hold, the ice box, and the candle box. Trunks, long rectangular boxes covered with cowhide , stretched taut, and pounded wit h b rass studs to a wooden frame. Oa k b oxes, sterling boxes; to the deligh t o f the women, hat boxes and sho e b oxes; and to the delight of all enslaved by a sweet tooth, candy boxes.
The human life cycle no less than e volves around the box; from th e o pen-topped box called a bassinet, t o t he pine box we call a coffin, the box i s o ur past and, just as assuredly, ou r f uture. It should not surprise us the n t hat the lowly box plays such a significant role in the first Christmas story.
For Christmas began in a humble, hay-filled box of splintered wood. The Magi, wise men who had traveled fa r t o see the infant king, laid treasure -filled boxes at the feet of that hol y c hild. And in the end, when He ha d r ansomed our sins with His blood, the Lord of Christmas was laid down in a b ox of stone. How fitting that each Christmas season brightly wrapped boxes skirt the pine boughs of Christmas trees around the world. And more fitting that I learned of Christmas through a Christmas Box.
We determined to settle into the home as soon as possible, so the following Saturday I borrowed a truck from work and my brother-in-law, Barry, the only relative living within two hundred miles, came to help us move. The two of us hauled things out to the truck, while Keri wrapped dishes in newspaper and packed them in boxes, and Jenna played contentedly in the front room, oblivious to the gradual disappearance of our belongings. We managed to load most of our things, which were no t g reat in number, into the truck. Th e r est of the boxes were piled into our Plymouth--a large pink-and-chrom e c oupe with graceful curves, majestic tail fins, and a grill resembling th e w ide, toothy grin of a Cheshir e c at. When we had finished clearin g o ut the apartment the four of u s s queezed into the cargo-laden vehicles and together drove off to our ne w r esidence in the Avenues. I parke d t he car out front and met Barry in th e d riveway.
"Just pull it around back," I shouted , guiding the truck with hand gestures.
He backed around to the rear of the h ouse, pulled the parking brake, an d h opped out.
"You're moving into a mansion?" he a sked enviously.
"Your blue-blooded sister found it," I replied.
I released the tailgate while Barry untied the straps securing the canvas tarpaulin we had used to cover the load.
"Here, give me a hand with this wicker chest. We'll take it straight up to the attic." Barry grabbed hold of the handle at one end of the chest and we lifted it down from the truck's bed.
"Only one person lives in this house?" he asked.
"Four now, counting the three of us," I replied.
"With all this room why doesn't her family just move in with her?"
"She doesn't have any family. Her husband died and she doesn't have any children."
Barry surveyed the ornate Victorian facade. "There's bound to be a lot of history in a place like this," he said thoughtfully.
We made our way up the stairs, through the kitchen, down the hall , then up the attic steps. We set th e c hest down at the top of the landin g t o catch our breath.
"We'd better make some room up h ere before we bring the rest of th e t hings up," Barry suggested.
I agreed. "Let's clear a space a gainst that wall so we can keep ou r t hings all in one place." We began th e c hore of rearranging the attic.
"I thought you said she didn't have a ny children," Barry said.
"She doesn't," I replied.
"Why is there a cradle up here t hen?" Barry stood near a dust y d raped sheet revealing the form of a s hrouded cradle.
"Maybe she's storing it for someone," I suggested.
I lifted a small stack of boxes and s et them aside. "I haven't seen one o f t hese for a while," I said, displaying my own discovery.
"What is it?"
"A tie press. It must have been her husband's."
Barry hoisted a large portrait of a man with a handlebar mustache posing stoically for the picture. The portrait was set in an elaborate gold-leafed frame.
"Look," he said, "their banker." We laughed.
"Hello, look at this," I said, as I gently lifted what looked to be an heirloom. It was an ornate wooden box of burled walnut, intricately carved and highly polished. It was about ten inches wide, fourteen inches long, and a half foot deep, large enough for a sheet of stationery to lie flat inside. It had two large brass hinges crafted in the form of holly leaves. Two leather straps ran horizontally acros s t he lid and buckled securely into silver clasps on each side. The lid had a s killed and detailed etching of the Nativity. Barry walked over for a c loser look.
"I've never seen anything like it," I said.
"What is it?" Barry asked.
"A Christmas Box. For storing Christmas things in. Cards, baubles , things like that." I shook it gently.
There was no rattle.
"How old do you think it is?" Barry a sked.
"Turn-of-the-century," I speculated.
"See the craftsmanship?"
While he took a closer look, I cast m y eyes around the room at the wor k r emaining to be done.
"We better get on with this," I lamented. "I have a lot of work t o c atch up on tonight."
I set the box aside and we went back to organizing space for our things. It was dark outside by the time we finished unloading the truck. Keri had long finished unpacking the kitchen boxes and dinner was waiting for us on the table when we came down.
"Well, Sister, what do you think of your new home?" Barry asked.
"I could get used to all this room," Keri said "and the furniture."
"You should see some of the things up in the attic," I said.
"Mom, how will Santa find our new house?" Jenna asked anxiously.
"Oh, Santa's elves keep track of these things," she assured her.
"The trick will be how Santa's reindeer will land on the roof without impaling themselves," I joked.
Keri cast a sideways glance toward me.
"What's impaling?" asked Jenna.
"Never mind your dad, he's just t easing."
Barry laughed. "Aren't you supposed to be making dinner for th e l ady?" he asked.
"We officially begin our arrangement on Monday. In fact, she is making dinner for us tomorrow. At leas t s he invited us to dine with her."
"Is that right?" I asked.
"She was up here just before the t wo of you came down."
"This should be interesting," I decided.
We finished the meal and, after t hanking Barry profusely for his help , we cleared away the dishes. Then I dove into a pile of receipts an d l edgers, while Keri put Jenna to bed.
"Can Daddy read me a story?" she a sked.
"Not tonight, honey. Daddy has a l ot of work to do."
"It doesn't have to be a long one,"
she pleaded.
"Not tonight, honey. Some other t ime."
A disappointed child was tucked u nder the covers and went to slee p y earning for "some other time."
Chapter III THE BIBLE BOX
Sunday was not p roclaimed the "day of rest" by a mother with a family to ready for church, but such is the irony of piousness. Upon our return home at the conclusion of the day's "churching," we reveled in the discovery of a glorious new lifestyle. In our last apartment we had had such little space we found ourselves looking for ways to spend our Sunday afternoons outside the home. Now we defiantly spread our things, and ourselves, throughout our quarters. I napped in front of the drawing room fireplace while Keri read in the bedroom and Jenna played quietly in the nursery. What we may have los t i n family togetherness we more tha n m ade up for in sanity.
At quarter to six Keri woke me, and a fter washing up, we descended th e s tairs to Mary's dining room. I t s melled wonderfully of roast bee f a nd gravy and freshly baked rolls.
The dining room was spacious and, in typical Victorian style, the floo r w as covered with a colorful Persia n r ug that stopped short of the walls , leaving a border of the polishe d h ardwood floor exposed. The roo m w as built around a large, rectangular , white-laced dining table. A Straus s c rystal chandelier hung from the ceiling directly above the center of th e t able, suspended above a vase o f f reshly cut flowers. The east wall ha d a n elaborate built-in china closet displaying the home's exquisite porcelain dinnerware. On the opposite wal l w as a fireplace, as ornately carved as the parlor fireplace, but of lighter wood. The mantel extended to the ceiling, and the firebox and hearth were tiled in marbled blue-and-white patterns. To either side of the fireplace were walnut side chairs with Gothic carved backs and tucked hair-cloth upholstery.
Mary met us at the doorway and thanked us graciously for joining her.
"I'm so glad that you could come!" she said.
"The pleasure is ours," I assured her. "You really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble," said Keri.
Mary was a hostess of the highest order and would not feel the affair worthwhile had she not gone to a lot of trouble.
"It was no trouble at all," she said instinctively.
The place settings were immaculate and beautiful, and the chin a p lates were trimmed in 24 karat gold.
"Please sit down," she urged, motioning us to some chairs. We too k o ur seats and waited for her to join us.
"I always pray before I eat," she s aid. "Would you please join me?"
We bowed our heads.
"Dear Lord, thank you for this b ounty which we have during thi s b lessed Christmas season. Than k y ou for these new friends. Pleas e b less them in their needs and thei r d esires. Amen."
We lifted our heads.
"Thank you," I said.
Mary uncovered a woven basket of s teaming rolls, broke them apart, an d p laced one on each of our plates. Sh e t hen filled our goblets with water an d t he food-laden platters were passe d a round the table.
"So how are your quarters?" Mary asked. "Have you moved in all your things?"
"We have," Keri replied.
"There was enough room in the attic? I was afraid it might be a little cramped."
"Plenty," I assured her. "We don't own much furniture." I lifted another spoonful from my plate then added, "You really have some beautiful things up there."
She smiled. "Yes. That's mostly my David's doing. David loved to collect things. As a businessman, he traveled all around the world. He always brought something back from each journey. In his spare time he became very knowledgeable about furniture and antiques. A few years before he died he had started collecting Bibles."
I bobbed my head in interest.
"See this Bible over here?" she s aid. She motioned to a large, leather-
bound book sitting alone on a black l acquer papier-mache table inlaid wit h m other-of-pearl. "That Bible is ove r t wo hundred and fifty years old. It wa s o ne of David's favorite finds," sh e s hared joyously. "He brought it bac k f rom Britain. Collectors call it the 'wicked' Bible. In the first printing th e p rinter made an error, and in Exodu s t hey omitted the word `not' from th e s eventh commandment. It reads `Thou shalt commit adultery.'
"That's deplorable," Keri chuckled.
Mary laughed out loud. "It's true," she said. "After supper you're welcome to look it up. The British crow n f ined the printer three hundre d p ounds for the mistake."
"That was a costly mistake," I said.
"It was a very popular version," she s aid, smiling mischievously. "In the front parlor is a French Bible with what they call fore-edge painting. If you fan the pages back there is a watercolor of the Nativity. It was a unique art form of the period. Upstairs in the attic is a Bible box that David bought for it, but I think the book is so beautiful that I leave it out."
"The Christmas Box," I said.
She looked surprised at my familiarity with the box.
"Yes, there is a Nativity scene etched in the wood--of the Madonna and the Baby Jesus."
"I saw it up there. It's very beautiful."
"It's not from France, though," she e xplained. "I believe it was from Sweden. Fine box-making was an art i n t he Scandinavian countries. When David passed away I received no t a few requests to purchase the Bibles. Except for the Bible I donate d t o the church, and the three that I stil l h ave, I sold the rest. I just couldn't p art with these three. David took suc h j oy in them. They were his favorit e t reasures."
"Where is the third Bible?" I asked.
"I keep it in the den, for my personal reading. I'm sure there ar e s ome collectors that would have m y h ead for doing so, but it has specia l s ignificance to me." She looked dow n a t Jenna.
"But enough of these old things, tell m e about your sweet little three-year-
old," she said kindly.
Jenna had been sitting quietly, cautiously sampling her food, largel y i gnored by all of us. She looked u p s hyly.
"Jenna is going to be four in January," Keri said.
"I'm going to be this many," Jenna said proudly, extending a hand with one digit inverted.
"That is a wonderful age!" Mary exclaimed. "Do you like your new home?"
"I like my bed," she said matter-of-factly.
"She's glad to get out of her crib," Keri explained. "We didn't have room in our last apartment for a bed. She was devastated when she found out that she was the only one in her dance class who slept in a crib."
Mary smiled sympathetically.
"Oh, speaking of dance," Keri remembered, turning to me, "Jenna's Christmas dance recital is this Saturday. Can you make it?"
I frowned. "I'm afraid not. Saturday is going to be a busy day at the shop with all the December weddings and Christmas formals."
It must be a very busy time of the y ear for your type of business," Mar y o ffered.
It is.' I replied, "but it drops off in January."
She nodded politely then tuned to Kati. Well, I, for one, am glad that Jenna likes it here. And, if you're wanting for company, I would love to take Richards place at that dance recital'
'You are more than welcome to join u s," Kari said. Jenne smiled.
'Then its a date. And," she said, looking at Jenna, "for the little dancer , I made some chocolate Christma s p udding. Would you like some?"
Jenna smiled hungrily.
I hope you don't mind: Mary said, turning to us. She hasn't finished he r s upper.
Of course not: Keri said. That w as very thoughtful of you"
Mary excused herself from the table a nd returned carrying a tray of crysta l b owls filled with steaming pudding.
She served Jenna first.
"This is very good: I said, plunging a spoonful into my mouth.
Everything is delicious: Kari said.
'Thank you?
The conversation lulled while we e njoyed the dessert. Jenna was th e f irst to break the silence.
"I know why flies come in the house s he announced unexpectedly.
We looked at her curiously.
"You do?" Mary asked.
Jenna looked at us seriously. 'They c ome in to find their friends .
We all stifled a laugh, as the little g irl was in earnest.
.... and then we kill them'
Keri and I looked at each other and b urst out laughing.
"My, you are a little thinker," Mary s aid. She chuckled, then leaned ove r a nd gave Jenna a hug.
"I'd like to propose a toast," Mary s aid. She raised a crystal glass o f w ine. Following Mary's lead we poure d o ur glasses half full of the rose liqui d a nd held them in the air.
"To a new friendship and a wonderful Christmas."
"Hear, hear," I said emphatically.
"A wonderful Christmas," Keri repeated.
The rest of the evening was spent i n pleasant conversation, punctuate d w ith laughter. When we had finishe d e ating, we lavishly praised Mary for a w onderful meal and transported th e d ishes to the kitchen. Mary firml y i nsisted on cleaning up the dishe s h erself, so reluctantly we left her t o t he chore and returned upstairs t o o ur wing.
"I feel like I've known her all my life,"
Keri said.
"Like a grandmother," I observed.
Jenna smiled and raced up the s tairs ahead of us.
The ritual of cohabitation took on a n atural and casual openness welcomed by all. It soon became clear to Keri and me that Mary had solicited a f amily to move in with her more for th e s ake of "family" than real physica l n eed. She could easily have hire d s ervants, as there obviously ha d b een in the past, and she seemed t o t rouble herself immensely to mak e o ur stay amiable, to the extent of hiring out any chore that Keri or I migh t f ind overly tedious or time-consuming, except when said chore woul d i nvoke a vicarious act of a familia l n ature. Bringing home the Christma s t ree was such an occasion. Mary , upon finding the largest, most perfectly shaped tree in the lot, offered t o p urchase a second pine for our quarters. She was absolutely delighte d w hen Keri suggested that we migh t a ll enjoy sharing the same tre e t ogether. We brought the tree hom e a nd after much fussing, the fres h s cent of evergreen permeated th e d en. Not surprisingly, the room became a favorite place for us to congregate after supper. We enjoye d Mary's company as much as sh e d esired ours, and Jenna accepte d h er readily as a surrogate grandmother.
Some people were born to work for o thers. Not in a mindless, servil e w ay--rather, they simply work bette r i n a set regimen of daily tasks an d f unctions. Others were born of th e e ntrepreneurial spirit and enjoy th e d emands of self-determination an d t he roll of the dice. Much to my detriment, I was born of the latter spirit.
Frankly, that spirit was just as potent a d raw to return to my hometown as th e q uaint streets and white-cappe d m ountains I had grown up loving. As I said before, Keri and I had left Southern California for the opportunit y t o operate a formal-wear business.
Though formal-wear rental is quite c ommon now, at the time it was ne w a nd untested and therefore exciting.
The opportunity came by way of a f riend who found himself in a smal l t own just north of Salt Lake City , called Bountiful, for a wedding. That i s w hen he met my future partner, a n e nterprising tailor who had begu n l easing elaborate bridal gowns, an d s oon discovered a greater need fo r s uitable accoutrements for the bride's a nd bridesmaids' counterparts.
As necessity is the mother of profit, he began renting a line of men's dinner jackets with great success. It wa s a t this time that my friend, whil e d ressed in one of those suits, had , unbeknownst to me, engaged th e p roprietor in a lengthy discussion o n t he state and future of his business.
Having been impressed with expectations of my marketing prowess, th e o wner called me directly and afte r m any long-distance phone conversations offered to sell me a portion o f t he new company in exchange for m y e xpertise and a small cash outlay , which Keri and I managed to scrap e t ogether. The opportunity was all w e c ould have hoped for, and the business showed signs of great promise.
Under my direction, we increased o ur market by producing picture catalogs of our suits and sending them t o d ressmakers and wedding halls outside of the metropolitan area. The y b ecame the retailers of our suits , which they rented to their clientele , and received no small commission i n t he transaction. The paperwork of thi s n ew venture was enormous and complex, but the success of my idea s c onsumed me and I found mysel f g radually drawn away from the comparatively relaxed environment o f h ome. In modern business vernacular, there is a popular term: "opportunity costs." The term is based on th e a ssumption that since all resources , mainly time and money, are limited , the successful businessman weigh s a ll ventures based on what opportunities are to be lost in the transaction.
Perhaps if I had seen my daughter's l onging eyes staring back at me fro m t he gold-plated scales, I would hav e r ethought my priorities. I adroitl y r ationalized my absence from hom e o n necessity and told myself that m y f amily would someday welcome th e s acrifice by feasting, with me, on th e f ruits of my labors. In retrospect, I should have tasted those fruits for bitterness a little more often.
THE DREAM, THE ANGEL, AND THE LETTER
I don't recall the e xact night when the dreams began.
The angel dreams. It should be stated t hat I am a believer in angels, thoug h n ot the picture-book kind with wing s a nd harps. Such angelic accoutrements seem as nonsensical to me a s d evils sporting horns and carryin g p itchforks. To me, angel wings ar e m erely symbolic of their role as divin e m essengers. Notwithstanding m y r ather dogmatic opinions on the matter, the fact that the angel in m y d ream descended from the sky wit h o utspread wings did not bother me. I n f act, the only thing I found disturbin g a t all about the dream was its frequent recurrence and the dream's s trange conclusion. In the dream I find myself alone in a large open field.
The air is filled with soft, beautifu l s trains of music flowing as sweet an d m elodic as a mountain brook. I loo k u p and see an angel with wings outspread descending gradually fro m h eaven. Then, when we are not a n a rm's length removed, I look into it s c herubic face, its eyes turn up towar d h eaven, and the angel turns to stone.
Though I have vague recollections of t he dream haunting my sleep mor e t han once after we moved into the Parkin home, it seemed to have grow n c learer and more distinct with eac h p assing slumber. This night it was alive , rich in color and sound and detail , occupying my every thought with it s s urrealism. I awoke suddenly, expecting all traces of the nocturnal vision t o v anish with my consciousness, but i t d idn't. This night the music remained. A soft, silvery tune plucked sweetly as a l ullaby. A lullaby of unknown origin.
Except tonight the music had an o rigin.
I sat up in bed, listening intently w hile my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I found the flashlight kept in th e p ine nightstand next to our bed, pulle d o n a terry-cloth robe, and walked quietly from the room, following th e m usic. I felt my way down the hall pas t t he nursery where I stopped an d l ooked in at Jenna. She lay fast asleep , undisturbed by the tones. I followe d t he music to the end of the hall, pausing where the melody seemed to hav e o riginated, from behind the attic door. I grasped the handle and opened th e d oor slowly. The flashlight illuminate d t he room, creating long, creepin g s hadows. Apprehensively, I climbe d t he stairs toward the music. The roo m w as still and, except for the music, lifeless. As I panned the room with th e l ight, my heart quickened. The cradl e w as uncovered. The dusty, drape d s heet that had concealed it now la y c rumpled at its base on the attic floor.
Anxiously, I continued my examination, until I had centered the light o n t he source of the enchanted disturbance. It was the ornate heirloo m b ox that Barry and I had discovere d t he afternoon that we had moved i n o ur belongings. The Christmas Box. I hadn't known at the time it was capable of music. How odd it should star t p laying in the middle of the night. I looked around once more to be sur e t hat I was alone, then balanced th e f lashlight on one end so that its bea m i lluminated the rafters and lit the whol e a ttic. I lifted the box and inspected it fo r a lever with which to turn off the music.
The box was dusty and heavy and a ppeared just as we had seen it a fe w d ays previous. I inspected it mor e c losely but could find no key and n o s pring, in fact no mechanism of an y t ype. It was simply a wooden box.
I unclasped the silver buckle and o pened the lid slowly. The musi c s topped. I moved the flashlight clos e t o examine the box. Inside lay severa l p archment documents. I reached i n a nd lifted the top page. It was a letter.
A handwritten letter, brittle with ag e a nd slightly yellowed. I held it near th e f lashlight to read. The handwriting wa s b eautiful and disciplined.
December 6, 1914
My Beloved One.
I stopped. I have never been one t o revel in the intrusion of another's p rivacy, much less inclined to rea d s omeone else's correspondence. Wh y t hen I was unable to resist reading th e l etter is as much a mystery to me a s w as the parchment itself. So stron g w as the compulsion that I finished th e l etter without so much as a secon d t hought into the matter: How cold the Christmas snows seem this year without you. Even the warmth of the fire does little but remind me of how I wish you were again by my side. I love you. How I love you.
I did not know why the letter beckoned me or even what significance i t c arried. Who was this Beloved One?
Was this Mary's writing? It had been w ritten nearly twenty years before he r h usband had passed away. I set th e l etter back in the box and shut the lid.
The music did not start up again. I lef t t he attic and returned to my bed ponBering the contents of the letter. Th e m ystery as to why the Christmas Bo x h ad started playing music, even ho w i t had played music, remained, for th e n ight, unanswered.
The next morning I explained the e pisode to an only slightly intereste d w ife.
"So you didn't hear anything last n ight?" I asked. "No music?"
"No," Keri answered, "but you know I'm a pretty heavy sleeper."
"This is really strange," I said, shaking my head.
"So you heard a music box. What's s o strange about that?"
"It was more than that," I explained.
"Music boxes don't work that way.
Music boxes play when you open t hem. This one stopped playing when I opened it. And the strangest part i s t hat there didn't appear to be an y m echanism to it."
"Maybe it was your angel making t he music," she teased.
"Maybe it was," I said eerily. "Maybe t his is one of those mystical experiences."
"How do you even know the music w as coming from the box?" she aske d s keptically.
"I'm sure of it," I said. I looked up a nd noticed the time. "Darn, I'm goin g t o be late and I'm opening up today." I threw on my overcoat and started fo r t he door.
Keri stopped me. "Aren't you going t o kiss Jenna goodbye?" she aske d i ncredulously. I ran back to the nursery to give Jenna a kiss.
I found her sitting in a pile of shredded paper with a pair of round-edge d c hildren's scissors in hand.
"Dad, can you help me cut these?"
she asked.
"Not now, honey, I'm late for work."
The corners of her mouth pulled d ownward in disappointment.
"When I get home," I hastily p romised. She sat quietly as I kisse d h er on the head.
"I've got to go. I'll see you tonight." I dashed out of the room, nearly forgetting the lunch which Keri had set b y t he door, and made my way throug h t he gray, slushy streets to the formal-
wear shop.
Each day, as the first streaks of daw n s pread across the blue winter morning sky, Mary could be found in th e f ront parlor, sitting comfortably in a p osh, overstuffed Turkish chair, warming her feet in front of the fireplace. I n h er lap lay the third Bible. The one tha t s he had kept. This morning ritua l d ated decades back but Mary coul d t ell you the exact day it had begun. I t w as her "morning constitutional for th e s pirit," she had told Keri.
During the Christmas season she w ould read at length the Christma s s tories of the Gospels, and it was her e t hat she welcomed the small, uninvited guest.
"Well, good morning, Jenna," Mary s aid.
Jenna stood at the doorway, still c lothed in the red-flannel nightshirt i n w hich she almost always slept. Sh e l ooked around the room then ran to Mary. Mary hugged her tightly.
"What are you reading? A story?"
Jenna asked.
"A Christmas story," Mary said.
Jenna's eyes lit up. She crawled onto Mary's lap and looked for pictures o f r eindeer and Santa Claus.
"Where are the pictures?" she a sked. "Where's Santa Claus?"
Mary smiled. "This is a different k ind of Christmas story. This is th e f irst Christmas story. It's about th e b aby Jesus."
Jenna smiled. She knew about Jesus.
"Mary?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Will Daddy be here at Christmas?"
"Why of course, dear," she assured.
She brushed the hair back from Jenna's face and kissed her forehead. "You miss him, don't you?"
"He's gone a lot."
"Starting a new business takes a l ot of work and a lot of time."
Jenna looked up sadly. "Is work b etter than here?"
"No. No place is better than home."
"Then why does Daddy want to be t here instead of here?"
Mary paused thoughtfully. "I guess s ometimes we forget," she answere d a nd pulled the little girl close.
With the approach of the holidays, business grew increasingly busy, an d t hough we welcomed the revenue, I found myself working long days an d r eturning home late each night. In my frequent absence, Keri had established the habit of sharing supper with Mary in the downstairs den. They ha d e ven adopted the ritual of sharing a n a fter-dinner cup of peppermint te a n ear the fire. Afterward Mary would follow Keri into the kitchen and help clea n u p the supper dishes, while I, if hom e b y this time, would remain in the de n a nd finish the day's books. Tonight th e s now fell softly outside, contrasted b y t he sputtering and hissing of the war m f ire crackling in the fireplace. Jenn a h ad been sent up to bed, and as Ker i c leared the table, I remained behind , diving into a catalog of new-fashione d c ummerbunds and matching ban d t ies. Tonight Mary also remained behind, still sitting in the antique chai r f rom which she always took her tea.
Though she usually followed Keri into t he kitchen, sometimes, after she ha d f inished her, tea, she would doze quietly in her chair until we woke her an d h elped her to her room.
Mary set down her tea, pushed h erself up, and walked over to th e c herry wood bookshelf. She pulled a b ook from a high shelf, dusted i t l ightly, and handed it to me.
"Here is a charming Christmas t ale. Read this to your little one." I too k t he book from her outstretched ar m a nd examined the title, Christmas Every Day by William Dean Howells.
"Thank you, Mary, I will." I smiled a t h er, set the book down, and went bac k t o my catalog. Her eyes never left me.
"No, right now. Read it to her now,"
she coaxed. Her voice was fervent, wavering only from her age. I laid m y t ext down, examined the book again , then looked back up into her cal m f ace. Her eyes shone with the importance of her request.
"All right, Mary."
I rose from the table and walked up i nto Jenna's room, wondering when I would catch up on my orders and wha t m agic this old book contained to command such urgency. Upstairs Jenn a l ay quietly in the dark.
"Still awake, honey?" I asked.
"Daddy, you forgot to tuck me in t onight."
I switched on the light. "I did, didn't I . How about a bedtime story?"
She jumped up in her bed with a s mile that filled the tiny room. "Wha t s tory are you going to tell?" she asked.
"Mary gave me this book to read to y ou."
"Mary has good stories, Dad."
"Then it should be a good one," I said. "Does Mary tell you storie s o ften?"
"Every day."
I sat on the edge of the bed and o pened the old book. The spine wa s b rittle and cracked a little as i t o pened. I cleared my throat an d s tarted reading aloud.
The little girl came into her papa's study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him . . .
"That's like you, Dad. You're real b usy too," Jenna observed.
I grinned at her. "Yeah, I guess so."
I continued reading.
"Well, once there was a little pig--" The little girl put her hand over his mouth and stopped him at the word. She said she had heard the pig stories till she was perfectly sick of them.
"Well, what kind of story shall I tell, then?"
"About Christmas. It's getting to be the season, it's past Thanksgiving already."
"It seems to me," argued her papa, "that I've told as often about Christmas as I have about little pigs."
"No difference! Christmas is more interesting."
Unlike her story's counterpart, Jenna was long asleep before I finfished the tale. Her delicate lips wer e d rawn in a gentle smile, and I pulle d t he covers up tightly under her chin.
Peace radiated from the tiny face. I lingered a moment, knelt down near he r b ed and kissed her on the cheek, the n w alked back down to finish my work.
I returned to the den to find the lavish drapes drawn tight, and the tw o w omen sitting together in the dim , flickering light of the fireplace talkin g p eacefully. The soothing tones of Mary's voice resonated calmly throug h t he room. She looked up to acknowledge my entrance.
"Richard, your wife just asked the m ost intriguing question. She aske d w hich of the senses I thought wa s m ost affected by Christmas."
I sat down at the table.
"I love everything about this season," she continued. "But I think what I love most about Christmas are it s s ounds. The bells of street-corner Santa Clauses, the familiar Christmas records on the phonograph, th e s weet, untuned voices of Christma s c arolers. And the bustling downtow n n oises. The crisp crinkle of wrappin g p aper and department store sack s a nd the cheerful Christmas greeting s o f strangers. And then there are the Christmas stories. The wisdom of Dickens and all Christmas story-tellers." She seemed to pause fo r e mphasis. "I love the sounds of thi s s eason. Even the sounds of this ol d h ouse take on a different character at Christmas. These Victorian ladie s s eem to have a spirit all their own."
I heartily agreed but said nothing.
She reflected on the old home.
"They don't build homes like this anymore. You've noticed the double set o f d oors in the front entryway?"
We both nodded in confirmation.
"In the old days before the advent o f the telephone . ." She winked. "I'm a n old lady," she confided, "I remember those days."
We smiled.
... Back in those days when people w ere receiving callers they woul d o pen the outer set of doors as a signal.
And if the doors were closed it meant t hat they were not receiving callers. I t s eemed those doors were alway s o pen, all holiday long." She smile d l ongingly. "It seems silly now. You ca n i magine that the foyer was absolutel y c hilly." She glanced over to me. "Now I'm digressing. Tell us, Richard, whic h o f the senses do you think are mos t a ffected by Christmas?"
I looked over at Keri. "The taste b uds," I said flippantly. Keri rolled he r e yes.
"No. I take it back. I would say the s ense of smell. The smells of Christmas. Not just the food, but everything.
I remember once, in grade school, we m ade Christmas ornaments by poking whole cloves into an orange. I remember how wonderful it smelle d f or the entire season. I can still smel l i t. And then there's the smell of perfumed candles, and hot wassail o r c reamy cocoa on a cold day. And th e p ungent smell of wet leather boot s a fter my brothers and I had gon e s ledding. The smells of Christmas ar e t he smells of childhood." My word s t railed off into silence as we al l s eemed to be caught in the swee t g laze of Christmastime memories , and Mary nodded slowly as if I ha d s aid something wise.
It was the sixth day of December.
Christmas was only two and a half w eeks away. I had already left for wor k a nd Keri had set about the rituals o f t he day. She stacked the breakfas t d ishes in the sink to soak, the n d escended the stairs to share in som e c onservation and tea with Mary. Sh e e ntered the den where Mary rea d e ach morning. Mary was gone. In he r c hair lay the third Bible. Mary's Bible.
Though we were aware of its existence, neither Keri nor I had actuall y e ver seen it. It lay on the cushio n s pread open to the Gospel of John.
Keri gently slipped her hand under th e b ook's spine and lifted the text carefully. It was older than the other two Bibles, its script more Gothic and g raceful. She examined it closely. Th e i nk appeared marred, smeared b y m oisture. She ran a finger across th e p age. It was wet, moistened by numerous round drops. Tear drops. She delicately turned through the gold-edge d p ages. Many of the leaves wer e s poiled and stained from tears. Tear s f rom years past, pages long dried an d w rinkled. But the open pages were stil l m oist. Keri laid the book back down o n t he chair and walked out into the hall.
Mary's thick wool coat was missing f rom the lobby's crested hall tree. Th e i nner foyer doors were ajar and at th e b ase of the outer set of doors sno w h ad melted and puddled on the col d m arble floor, revealing Mary's departure. Mary's absence left Keri feelin g u neasy. Mary rarely left the hom e b efore noon and, when she did, typically went to great lengths to inform Keri of the planned excursion days i n a dvance. Keri went back upstairs unti l f orty-five minutes later, when sh e h eard the front door open. She ra n d own to meet Mary, who stood in th e d oorway, wet and shivering from th e c old.
"Mary! Where have you been?"
Keri exclaimed. "You look frozen!"
Mary looked up sadly. Her eyes were s wollen and red.
"I'll be all right," she said, then without an explanation disappeared dow n t he hall to her room.
After brunch she again pulled on h er coat to leave. Keri caught her i n t he hall on the way out. "I'll be goin g o ut again," she said simply. "I ma y r eturn late."
"What time shall I prepare supper?"
Keri asked.
Mary didn't answer. She looked d irectly at her, then walked out int o t he sharp winter air.
It was nearly half past eight when Mary returned that evening. Keri ha d g rown increasingly concerned ove r h er strange behavior and had begu n l ooking out the balcony window ever y f ew minutes for Mary's return. I ha d a lready arrived home from work , been thoroughly briefed on the entir e e pisode, and, like Keri, anxiousl y a nticipated her return. If Mary ha d l ooked preoccupied before, she wa s n ow positively engrossed. She uncharacteristically asked to take supper alone, but then invited us to joi n h er for tea.
"I'm sure my actions must seem a l ittle strange," she apologized. Sh e s et her cup down on the table. "I'v e b een to the doctor today, on accoun t o f these headaches and vertigo, I'v e b een experiencing."
She paused for an uncomfortably l ong period. I sensed she was goin g t o say something terrible.
"He says that I have a tumor growing in my brain. It is already quite larg e a nd, because of its location, they cannot operate." Mary looked straigh t a head now, almost through us. Yet he r w ords were strangely calm.
"There is nothing that they can do. I have wired my brother in London. I thought you should know."
Keri was the first to throw her arms a round Mary. I put my arms around th e t wo of them and we held each other i n s ilence. No one knew what to say.
Denial, perhaps, is a necessary h uman mechanisim to cope with th e h eartaches of life. The followin g w eeks proceeded largely without incident and it became increasingl y t empting to delude ourselves int o c omplacency, imagining that all wa s w ell and that Mary would soo n r ecover. As quickly as we did, however, her headaches would retur n a nd reality would slap our faces a s b rightly as the frigid December winds.
There was one other curious change i n Mary's behavior. Mary seemed t o b e growing remarkably disturbed b y m y obsession with work and no w t ook it upon herself to interrupt m y e ndeavors at increasingly frequen t i ntervals. Such was the occasion th e e vening that she asked the question.
"Richard. Have you ever wondered w hat the first Christmas gift was?"
Her question broke my engrossment in matters of business an d w eekly returns. I looked up.
"No, I can't say that I've given it m uch thought. Probably gold, frankincense, or myrrh. If in that order, it wa s g old." I sensed that she was unsatisfied with my answer.
"If an appeal to King James will a nswer your question, I'll do so on Sunday," I said, hoping to put the question to rest. She remained unmoved.
"This is not a trivial question," she s aid firmly. "Understanding the firs t g ift of Christmas is important."
"I'm sure it is, Mary, but this is i mportant right now."
"No," she snapped, "you don't know w hat is important right now." Sh e t urned abruptly and walked from th e r oom.
I sat quietly alone, stunned from t he exchange. I put away the ledge r a nd climbed the stairs to our room. As I readied for bed, I posed to Keri th e q uestion Mary had asked.
"The first gift of Christmas?" she a sked sleepily. "Is this a trick question?"
"No, I don't think so. Mary just a sked me and was quite upset that I didn't know the answer."
"I hope she doesn't ask me, then,"
Keri said, rolling over to sleep.
I continued to ponder the question o f the first gift of Christmas until I gradually fell off in slumber. That nigh t t he angel haunted my dreams.
The following morning at the breakfast table, Keri and I discussed th e p revious evening's confrontation.
"I think that the cancer is finally a ffecting her," I said.
"How is that?" Keri asked.
"Her mind. She's starting to lose h er mind."
"She's not losing her mind," she s aid firmly. "She's as sharp as you o r m e."
"Such a strong 'no'," I said defensively.
"I'm with her all day. I ought to know."
"Then why is she acting this way?
Asking weird questions?"
"I think she's trying to share something with you, Rick. I don't kno w w hat it is, but there is something." Ker i w alked over to the counter an d b rought a jar of honey to the table.
"Mary is the warmest, most open individual I've ever met, except . ." Sh e p aused. "Do you ever get the feelin g t hat she is hiding something?"
"Something?"
"Something tragic. Terribly tragic.
Something that shapes you and c hanges your perspective forever."
"I don't know what you're talking a bout," I said.
Suddenly Keri's eyes moistened.
"I'm not so sure that I do either. Bu t t here is something. Have you eve r s een the Bible that she keeps in th e d en?" I shook my head. "The page s a re stained with tears." She turne d a way to gather her thoughts. "I jus t t hink that there is a reason that we'r e h ere. There is something she is trying to tell you, Rick. You're just no t l istening."
THE STONE ANGEL
My conversation w ith Keri had left me curious an d b ewildered. As I gazed outside at th e s now-covered streets I saw Steve i n h is driveway brushing snow off hi s c ar. It occurred to me that he migh t h ave some answers. I ran upstairs t o t he Christmas Box, removed the firs t l etter from it, and scrolled it carefully.
Then stowing it in the inside pocket o f m y overcoat, I quietly slipped out o f t he house and crossed the street.
Steve greeted me warmly.
"Steve, you've known Mary a long t ime."
"Pretty much all my life."
"There's something I want to ask y ou about."
He sensed the serious tone of my v oice and set the brush down.
"It's about Mary. You know she's like f amily to us." He nodded in agreement. "There seems to be somethin g t roubling her, and we want to hel p h er, but we don't know how. Ker i t hinks that she might be hiding something. If that's the case I think that I might have found a clue." I looke d d own, embarrassed by the letter I was holding. "Anyway, I found some l etters in a box in the attic. I thin k t hey're love letters. I was hoping tha t y ou could shed some light on this."
"Let me see it," he said.
I handed the letter over. He read it, then handed it back to me.
"They are love letters, but not to a l over."
I must have looked perplexed.
"I think you should see something.
I'll be over at Mary's Christmas Eve t o v isit. I'll take you then. It'll be aroun d t hree o'clock. It will explain everything."
I nodded my approval. "That will be f ine," I said. I shoved the letter bac k i nto my coat, then paused. "Steve , have you ever wondered what th e f irst gift of Christmas was?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious, I guess." I walked b ack to my car and drove off to work.
As had become the norm, it was a busy day spent helping brides-
to-be match colorful taffeta swatches t o formal-wear accessories; choos e b etween ascot or band ties; pleated , French-cuffed shirts with wingtip collars or plain shirts with colorful ruffle d d ickies. I had just finished measuring and reserving outfits for a larg e w edding party. Upon receiving th e r equired cash deposit from the groom , I thanked them for their business , waved goodbye, and turned to help a y oung man who had stood quietly a t t he counter awaiting my attention.
"May I help you?" I asked.
He looked down at the counter, swaying uneasily. "I need a suit for a s mall boy," he said softly. "He's fiv e y ears old."
"Very good," I said. I pulled out a r ental form and began to write. "I s t here anyone else in the party that wil l n eed a suit?"
He shook his head no.
"Is he to bearing bearer?" I asked.
"We'd want to try to match his suit t o t he groom's."
"No. He won't be."
I made a note on the form.
"All right. What day would you like t o reserve the suit for?"
"We'd like to purchase the suit," he s aid solemnly.
I set the form aside. "That may not b e in your best interest," I explained.
"These young boys grow so fast. I'd s trongly suggest that you rent."
He just nodded.
"I just don't want you to be disappointed. The length of the coat canno t b e extended, only the sleeves an d p ant length. He may grow out of it i n l ess than a year."
The man looked up at me, initiating e ye contact for the first time. "We'll b e b urying him in it," he said softly.
The words fell like hammers. I looked down, avoiding the lifeles s g aze of his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said demurely. "I'll hel p y ou find something appropriate."
I searched through a rack of boys s uits and extracted a beautiful blu e j acket with satin lapels.
"This is one of my favorites," I said s olemnly.
"It's a handsome coat," he said. "It w ill be fine." He handed me a pape r w ith the boy's measurements.
"I'll have the alterations made i mmediately. It will be ready to b e p icked up tomorrow afternoon."
He nodded his head in approval.
"Sir, I'll see that the jacket is discounted."
"I'm very grateful," he said. He o pened the door and walked out , blending in with the coursing river o f h umanity that filled the sidewalks at Christmas time.
As I had spent the morning measuring out seams and checking the availabilities of jackets, Keri was bus y a t her own routine. She had fed , bathed, and dressed Jenna, then se t t o work preparing Mary's brunch. Sh e p oached an egg, then topped a biscuit with it, dressing it with a tablespoon of Hollandaise sauce. Sh e t ook the shrieking teapot from th e s tove and poured a cup of peppermint tea, set it all on a tray, and carried it out to the dining room.
She called down the hall, "Mary, your brunch is ready."
She went back to the kitchen and f illed the sink with hot, soapy wate r a nd began to wash the dishes. After a f ew minutes she toweled off her hand s a nd walked back to the dining room t o s ee if Mary needed anything. The foo d w as untouched. Keri explored the de n b ut the Bible lay untouched on it s s helf. She checked the hall tree an d f ound Mary's coat hanging in its usua l p lace. She walked down to the bedroom and rapped lightly on the door.
"Mary, your brunch is ready."
There came no reply.
Keri slowly turned the handle and o pened the door. The drapes were stil l d rawn closed and the room lay still an d d ark. In the bed she could see th e f orm lying motionless beneath the covers. Fear seized her. "Mary! Mary!"
She ran to her side. "Mary!" She put h er hand against the woman's cheek.
Mary was warm and damp and b reathing shallowly. Keri grabbed th e t elephone and called the hospital fo r a n ambulance. She looked out th e w indow. Steve's car was still in th e d riveway. She ran across the stree t a nd pounded on the door. Stev e o pened it, instantly seeing the urgenc y o n Keri's face.
"Keri, what's wrong?"
"Steve! Come quick. Something is t erribly wrong with Mary!"
Steve followed Keri back to the h ouse and into the room where Mar y l ay delirious on the bed. Steve too k h er hand. "Mary, can you hear me?"
Mary raised a tired eyelid, but said n othing. Keri breathed a slight sigh o f r elief.
Outside, an ambulance siren w ound down. Keri ran out to meet i t a nd led the attendants down the dar k h all to Mary's room. They lifted Mar y i nto a gurney and carried her to th e b ack of the vehicle. Keri grabbed Jenna and followed the ambulance t o t he hospital in Mary's car.
I met Keri and the doctor outside of Mary's hospital room. Keri had calle d m e at work and I had rushed down a s s oon as I could.
"This is to be expected," the doctor s aid clinically. "She has been prett y f ortunate up until today, but now th e t umor has started to put pressure o n v ital parts of the brain. All we can d o i s try to keep her as comfortable a s p ossible. I know that's not very reassuring, but it's reality."
I put my arm around Keri.
"Is she in much pain?" Keri asked.
"Surprisingly not. I would have e xpected more severe headaches.
She has headaches, but not as acute a s most. The headaches will continu e t o come and go, gradually becomin g m ore constant. Coherency is abou t t he same. She was talking this afternoon but there's no way of telling ho w l ong she'll remain coherent."
"How is she right now?" I asked.
"She's asleep. I gave her a sedative. The rush to the hospital wa s q uite a strain on her."
"May I see her?" I asked.
"No, it's best that she sleep."
That night the mansion seemed a v acuum without Mary's presence and , for the first time, we felt like stranger s i n somebody else's home. We ate a s imple dinner, with little conversation , and then retired early, hoping t o e scape the strange atmosphere tha t h ad surrounded us. But even m y s trange dreams, to which I had grown accustomed, seemed to be affected.
The music played for me again, but i ts tone had changed to a poignan t n ew strain. Whether it had actuall y c hanged, or I, affected by the day's e vents, just perceived the alteration, I don't know, but like the siren's song , again it drew me to the Christmas Bo x a nd the next letter.
December 6, 1916
My Beloved One.
Another Christmas season has c ome. The time of joy and peace. Ye t h ow great a void still remains in m y h eart. They say that time heals al l w ounds. But even as wounds heal the y l eave scars, token reminders of th e p ain. Remember me, my love. Remember my love.
Sunday morning, Christmas Eve, the s now fell wet and heavy and ha d a lready piled up nearly four inches b y a fternoon when Steve met me nea r t he mansion's front porch.
"How's Mary today?" he asked.
"About the same. She had a bad b out of nausea this morning but otherwise was in pretty good spirits. Ker i a nd Jenna are still at the hospital wit h h er now."
He nodded in genuine concern.
"Well, let's go," he said sadly. "It will b e g ood for you to see this."
We crossed the street and together c limbed the steep drive to his home.
Still unaware of our destination, I followed him around to his backyard.
The yard was filled with large cottonwood trees and overgrown eucalyptus shrubs. It was well secluded by a h igh stone wall that concealed th e c emetery I knew to be behind it.
"There's a wrought-iron gate behind those bushes over there," Stev e s aid, motioning to a hedge near th e w all. "About forty years ago the owne r h ere planted that hedge to concea l t he access to the cemetery. He wa s a n older man and didn't like the ide a o f looking out into it each day. My f amily moved here when I was twelv e y ears old. It didn't take us boys lon g t o discover the secret gate. We hollowed out the hedge so that we coul d e asily slip into the cemetery from it.
We were frequently warned by the s exton never to play in the cemetery , but we did, every chance we got.
We'd spend hours there," Steve confided. "It was the ideal place for hideand-seek."
We reached the gate. The paint h ad chipped and cracked from th e c old, rusted steel, but the gat e r emained strong and well secured. A padlock held it shut. Steve produce d a key and unlocked the gate. I t s creeched as it swung open. We e ntered the cemetery.
"One winter day we were playing h ide-and-seek about here. I was hiding from my friend when he saw m e a nd started to chase. I ran though th e s now up to the east end of the cemetery; it was an area where we neve r p layed. One of our friends swore h e h ad heard the wailing of a ghost u p t here and we decided the place wa s h aunted. You know how kids are."
I nodded knowingly as we trudged o n through the deepening snow.
"I ran up through there," he said p ointing to a clump of thick-stumpe d e vergreens, "then up behind the mausoleum. There, as I crouched behin d a tombstone, I heard the wailing.
Even muffled in the snow it was h eart-wrenching. I looked up over th e s tone. There was a statue of an ange l a bout three feet high with out-
stretched wings. It was new at the t ime and freshly whitewashed. On the ground before it knelt a woman, her f ace buried in the snow. She was sobbing as if her heart were breaking.
She clawed at the frozen ground as if i t held her from something sh e w anted desperately--more than anything. It was snowing that day and m y f riend, following my tracks, soo n c aught up to me. I motioned to him t o b e quiet. For more than a half hour w e s at there shivering and watching i n s ilence as the snow completel y e nveloped her. Finally she was silent , stood up, and walked away. I'll neve r f orget the pain in her face."
Just then I stopped abruptly. From a distance I could see the outsprea d w ings of the weather-worn statue o f a n angel. "My angel," I muttered audibly. "My stone angel."
Steve glanced at me.
"Who was buried there?" I asked.
"Come see," he said, motioning me o ver.
I followed him over to the statue. We s quatted down and I brushed th e s now away from the base of the monument. Etched in the marble pedestal , above the birth and death dates, wer e j ust three words:
OUR LITTLE ANGEL
I studied the dates. "The child was o nly three years old," I said sadly. I closed my eyes and imagined th e s cene. I could see the woman, we t a nd cold, her hands red and snow bitten. And then I understood. "It was Mary, wasn't it?"
His response was slow and melancholy. "Yes. It was Mary."
The falling snow painted a dream-
like backdrop of solitude around us.
It seemed a long while before Steve b roke the silence. "That night I told m y m other what I had seen. I thought that I would probably get in trouble. Instea d s he pulled me close and kissed me.
She said that I should never go back, that we should leave the woma n a lone. Until now, I never did go back.
At least not to the grave. I did come c lose enough to hear her crying , though. It would tear me up inside. Fo r o ver two years she came here ever y d ay, even in spring when the pourin g r ain turned the ground to mud."
I turned away from the angel, thrust m y hands in my coat pockets, an d s tarted back in silence. We walke d t he entire distance to the hous e b efore either one of us spoke. Stev e s topped at his back porch.
"The child was a little girl. Her n ame was Andrea. For many years Mary placed a wooden box on th e g rave. It resembles the boxes th e w ise men carry in Nativity scenes. My g uess is it's the box you found wit h t he letters."
I mumbled a thank you and headed f or home alone. I unlocked the heavy THE CHRISTMAS B o x f ront door and pushed it open. A dar k s ilence permeated the mansion. I climbed the stairs to our quarters an d t hen the attic, and for the first time I brought the Christmas Box out int o t he light. I set it on the hall floor an d s at down beside it. In the light, I coul d s ee the truly exquisite craftsmanshi p o f the box. The high polish reflecte d o ur surroundings and distorted th e i mages, giving a graceful halo to th e r eflected objects. I removed the las t l etter.
December 6, 1920
My Beloved One.
How I wish that I might say these things to your gentle face and that this box might be found empty. Even as the mother of our Lord found the tomb they placed him in empty. And in this there i s h ope, my love. Hope of embracing yo u a gain and holding you to my breast. An d t his because of the great gift of Christmas. Because He came. The first Christmas offering from a parent to Hi s c hildren, because He loved them an d w anted them back. I understand that i n w ays I never understood before, as m y l ove for you has not waned with time , but has grown brighter with each Christmas season. How I look forward to tha t g lorious day that I hold you again. I lov e y ou, my little angel.
Mother
THE ANGEL
I set the letter b ack in the box and pulled my knee s i nto my chest, burying my head int o m y thighs. My mind reeled as if in a d ream, where pieces of the day's puzzle are unraveled and rewoven into a n ew mosaic, defying the improbabilit y o f the cut edges fitting. Yet they did fit.
The meaning of Mary's question was n ow clear to me. The first gift of Christmas. The true meaning of Christmas.
My body and mind tingled with the revelations of the day. Downstairs I hear d t he rustling of Keri's return. I walke d d own and helped her in.
"I came back to get Jenna some d inner," she said, falling into my arms.
"I am so exhausted," she cried. "And s o sad."
I held her tightly. "How is she?"
"Not very good."
"Why don't you lie down, I'll put on s ome soup and get Jenna ready fo r b ed."
Keri stretched out on the sofa while I dressed Jenna, fed her, then carrie d h er downstairs to the den.
It was dark outside, and in absence o f a fire, the room was bathed by th e p eaceful illumination of the Christma s t ree lights. Strands flashed on and of f i n syncopation, casting shadows of different shapes and hues. I held Jenn a i n silence.
"Dad, is Mary coming home for Christmas?" she asked.
I ran a hand through my hair. "No, I don't think so. Mary is very sick."
"Is she going to die?"
I wondered what that meant to my l ittle girl.
"Yes, honey. I think she will die."
"If she is going to die, I want to giv e h er my present first."
She ran over to the tree and lifted a s mall, inexpertly wrapped package. "I made her an angel." With excitemen t s he unveiled a petite cardboard ange l c onstructed with tape, glue, and pape r c lips.
"Dad, I think Mary likes angels."
I started to sob quietly. "Yeah, I thin k s he likes angels, too."
In the silence of the lights we faced t he death of a friend.
In the outer hall I could hear the r inging of the telephone. Ker i a nswered it, then found us downstairs.
"Rick, that was the hospital. Mary is d ying."
I wrapped Jenna up warmly and s et her in the car with Keri. We drov e s eparately, so that one of us coul d b ring Jenna home when the tim e c ame. We arrived at the hospital an d t ogether opened the door to Mary's r oom. The room was dimly illuminated by a single lamp. We coul d h ear Mary's shallow breathing. Mar y w as awake and looked toward us.
Jenna rushed to the side of the r eclining bed and, inserting her tin y h and through the side rails, presse d t he little angel into Mary's hand.
"I brought you something, Mary. It's y our Christmas present."
Mary slowly raised the ornament to h er view, smiled, then squeezed th e l ittle hand tightly.
"Thank you, darling." She coughed h eavily. "It's beautiful." Then sh e s miled into the little face. "You're s o b eautiful." She rubbed her han d a cross Jenna's cheek.
Painfully, she turned to her side a nd extended her hand to me.
I walked to her side and took it gently in mine.
"How do you feel, Mary?"
She forced a smile through the p ain. "Do you know yet, Rick? Do yo u k now what the first Christmas gif t w as?"
I squeezed her hand tightly.
"You do understand, don't you?"
"Yes. I understand now. I know w hat you were trying to tell me."
Tears started to fall down my c heeks. I took a deep breath to clea r m y throat.
"Thank you, Mary. Thank you for w hat you've given me."
"You found the letters in the Christmas Box?"
"Yes. I'm sorry that I read them."
"No, it's all right. I'm glad the letter s w ere read. They were meant to b e r ead." She fell silent for a moment.
"I'd like you to have the Christmas Box. It's my Christmas gift to you."
"Thank you. I will always treasure it."
The room was quiet.
"Andrea waits," she said suddenly.
I smiled. "She has been very close,"
I said.
She smiled at me again, then lifted h er eyes to Keri.
"Thank you for your friendship, dear. It has meant a lot to me."
"Merry Christmas, Mary," Keri said.
"God bless you, child," she said b ack lovingly. "Take good care of you r l ittle family." She looked at Ker i t houghtfully. "You'll do fine."
Mary closed her eyes and lay back i nto her pillow. Keri's eyes watered a s s he lifted Jenna and carried her out o f t he room. I stayed behind, caressin g t he smooth, warm hands for the las t t ime.
"Merry Christmas, Mary," I whispered. "We'll miss you."
Mary's eyes opened again. She l eaned forward toward the foot of th e b ed. A smile spread across her fac e a s a single tear rolled down he r c heek. She said something too soft t o h ear. I leaned my ear near to he r m outh. "My angel," she repeated. I followed her gaze to the foot of the be d b ut saw only the green cotton hospita l g own draped over the end rail. I looked back at her in sadness. She w as leaving us, I thought. It was the n t hat I heard the music. The gentle , sweet tines of the Christmas Box.
Softly at first, then as if to fill the entir e r oom, strong and bright and joyful. I looked again at the weary face. It wa s f illed with peace. Her deep eye s s parkled and the smile grew. Then I understood and I too smiled. Andre a h ad come.
By the time I reached home it was w ell past midnight. Mary's brothe r h ad arrived from London and in deference I had left them alone to shar e t he last few minutes together. Jenn a h ad been put to bed and Keri, no t k nowing when I would return, ha d s adly laid the Christmas package s u nder the tree. I sat down in th e r ocker in front of the illuminated Christmas tree and lay my head in m y h ands. Somewhere between th e a ngel and Mary's house I had figure d i t out. The first gift of Christmas. It jus t c ame. It came to my heart. The firs t g ift of Christmas was love. A parent's l ove. Pure as the first snows of Christmas. For God so loved His childre n t hat He sent His son, that we migh t s omeday return to Him. I understoo d w hat Mary had been trying to teac h m e. I stood up and walked up th e s tairs where my little girl lay sleeping.
I picked up her warm little body and, cradling her tightly in my arms , brought her back down to the den. My t ears fell on her hair. My little girl. My p recious little girl. How foolish I'd b een to let her childhood, her fleeting , precious childhood slip away. Forever. In my young mind everythin g w as so permanent and lasting. My little girl would be my little girl forever.
But time would prove me wrong.
Someday she'd grow up. Someday s he'd be gone and I would be left wit h t he memory of giggles and secrets I might have known.
Jenna took a deep breath and s nuggled close for warmth. I held he r l ittle body tightly against mine. Thi s w as what it meant to be a father, t o k now that one day I would tur n a round and my little girl would b e g one. To look upon the sleeping littl e g irl and to die a little inside. For on e p recious, fleeting moment, to hold th e c hild in my arms, and would that tim e s tood still.
But none of that mattered now. Not n ow. Not tonight. Tonight Jenna wa s m ine and no one could take this Christmas Eve away from me but me.
How wise Mary had been. Mary, who k new the pain of a father sending hi s s on away on that first Christma s m orn, knowing full well the path tha t l ay ahead. Mary understood Christmas. The tears in the Bible showe d t hat. Mary loved with the pure, swee t l ove of a mother, a love so deep that i t b ecomes the allegory for all othe r l ove. She knew that in my quest fo r s uccess in this world I had been trading diamonds for stones. She knew , and she loved me enough to help m e s ee. Mary had given me the greates t g ift of Christmas. My daughter's childhood.
EPILOGUE:
It was around nine o 'clock Christmas morning that Mary's b rother called to tell us Mary wa s g one. The call found Keri and me holding each other on the couch in Mary's d en, surrounded by the aftermath of Christmas giving. I lifted the Christmas Box down from the fireplace mante l w here we had placed it in memory of Mary. I set the box near the hearth , then one by one, let the flames devou r t he letters as Keri watched in silen t u nderstanding. The Christmas Bo x w as at last empty.
Mary was buried next to the small a ngel statue that she had so faithfull y v isited. In the course of our assistin g i n the burial arrangements, the funera l h ome had asked Keri what the y s hould engrave on the headstone. "A loving mother," she said simply.
Every Christmas Eve, for as long a s we lived in the valley, we returne d t o the grave and laid a white lil y b eneath the feet of the angel wit h o utspread wings. Keri and I lived i n t he mansion for the space of severa l m ore Christmas seasons until th e f amily decided to sell the estate, an d w e purchased a home in the southern end of the valley. In the year s s ince, our family grew from three t o s ix, and though the demands of providing for such a family oftentime s s eemed endless, I never forgot th e l essons I learned that Christmas with Mary.
And to this day, the Christmas Box r emains a source of great joy to me.
For though it appears empty, to me it c ontains all that Christmas is mad e o f, the root of all wonder in a child's e yes, and the source of the magic of Christmases for centuries to come.
More than giving, more than believing, for these are mere manifestations of the contents of that box. Th e s acred contents of that box are a parent's pure love for a child, manifeste d f irst by a Father's love for all His children, as He sacrificed that which He l oved most and sent His son to eart h o n that Christmas day so long ago.
And as long as the earth lives, and l onger, that message will never die.
Though the cold winds of life may put a frost on the heart of many, tha t m essage alone will shelter the hear t f rom life's storms. And for me, as lon g a s I live, the magic inside the Christmas Box will never die.
It never will.
\*
In Memoriam:
The Angel statue, of which the author m akes mention, was destroyed in 1984 by the great floods that cam e t hrough the Salt Lake Valley.
A new Angel monument, in remembrance of all those who have lost children, was erected in the same Salt Lake City cemetery and dedicated December 6, 1994.
The author wishes to invite all t hose who find themselves in Salt Lake City to lay a white flower at th e s tatue's base.
The address of the City Cemetery i s: City Cemetery
200 "N" Street
Salt Lake City, Utah 84103
Please send flowers to the attention of the City Sexton.
Table of Contents

