me. Please, please, can’t you do something?” Then he looked up at Victor and whispered,
“If I could just spend the rest of my life with you, everything would be fine.”
The Ghost lowered his eyes and frowned. Then he rested his palm on Carl’s
shoulder and said, “I don’t have that kind of power, Mr. Smite. I can’t change your fate
for you.”
Carl tried begging again, but the next thing he knew he was kneeling in the snow.
They were outdoors, far away from the city, in a vast open place scattered with tall,
naked trees. The sky was dark and gray, and the snow fell on Carl’s body in huge white
flakes. He looked up at the ghost and said, “There’s something about this place that
seems familiar.”
The Ghost stepped back and pointed to the ground where Carl was kneeling.
“That’s because you’ve been here before, Mr. Smite.”
Carl looked down. He was kneeling on something hard, but he wasn’t sure what it
was. So he leaned over and pushed the snow away. He couldn’t feel the cold, but the
snow was deep and heavy and he had to push hard to get to the bottom. When he finally realized it was a block of stone, he looked up at the Ghost, pressed his palm to his chest
and said, “I know where I am now. This is a graveyard.”
“Read it, Mr. Smite,” the ghost said.
Carl looked down again. He was kneeling on one of those flat, inexpensive
gravestones. And the name on the stone was Marty Keller’s. Carl stood up fast and
brushed the snow off his knees. Then he stepped back into deeper snow that went up to
his knees and shouted, “You brought me
here
?” He pressed his palm to his stomach and
laughed. “If you think this grave has any significance to me, you’re sadly mistaken.”
The Ghost turned and stretched out his arm. He pointed to a section of the snow
right next to Marty’s grave. He jerked his thin arm hard and pointed with determination.
Carl looked down and walked to the spot where the Ghost was pointing. He
slowly kicked the snow away until he could see that another gravestone. And when he
saw the entire stone, his hands started to shake. It read: “Carl Smite. July 1, 1974 –
December 25, 2029.”
He jumped back and pressed his palms to his temples. His knees felt weak and
there was a lump in his throat so large he thought he might vomit. “This is my grave.
Able buried me next to Marty. Oh my God, I died on Christmas Day.”
The Ghost laughed and pressed his red fingernails to his lips. “Look at the bright
side, Mr. Smite. At least now you have a damn good reason to hate Christmas.”
Carl shook his head so hard his temples pounded. “No. I don’t hate Christmas,”
he shouted. “I don’t hate Christmas at all.” He stepped over his own grave and grabbed
the tails of the Ghost’s gold scarf. “Please listen to me. I don’t hate Christmas. Please, give me a second chance. Don’t let me wind up this way. Help me. I’m begging you.
Please help me.”
“I’m afraid that’s not up to me, Mr. Smite,” the Ghost said. “But there’s always
time for a second chance for the living.”
“I don’t understand,” Carl shouted.
The Ghost yawned. “It’s not that difficult, Mr. Smite. You’re not a stupid man.
Now put your arm through mine and close your eyes. It’s getting late. You’re not the only
mean old queen I’m visiting tonight.”
Chapter Thirteen
When Carl opened his eyes on Christmas morning, it was daylight and all the
ghosts were gone. He bolted forward and looked down at his naked body. He patted the
sides of his torso, then slapped his thighs. He took a deep breath and shook his head a few
times. He wanted to make sure he was still alive and that he was waking up in his own
bedroom.
The snowstorm had ended and the winds had died down. There were bright rays
of sunshine streaming through his bedroom windows. He heard the heavy, scraping sound
of a snow plow pass by his building; someone across the street was shoveling the
sidewalk. The clock out in the living room started to chime. When it ended on seven, he
threw his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees.
And while he was thinking about his experiences with the three ghosts, and
wondering if it had all been a dream, he heard a knock. It came from downstairs, right
below his bedroom window. His eyes opened wide; he jumped off the bed and ran to the
window. He pushed the curtains aside, opened the window, and looked down. There was
a black SUV limousine parked at the curb in front of his shop. The back door was open
and there was a driver standing beside it. When Carl leaned to the right and looked
toward the shop, there was another man knocking on the front door. He was dressed in a
dark suit; just like that man he’d seen with The Ghost from Christmas Present. Carl hesitated for a moment. He held his breath. A chill passed through his body
and the flesh on the back of his neck tingled. He rubbed his jaw and shouted, “What can I
do for you?”
The man in the dark suit looked up, shielded his eyes with his hand, and shouted,
“I want to buy that chair in the window. The one with the zebra skin upholstery. I’ll pay
full price, too.”
Carl’s eyes opened wide and he smiled. Maybe the previous night hadn’t been a
dream. He remembered what the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come had said, “There’s
always time for a second chance.”
And he remembered his son, who had fallen asleep in a dark alley.
“I’ll be right down,” Carl shouted to the man. “I have to get dressed. Don’t go
anywhere.” He knew exactly what he was going to do.
He shut the window and ran to his closet. He reached inside and yanked out
clothes without thinking. He pulled a black turtleneck over his head, then a put on a pair
of wrinkled beige slacks. He put his socks on so fast he didn’t even realize that one was
blue and one was black. After he put on his shoes, he ran to the bathroom. He didn’t
bother to flush the toilet; he didn’t shave. He just washed his hands, splashed cold water
on his face, and ran his wet fingers through his hair a few times. On the way out, he
opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and reached way into the back. He fished out a
small ring box and opened it. He smiled at the gold ring Victor had given him fifteen
years earlier in the back seat of the old Cadillac, and he slipped it onto this ring finger.
A minute later, he was running down the steps with a scarf around his neck and
his coat over his arm. He jogged over to the man standing near the door of his shop and smiled. Then he grabbed the man’s arms and shouted, “Merry Christmas. Isn’t it a
wonderful morning?” The street was quiet, and his voice sounded tighter with the dense
snow. But he spoke with such force that the woman who owned the tearoom across the
street stopped shoveling the sidewalk and stared across the street to see what was
happening.
The man smiled and stepped back. “Yes, it is. Merry Christmas to you, too.” Then
he motioned to the window display with his arm and said, “I’d like to buy that chair.”
Carl pulled a set of keys from his pocket and opened the front door of the shop.
Then he lifted his head and shouted to the woman across the street, “Good morning, Joan.
Merry Christmas. Could you please come over here for a second? I need a favor.”
Joan dropped the shovel on the sidewalk and stood there staring at Carl as if he’d
lost his mind. Her jaw dropped and she folded her arms across her chest.
He smiled and waved his arm. “This is very important, Joan. Please come over.”
When she walked over to where Carl and the man were standing, Carl said, “You
look wonderful today, Joan. You look absolutely radiant on this fine Christmas morning.”
Poor Joan just stood there gaping at Carl as if he’d gone mad. “Are you okay, Mr.
Smite?” she asked.
“I’ve never been better, Joan,” Carl shouted. “I have a favor to ask. This nice man
wants to buy that chair in the window for twenty thousand dollars, full price.”
When Carl gestured to the zebra skin chair in the window, Joan frowned and said,
“Ah well, Mr. Smite, you know how I feel about these things.” Carl smiled. He already knew Able had warned her about the chair. “I know. And
I’m so sorry if I’ve offended you in the past, especially with that nasty old giraffe skin.
I’m truly sorry and I won’t do it again. But this might make up for it, Joan.”
Then Carl turned to the man and said, “Sir, you can have the chair right now. But
I’d like you to make out the check to a homeless shelter instead of to me. I want to donate
every single penny of that chair to this shelter, and Joan can take care of you. She
volunteers down at the shelter and she’ll tell you to whom to make out the check.”
The man shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t care who I have to pay. I just
want the chair. It’s a gift for someone.”
Joan pressed her palm to her throat and said, “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr.
Smite? The shelter could use all the money it can get. But twenty thousand dollars is a
huge donation.”
Carl waved his arm. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Joan. And please call me
Carl from now on. We’re neighbors, we see each other all the time in passing. We should
get to know each other better.” He reached for Joan’s hand, squeezed it tightly, and asked,
“Will you take care of this for me? I’ll give you the keys to my shop and you can take
care of all the details with this nice gentleman. I have something very important to do
right now. It’s one of the most important things I’ve ever done in my life.”
Joan took the keys from his hand and said, “Of course I’ll take care of it for you.”
Carl hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. He hugged the man who was buying
the chair and shouted, “Merry Christmas.”
Then he stepped back and asked, “Where is the shelter, Joan? I’m going there
right now.” The only thought in his head at that moment was for his son. All this couldn’t have been just a dream. The man buying the chair was real. Carl had to get to his son fast;
he had to save his son’s life while there was still time. If The Ghost of Christmas Present
had been correct, his son was lying in the alley next to the homeless shelter.
She told him the name of the street and the address, then asked, “Where should I
leave your keys, Carl?”
Carl was halfway down the street by then. The shelter wasn’t far from his shop.
He turned and shouted without stopping, “I’ll pick them up at the shelter later. Don’t
worry about it. And thank you so much for doing this.”
When he reached the homeless shelter and turned the corner at the alleyway, he
slipped and fell on the snow, sliding into a brick wall with his right shoulder. He’d been
running so fast his face was red and there were beads of perspiration dripping from his
temples. He couldn’t catch his breath and his chest heaved with the effort. But when he
looked down the alley and saw a denim jacket in the snow, he bit his bottom lip and got
up on his feet.
When Carl reached the denim jacket and looked down, the young man who had
delivered Able’s sandwich on Christmas Eve was lying in a pile of snow. It was the same
young man that Carl had seen with the ghosts. His face was covered with sticky red
cough syrup and the empty bottle of medicine was still next to his leg. Carl reached for
his cell phone and called 911. He told them where he was and that it was a matter of life
and death.
Then he removed his own coat and went down on his knees in the cold snow. He
pressed two fingers to the boy’s neck and closed his eyes. The boy had a pulse and he
was still breathing. Carl lifted him slowly and covered him with his coat. When he sat down behind the boy, he put his arms around the boy’s shoulders as tightly as he could
and cradled him in his arms. Tears ran down Carl’s face; the boy’s frail body was so cold.
“Hold on, son. Please, please hold on. I’m so sorry for everything and I’m going to make
it all up to you if it takes the rest of my life. You have to hold on. It’s Christmas Day.”
The boy’s head moved. He slowly lifted his right hand and placed it on Carl’s
hand. “Where am I? Who are you?” he whispered. His voice was so weak he could barely
finish a sentence.
Carl held him tighter. He rested his cheek on the boy’s head and said, “I’m your
father, Carl. Don’t try to speak. Just hold on. You’re going to be fine. Everything is going
to be fine from now on. I promise.”
The paramedics arrived within minutes. Carl watched, wiping his eyes, while they
