Authors: Joseph Pittman
A Christmas Wish (6 page)
C
HAPTER
7
HAPTER
7
Saturday night I kept the tavern open longer than usual, until two a.m., and there was a good reason for itâthere was nothing waiting for me back at the farmhouse. Janey had asked to have a sleepover at Ashley's and I saw no reason why not, so off she went with her overnight bag and off I went to a full night of work at George's. It was a busy night, with my regulars outnumbered by a group of out-oftowners who were here for an antiques holiday gift-buying exhibit. Regardless of who was from where, they were all looking for something to occupy their time for a few hours, a place where they could leave their troubles behind and celebrate the season. Apparently they had either lots of time to kill or lots of problems to forget, because as midnight came and went they all remained.
“You don't mind, where we come from, bars don't close till four,” said a man about fifty. He didn't give off the impression that he'd closed many of those bars lately.
“Let me guess, New York,” I said.
“Ever been there?” he asked.
“Called it home once upon a time,” I said, feeling like it had been a million years ago, not just earlier this year. “Tell you what, I'll keep the taps going till two. Hopefully that will give you a taste of home.”
“Good of you. We all need a taste of home, no matter where the world takes us,” he said. “So, buy you a round?”
I shook my head. “Thanks, no. Like to keep a clear head.”
“Bartender who doesn't drink.”
I shrugged. “It's a business.”
The taps kept up with the festive crowd, until one fortyfive, when I announced last call. When they left, they gave a generous tip and wished me a happy holiday. Finally, the last straggler, one of my regulars, finished his beer at two fifteen, and as he ventured out into the cold early morning air, I locked the door behind him and set about cleaning up the bar. A half hour later I turned off the lights and left. George's Tavern was closed until Monday at four p.m.
Linden Corners was quiet as I drove along the empty roads, my headlights guiding me in the darkness. There was a noticeable chill in the air. Snow was in the forecast, along with some bitter cold, just as it had been for most of the last couple of weeks. Folks up in these parts liked the joke that there were two seasons in Upstate New York: winter and August. Gallows humor, I supposed. Still, aside from some harmless flurries, nothing of substance had accumulated today. The weatherman continued to spout those same predictions each night, I guess figuring he'd be right eventually.
I was about to make the turn off the main highway onto Crestview Road and head home. Instead I continued straight on Route 23 until I saw the mighty old windmill. The headlights of my car caught sight of the sails of the windmill, which were anything but dormant in these early hours of the new day. The wind had picked up the past couple of hours, was rushing across the open land like it wanted to be anywhere but here. Like I had often done during my first few weeks in Linden Corners, I pulled to the side of the road to get a better view of my favorite village landmark. Keeping the beams of light focused directly on the windmill, I hopped atop the roof of my car. Annie had called it Brian's Bluff, a direct response to a place along the river she'd shared with me, which I had dubbed Annie's Bluff. We had had such a short amount of time together, but time enough to reveal deep emotions, hidden places in the world and in our hearts. I gazed forward, wrapping my arms around myself for warmth.
And then I thought. I thought about the holidays and I thought about traditions and I thought about Janey, my thoughts always consumed with what was best for her. I thought about tomorrow, which was already today by the evident turn of the clock. Janey and I had planned to spend the entire day together, a typical, uneventful Sunday for us. But thinking, too, would it really be so typical? Our time together of late had been anything but. I thought about what we might do, what I might say, to somehow bring us back to the even footing that had been the foundation of our relationship. She had showed me so much with her big open heart. Heck, she'd even melted my parents' hearts, no easy feat. I thought of Kevin and Didi Duncan, wondering if their cruise was really a fresh start for Christmas, or were they just running from memories? Was I guilty of the same? Family was delicate, easily broken, like an icicle in strong wind.
The chill began to seep beneath my outer clothes and prickle at my skin, and I thought maybe I was thinking too much. I'd been guilty of that before, many times. The holidays did that. What if? What if things had been different? A guessing game no one could win. Silently, I said good night to the windmill, which really was a good night to Annie, watching as the snowflakes began to drift down right then and there, caught in the glow of the headlights. The strokes of a winter portrait appearing right before me.
When I returned to the farmhouse, I didn't turn on any lamps, the faint light from the shadowy moon outside filtering in, guiding me. I made my way through each room with easy familiarity, a sign that I'd become comfortable within these once-foreign walls. I changed into sweats and left my bedroom, taking a moment to look in at Janey's empty room. Her purple frog sat on the freshly made bed. He looked so lonely. Closing the door, I retreated back to the warmth of the living room. No television, no music, no noise, just the quiet sounds of night. I found myself staring out the window. It was snowing heavily now, and if this continued there was a good chance of waking to a blanket of snow covering the open land.
I tossed a blanket over myself and again my mind toyed with my emotions. In the wake of Annie being gone, visiting with her spirit at the base of the windmill generally brought me solace. Tonight it hadn't. Janey's lovely, alluring, headstrong momma had evaded me, almost as though she was siding these days with the emotions of her fickle daughter. An image of Annie's late husband, Dan Sullivan, popped into my head, and I wondered whether his spirit moved, did he ever visit the place he'd called home? Janey hadn't known him; she rarely spoke of him as she did her mother. Still, he had been her father. Father, capital letter.
No matter what else happened between me and Janey, good or bad or somewhere in between, there was no denying the truth. I was an impostor inside this home, a substitute for the people who had brought her into this world and given her life. Two people who had, in a moment of consuming, passionate love, made her the magical girl she was. At Thanksgiving Katrina Henderson had made a misjudgment by calling me Janey's dad. Maybe I had made the bigger mistake, thinking I could possibly fulfill that duty, if not in name then in spirit.
At last, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, the first time I'd ever slept alone inside the Sullivan farmhouse. Ironic, no, that there was not a Sullivan to be found within its walls.
C
HAPTER
8
HAPTER
8
Eight inches of fresh white snow had fallen by morning, and thanks to a wave of cold air that continued to flow past the countryside none of the snow threatened to melt. It was here to stay, just as much as the cold temperatures and the winter months. In fact, the top layer of snow was crunchy as our heavy boots stomped over it, an icy coating on top that made for treacherous walking. Janey and I had decided to take full advantage of winter's loud arrival, having dragged the red sled out of the barnâdusting it off after three dormant seasonsâand then making good use of the steep hill located at the edge of the backyard. Janey's face was alive and happy from the fun she was having, the sled easily cutting through the wind as it raced downward. My job was simple: walk the sled back up the hill, just so she could go again. After about ten trips, I said, “Hey, when is it my turn?”
“Your turn? Brian, what do you mean?” she asked, her face masked by a hat and scarf. Still, I could see that famous querulous expression of hers.
“Come on, let me have the sled.”
“Silly Brian. Grown-ups don't go sledding.”
Like Trix cereal.
“Shows what you know,” I said, taking hold of the reins of the sled. I climbed aboard it, trying to fit my six-foot frame on the red toboggan that wasn't made for meâfor “grown-ups,” as Janey had so sneeringly put it. Sitting upright first, my feet stretched far over the front of the sled's lipped front. Okay, that didn't work. Then I tried to sit cross-legged, but my knees were like wings on an airplane, unable, though, to take flight. Finally, I lay down on my stomach, my legs dangling over the back of the sled.
Janey found much to be amused about that position. “Brian, you won't get very far.”
“Oh yeah?” I said, teasingly.
“Yeah.”
“Watch this,” was my final warning, and that's when I gave myself a good, hearty push. Suddenly, I was hurtling down the hill on a direct course with the windmill. Janey took up the chase behind me, her happy screams somehow giving the sled more power. Cold wind whipped at my face. I hadn't worn a hat. I decided the ride had gone on long enough and so I suddenly turned the sled over and allowed myself to crash into the piles of snow. The sled slid out from under me, easily continuing its journey after depositing its weighty cargo. As I rolled to a stop and feigned unconsciousness, Janey came up next to me. That's when I grabbed her ankles and pulled her down. She let out a quick yelp.
“Brian, stop, Brian, come on . . . ,” she demanded in mock protest. As we wrestled in the hard-packed drifts, she grabbed a handful of snow and rolled it into a nice round ball. I got up to escape its wrath. She threw the snowball. It landed square on my chest, and, keeping the game alive, I fell to the ground like a soldier in battle. But this didn't stop the assault, as she continued to toss snowball after snowball at me. I buried my head with my arms, waiting for just the right moment to spring my surprise on her. Quickly, I grabbed a handful of snow, hurling it at her as I regained traction. She let out another peal of laughter while she retreated up the hill. I started after her.
“No, you have to bring the sled back up,” she said as I closed in on her. “No fair, you're too big, you'll catch me easily.”
So I let her have her way, because kids love to win. I went back for the sled, and while I did she managed to reach the top of the hill. When I returned, she planted another snowball on me, grabbing the sled as I ducked. In seconds she had leaped onto the sled and was making her escape down the hill once more, laughing as the distance between us grew. “Ha, ha, Brian, I won, I won.”
See what I mean? Her victory was sweet for us both because it had been days since I'd seen her happy and smiling. And even though I was chilled to the bone, I wanted nothing more than for this moment of détente to last forever. I settled for another hour of winter playtime, during which we attempted to roll a snowman and he ended up looking like some winter creature instead, and finally we gave up. We went back inside the farmhouse to warm up. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were a rosy red.
“Hey, Rudolph,” I said, “how about some hot chocolate.”
“Yeah, yeah, with real chocolaty sauce. And marshmallows,” she said eagerly.
“I'll see what we've got.”
“We always have them. Momma never lets us run out . . .”
In a flash, Janey had quieted down and run from the kitchen. I wanted to go after her, but decided not to press the issue. Not now, not after we'd had such a joyous time. Instead, I made the steaming mugs of hot chocolate, adding some Hershey's chocolate syrup to make it extra flavorful, as suggested. Letting it cool, I looked inside the cabinets and pulled out a half-empty bag of mini-marshmallows, probably left over from the summer. I tossed a bunch of them in each mug, and then brought them both up to her room on a tray that also had some cookies for dunking. Janey was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. I joined her.
“I'm sorry, Brian.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. Janey, there's going to be a lot of times like that, you'll do something and suddenly you'll be reminded of your mother. I want you to remember them. I want you to talk about them. I want to hear all about them. Some of them will make you sad, but if you think about how much your mother enjoyed them, especially when you shared in her enjoyment, well, you'll start to remember all the wonderful times you had with her. Remember, you get to carry on her traditions. Like adding marshmallows to hot chocolate.”
She sniffled. I reached for one of the napkins on the tray. She wiped her dripping nose, then took hold of the mug. She took a sip, then smiled.
“Mmm. Extra-chocolaty.”
“You told me that's the way you liked it.”
“Actually, that wasn't me,” she said. “It was Momma who liked it with the chocolate sauce. And it's real yummy. Thanks, Brian. It's my favorite way now.”
We sat in companionable silence as we sipped at our hot chocolate and emptied the tray of cookies, both of us even picking up the crumbs. I showed her how to get the maximum amount of crumbs by dampening her fingertips. Janey again informed me how silly I'd been to attempt to ride the sled. But she said it with a smile that belied her opinion. That only served to make the day even more special, knowing she and I had recaptured a piece of the magic that defined our relationship.
As she set down her mug, she wiped away a chocolate mustache. “Hey, Brian, can I ask you a question?”
“Anything, you know that.”
“Are we going to get a tree?”
“A tree? You mean a Christmas tree? Of course we are.”
“When?”
“When would you like to get it?”
“What day is it?”
“It's Sunday.”
“No, the date.”
“Oh, it's December fourth.”
“In two weeks, I think. Momma and I, we would always go and cut down a tree in the middle of December, so we could have the tree decorated for a while. You remember I told you that at Thanksgiving? I like to see it all lit up, with that shiny stuff.”
“You mean tinsel?”
“I don't think so.” She paused, mused on the word. “No, that's not it.”
“Icicles?”
“Yes, yes, the shiny strings!” she said. “I love how they look on the tree, but they sure do make a mess of the floor when you take the tree down.”
“I call that messy stuff tinsel.”
“Why are they called two different things?”
“I don't know. Sometimes the same thing has the same meaning, but has two words to describe it. I pointed to the near-empty mugs between us. “Hot chocolate is the same thing as hot cocoa.”
“That's weird,” she said.
“Yes, it is. At least we agree on calling our drink hot chocolate.”
She was unconvinced still. “Now I'm not sure what to call them. Icicles or . . . tinsel. You and Momma used different names. So that makes them different traditions.”
Okay, how to handle this one? I gave it some thought, Janey just staring up at me as if I had magic answers floating above me, ready for the picking at the right moment. Parenting didn't work that way. “If you think about it, Janey, even though they go by two different names, ultimately it's the same thing, creating the same result. Tinsel or icicles by any other name would still produce a beautiful, glistening Christmas tree.”
She thought about that. “Good one, Brian.”
Phew.
“So, can we? You know, get the tree?”
“Of course, consider it done,” I told her.
“Huh? Why should we pretend it's done? Where's the fun in that? Chopping the tree down is almost my favoritist part.”
“It's going to take me a little while to get used to all your traditions, Janey.”
“I can help.”
“Oh yeah? How?”
“Follow me.”
She left her room and padded down to the end of the hall, where she opened the door that led to the attic. Trailing behind her, I flicked on the lights to guide our way. It was cold up here, but Janey seemed impervious to it, so determined now in her mission that nothing could stop her. Amidst the sea of memorabilia that contained the Sullivan family historyâand before them, the history of the defunct Van Diver family, who had built the farmhouse and the windmillâwere several cardboard boxes marked X-MAS in handwriting I recognized as Annie's. Even deep in the attic, where the past came alive, we felt her presence.
As I pulled the boxes from the tight corner, Janey tore off the tops, revealing a burst of decorations, lights, shiny balls, and other trinkets that would be set on the fireplace mantel or on the walls or upon the doors. There was also an envelope marked P
ICTURES
, and when I opened it I discovered they were photographs of a Christmas past. Annie in her bathrobe, Janey in hers, the two of them surrounded by gifts and boxes and discarded wrapping paper. Janey squealed in delight when she saw them, telling me these were from last year, she knew, because that's when she had gotten the sled, the one we had been using today.
ICTURES
, and when I opened it I discovered they were photographs of a Christmas past. Annie in her bathrobe, Janey in hers, the two of them surrounded by gifts and boxes and discarded wrapping paper. Janey squealed in delight when she saw them, telling me these were from last year, she knew, because that's when she had gotten the sled, the one we had been using today.
“See the sled in the background of that photo . . . I remember, because last Christmas there was no snow and so I couldn't use it that day. I was bummed,” she said. “I guess Momma never had time to put these in a photo album. Look, there's one of Cynthia and Bradley, they came over last year, I remember that, too. See, Bradley took that picture of Momma and Cynthia. Cynthia's holding my new baby doll, pretending to feed it its bottle. And that's me. . . .”
Janey and I sat there for a good long time, poring over each photograph. I listened to the stories that accompanied each one, making mental notes to myself about ideas to incorporate into our upcoming holiday, the first we would celebrate together. She returned the photos to their protective sleeve and resumed her search. She was clearly looking for something specific. Suddenly she grew excited again as she pulled the top off another box. She clapped wildly when she made her discovery.
“Brian, you'll love this, I know you will,” she said.
She withdrew in her tiny hands what must have been Annie's most favorite Christmas decoration of all: a ceramic, brightly painted, snow-covered windmill, with sails that actually spun. Carefully, Janey handed it to me and I gazed lovingly on it, mesmerized by its transforming beauty. Like the windmill outside, like Annie herself. I asked Janey if we could bring this one downstairs now and she clapped at the suggestion.
“It's never too early for Christmas,” she said.
“No, not in the land of the windmill it's not.”
Just then the telephone rang downstairs, and Janey went racing to answer it, leaving me in the attic alone. I started to get up before changing my mind. I knew there had to be other photographs from years ago, and I wanted to see those. When I found them at the bottom of another box, I started to look through them, hunting for other clues to Christmases past. I stumbled upon an album that turned out to contain memories of Janey's first Christmas. She was just eleven weeks old, with Annie holding her as she sat in front of the Christmas tree. No doubt her husband, Dan, had taken the photo. As an answer to my question, the next photo was of Dan holding Janey, a smile brightening his handsome face. Emotion swelled within me, blocking my throat. My God, what forces of nature had brought this precious little girl to this moment, only eight and planning her future holidays without either of these people in her life. How fortunate I was to be caring for her, but how daunting a task it was, too. Was I really up to it? Suddenly feeling like I was an intruder to history I had no business knowing, I put the photo albums back in their box and tried to reseal the tape. It flipped open, as though taunting me. In that cold, musty attic that day, I made a vowâto Annie and to Dan Sullivan, tooâthat I would do all I could to make this holiday perfect for Janey. But how? I knew she would need the most special gift possible.
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