Embrace Me (11 page)

It's late Christmas Eve. Tomorrow I'll reshave my head and see if Hermy wants to go down to KFC and get a meal with all the sides. But the walls are closing in on me. Catholics have midnight mass, right? Isn't that some sort of obligation or something? Maybe I'll fall asleep before then. That would be a good thing too.

An hour before the Christmas Eve service an inch of snow fell. I remember losing myself in the view out the window. Mount Oak made a picturesque scene around Christmastime, wreaths on almost every door—each one competing with the next—garland, tasteful white lights. Except for Charmaine Hopewell's place. She loved colored lights. Strung them from the roof, the chimney, around every bush and every tree. Motion figures waved or swayed as they sang carols. Santa and his sleigh landed on the roof. Cars filled their cul-de-sac to get a peek from December first forward.

From my second floor apartment window over Java Jane's, I watched the town square slowly disappear under the soft flakes. I wondered why the world couldn't always be like that, but like everyone else, I felt clueless how to make it happen.

A hunched figure crossed the perfect white surface, marring it. Dressed in layers, he or she shuffled alone. And I felt a strange stirring inside of me I couldn't, and still don't, understand, Father. I ran down the street but the person had disappeared. I stood in the cold, my tracks a mess behind me.

By the time I realized I'd zoned a little, I was fifteen minutes behind schedule. I hurried back up to my apartment, threw on my suit and tie, and sped over to the church as the snow died down.

I snuck up a side aisle and sat in the second row. Christmas Eve lay completely in the hands of Jim Ignowski, our music and arts director. But I had to show up. Jim wasn't someone to cross lightly. Our financial pastor had basically strong-armed me into suggesting a love offering for the evening, and Jim put his foot down, almost on top of my own. In return he agreed to do a Christmas in America segment despite the fact he didn't see what the two had to do with each other and didn't mind saying so. I knew I had to watch him closely or up his salary. Either one would work.

It was the usual fare besides the Christmas in America segment. Olde English choral numbers and a few from Handel's
Messiah
. A fun interlude where people strolled arm-in-arm down an avenue singing “It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” and “Winter Wonderland.” Kids singing Baby Jesus-type songs. Jim knew how to put on a show, get people in the door, and keep them coming back. Well worth the lack of an offering to showcase our talent and goodwill.

My favorite part always closed the show—Mary and Joseph in a darkened stable with the silver beam of starlight shining on the Baby. Our sound effects guy piped the breathing and muffled sounds of barn animals, crickets, even a breeze around the auditorium. We paid a fortune for that sound system.

We sat in the stillness of those effects, a Bethlehem stable becoming reality in that auditorium. Sort of. For about twenty seconds the starlight collected into a stronger beam, then lying down upon the scene like a dove alighting on a rooftop, a single note of a violin. Then light taps on the bongos and Mary sang “Lullay, Thou Little Tiny Child.”

Even during my most determined times, Father, the seed my mother left behind didn't die. It was a miracle, I know. But I sat there and yearned to be a better man, a better Christian, more like Mary who wasn't proud and who gracefully shouldered a full load of shame.

Mary sang. The notes filling the air with power and grace, much like the real Mary's life must have done around those who knew her.

And I'd never heard a voice like that before. It was perfect. That's all I can tell you. Clear and perfect. No former Mary had sung like that, and nobody ever will again.

I quickly turned to the cast list at the back of the handout.

That Mary was Daisy. I didn't realize she was still coming to the church. Good for Jim for finding her talent. I knew we'd hired the right guy for the job! She wasn't a beautiful woman, but she had an undeniable presence.

At the closing prayer, I left my seat and made right for the green room. We actually called it the green room.

I found her, already dressed in her street clothes. Plain khakis and a Christmas sweater. Her hair was still pulled back in a simple pony-tail for the veil she wore onstage. She looked much better like that, without all that teasing and hairspray.

She smiled, right into my eyes, like she'd known me all of her life.

It's the rare person that can make someone feel so comfortable right away. And I'd seen the congregation's reaction to her as she sang. She pulled them right in, caught them in a spell. She was amazing. Maybe it was the fact that she had such a beautiful voice, but it was more than that. She could minister.

You saw all that right then, you ask, Father?

I did. I'd been sizing up people for years. I'd learned from the master. And I knew we could use her. She'd be in my hands. Together, we'd figure it all out. What surprised me was that I hadn't realized we needed a major female player before that. She had something this male-heavy church needed, a woman up front, someone they could relate to.

“Hi, uh, Daisy, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Beautiful job. The best Mary we've ever had.”

“Thanks.”

She still exuded that bit of confidence, but like before, it came from a surface place, the same place where you learn nobody with class wears white shoes after Labor Day or if you really love the Lord, you'll dress in only your best clothes for Sunday worship. Moldable, moldable, moldable.

She might be the key to the next big step of growth now that we'd gathered all the coffee-bar types.

“I won't keep you. I just wanted to say what a great job you did.

We're blessed to have you.”

“I'd love to chat, but I've got to meet my mother around back.

Sorry.”

“No problem. Well, Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you.”

She walked down the hallway, her blonde hair picking up the beams of the recessed lighting. Halfway to the door, amid kids in costumes running up either side of her, lots of chatter and relieved sighs, she turned. She hurried back to me. “I don't know why I'm asking this, because I'm sure you're busy, but if you aren't doing anything tomorrow evening, my mom and I are having a little get-together. Just deli trays and meatballs, the best red velvet cake you'll ever eat, shrimp spread, that sort of thing. You're welcome to come, although like I said, I know you probably have plans.”

I smiled. “I'll keep it in mind.”

“Great. Take care.”

I drove back to my apartment afterwards, heated up some soup, and slid in a DVD of
The Port of Peace Hour
. After the New Year I would begin my role as “dorky young guy on the couch.” I wanted to get to know the Hopewells's on-air personalities, how I could spring-board off of them to create my own persona. I certainly didn't want to be oil to their water. I prided myself on being able to get along with everyone.

Christmas morning came, I called my father. He was due at Senator Randall's at one o'clock. I suspected him to be doing exactly as I was, making a turkey sandwich and watching some football games or that old movie.

I could've refused Daisy's invitation and gone camping. But she was too valuable and completely worth a solitary Christmas day in my apartment.

It was a lonely life, yes. But I saw myself as a man on a mission.

You can fool yourself about your needs for a long time, about what you can give up, what it takes to be successful. Whatever your definition of success happens to be.

I showed up at Daisy's house at seven p.m. She let me in with a smile and a blush that told me, no doubt, she was interested in me. She sang at the piano while her mother played, and everybody joined in on the caroling. A few people begged her to sing a few songs alone and she kept declining, until finally I said, “Please, Daisy. Sing us a song.” I wanted to see how magical she really was—if I'd been wrong the night before.

She sang us a song. Intimate, without a mic. And it was even more beautiful. Everyone in the room sat breathless, waiting for the next note, and the next.

Yes, we would make a great combination. She was definitely what the church needed.

I pulled Trician aside and asked about her daughter's singing. Was it a career? What had she done previously? Oh, pageants and talent shows, contests and state fairs. That sort of thing. Daisy was first runner-up for Junior Miss in the state competition.

Trician nodded like a weed in the wind. “I've led her every step of the way. We're going to the top. We just need to figure out how to do that, but I know we can.”

“She'll go far with that voice.”

“It's the best voice you've ever heard, don't you think?” she asked.

“Yes. Other than opera.” I had to keep her in her place.

“Well, yes. But that's a different ball game altogether.”

Yes, it was.

It was the start of Drew and Daisy—with a little Jesus thrown in for good measure.

But if that had been the case, I wouldn't be sitting here with this bald scabby head and all these cigarette burns on my arms and legs now, would I?

Speaking of cigarette burns.

This time, I slather on the Neosporin.

Hermy's research said cigarette burns can get infected if left untreated. So. Thanks for that, man.

Hermy knocks on my door. “Hey, Drew. It's almost midnight. You done writing?”

“Sure, come on in.”

He holds up a half-gallon carton of eggnog with both hands. “So, how 'bout a little sharing of the nog?”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothin', man.”

“Got any statistics on eggs?”

“Naw, not tonight. Just a little Christmas spirit. For some reason you can forget your troubles on Christmas Eve. Feel holy in a way.”

“Did you know that in wars, on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day there'd be a ceasefire?” I take the carton and pull down my mug and my glass.

“Sure did. Except for George Washington. He desecrated it during the Revolutionary War.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Figures. We were mixing the wrong things from the beginning. My father would approve.

“It's still the holiest night of the year though. God coming down and all,” he says.

“So why didn't Christ's birth make more of a difference? Why didn't His death, Hermy? Do you believe in that stuff?”

“Oh yeah. Suckled on it from day one.”

“Do you have any of the answers?”