Terry Weide

         It was Christmas Eve and it had begun to snow lightly. The sweet strains of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" drifted on the still air, following a group of carolers as they started down 52nd street—a row of deteriorating brownstones. 

         In one of these, a drunk and depressed Jim Keller sat on the edge of his bed, holding his head in his hands. Slowly, he reached down and picked up a crumpled piece of paper by his feet. For the tenth time, he reread the letter that had greeted him when he'd come home from work that afternoon. He'd expected Marcie, his pretty wife, to meet him with her usual "hello" kiss, but instead had been met only with the letter on the kitchen table.

Dear Jim:

You don't know it, but for the past few months, Philip and I have been having an affair. Today, he asked me to go away with him, and I said yes. I'm sorry for any pain or hurt this might cause you, but I just can't go on living like we're poor any longer. Even with me working part time, there's never enough money. And I'm fed up with being at home while you're at the office 16 hours a day. I've got a life of my own, whether you know it or not, and it's time I started living it. You'll get along better without me anyway. One less person to pay bills for.

                                    Goodbye, and good luck, Marcie

         The shock had still not worn off, and Jim could feel tears forming behind his eyes.  Why shouldn't she leave him for Philip? he asked himself. Philip was a promising attorney, fresh out of law school, while he, Jim, was a struggling insurance salesman barely able to afford groceries. It wasn't fair, Jim thought. He'd been working hard to just have it come to nothing. Maybe he had left Marcie at home a lot lately, but it had been for her sake as much as his. He'd been pushing himself, trying to build a solid and secure future so they could have some of the better things, and now nothing...

         Jim dropped the letter again and sat back on the bed trying to figure out what to do. Then, suddenly, he knew. Life simply wasn't worth living. It was all a joke, a crock, and he refused to play the game any longer. He walked to the closet and after rummaging around a few seconds, located the old Remington shotgun that in happier times had been used to hunt quail. The box of shells was next to it, and he carefully removed one from the box and placed it in the chamber of the gun. Jim walked back to the bed, sat down, and placed the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth. As he was reaching for the trigger, the doorbell rang.

         He jumped as though electrified. His mood of depression changed instantly to a fear of being caught. He threw the shotgun under the bed, raced out of the bedroom and into the living room, trying desperately to compose himself before he opened the door. Suppose it's Marcie, he thought. Suppose she's decided to come back to me. Suppose... Jim gathered his courage and opened the door, only to be greeted by a band of rosy-faced carolers.

         "Hi, there" said the leader, a tall, blonde youth. "I'm Bill Prescott, and we're caroling for our church. We'd like to sing a song for you, if we may. You look like you could use a bit of Christmas cheer," he added, noting Jim's flushed expression.

         "Sure, go ahead," said Jim, incredibly disappointed, but trying not to show it.

         "Great," said Bill. "Anything special you'd like to hear?"

         "No, I can't think of anything," Jim replied, tiredly. "Whatever suits you is fine with me."

         "Hmm," said Bill. "Okay, I think we've got just the thing for you. Here goes."

         With that, he and the other carolers gave the sweetest rendition of "Joy to the World" that Jim had ever heard. When the song came to an end, Jim stood silent for a few seconds, spellbound by its beautiful notes. Then he reached in his pocket for a donation.

         "Oh, no charge," Bill waved the money away. "It's all in the Christmas spirit, you know. Goodbye now," and he and the other carolers turned and started down the walk.

         Jim slowly shut the door and went back into the house. He tried to recapture the depressed mood he'd been in before the carolers arrived, but couldn't. He walked into the bedroom and pulled the shotgun out from under the bed. For a moment, he considered it, then jacked the shell out of the chamber and put the gun back in the closet. He moved to the bureau and took a long look at himself in the mirror. Yes, perhaps he would live after all.

         Roger reclined in his overstuffed chair and lit his pipe. Cynthia, his wife, lit the Yule log in the fireplace, then dropped into a chair of her own, staring like a contented cat into the flames. A wreath of mistletoe hung above the fireplace and the air was filled with the scent of pine from the beautifully decorated Christmas tree.

         "Anyone for a story?" Roger called to the children, Ann and Timmy, who had been stealthily inspecting presents under the tree.  

         "A story, oh, boy," squealed Ann, jumping out from under the tree and hopping up in her father's lap.

         Timmy followed her, although a little more slowly. After all, he told himself, Ann was only five, while he was eight. Eight-year-olds should act more dignified.

         "What are you going to read to us, daddy?" he asked in his most dignified voice.

         "How about this?" said Roger, picking up a worn copy of The Night Before Christmas from a coffee table.

         "Not that again," said Timmy. "I know that one by heart. Say, I've got a real cool book up in my room about the Teen Titans going to the North Pole. Maybe you could read that one instead."

         "Humph, maybe another time," said Roger.

         "Yeah, be quiet," said Ann. "I want to hear this one."

         Timmy glared at her, but said nothing.

         "Twas the night before Christmas,..." Roger began.

         Despite himself, Timmy got hooked on the old story and was sorry when it was over.

         "Daddy," asked Ann, when Roger had finished, "when's Santa really going to get here?"

         "Well, I think you'll have to be in bed before he'll show up," Roger replied. 

         "Yeah, don't you know anything, you dope?" demanded Timmy. "Santa won't come if you're awake."

         "But I want to see him," cried Ann, "and I'm not a dope!" She stuck her tongue out at Timmy. "Anyway, how's he going to find the milk and cookies I left out for him?"

         "Didn't you know that Santa's got X-ray eyes?" Roger asked, thinking quickly.

         Ann shook her head.

         "Sure," said Roger. "It helps him to see down chimneys."

         "Sure, don't you know anything?" asked Timmy, again, although he hadn't known Santa had X-ray eyes either. 

         This time, Ann didn't stick out her tongue. Instead, she wound up and threw a right cross that narrowly missed Timmy's chin. 

         "I'll get you for that," growled Timmy, making for her.

         Ann squealed and ducked under Roger's arm.

         "Children, stop that!" called Cynthia from her chair. "If you're not good, Santa might not come at all."

         The children backed off and contented themselves with mutual glares. 

         So much for peace and quiet, thought Roger.

         At that moment, the doorbell rang and Roger rose to answer it, the children at his heels.

         "Hi, there," said Bill Prescott, when the door had been opened. "We're caroling for our church and wondered if we might sing a song for you."

         "A song, oh goodie," squealed Ann.

         "I like songs too," said Timmy, assuming his dignified voice.

         "Anything special you'd like to hear?" asked Bill.

         "Frosty the Snowman, Jingle Bells, Up on the Housetop, Rudolph," the children shouted all together and at once.

         "Whoa," said Bill. "Slow down. That's a pretty tall order."

         "You decide," Roger said to Bill, trying to save him.

         "Hmm, let's see," said Bill, thinking. He glanced at the children. "Ah, I believe I've got just the thing for you two." With that, he led his group into a lively version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." When the verse gonna find out who's naughty and nice was reached, a funny look crossed Timmy's face. 

         "I'm sorry, Ann," he said, and for a reason he didn't understand, he reached out and gave her a hug.

         "Thank you for that," said Roger, shaking Bill's hand after the song was done. "Would you like to come inside for some hot chocolate or nutmeg?"

         "No thanks," said Bill, "we've got to be off. So many other houses to visit, so many more songs to sing," he said, smiling.

         "Thank you, thank you all again," Roger called, as the carolers started down the walk. He turned, shut the door, and faced the children. "Off to bed with you now," he said in mock sternness. "Your mother and I have a date under the mistletoe."

         For once, the children complied without argument and ran up the stairs as fast as they could to get into bed.

         Amelia Jackson had just finished cleaning her good silver in preparation for tomorrow's dinner. Fred had decided to turn in early tonight and she had the house to herself. It was a quiet time, a time for reflection. As she started to put the box of silver back on the shelf, she glanced out the kitchen window and was momentarily lost in her thoughts.

         The window was frosted over and a street light outside made the world look a soft, hazy blue. Now she seemed to see a different time, a different Christmas. A time when she had not had gray hair or wrinkles, a time when laughing children played beneath a tall Christmas tree that had an angel on the top, and could that handsome young man actually be Fred? Then, as suddenly as the vision had come, it was gone, and Amelia was returned to the present. She sighed softly and took off her apron, hanging it on a hook on the wall. She sat down at the table and began playing with a cup of coffee, remembering.

         It had been 30 years since she and Fred had moved into the once well-kept townhouse at the end of the street. Now that Fred didn't get around so well, the townhouse was beginning to look bedraggled, but it held a wealth of memories that could more than withstand the passing of time. She and Fred had raised their children in this house and raised them well. Ken was a doctor with his own practice, Jill was a teacher at the local high school, and Tom was an accountant, working hard and making a good living. Ken and Jill were both married now, with children of their own, and even Tom, the perennial bachelor was engaged to a lovely girl and would be married soon. 

         Yes, Amelia thought, they had raised their children well, but somehow, these past few years with the children gone, she had begun to feel unneeded, as though her days of usefulness were at an end. Her reminiscings were suddenly broken by a knock on the door.

         "Who in the world could it be at this hour?" she said, aloud. She rose slowly from her chair and made her way carefully through the family room that was lighted only by the bulbs from the Christmas tree. She did not move as fast as she once did, and there was no sense having an accident by getting in a hurry. Before she opened the door, Amelia smoothed back her gray hair.

         "Hello, there," said a young man, when she opened it, "I'm Bill Prescott, and we're caroling for our church." He indicated the band with him. "Could we sing a song for you ma'am?" he asked.

         "Certainly," said Amelia. "How very nice of you."

         "Anything special you'd like to hear?" said Bill.

         " ‘Little Town of Bethlehem' has always been one of favorites," said Amelia. "Could you sing that?"

         "Of course," said Bill.  "It's always been one of my favorites too." "Oh, little town of Bethlehem," Bill began, and his group came in behind him in perfect harmony.

         "That was beautiful, just beautiful," Amelia told them when they had finished. "Thank you very much."

         "Thank you, ma'am," Bill replied. "Well, we've got to be on our way now. Good night."

         "Good night," Amelia called after them, and as she shut the door, a smile played about her lips where before there had been a frown. The carolers had reminded her of the miracle of Christmas through the beautiful notes of one of her favorite songs. Christmas was a time to rejoice, and both she and Fred had a lot to be thankful for. Though they didn't get around as well as they used to, they still had their health, and though the children were no longer at home, the house would again echo with childish laughter tomorrow, not of children, but of grandchildren.

         Yes, Amelia thought, as she climbed the stairs to the bedroom, Christmas was a time for rejoicing and counting your blessings, not for self pity.

         As the carolers left the Jackson house and started into the street, a man walked forward to meet them. 

         "Hello again," said Jim Keller to Bill. "I'm glad I caught you guys," he said, somewhat nervously.

         "Hello, yourself," said Bill, shaking his hand. "What brings you out tonight?"

         "I was wondering if I could go caroling with you," Jim answered, still nervous. "I used to be a pretty good tenor," he added.

         "Sure, always room for another good singer in the church," Bill said, clapping him on the back.

         "Thanks, thanks a lot," said Jim. "Say, what church do you belong to?"

         "Why, God's church of course," answered Bill, and from under his coat, he pulled a small, golden harp on which he began to play "Silent Night." As he played, Bill's body levitated slightly off the ground. Then the rest of the group joined in, also playing harps and levitating.

         For a moment, Jim stood stunned. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

         Somewhere, Ann and Timmy dreamed of Santa Claus while their parents kept a date under the mistletoe, and somewhere, Amelia Jackson dreamt while the silent stars went by. And somewhere, as a band of angels played "Silent Night" on their harps of gold and one mortal sang tenor, the snow fell heavier, blanketing the city in its whiteness.

 

 

Copyright 2005, Terry Weide

Terry Weide is an author for New Age Dimensions, and his Predators and Editors award winning fantasy novel, Dream of Power, Dream of Glory, can be seen at http://tinyurl.com/8uzbl  His writing has also appeared in Flash Me, Flashshot, The Verb, The Sword Review, Dragons, Knights, and Angels, Whispering Spirits, and Alien Skin e-zines, on the OnceWritten.com site, in the print magazines Moon Reader, Midday Moon, and The Writers Post Journal, and in the Short Attention Span Mysteries anthology at http://www.kerlak.com/  He is the author of a chapbook of poetry, Suburbs of the Mind, and a digest book of poetry, stories, and essays, Skipping Across Creation, both from Snark Publishing. These may be found at http://tinyurl.com/7494s  He thanks all those who take the time to read his work. 

 

 

Cover: "Stained Glass Sword"
Melinda S. Reynolds

Copyright 2005