quot;N" Street 2 страница

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.

Chapter IV

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 good-bye?" 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.

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