quot;N" Street 3 страница

Though we were aware of its existence, neither Keri nor I had actuall y e ver seen it. It lay on the cushio n s pread open to the Gospel of John.

Keri gently slipped her hand under th e b ook's spine and lifted the text carefully. It was older than the other two Bibles, its script more Gothic and g raceful. She examined it closely. Th e i nk appeared marred, smeared b y m oisture. She ran a finger across th e p age. It was wet, moistened by numerous round drops. Tear drops. She delicately turned through the gold-edge d p ages. Many of the leaves wer e s poiled and stained from tears. Tear s f rom years past, pages long dried an d w rinkled. But the open pages were stil l m oist. Keri laid the book back down o n t he chair and walked out into the hall.

Mary's thick wool coat was missing f rom the lobby's crested hall tree. Th e i nner foyer doors were ajar and at th e b ase of the outer set of doors sno w h ad melted and puddled on the col d m arble floor, revealing Mary's departure. Mary's absence left Keri feelin g u neasy. Mary rarely left the hom e b efore noon and, when she did, typically went to great lengths to inform Keri of the planned excursion days i n a dvance. Keri went back upstairs unti l f orty-five minutes later, when sh e h eard the front door open. She ra n d own to meet Mary, who stood in th e d oorway, wet and shivering from th e c old.

"Mary! Where have you been?"

Keri exclaimed. "You look frozen!"

Mary looked up sadly. Her eyes were s wollen and red.

"I'll be all right," she said, then without an explanation disappeared dow n t he hall to her room.

After brunch she again pulled on h er coat to leave. Keri caught her i n t he hall on the way out. "I'll be goin g o ut again," she said simply. "I ma y r eturn late."

"What time shall I prepare supper?"

Keri asked.

Mary didn't answer. She looked d irectly at her, then walked out int o t he sharp winter air.

It was nearly half past eight when Mary returned that evening. Keri ha d g rown increasingly concerned ove r h er strange behavior and had begu n l ooking out the balcony window ever y f ew minutes for Mary's return. I ha d a lready arrived home from work, been thoroughly briefed on the entir e e pisode, and, like Keri, anxiousl y a nticipated her return. If Mary ha d l ooked preoccupied before, she wa s n ow positively engrossed. She uncharacteristically asked to take supper alone, but then invited us to joi n h er for tea.

"I'm sure my actions must seem a l ittle strange," she apologized. Sh e s et her cup down on the table. "I'v e b een to the doctor today, on accoun t o f these headaches and vertigo, I'v e b een experiencing."

She paused for an uncomfortably l ong period. I sensed she was goin g t o say something terrible.

"He says that I have a tumor growing in my brain. It is already quite larg e a nd, because of its location, they cannot operate." Mary looked straigh t a head now, almost through us. Yet he r w ords were strangely calm.

"There is nothing that they can do. I have wired my brother in London. I thought you should know."

Keri was the first to throw her arms a round Mary. I put my arms around th e t wo of them and we held each other i n s ilence. No one knew what to say.

Denial, perhaps, is a necessary h uman mechanisim to cope with th e h eartaches of life. The followin g w eeks proceeded largely without incident and it became increasingl y t empting to delude ourselves int o c omplacency, imagining that all wa s w ell and that Mary would soo n r ecover. As quickly as we did, however, her headaches would retur n a nd reality would slap our faces a s b rightly as the frigid December winds.

There was one other curious change i n Mary's behavior. Mary seemed t o b e growing remarkably disturbed b y m y obsession with work and no w t ook it upon herself to interrupt m y e ndeavors at increasingly frequen t i ntervals. Such was the occasion th e e vening that she asked the question.

"Richard. Have you ever wondered w hat the first Christmas gift was?"

Her question broke my engrossment in matters of business an d w eekly returns. I looked up.

"No, I can't say that I've given it m uch thought. Probably gold, frankincense, or myrrh. If in that order, it wa s g old." I sensed that she was unsatisfied with my answer.

"If an appeal to King James will a nswer your question, I'll do so on Sunday," I said, hoping to put the question to rest. She remained unmoved.

"This is not a trivial question," she s aid firmly. "Understanding the firs t g ift of Christmas is important."

"I'm sure it is, Mary, but this is i mportant right now."

"No," she snapped, "you don't know w hat is important right now." Sh e t urned abruptly and walked from th e r oom.

I sat quietly alone, stunned from t he exchange. I put away the ledge r a nd climbed the stairs to our room. As I readied for bed, I posed to Keri th e q uestion Mary had asked.

"The first gift of Christmas?" she a sked sleepily. "Is this a trick question?"

"No, I don't think so. Mary just a sked me and was quite upset that I didn't know the answer."

"I hope she doesn't ask me, then,"

Keri said, rolling over to sleep.

I continued to ponder the question o f the first gift of Christmas until I gradually fell off in slumber. That nigh t t he angel haunted my dreams.

The following morning at the breakfast table, Keri and I discussed th e p revious evening's confrontation.

"I think that the cancer is finally a ffecting her," I said.

"How is that?" Keri asked.

"Her mind. She's starting to lose h er mind."

"She's not losing her mind," she s aid firmly. "She's as sharp as you o r m e."

"Such a strong 'no'," I said defensively.

"I'm with her all day. I ought to know."

"Then why is she acting this way?

Asking weird questions?"

"I think she's trying to share something with you, Rick. I don't kno w w hat it is, but there is something." Ker i w alked over to the counter an d b rought a jar of honey to the table.

"Mary is the warmest, most open individual I've ever met, except.." Sh e p aused. "Do you ever get the feelin g t hat she is hiding something?"

"Something?"

"Something tragic. Terribly tragic.

Something that shapes you and c hanges your perspective forever."

"I don't know what you're talking a bout," I said.

Suddenly Keri's eyes moistened.

"I'm not so sure that I do either. Bu t t here is something. Have you eve r s een the Bible that she keeps in th e d en?" I shook my head. "The page s a re stained with tears." She turne d a way to gather her thoughts. "I jus t t hink that there is a reason that we'r e h ere. There is something she is trying to tell you, Rick. You're just no t l istening."

Chapter V

THE STONE ANGEL

My conversation w ith Keri had left me curious an d b ewildered. As I gazed outside at th e s now-covered streets I saw Steve i n h is driveway brushing snow off hi s c ar. It occurred to me that he migh t h ave some answers. I ran upstairs t o t he Christmas Box, removed the firs t l etter from it, and scrolled it carefully.

Then stowing it in the inside pocket o f m y overcoat, I quietly slipped out o f t he house and crossed the street.

Steve greeted me warmly.

"Steve, you've known Mary a long t ime."

"Pretty much all my life."

"There's something I want to ask y ou about."

He sensed the serious tone of my v oice and set the brush down.

"It's about Mary. You know she's like f amily to us." He nodded in agreement. "There seems to be somethin g t roubling her, and we want to hel p h er, but we don't know how. Ker i t hinks that she might be hiding something. If that's the case I think that I might have found a clue." I looke d d own, embarrassed by the letter I was holding. "Anyway, I found some l etters in a box in the attic. I thin k t hey're love letters. I was hoping tha t y ou could shed some light on this."

"Let me see it," he said.

I handed the letter over. He read it, then handed it back to me.

"They are love letters, but not to a l over."

I must have looked perplexed.

"I think you should see something.

I'll be over at Mary's Christmas Eve t o v isit. I'll take you then. It'll be aroun d t hree o'clock. It will explain everything."

I nodded my approval. "That will be f ine," I said. I shoved the letter bac k i nto my coat, then paused. "Steve, have you ever wondered what th e f irst gift of Christmas was?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious, I guess." I walked b ack to my car and drove off to work.

As had become the norm, it was a busy day spent helping brides-

to-be match colorful taffeta swatches t o formal-wear accessories; choos e b etween ascot or band ties; pleated, French-cuffed shirts with wingtip collars or plain shirts with colorful ruffle d d ickies. I had just finished measuring and reserving outfits for a larg e w edding party. Upon receiving th e r equired cash deposit from the groom, I thanked them for their business, waved goodbye, and turned to help a y oung man who had stood quietly a t t he counter awaiting my attention.

"May I help you?" I asked.

He looked down at the counter, swaying uneasily. "I need a suit for a s mall boy," he said softly. "He's fiv e y ears old."

"Very good," I said. I pulled out a r ental form and began to write. "I s t here anyone else in the party that wil l n eed a suit?"

He shook his head no.

"Is he to bearing bearer?" I asked.

"We'd want to try to match his suit t o t he groom's."

"No. He won't be."

I made a note on the form.

"All right. What day would you like t o reserve the suit for?"

"We'd like to purchase the suit," he s aid solemnly.

I set the form aside. "That may not b e in your best interest," I explained.

"These young boys grow so fast. I'd s trongly suggest that you rent."

He just nodded.

"I just don't want you to be disappointed. The length of the coat canno t b e extended, only the sleeves an d p ant length. He may grow out of it i n l ess than a year."

The man looked up at me, initiating e ye contact for the first time. "We'll b e b urying him in it," he said softly.

The words fell like hammers. I looked down, avoiding the lifeles s g aze of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said demurely. "I'll hel p y ou find something appropriate."

I searched through a rack of boys s uits and extracted a beautiful blu e j acket with satin lapels.

"This is one of my favorites," I said s olemnly.

"It's a handsome coat," he said. "It w ill be fine." He handed me a pape r w ith the boy's measurements.

"I'll have the alterations made i mmediately. It will be ready to b e p icked up tomorrow afternoon."

He nodded his head in approval.

"Sir, I'll see that the jacket is discounted."

"I'm very grateful," he said. He o pened the door and walked out, blending in with the coursing river o f h umanity that filled the sidewalks at Christmas time.

As I had spent the morning measuring out seams and checking the availabilities of jackets, Keri was bus y a t her own routine. She had fed, bathed, and dressed Jenna, then se t t o work preparing Mary's brunch. Sh e p oached an egg, then topped a biscuit with it, dressing it with a tablespoon of Hollandaise sauce. Sh e t ook the shrieking teapot from th e s tove and poured a cup of peppermint tea, set it all on a tray, and carried it out to the dining room.

She called down the hall, "Mary, your brunch is ready."

She went back to the kitchen and f illed the sink with hot, soapy wate r a nd began to wash the dishes. After a f ew minutes she toweled off her hand s a nd walked back to the dining room t o s ee if Mary needed anything. The foo d w as untouched. Keri explored the de n b ut the Bible lay untouched on it s s helf. She checked the hall tree an d f ound Mary's coat hanging in its usua l p lace. She walked down to the bedroom and rapped lightly on the door.

"Mary, your brunch is ready."

There came no reply.

Keri slowly turned the handle and o pened the door. The drapes were stil l d rawn closed and the room lay still an d d ark. In the bed she could see th e f orm lying motionless beneath the covers. Fear seized her. "Mary! Mary!"

She ran to her side. "Mary!" She put h er hand against the woman's cheek.

Mary was warm and damp and b reathing shallowly. Keri grabbed th e t elephone and called the hospital fo r a n ambulance. She looked out th e w indow. Steve's car was still in th e d riveway. She ran across the stree t a nd pounded on the door. Stev e o pened it, instantly seeing the urgenc y o n Keri's face.

"Keri, what's wrong?"

"Steve! Come quick. Something is t erribly wrong with Mary!"

Steve followed Keri back to the h ouse and into the room where Mar y l ay delirious on the bed. Steve too k h er hand. "Mary, can you hear me?"

Mary raised a tired eyelid, but said n othing. Keri breathed a slight sigh o f r elief.

Outside, an ambulance siren w ound down. Keri ran out to meet i t a nd led the attendants down the dar k h all to Mary's room. They lifted Mar y i nto a gurney and carried her to th e b ack of the vehicle. Keri grabbed Jenna and followed the ambulance t o t he hospital in Mary's car.

I met Keri and the doctor outside of Mary's hospital room. Keri had calle d m e at work and I had rushed down a s s oon as I could.

"This is to be expected," the doctor s aid clinically. "She has been prett y f ortunate up until today, but now th e t umor has started to put pressure o n v ital parts of the brain. All we can d o i s try to keep her as comfortable a s p ossible. I know that's not very reassuring, but it's reality."

I put my arm around Keri.

"Is she in much pain?" Keri asked.

"Surprisingly not. I would have e xpected more severe headaches.

She has headaches, but not as acute a s most. The headaches will continu e t o come and go, gradually becomin g m ore constant. Coherency is abou t t he same. She was talking this afternoon but there's no way of telling ho w l ong she'll remain coherent."

"How is she right now?" I asked.

"She's asleep. I gave her a sedative. The rush to the hospital wa s q uite a strain on her."

"May I see her?" I asked.

"No, it's best that she sleep."

That night the mansion seemed a v acuum without Mary's presence and, for the first time, we felt like stranger s i n somebody else's home. We ate a s imple dinner, with little conversation, and then retired early, hoping t o e scape the strange atmosphere tha t h ad surrounded us. But even m y s trange dreams, to which I had grown accustomed, seemed to be affected.

The music played for me again, but i ts tone had changed to a poignan t n ew strain. Whether it had actuall y c hanged, or I, affected by the day's e vents, just perceived the alteration, I don't know, but like the siren's song, again it drew me to the Christmas Bo x a nd the next letter.

December 6, 1916

My Beloved One.

Another Christmas season has c ome. The time of joy and peace. Ye t h ow great a void still remains in m y h eart. They say that time heals al l w ounds. But even as wounds heal the y l eave scars, token reminders of th e p ain. Remember me, my love. Remember my love.

Sunday morning, Christmas Eve, the s now fell wet and heavy and ha d a lready piled up nearly four inches b y a fternoon when Steve met me nea r t he mansion's front porch.

"How's Mary today?" he asked.

"About the same. She had a bad b out of nausea this morning but otherwise was in pretty good spirits. Ker i a nd Jenna are still at the hospital wit h h er now."

He nodded in genuine concern.

"Well, let's go," he said sadly. "It will b e g ood for you to see this."

We crossed the street and together c limbed the steep drive to his home.

Still unaware of our destination, I followed him around to his backyard.

The yard was filled with large cottonwood trees and overgrown eucalyptus shrubs. It was well secluded by a h igh stone wall that concealed th e c emetery I knew to be behind it.

"There's a wrought-iron gate behind those bushes over there," Stev e s aid, motioning to a hedge near th e w all. "About forty years ago the owne r h ere planted that hedge to concea l t he access to the cemetery. He wa s a n older man and didn't like the ide a o f looking out into it each day. My f amily moved here when I was twelv e y ears old. It didn't take us boys lon g t o discover the secret gate. We hollowed out the hedge so that we coul d e asily slip into the cemetery from it.

We were frequently warned by the s exton never to play in the cemetery, but we did, every chance we got.

We'd spend hours there," Steve confided. "It was the ideal place for hideand-seek."

We reached the gate. The paint h ad chipped and cracked from th e c old, rusted steel, but the gat e r emained strong and well secured. A padlock held it shut. Steve produce d a key and unlocked the gate. I t s creeched as it swung open. We e ntered the cemetery.

"One winter day we were playing h ide-and-seek about here. I was hiding from my friend when he saw m e a nd started to chase. I ran though th e s now up to the east end of the cemetery; it was an area where we neve r p layed. One of our friends swore h e h ad heard the wailing of a ghost u p t here and we decided the place wa s h aunted. You know how kids are."

I nodded knowingly as we trudged o n through the deepening snow.

"I ran up through there," he said p ointing to a clump of thick-stumpe d e vergreens, "then up behind the mausoleum. There, as I crouched behin d a tombstone, I heard the wailing.

Even muffled in the snow it was h eart-wrenching. I looked up over th e s tone. There was a statue of an ange l a bout three feet high with out-

stretched wings. It was new at the t ime and freshly whitewashed. On the ground before it knelt a woman, her f ace buried in the snow. She was sobbing as if her heart were breaking.

She clawed at the frozen ground as if i t held her from something sh e w anted desperately--more than anything. It was snowing that day and m y f riend, following my tracks, soo n c aught up to me. I motioned to him t o b e quiet. For more than a half hour w e s at there shivering and watching i n s ilence as the snow completel y e nveloped her. Finally she was silent, stood up, and walked away. I'll neve r f orget the pain in her face."

Just then I stopped abruptly. From a distance I could see the outsprea d w ings of the weather-worn statue o f a n angel. "My angel," I muttered audibly. "My stone angel."

Steve glanced at me.

"Who was buried there?" I asked.

"Come see," he said, motioning me o ver.

I followed him over to the statue. We s quatted down and I brushed th e s now away from the base of the monument. Etched in the marble pedestal, above the birth and death dates, wer e j ust three words:

OUR LITTLE ANGEL

I studied the dates. "The child was o nly three years old," I said sadly. I closed my eyes and imagined th e s cene. I could see the woman, we t a nd cold, her hands red and snow bitten. And then I understood. "It was Mary, wasn't it?"

His response was slow and melancholy. "Yes. It was Mary."

The falling snow painted a dream-

like backdrop of solitude around us.

It seemed a long while before Steve b roke the silence. "That night I told m y m other what I had seen. I thought that I would probably get in trouble. Instea d s he pulled me close and kissed me.

She said that I should never go back, that we should leave the woma n a lone. Until now, I never did go back.

At least not to the grave. I did come c lose enough to hear her crying, though. It would tear me up inside. Fo r o ver two years she came here ever y d ay, even in spring when the pourin g r ain turned the ground to mud."

I turned away from the angel, thrust m y hands in my coat pockets, an d s tarted back in silence. We walke d t he entire distance to the hous e b efore either one of us spoke. Stev e s topped at his back porch.

"The child was a little girl. Her n ame was Andrea. For many years Mary placed a wooden box on th e g rave. It resembles the boxes th e w ise men carry in Nativity scenes. My g uess is it's the box you found wit h t he letters."

I mumbled a thank you and headed f or home alone. I unlocked the heavy THE CHRISTMAS B o x f ront door and pushed it open. A dar k s ilence permeated the mansion. I climbed the stairs to our quarters an d t hen the attic, and for the first time I brought the Christmas Box out int o t he light. I set it on the hall floor an d s at down beside it. In the light, I coul d s ee the truly exquisite craftsmanshi p o f the box. The high polish reflecte d o ur surroundings and distorted th e i mages, giving a graceful halo to th e r eflected objects. I removed the las t l etter.

December 6, 1920

My Beloved One.

How I wish that I might say these things to your gentle face and that this box might be found empty. Even as the mother of our Lord found the tomb they placed him in empty. And in this there i s h ope, my love. Hope of embracing yo u a gain and holding you to my breast. An d t his because of the great gift of Christmas. Because He came. The first Christmas offering from a parent to Hi s c hildren, because He loved them an d w anted them back. I understand that i n w ays I never understood before, as m y l ove for you has not waned with time, but has grown brighter with each Christmas season. How I look forward to tha t g lorious day that I hold you again. I lov e y ou, my little angel.

Mother

Chapter VI

THE ANGEL

I set the letter b ack in the box and pulled my knee s i nto my chest, burying my head int o m y thighs. My mind reeled as if in a d ream, where pieces of the day's puzzle are unraveled and rewoven into a n ew mosaic, defying the improbabilit y o f the cut edges fitting. Yet they did fit.

The meaning of Mary's question was n ow clear to me. The first gift of Christmas. The true meaning of Christmas.

My body and mind tingled with the revelations of the day. Downstairs I hear d t he rustling of Keri's return. I walke d d own and helped her in.

"I came back to get Jenna some d inner," she said, falling into my arms.

"I am so exhausted," she cried. "And s o sad."

I held her tightly. "How is she?"

"Not very good."

"Why don't you lie down, I'll put on s ome soup and get Jenna ready fo r b ed."

Keri stretched out on the sofa while I dressed Jenna, fed her, then carrie d h er downstairs to the den.

It was dark outside, and in absence o f a fire, the room was bathed by th e p eaceful illumination of the Christma s t ree lights. Strands flashed on and of f i n syncopation, casting shadows of different shapes and hues. I held Jenn a i n silence.

"Dad, is Mary coming home for Christmas?" she asked.

I ran a hand through my hair. "No, I don't think so. Mary is very sick."

"Is she going to die?"

I wondered what that meant to my l ittle girl.

"Yes, honey. I think she will die."

"If she is going to die, I want to giv e h er my present first."

She ran over to the tree and lifted a s mall, inexpertly wrapped package. "I made her an angel." With excitemen t s he unveiled a petite cardboard ange l c onstructed with tape, glue, and pape r c lips.

"Dad, I think Mary likes angels."

I started to sob quietly. "Yeah, I thin k s he likes angels, too."

In the silence of the lights we faced t he death of a friend.

In the outer hall I could hear the r inging of the telephone. Ker i a nswered it, then found us downstairs.

"Rick, that was the hospital. Mary is d ying."

I wrapped Jenna up warmly and s et her in the car with Keri. We drov e s eparately, so that one of us coul d b ring Jenna home when the tim e c ame. We arrived at the hospital an d t ogether opened the door to Mary's r oom. The room was dimly illuminated by a single lamp. We coul d h ear Mary's shallow breathing. Mar y w as awake and looked toward us.

Jenna rushed to the side of the r eclining bed and, inserting her tin y h and through the side rails, presse d t he little angel into Mary's hand.

"I brought you something, Mary. It's y our Christmas present."

Mary slowly raised the ornament to h er view, smiled, then squeezed th e l ittle hand tightly.

"Thank you, darling." She coughed h eavily. "It's beautiful." Then sh e s miled into the little face. "You're s o b eautiful." She rubbed her han d a cross Jenna's cheek.

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