C
HAPTER
19
The joyous celebration was perfect, yet something continued to nag at me, distracting me. All night long I couldn't help but feel that I was missing something. Traditions old and new had come vibrantly alive, coexisting in a happy circumstance of togetherness. Laughter and stories of holidays past kept us entertained while trinkets glittered all around us.
It was three nights later, when, as a cold, blowing snow blanketed Linden Corners in acres of white powder and blustery drifts, inside the warm safety of the farmhouse, our winter wonderland presented itself as a rainbow of bright colors. The living room was in total disarray. Pine needles doubled as a second carpet and several boxes that had been brought down from the attic were strewn about, half-empty now after nearly two hours of decorating work. The result, though, was a mostly trimmed, beautiful Christmas tree. The string of lights circled the branches, the golden garland glistened against the array of red and blue and green and gold lights, ornaments adorned virtually every green branch. What remained was the crowning touchâour oft-debated subject of tinsel versus icicles. In the end, we had ceded each other our own traditions on this one, and so as Janey exclaimed, clapping her tiny hands, our tree would be extra special because it had both tinsel and icicles.
“Double the amount, lots of it to sparkle against the lights,” she said.
Of course I had bought an extra box, so Janey could go at the decorating to her heart's content. Actually, she was very nimble with the thin strands, placing them with obvious intent upon the branches. Me, I had this habit of just tossing them, and when that went against the grain of her concentrated look, she pushed me aside.
“I'll do it, and I'll make it all nice.”
I was spared any more tinsel-related torture as the telephone rang. I left her to answer the phone in the kitchen. Might as well make some hot chocolate and hot tea while I was at it.
“Hello,” I spoke into the receiver.
“Brian, it's your father.”
“Oh, hi, Dad,” I said. The caller ID had indicated a “Private Number.” Had I guessed who might have been calling, I would have been wrong no matter the number of chances given. I guess my voice betrayed me. “What a surprise to hear from you.”
“Yes, Brian, I admit, it's rare for me to pick up a telephoneâunless I need to check on my portfolio, you know.” His comment, I assumed, required no response, and I waited for the reason for the call. “As you know, your mother and I are soon to leave for our cruise with the Hendersons. We're flying to Florida first, to spend a couple of days there before boarding. I was taking care of end-of-theyear finances, going over my accounts, and I was surprised to learn that you hadn't yet cashed the check I gave you. So I wanted to know if everything was all right.”
How stupid of me to think he wouldn't notice. Dad watched his bank account like Santa checked his list. “No problem, sorry, Dad. I just haven't gotten around to it, uh, yet.”
“Brian, might I remind you that it's careless to leave a check for such a sum of money lying around the house. You could lose it, it could get misplaced.” He paused to clear his throat. I could visualize a quick sip of his Manhattan, helping to coat his throat. “Also, my accountant prefers that I not have all that money floating around out there in some financial netherworld. Especially at this time of year.”
“Dad, tell your accountant that what you gave me is not a tax write-off,” I said.
My father would not be deterred, not when it came to money. He was moving full steam ahead, no doubt his words scripted in his head. “Brian, giving you the check was not meant to hurt your pride, I hope you realize that. Like it or not, it's our way of helping you out. Cash the check, have a good Christmas with your sweet Janey. I'm sure the rest will come in handy in the new year as you figure out your financial plan. That's it, Brian, no more lecturing.”
“I appreciate your concern, Dad, and I promise I'll head over to the bank tomorrow,” I said. “Oh, before you hang up, did you and Mom get the invite? I was hoping, well, you know, maybe you could make it up to Linden Corners before the holiday. The cruise doesn't leave until the twentyfourth, right? So you could make it. I want you to see where I live, where I work, meet my friends. Maybe have some of my own family around.”
“It's a very kind invitation, Brian, but at this time of year it's just not doable. Your mother is helping with several charity functions, and I've got work piled upâif she and I are going to get away with the Hendersons, we'll need every moment until then. We leave on the twenty-second. Like I said, a few days of rest in Florida before we hit the high seas. I'm sorry, son.”
“That's okay,” I said, not surprised by their decision but disappointed nonetheless.
“Good-bye, Brian. And don't forget, first thing tomorrow . . .”
“I know, I know, go to the bank. 'Bye, Dad. Give my love to Mom.”
“The same to you and Janey. Merry Christmas.”
I hung up the phone and realized the teakettle was whistling. I turned it off without pouring the water into the mugs I'd prepared. Instead I returned to the messy living room, where I found Janey sitting on the sofa, strands of tinsel dangling from her fingertips.
“Hey, no breaks. Get to work,” I said, jokingly cracking the whip.
“I'm tired,” she said. “Can I clean up all this tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? We're almost done. We're going to turn on the tree and sit and just stare at our handiwork,” I said, sudden anxiety welling up inside me. First Dad and his typical distance, now Janey and her ever-changing moods. I didn't like dealing with either. Just minutes ago we had been having a grand time, and now she had grown sullen, not even looking my way as she addressed me. I'd only been gone from the decorating, what, ten minutes at the most? And hadn't she sent me off anyway? What could possibly have occurred during the time of the phone call and now had me coming up empty. I tried to coax her into finishing the tree, enticing her with promises of an ice cream sundaeâ “chocolate syrup and everything”âon top of the hot cocoa, but she turned me down flat.
“Good night, Brian.”
I wished her pleasant dreams as she padded her way up the stairs. She disappeared at the top of the steps, the door to her room closing the only sound she made. I heard it rattle through the quiet of the night. I didn't hear another peep out of her the rest of the night. Had I blown it again? The interruption of my father's phone call had only been for a few minutes, but perhaps in Janey's mind it had been longer. Leaving her alone with the tree, no Dan, no Annie, and now no Brian.
Frustrated and guilt-ridden by these sudden shifts in her mood, I busied myself by cleaning up the mess we had made. And when I finished, I turned off the lamp and sat and stared at the sparkling Christmas tree. Thoughts churned in my head, about Janey and about my parents, too, my mind ultimately settling on the issue of what to do with that twenty-five-thousand-dollar check. It was like it was toying with me, part of me knowing how sensible it was to deposit it, the other part feeling like I'd be failing Janey, and thus myself, if I did. Yes, I was loath to accept it, but my father had left me with little choice. He didn't make phone calls because he enjoyed them.
Maybe it was the phone call from my father that made me remember, but I realized the tree wasn't yet complete, at least not for me. What I'd been missing that night was my personal link to my Christmas pastâthe glass ornament with my name written in glitter still lay beneath Janey's bed, snug against the bedpost in its protective box, and I suppose I was still waiting for her to finally return it. Tonight it had momentarily slipped my mind, but now I knew that my mind had shut it out for now. Keeping the peace was important on this special night, one we would remember for years, our first tree trimming. I'd hoped having the tree up would inspire her to come around and present it to me; perhaps when she'd gone upstairs I'd considered she might be going to retrieve it. No matter how she returned it, it didn't matter. She could just say she found it, she didn't even have to accept responsibility for having had it all this time. I wouldn't be mad at her. Still, there was nothing from her camp on the issue, and she was already asleep. And beneath her sleep hid my family tradition. She continued to act as though she didn't know where it was.
As I sat back down upon the sofa and looked at the nearfinished tree, I had to wonder if my parents, even with their pending trip, were putting up a tree in their new home. I doubted it, which made me wonder. Would they dust off their name ornaments and hang them elsewhere, perhaps over their hearth? And what about Rebecca, did she even care? Did a trinket from Christmas long ago really matter anymore?
Did anyone still remember Philip?
My first Linden Corners Christmas was quickly going downhill, on a sled suddenly out of control.
C
HAPTER
20
The next morning, Janey came downstairs already dressed for school. I had breakfast ready, so the two of us sat down at the table, silence hovering between us. She had a healthy appetite this morning and ate her pancakes with gusto. She didn't comment on the fact that I'd deviated from our schedule. I usually only made pancakes on the weekend. I was still worried about her and me, and so I ate very little. Before she left that morning, she stole a look at the tree. The lights were off, and I thought it looked lonely.
“Wow, Brian, it's really beautiful, we did a good job.”
“You haven't seen it with the lights on yet,” I said.
“I'll see it tonight,” she informed me. She gave it one last, studied look. “I bet the tinsel makes the shiny ornaments sparkle.”
“Not all of them, the tree's not finished.”
Even as I said it, I cursed my passive-aggressive approach. Thing was, Janey bit.
“Oh, right, your ornament. I feel bad, Brian.”
“Why is that, sweetie?”
“Because you can't find your special ornament,” she said matter-of-factly. “Oh, well, the bus will be here in moments, I better get down the driveway. We have a lot of snow today.”
It was almost as if Janey was living in that same state of denial, as well. She just wouldn't confess that she'd taken the ornament.
After she left, I considered going up to her room and retrieving the box from underneath her bed and just placing the ornament on the tree. Then I could gauge Janey's reaction, but how would I explain it, that I was searching her room? That I was cleaning and found it? Even that sounded hollow. No easy solution presented itself to me, so I busied myself with other matters.
I had the entire day to myself, and would use it to run some needed errands. Around ten that morning, breakfast dishes cleaned up, I trekked through the snowy field on a direct course for the windmill. Now that the farmhouse was decorated for the season, there was nothing left to do. Even the shopping for gifts was mostly done. As I made my way down the hill, the sight of the windmill made me take a step back, like always. The sails were quiet, barely moving on this especially calm day. The winter storm from last night had blown by. A rich blue hue coated the sky, and the air contained a crispness that chilled my bones. I could easily see my breath in front of me. But what struck me most was that, in this season of gleaming lights and abundant joy, the windmill looked lonely and forgotten, its wooden carcass somehow colorless. It occurred to me to wonder if Annie had decorated the windmill during the holiday season. If she did, had it been for her and Janey's pleasure or for the enjoyment of passing motorists who could see the great old mill from the road? Blinking lights of blue and green and red and yellow struck me as the wrong chord. But maybe something more sedate, with more sparkle, like a night sky filled with stars. And, as though the windmill had inspired me, like always, I found myself liking more and more the pictures my mind had conjured.
To turn my new dream to reality, there was an errand I needed to run. I had to go to town anyway: A trip to the bank nagged at me. It had kept me up half the night. I had tossed and turned about what to do and ultimately realized my father would not leave it alone. So, to the bank I would go. Then I could stop by Chuck Ackroyd's Hardware Emporium, as well, to get the necessary supplies that would make the windmill sparkle in the night. Newly energized, I returned to the farmhouse, grabbed from the desk drawer the check my father had given me, and hopped into the car. Snow crunched beneath my tires as I made my way down the driveway and onto the plowed road. I found myself humming Christmas songs the entire trip into town, the holiday spirit reawakened within me. My fingers tingled against the steering wheel, and I contemplated the plan unfolding in my mind. Ha, take that, Marthaâmy windmill would outdo her old diner. As I parked the car and headed up the sidewalk to the Columbia County Savings Bank, I nearly collided with Cynthia Knight.
“Hey, Brian, look out,” she called out, a bit too loudly considering I was right in front of her. She skirted around me with sudden flexibility.
“Oh, hey, Cyn, sorry. Guess I'm a little distracted.”
“A little?”
I smiled. “Sorry, are you okay?”
“I'll be okay,” she said, hand on her heart, her breathing heavy. “Just took me by surprise.”
“And I've got my head in the clouds, dreaming up some last-minute details,” I said. “Really, Cyn, if there's anything you need, you'd tell me, right? It goes both ways, us helping each other.”
“I'd tell you if I could,” she said enigmatically. “So you said something about a last-minute plan? Care to fill me in?”
“I'd tell you if I could,” I said with a smile.
Calm now after our near-collision, she gave me a studied, curious expression. “Touché, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through. Guess it's a holiday filled with surprises. But still, color me intrigued about yours. You look like a devil with a plan on your pitchfork. While you're plotting whatever, can you melt some of this snow?”
“Nah, even I want a white Christmas.”
“Well, in any case, I'm glad I ran into you. I've got some last-minute shopping to do at the mall and I was planning to go tomorrow afternoon. Bradley needs some new shirts for the office and he hates department stores, so I thought I'd wrap up a few for under the tree. Men are so difficult to buy for. Bradley needs a distraction from work, work, work. Tell me, would you like that, new dress shirts?”
“I don't wear dress shirts anymore, so no, I wouldn't like them.”
“Gee, so helpful you are,” she said. “Anyway, I was thinking maybe Janey would want to join me. I hate shopping alone and the idea of having a little girl with me . . . well, what's better at Christmastime? Do you think she'll hate the idea?”
I laughed. “Hate going to the mall? Janey'll love it.”
“Perfect, I'm excited. Besides, the holiday is fast approaching, and I figured she needed to do some shopping of her own,” Cynthia said, sporting a knowing look. My guess was, this impromptu trip to the mall had already been discussed and needed only my approval. “Also, there's that gift drive that St. Matthew's is having, part of their annual toy drive. You know, donate a gift for the less fortunate. I need a kid's opinion on what another kid would like.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Thanks, Cyn, Janey will have a ball.”
She returned to her car, walking gingerly on the icy sidewalks, and I realized I had lost an opportunity to ask if Cynthia had detected a change in Janey's behavior. Or was it reserved only for me? I could have solicited her opinion on what might be bothering Janey, but in the end I was glad I hadn't. Cynthia had taken on enough responsibility in helping out with Janey; the last thing she needed was to hear my whining. She was our friend, not Janey's mother. This problem between me and Janey, it was mine to figure out. Janey and I would make it through, I told myself, though the conviction was not as strong as I might have wished it to be.
Pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind, I went inside the bank and filled out a deposit slip and then handed it and the endorsed check to the teller. The teller raised her eyes at the amount, but said nothing to me. He just took care of the paperwork.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Duncan?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, sudden inspiration hitting me, “there is. Do you know when this check will clear?”
A few minutes later I left the bank, the distaste in my mouth I entered with no longer present. Leaving my car at the bank, I headed for the hardware store down the street. Linden Corners's business district was that easily negotiated.
Ackroyd's Hardware Emporium was owned by the surly Chuck Ackroyd, a longtime resident of Linden Corners and not my biggest fan, even though we had seen each other through the fiercest of storms last summer. It had been a rare meeting of our minds that hadn't been repeated to this day. Chuck had been one of George's regulars, one of his good friends, too, and resentment had reared its ugly head once George embraced me as he did upon my arrival in town. Jealousy is a useless emotion, but some choose to find strange comfort in it. As I walked into Chuck's busy store that day, the bells jangling above my head, I saw him standing at the information desk. I nodded hello, and he pretended to occupy himself with something other than saying hello back. Not even the holiday season could help him, though in fairness to him, he had no one close with whom to share it. His wife had run out on him years ago, and he hadn't fully swallowed that bitter pill.
Guiding a cart with wobbly wheels, I ventured down a crowded aisle still overflowing with Christmas accoutrements and decorations, lights and power strips and angels to put atop a tree, finally picking out several boxes of white lights. Then I went in search of extension cords and more staples for the staple gun I'd used to put up the lights at the tavern. When I had all I required, I made my way to the cashier and paid for them. Chuck came by to bag my purchases, casting me a wide eye as he stuffed the numerous lights into the brown paper bag.
“You lighting up the sky with these?” he asked.
“No, just the windmill.”
He harrumphed. “You and that windmill. I don't get it.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Chuck,” I replied, wishing I hadn't allowed him to goad me. I turned back to him with a fresh smile and said, “So, see you at the party this weekend?”
He shrugged. “Probably not.”
I was about to brush him off, but that's what he expected me to do. Imbued with the holiday spirit, I took another tactic. “We would like you to be there. Your invitation was sent by me, yes, but it really comes from Gerta. She still considers you a dear friend of the familyâyou were there for her during the funeral and after and are still. This year's party is another passage for her, Chuck, the first holiday without George. Don't disappoint her, Chuck. Besides, you never know who'll show up, maybe make you smile.”
“I'll think about it, Brian,” he said.
Wow, he actually said my name without a sneer. Well, there was progress for you.
I had one more errand to run, and so I returned to the bank's parking lot and got behind the wheel of the car again. I pulled out into light Linden Corners traffic, a phrase most might call oxymoronic, and made my way around the corner to St. Matthew's Church. Aside from our occasional Sunday excursion to mass, the memory that stuck with me was this past summer when, during that fierce storm, many of the residents sought refuge within its sturdy walls and basement. Unfortunately, much of the beautiful stained glass that covered the windows was blown out by the howling wind, and it was still being repaired. No simple task, not only because of the artistry involved, but the financial concerns, as well.
I rang the bell of the rectory, and almost at once it was answered by none other than Father Burton himself. His smiling, aged face looked at me with surprise, but still he welcomed me in like a sheep returning to its flock.
“Brian Duncan, why, it's not Sunday,” he said, amusement written across his face.
“No, that it's not, Father. I wonder, do you have a moment ?”
“For Linden Corners's favorite son, of course I do.”
“I'm hardly that,” I said.
“Son, since you've come to our fair village, you've made more than an impression.”
“Thank you, that means a lot.”
He ushered me into his small office. A pencil-sketch rendition of St. Matthew's had been hung over his desk, along with the obligatory cross. For a man who had spent most of his adult life at this parish, his office was surprisingly impersonal, in direct contrast to the warmth I discovered in his face.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I suppose I've come for adviceâabout Janey.”
“A charmer, that one,” Father Burton said.
“She's presented me with quite the dilemma this Christmas, and I'm just not sure how to handle it,” I said, and before I even realized it I launched into my story of the missing ornament. He listened with intent, nodding but not interrupting. When I finished, he stood up and asked that I follow him. We left the rectory, crossing into the church itself. All was quiet, our feet echoing against the hard floor. I allowed my eyes to wander, gazing at the stained-glass windows, at the way the light pierced their color and bathed the church in a warm glow. I could well imagine Father Burton enjoying his solitary time inside this sacred church; it held a power much like the windmill. It inspired, it taught, just by being. Man's creation brought to life by the faith it drew in us all.
Yet even the most beautiful thing can be damaged, and in front of a boarded-up, broken window was where Father Burton stopped. It had been damaged by this summer's fierce storm, a tree branch crashing through it. Months later, the window remained unrepaired; stained glass was a concentrated art, and it would take a while before St. Matthew's was whole again.