As I was contemplating my recent 'Scrooginess' (see Monday's post for the details), I remembered a short story I wrote a few years back. Since I don't often have the opportunity to share my fictional work with people, I said to myself, "Perfect! I'll post it on my blog!"
I hope you enjoy the story. And whatever your circumstances are right now, I pray that your Christmas will be overflowing with Joy and your New Year will be full of Hope.
I hope you enjoy the story. And whatever your circumstances are right now, I pray that your Christmas will be overflowing with Joy and your New Year will be full of Hope.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Ghost of Christmas Future
It was like a Hollywood movie.
But not.
I couldn’t help but scream like a banshee when I found the body–a crumpled, gray, hairy, bulky mass of a man huddled in one corner. Who would expect that a homeless man, trying to live another day, would instead die in my garage? It couldn’t have been that much warmer in there, and I didn’t even know how he got in. Maybe when I was pulling the garbage cans to the curb, he snuck in and hid. Which meant that he could have done so much more while in my house. I shuddered.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked Ted, interrupting his rambling. Ted had dragged me out for after-work drinks. He insisted on clearing my head with a few beers.
“Ghosts? What do you mean?”
“Like, the story of Scrooge, like this man was some sort of spirit coming to warn me about my future.”
Ted sneered. “Nah, you were just a victim of circumstance. Just weird stuff. They’ll make a movie about you someday.”
I didn’t agree. First, the movie of my life would be so dull that even my mother wouldn’t want to watch it. Second, I couldn’t shake off the incident. My bubble of suburban tranquility had definitely been burst.
“Can I confess something to you, Ted?” I whispered, a tad more dramatically than I intended.
Ted’s eyes peeked over the brim of his glass.
“I haven’t been in my garage since that day.”
“Hey, I don’t blame you.”
Every lamp in my house was on when I returned home. I thought it would make me feel better to see warmth shining through my windows, instead of the usual blank stare of an empty house.
I was wrong. I never knew that light could feel as cold as dark.
After a quick and boring ham sandwich, I turned on the television.
Click, click, click, flip, flip, flip... nothing enticing except for the evening news. But that wasn’t worth paying attention to either: the bus drivers’ strike, some bad accident on the bridge, a homeless man dying in my garage...
I woke suddenly. I was sure I had heard my name.
“...cracking down on homelessness in the suburbs...,” the voice on the television was saying.
That was it. A half a second of fame.
But this is what a celebrity must feel like, I thought. My life in moments, broadcasted by invisible waves to homes everywhere, everyone watching me, judging me…
That was not a good train to catch a ride on, because the next thought in my mind was that of the homeless man watching me, getting a sense of my schedule, waiting and waiting for the right time to run into my garage. Did he watch me through the window? Was he there for days, or weeks even? Did he get to know me, have imaginary conversations with me? Did he feel better dying in my garage than out on a street bench, like he wasn’t alone anymore?
But he was alone. Very alone. Somewhere in the world was his mother, or his father, or at least his kindergarten classmates, and he still died all alone, with no one knowing until after the fact. And some day, I was going to die alone, like that man.
Maybe I am Ebenezer Scrooge, I thought. After all, what did I have in my life besides work? Weekends were spent alone. Thanksgiving was spent eating a turkey sandwich and watching football. It was almost Christmas, and I had nothing in the house broadcasting that, not even a ‘Boy Scout Mistletoe’. They had come by, asking $5 for the little branch of greenery, but I had turned them away to save myself a few bucks.
I went through the next day in a fog. It didn’t really matter, since most of my coworkers had already left for an extra day with their families. I felt pathetic. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and all I could think of doing was work. Why hadn’t this ever bothered me before? Was it because of this fog, this fog brought on by that homeless man? Or... had I been in a fog all along?
Ted came by my desk around 4:30.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” I replied. My words weren’t heart felt, but then, neither were his.
“We’re heading to my in-laws in the morning,” Ted said with scowl.
“Well... uh... have a good time,” I said with a question mark at the end.
“Yeah, I’ll see you when we get back, have you over for New Year’s Eve or something.”
“Sure, New Year’s, sounds good,” I said.
Ted gave me a little wave and turned to go.
“Drive safely!” I shouted after him.
The skies started to pour down rain as soon as I said those words.
I pulled out of the office parking lot at a snail’s pace. I could barely see the road in front of me, but I knew these streets. Still, somehow, I made a wrong turn. I stopped at the next intersection and tried to see the street sign. I didn’t recognize these houses. This whole neighborhood was foreign to me, “the other side of the tracks”, as my father would call it. But through the falling drops of water, I saw a light. Then another light. Then another. The rain fizzled to a drizzle as the windows of the homes around me became miniature movie screens, and my radio, the soundtrack as Bing Crosby’s mellow voice came on.
“I’m dream-ing of a white Christ-mas...”
And what I saw startled me. From what my father said about “those” people, I had always imagined that they were mean, unhappy, and grumpy. After all, what did they have to be happy about? Yet, here they were, happy. Happier than me. In one house, I saw a family decorating their Christmas tree together. The children were eagerly trying to hang all the ornaments on one branch, and the mother laughed as she took the ornaments one by one and rehung them higher on the tree.
A light came on in another house. An older couple was sitting down to a late dinner. Soup and bread, it looked like. Their house wasn’t overly decorated, but there was a warmth in their light.
I turned to look at the house across the way. The radio started playing “Jingle Bell Rock.” This house was full of activity. People–children and adults–were hanging garlands on the walls, lights around the windows, sparkling plastic snowflakes from the ceiling. It looked like they were getting ready for a party. But the house was small, in my opinion.
If they put up any more decorations, there won’t be room for people, I chuckled to myself.
Which reminded me of the home Lucy and I had once shared. It was small–tiny–in my opinion. But Lucy insisted on inviting people over, especially around the holidays. I tried to remember what that little house looked like at Christmas. Lucy would have made it glow and sparkle. She always put the tree in a particular corner, and then she would... she would...
I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember what the house looked like at Christmas. I was rarely there. Lucy always tried to convince me to take a few more days off around Christmas, but I always insisted that we needed the money. This wasn’t that big of a deal, until one year.
“Phil, I feel like you don’t enjoy the house... you can’t enjoy the house. You worry about the roof that needs replacing, and the carpet getting stained, and the termites that might... someday... be in the walls...”
“What do you mean?” I interrupted. “I enjoy the house! I enjoy the yard!”
“You grumble even as you put the flowers in the dirt,” Lucy teased. “And you hate mowing the lawn.”
“Well, I wouldn’t hate yard work so much if I had a little help,” I hissed.
The words had rushed out of my mouth like a wild stampede. I couldn’t rein them in. Or the implication that came with them. That was when Lucy’s teasing yet pointed words melted into tears.
“Phil, why do you focus so much on what you don’t have?” she cried.
We weren’t talking about the house anymore.
“Why can’t you see what you do have?”
We were talking about our son.
A car behind me honked. I had been staring into people’s windows for at least fifteen minutes. I shivered. I was becoming my homeless man.
When I finally found my way home, I was sapped. I slapped some peanut butter and jelly on some bread and crashed on the couch to watch TV.
Click, click, click, flip, flip, flip... oh, not the news again. I settled on a classic, “A Wonderful Life,” but after a few scenes, I couldn’t take it anymore. That movie was definitely not my story. If I died tonight, life would go on like always. They’d find a new guy at work, they’d remove my dead body from this house and sell it to some unsuspecting family, and the money would go to... where would it go? Would Lucy get it?
The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Phil, I heard about you on the news last night.”
Though it’s been two years since we’ve talked, I recognized Lucy’s voice right away.
“Phil, are you okay?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, it scared me, the man... finding his body scared me, but I’m fine.”
“Okay. I just wanted to make sure.”
There was silence. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Can I speak to Tim?” I finally asked.
Lucy was quiet. “He’s not here right now,” she answered hesitantly. “He’s out caroling with some friends.”
“Do you think I could see him... tomorrow, I mean? I mean, do you think he’d want to see me?”
I heard nothing for a few seconds.
“Why don’t you come for dinner?”
I became like a little boy at that invitation. My heart was pounding so fast that I almost forgot to ask what time. As soon as I hung up, I went to my room and looked through my closet. Nothing seemed good enough. I settled on a burgundy sweater and a green tie. No, no tie. Too hokey. No, yes tie. I wanted to look festive. Augh, I didn’t have a present. I glanced at my watch. What time did the 24-hour store close?
I scurried around my house like a squirrel. I started cleaning, even though no one was coming here. I felt... I felt like... I felt like the fog was lifting.
And as it lifted, I started remembering.
“If you’re so unhappy, why don’t you file for divorce?” I was yelling.
“I don’t want a divorce,” argued Lucy. “I just want to be together.”
“You’d rather be unhappily together than happily alone?” I shouted.
She nodded.
“That doesn’t make sense!”
All she could do was shrug.
“I love you, Phil,” she whispered resolutely.
It didn’t make sense to me then, but it did now.
What a fool I’ve been. I had stopped taking the time, taking the time to see Lucy, forgetting that she was a subtle woman. When she was sad, her tears flowed, and when she was happy, her laugh rang, but in between the two, she was full of surprises. She literally stood her ground when she argued, until either the other person gave in or stomped off in a huff. When she was angry, she climbed a tree, just to have room to think, she told me. She did small, almost unseen tasks, like picking up the used paper towels on the floor of the movie theater’s restroom, or shelving the library books that people left on the tables.
And, she was beautiful, but only if you took the time to find the beauty. I remember the first time I saw her–that is, really saw her. We had been friends for so long, all through our college years, and I had promised to take her out to dinner for her birthday. But that very afternoon, I had met a knock-out redhead at the library and just as easily forgotten my promise. That’s what I did, stood up one of my best friends to take a complete stranger to the movies.
And it wasn’t the first time. I disappointed Lucy almost as often as I followed through. She knew this about me. That was my excuse.
I tried to make light of the whole situation the next day.
“Lucy, this girl was gorgeous! I was so sure she was special!”
“And was she?” Lucy asked. She hadn’t smiled at all since I showed up at the café where she was having coffee with a friend.
“Ha ha,” I laughed nervously, “well, no. She whined and complained about everything. First the popcorn wasn’t buttery enough, then the popcorn was too salty, then the seats were too close, the sound was too loud, the movie too slow, the...”
“So are you here only because you had no date for today?”
“No, Lucy!” My eyes pleaded with her friend for help. I got none. “No, I came to apologize!”
Lucy sighed. “Okay then, I’m listening.”
“I’m sorry I forgot about you on your birthday. I’m sorry I broke my promise.” I was surprised to find myself tearing up. “I know I treat you like you’re second best sometimes, but really, you’re not. You’re THE best. I’m the one who’s deficient. Please, forgive me.”
Lucy studied me. I held my breath.
“I climbed a tree this morning,” she said quietly.
I didn’t breath.
“And yes, I forgive you.”
And that was when I saw it–her beauty. Her hair was black and red from the setting sun, and her smile–it was contagious. But there was something else, something deeper...
When I finally released the air from my lungs, the word “Wow!” came out instead.
Lucy laughed.
Her friend gave a quick nod and said, “Lucy’s pretty amazing. She sees you, but loves you anyway.”
To me, those simple words were the very definition of beautiful. They made me want to be a better man. And so, I took her out for her birthday dinner that night, and a month later, I asked Lucy to marry me.
But how could I have forgotten that time? All during the engagement, I was happy, carefree, soaring with the birds. I thought I would never come down. Lucy was a diamond, she was mine, and I threw her away. I stopped wanting to become a better man. It was too much work, too much pressure. I just wanted a break from the house, from Lucy, from Tim...
And then what did I do? Let my anger get the best of me. I called the lawyer in anger, filed the papers in anger, sat through every meeting in anger, packed up my things in anger. Then I continued to live in anger... this fog...
I arrived early to dinner, but that was a good thing, because it took me ten minutes to work up the courage to approach the house. When I finally made it to the front porch, I was rewarded by the most enticing aroma of honey ham. Music drifted through the closed window. I could see the tree lights twinkling through the gauzy curtain. The tree was in its usual corner. That helped me relax a little.
I knocked timidly on the door. Almost immediately, it opened.
My son was standing in front of me with a broad smile on his face. He was taller now, and though his Down’s Syndrome features had always made him look young and happy, there was something mature about his face, and his joy.
“Hi Dad! Come in!”
I stepped in and stuck my hand stiffly out to him. He shook it enthusiastically.
“Hi Tim. How are you?”
Tim didn’t seem to hear me. “Mom! Dad’s here!”
Lucy stepped into the hall. She gave me a small smile. “Hi Phil. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you too,” I managed to say. I stuck my hand out to her too. “Uh, here’s a little something I got for you.”
I handed over the fruitcake. One minute here, and I already felt like an idiot.
“Thank you,” she said without a hint of disgust. “Come into the dining room. Dinner is nearly ready.”
She returned to the kitchen while Tim guided me to a seat at the small table. It was laid beautifully, but simply: white, Corningware plates, a red votive candle, a few branches of evergreen among the plates of potatoes, green beans, and rolls.
“Would you like some water?” Tim asked me.
“Yes, that would be nice,” I replied. I watched his figure go into the kitchen. He was my son, but not the son I remembered. The confused, uncontrollable boy had been replaced by a well-mannered, well-spoken young man. What happened while I was gone?
Tim came back with a pitcher of water, followed by his mother carrying a plate of ham.
“Okay, here we are!” Lucy declared.
She sat down on my left, Tim sat down on my right, and without hesitation they took my hands, bowed their heads, and prayed.
“...amen!” Tim finished. “Dad, let me serve you!”
I handed him my plate, still captivated by this familiar stranger in front of me.
When we all had plenty of food on our plates, we attempted to settle into a rhythm of awkward conversation. In between bites of the delicious food (Lucy had always been a star in the kitchen), we searched in vain for common ground.
Finally, with hardly a crumb left on my plate, I sat back. I tried to take it all in: Lucy, Tim, the lights, the sounds, the smells, the feeling of contentment that I had rarely allowed myself to feel.
My ears became aware of the choral music playing. “What’s this music?” I asked.
“Handel’s Messiah,” Lucy said. “We’ve made it a tradition to go every year. Tim has learned nearly all the solos. His favorite is...”
“‘He shall feed his flock!” Tim said in one great rush.
“Tim, remember that it’s not kind to interrupt,” Lucy said gently.
“Sorry, Mom,” Tim said. “My favorite is ‘He shall feed his flock,’” he reiterated to me.
“Have you ever been to the Nutcracker?” I asked him.
“No, I’d like to though,” Tim replied with a grin.
“We can’t usually afford the tickets, not even to a local production,” Lucy explained.
“Oh, maybe next year, we could...” I started to say. My cheeks grew hot. What was I assuming?
Lucy read my thoughts. “Phil, remember the year we volunteered as ushers and saw the Nutcracker for free?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Yes, and remember how we got so confused in the dark that we led that couple to the wrong balcony?”
Lucy chuckled back at me.
Tim glanced from his mom to me, and back again. “Mom, tell me the story! Tell me the story!” he begged.
And all through dessert, we took turns telling Tim stories from Christmases past, stories that Tim had never heard, stories that I had nearly forgotten myself. I found myself opening mental doors that I had not opened in years. And with every story that Lucy shared, curtains were drawn back, letting in the sunlight. Her words brushed the cobwebs away. My mind’s eye started to wake up.
Then, suddenly, it was nine o’clock. I didn’t want to leave, but I was afraid to stay. This magic was not my doing, and I knew that I could just as easily turn back into an ugly pumpkin.
“Thank you for dinner, Lucy,” I said as I pushed back the chair. “It was the best meal I’ve had in years. But I should go.”
Tim stood. “Dad, wait.” He hurried out of the room.
I took that moment to look at Lucy, to try to see her again. She was stacking the plates, her fingers nimble as they grabbed the knives and forks. I made note of the tired lines on her face, the smile that played on her lips, and the ease of her shoulders. The silver in her dark hair glistened like gold thread in the flickering candle light. She was more beautiful than before. And she had forgiven me. I don’t know how many trees she had to climb, but I could see that plainly. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.
Be a better man, I heard in my head.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
“Oh, thank you Phil. You can just put them in the sink.”
Tim came back then. He bounced a little as he waited for my hands to be free.
“Okay, Tim,” I said, wiping my hands.
“Merry Christmas, Dad,” he said.
I was handed a small, unadorned box. Inside, peeking through layers of white tissue paper, was a multi-faceted sphere of blown glass. Its iridescent swirls of orange, yellow, and gold caught the light as I held it up to admire it.
“I didn’t have time to go the store. I hope you don’t mind getting something used,” Tim said.
“No, I understand, I didn’t expect you to get me anything.”
Lucy placed a hand on my arm. “No, what he means is, it’s his favorite. His favorite ornament,” Lucy sighed. “He wants you to have it.”
“It’s from Italy,” Tim chimed in. “It reminds me of a star.”
I stared at the gift. I couldn’t say a word. When I looked up and saw Tim’s face, I understood–truly understood.
“He’s forgiven you,” Lucy said softly. “He was very hurt and angry when you left, but he was able to push past the anger and pain and find love.”
I nodded. “He’s subtle, like his mother.”
Lucy gave me a quizzical look.
“Tim sees people,” I said, “but loves them anyway.”
That made Lucy smile. And as always, her smile was contagious.
When I returned home, I hung the ornament in the only place I could, on my coat rack. Then I watched it spin on its string as I slowly slid the tie off my neck. Though it was small, the ball scattered the lamp light and made the room look magical. It brought back the smell of the dinner, the sound of Lucy’s laughter, and the feeling of the hug my son gave me as we said our good nights.
But Tim’s star needed a better home, a safer home. I was afraid that in its fragility, it might be knocked by something and shattered. I quickly glanced around. The wall above my mantel had been vacant for too long.
As I retrieved my hammer from the garage, I thought one more time, one last time, about the homeless man. The spirit had come to warn me. I had to thank him. Because something new was glowing in me, a small ember that wanted to grow and fill my whole being.
I think it’s called... hope.
