A Lot Like Christmas: Stories

  “It told her to go west,” Mel said, trying to remember exactly what she had said. She had been looking for a speech from Julius Caesar and had stumbled on Twelfth Night instead. Twelfth night. Epiphany.

  “How many times is the word ‘west’ mentioned in Bartlett’s Quotations?” B.T. said. “A hundred? ‘Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west’? ‘Go west, young man’? ‘One flew east, one flew west, one flew over the cuckoo’s nest’?” He shut the Bible. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just—” He turned and looked out his window at nothing. “It looks like it might be breaking up.”

  It wasn’t. The fog thinned a little, swirling away from the car in little eddies, and then descended again, more smothering than ever.

  “Suppose you do find Him? What do you do then?” B.T. said. “Bow down and worship Him? Give Him frankincense and myrrh?”

  “Help Him,” Mel said.

  “Help Him what? Separate the sheep from the goats? Fight the battle of Armageddon?”

  “I don’t know,” Mel said. “Maybe.”

  “You really think there’s going to be a battle between good and evil?”

  “There’s always a battle between good and evil,” Mel said. “Look at the first time He came. He hadn’t been on earth a week before Herod’s men were out looking for Him. They murdered every baby and two-year-old in Bethlehem, trying to kill Him.”

  And thirty-three years later they succeeded, Mel thought. Only killing couldn’t stop Him. Nothing could stop Him.

  Who had said that? The kid from the carnival, talking about the windshield. “Nothing can stop it. There’s stuff you could do to keep it from spreading for a while, but it’s still going to spread. There ain’t nothing that can stop it.”

  He felt a flicker of the feeling again. Something about the kid from the carnival. What had he been talking about before that? Siamese twins. And Roswell. No. Something else.

  He tried to think what Cassie had said at the truck stop. Something about the wise men arriving at the manger. And not struggling. “You have to push them together,” she had said.

  It stayed tantalizingly out of reach, as elusive as a road sign glimpsed in the fog.

  B.T. reached forward and flicked on the radio. “Foggy tonight, and colder,” it said. “In the teens for eastern Nebraska, down in the…” It faded to static. B.T. twisted the knob.

  “And do you know what will happen to us when Jesus comes?” an evangelist shouted, “The Book of Revelation tells us we will be tormented with fire and brimstone, unless we repent now, before it’s too late!”

  “A little fire and brimstone would be welcome right about now,” B.T. said, reaching forward to turn the heater up to high.

  “There’s a blanket in the backseat,” Mel said, and B.T. reached back and wrapped himself up in it.

  “We will be scorched with fire,” the radio said, “and the smoke of our torment will rise up forever and ever.”

  B.T. leaned his head against the doorjamb. “Just so it’s warm,” he murmured, and closed his eyes.

  “But that’s not all that will happen to us if we do not repent,” the evangelist said, “if we do not take Jesus as our personal Savior. The Book of Revelation tells us in Chapter 14 that we will be cast into the winepress of God’s wrath and be trodden in it till our blood covers the ground for a thousand miles! And don’t fool yourselves, that day is coming soon! The signs are all around us! Wait till your father gets home.”

  Mel switched it off, but it was too late. The evangelist had hit it, the problem Mel had been trying to avoid since that moment in the sanctuary.

  I don’t believe it, he had thought when he’d heard the minister talking about Jesus forbidding believers to associate with outcasts. And he had thought it again when he heard the radio evangelist that first day talking about Christ coming to get revenge.

  “I don’t believe it,” he thought, and when B.T. stirred in his corner, he realized he had spoken aloud.

  “I don’t believe it,” he murmured. God had so loved the world, He had sent His only begotten Son to live among men, to be a helpless baby and a little boy and a young man, had sent Him to be cold and confused, angry and overjoyed. “To share our common lot,” the Nicene Creed said. To undergo and understand and forgive. “Father, forgive them,” He had said, with nails driven through His hands, and when they had arrested Him, He had made the disciples put away their weapons. He had healed the soldier’s ear Peter had cut off.

  He would never, never come back in a blaze of wrath and revenge, slaughtering enemies, tormenting unbelievers, wreaking fire and pestilence and famine on them. Never.

  And how can I believe in a revelation about the Second Coming, Mel thought, when I don’t believe in the Second Coming?

  But the revelation wasn’t about the Second Coming, he thought. He hadn’t seen earthquakes or Armageddon or Christ coming in a blaze of clouds and glory. He’s already here, Mel had thought, now, and had set out to find Him, to look for a sign.

  But there aren’t any, he thought, and saw one off in the mist. “Prairie Home 5. Denver 468.”

  Denver. They would be there tomorrow night. And B.T. would want him to fly home with him.

  Unless I figure out the key, Mel thought. Unless I’m given a sign. Or unless the roads are closed.

  “And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them.”

  —Matthew 2:9

  “They should be open,” the woman at the Wayfarer Motel said. The Holiday Inn and the Super 8 and the Innkeeper had all been full up, and the Wayfarer had only one room left. “There’s supposed to be fog in the morning, and then it’s supposed to be nice all the way till Sunday.”

  “What about the roads east?” B.T. asked.

  “No problem,” she said.

  The Wayfarer didn’t have a coffee shop. They ate supper at the Village Inn on the other end of town. As they were leaving, they ran into Cassie in the parking lot.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “I was afraid I wouldn’t have a chance to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye?” Mel said.

  “I’m heading south tomorrow to Red Cloud. When I consulted Bartlett’s, it said, ‘Winter lies too long in country towns.’ ”

  “Oh?” Mel said, wondering what this had to do with going south.

  “Willa Cather,” Cassie said. “My Ántonia. I didn’t understand it, either, so I tried the Gideon Bible in my hotel, it’s so nice of them to leave them there, and it was Exodus 13:21, ‘And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way; and by night in a pillar of fire.’ ”

  She smiled expectantly at them. “Pillar of fire. Red Cloud. Willa Cather’s museum is in Red Cloud.”

  They said goodbye to her and went back to the motel. B.T. sat down on his bed and took his laptop out of his suitcase. “I’ve got some email I’ve got to answer,” he said.

  And send? Mel wondered. “Dear Mrs. Bilderbeck, we’ll be in Denver tomorrow. Am hoping to persuade Mel to come home with me. Have straitjacket ready.”

  Mel sat down in the room’s only chair with the Rand McNally and looked at the map of Nebraska, searching for a town named Megiddo or New Jerusalem. There was Red Cloud, down near the southern border of Nebraska. Pillar of fire. Why couldn’t he have had a nice straightforward sign like that? A pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night. Or a star.

  But Moses had wandered around in the wilderness for forty years following said pillar. And the star hadn’t led the wise men to Bethlehem. It had led them straight into King Herod’s arms. They hadn’t had a clue where the newborn Christ was. “Where is He that is born king of the Jews?” they’d asked Herod.

  “Where is He?” Mel murmured, and B.T. glanced up from his laptop and then back down at it again, typing steadily.

  Mel turned to the map of Colorado. Beulah. Bonanza. Firstview.

  “Even if your—epiphany—was real,” B.T. had asked him this afternoon, “couldn’t you have misinterpreted wha
t it means?”

  Well, if he had, he wouldn’t have been the first one. The Bible was full of people who had misinterpreted prophecies. “Dogs have compassed me; the assembly of the wicked have enclosed me,” the Scriptures said, “they pierced my hands and my feet.” But nobody saw the Crucifixion coming. Or the Resurrection.

  His own disciples didn’t recognize Him. Easter Sunday they walked all the way to Emmaus with Him without figuring out who He was, and even when He told them, Thomas refused to believe Him and demanded to see the scars of the nails in His hands.

  They had never recognized Him. Isaiah had plainly predicted a virgin who would bring forth a child “out of the root of Jesse,” a child who would redeem Israel. But nobody had thought that meant a baby in a stable.

  They had thought he was talking about a warrior, a king who would raise an army and drive the hated foreigners out of their country, a hero on a white horse who would vanquish their enemies and set them free. And He had, but not in the way they expected.

  Nobody had expected Him to be a poor itinerant preacher from an obscure family, with no college degree and no military training, a nobody. Even the wise men had expected Him to be royalty. “Where is the king whose star we have seen in the east?” they had asked Herod.

  And Herod had promptly sent soldiers out to search for a usurper, a threat to his throne.

  They had been looking for the wrong thing. And maybe B.T.’s right, maybe I am, too, and that’s the answer. The Second Coming isn’t going to be battles and earthquakes and falling stars, and Revelation means something else, like the prophecies of the Messiah.

  Or maybe it wasn’t the Second Coming, and Christ was here only in a symbolic sense, in the poor, the hungry, in those in need of help. “As ye have done this unto the least of these—”

  “Maybe the Second Coming really is here,” B.T. said from the bed. “Look at this.”

  He turned the laptop around so Mel could see the screen. “Watch, therefore,” it read, “for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh.”

  “It’s a website,” B.T. said. “www.watchman.”

  “It probably belongs to one of the radio evangelists,” Mel said.

  “I don’t think so,” B.T. said. He hit a key, and a new screen came up. It was full of entries.

  “Meteor, 12-23, 4 mi. NNW Raton.”

  “Examined area. 12-28. No sign.”

  “Weather Channel 11-2, 9:15 A.M. PST. Reference to unusual cloud formations.”

  “Latitude and longitude? Need location.”

  “8.6 mi. WNW Prescott AZ 11-4.”

  “Denver Post 914P8C2—Headline: ‘Unusually high lightning activity strikes Carson National Forest.’ MT2427.”

  “What do you think that stands for?” B.T. said, pointing at the string of letters and numbers.

  “Matthew 24, verse 27,” Mel said. “ ‘For the lightning cometh out of the west and shineth even unto the east, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.’ ”

  B.T. nodded and scrolled the screen down.

  “Triple lightning strike. 7-11, Platteville CO. Nov. 28. Two injured.”

  “Lightning storm, Dec. 4, Truth or Consequences.”

  “What about that one?” B.T. said, pointing at “Truth or Consequences.”

  “It’s a town in southern New Mexico,” Mel said.

  “Oh.” B.T. scrolled the screen down some more.

  “Falling star, 12-30, 2 mi. W of U.S. State Hwy 191, west of Bozeman, mile marker 161.”

  “Coma patient recovery, Yale—New Haven Hosp. Connection?”

  “Negative. Too far east.”

  “Possible sighting Nevada.”

  “Need location.”

  Need location. “ ‘Go search diligently for the young child,’ ” Mel murmured, “ ‘and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him.’ ”

  “What?” B.T. said.

  “It’s what Herod said when the wise men told him about the star.” He stared at the screen:

  “L.A. Times Jan 2 P5C1. Fish die-off. RV89?”

  “Possible sighting. Old Faithful, Yellowstone Nat’l Pk, Jan. 2.”

  And over and over again:

  “Need location.”

  “Need location.”

  “Need location.”

  “They obviously think the Second Coming’s happened,” B.T. said, staring at the screen.

  “Or aliens have landed at Roswell,” Mel said. He pointed to the convenience store entry. “Or Elvis is back.”

  “Maybe,” B.T. said, staring at the screen.

  Mel went back to looking at the maps. Barren Rock. Deadwood. Last Chance.

  Need location, he thought. Maybe he and Cassie and whoever had written “Too far east” on the website had all misinterpreted the message, and it was not “west” but “West.”

  He turned to the gazetteer in the back. West. Westwood Hills, Kansas. Westville, Oklahoma. West Hollywood, California. Westview. Westgate. Westmont. There was a Westwood Hills in Kansas. Colorado had a Westcliffe, a Western Hills, and a Westminster. Neither Arizona nor New Mexico had any Wests. Nevada didn’t either. Nebraska had a West Point.

  West Point. Maybe it wasn’t even in the west. Maybe it was West Orange, New Jersey, or West Palm Beach. Or West Berlin.

  He shut the atlas and looked over at B.T. He had dozed off, his face tired and worried-looking even in sleep. His laptop was on his chest, and the Gideon Bible he had stolen from the Holiday Inn lay beside him.

  Mel shut the laptop off and quietly closed it. B.T. didn’t move. Mel picked up the Bible.

  The answer had to be in the Scriptures. He opened the Bible to Matthew. “Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not.”

  He read on. Disasters and devastation and tribulation, as the prophets had spoken.

  The prophets. He found Isaiah. “Hear ye indeed but understand not; and see ye indeed but perceive not.”

  He shut the Bible. All right, he thought, standing it on its spine on his hand. Let’s have a sign here. I’m running out of time.

  He opened his eyes. His finger was on I Samuel 23, verse 14. “And Saul sought him every day, but God delivered him not into his hand.”

  “For all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.”

  —Matthew 24:6

  All the roads were open, and, from Grand Island, clear and dry, and the fog had lifted a little.

  “With roads like this, we ought to be in Denver by tonight,” B.T. said.

  Yes, Mel thought, finishing what B.T. had said. If you fly back with me, we could be there in time for the ecumenical meeting. Nobody’d ever have to know he’d been gone, except Mrs. Bilderbeck, and he could tell her he’d been offered a job by another church, but had decided not to take it, which was true.

  “It just didn’t work out,” he would tell Mrs. Bilderbeck, and she would be so overjoyed that he wasn’t leaving, she wouldn’t even ask for details.

  And he could go back to doing sermons and giving the choir plenty of warning, storing the star, and keeping the pilot light going, as if nothing had happened.

  “Exit 312,” a green interstate sign up ahead said. “Hastings 18. Red Cloud 57.”

  He wondered if Cassie was already at Willa Cather’s house, convinced she had been led there by Bartlett’s Quotations.

  Cassie had no trouble finding signs—she saw them everywhere. And maybe they are everywhere, and I’m just not seeing them. Maybe Hastings is a sign, and the truck full of mirrors, and those stuffed toys all over the road. Maybe that Chinese finger trap I got stuck in yesterday was—

  “Look,” B.T. said. “Wasn’t that Cassie’s car?”

  “Where?” Mel said, craning his neck around.

  “In that ditch back there.”

  This time Mel didn’t wait for an “Authorized Vehicles Only” crossing. He plunged into the snowy median and back along the other side of the highway, still
unable to see anything.

  “There,” B.T. said, pointing, and he turned onto the median.

  He had crossed both lanes and was onto the shoulder before he saw the Honda, halfway down a steep ditch and tilted at an awkward angle. He couldn’t see anyone in the driver’s seat.

  B.T. was out of the car before Mel got the car stopped and plunging down the snowy bank, with Mel behind him. B.T. wrenched the car door open.

  Cassie’s green tote bag was on the floor of the passenger seat. B.T. peered into the backseat. “She’s not here,” he said unnecessarily.

  “Cassie!” Mel called. He ran around the front of the car, though she couldn’t have been thrown out. The door would have been open if she’d been thrown out. “Cassie!”

  “Here,” a faint voice said, and Mel looked down the slope. Cassie lay at the bottom in tall dry weeds.

  “She’s down here,” he said, and half walked, half slid down the ravine.

  She was lying on her back with her leg bent under her. “I think it’s broken,” she said to Mel.

  “Go flag a semi down,” Mel said to B.T., who’d appeared above them. “Have them call an ambulance.”

  B.T. disappeared, and Mel turned back to Cassie. “How long have you been here?” he asked her, pulling off his overcoat and tucking it around her.

  “I don’t know,” she said, shivering. “There was a patch of ice. I didn’t think anybody’d see the car, so I got out to climb up to the road, and that’s when I slipped. My leg’s broken, isn’t it?”

  At that angle, it had to be. “I think it probably is,” Mel said.

  She turned her face away in the dry weeds. “My sister was right.”

  Mel took off his jacket, rolled it up, and put it under her head. “We’ll have an ambulance here for you in no time.”

  “She told me I was crazy,” Cassie said, still not looking at Mel, “and this proves it, doesn’t it? And she didn’t even know about the epiphany.” She turned and looked at Mel. “Only it wasn’t an epiphany. Just low estrogen levels.”

  “Conserve your strength,” he said, and looked anxiously up the slope.

  Cassie grabbed at his hand. “I lied to you. I wasn’t offered early retirement. I asked for it. I was so sure ‘Westward ho!’ meant something. I sold my house and took out all my savings.”