What Light

  “This was her favorite place as a kid,” Heather says.

  “It’s true,” I say. “The silver dollar pancakes were my favorite.”

  Caleb starts walking down the aisle. “No need to explain.”

  Heather and I follow him to a table at the far end of the car. Like every booth we pass, it has its own rectangular window. On this side, the windows look out onto the street where we parked.

  “It’s the best booth in the train,” he says.

  Heather and I slide into the booth on opposite sides of the table.

  “What makes it so great?” I ask.

  “It’s closest to the kitchen.” His smile returns. “A fresh pot of coffee will get to you before anyone else. Plus, it makes it easier to chat with people I know.”

  At that, Heather picks up a menu and starts reading it over. Without looking away, she slides the other menu closer to me. I can’t tell if that was meant to look dismissive to Caleb, but it did.

  “If you get bored,” I tell him, “we’ll be here.”

  Caleb looks at Heather as she continues reading her menu. No one speaks for several seconds, and then Caleb concedes and disappears behind the kitchen door.

  I push Heather’s menu to the table. “What was that? I’m sure now he thinks you’re the one who told me the rumor. But you don’t even know if it’s true.”

  “I don’t know how much of it is true,” she says. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what to say. I’m worried for you.”

  “Why? Because I think he’s cute? As far as I know that’s all he’s got going for him.”

  “But he’s interested in you, Sierra. I see him every day at school and he’s never this talkative. And that’s fine, but you don’t have to be so obviously flirting back when—”

  “Whoa!” I hold up a hand. “First of all, I was not obviously anything. Second, I don’t even know him, so there’s no reason for you to worry.”

  Heather picks up her menu again, but I can tell she’s not reading it.

  “Here’s what I do know about Caleb,” I say. “He works at a diner and buys a lot of trees. So while I probably will continue running into him, that’s where it ends. I don’t need to see him more than that, and I don’t want to know more than that. Okay?”

  “I get it,” Heather says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Good.” I sit back. “Then maybe I can enjoy my silver dollar pancakes without this knot in my stomach.”

  Heather gives me a half-smile. “Those things will cause a knot in your stomach.”

  I pick up my menu and look it over even though I know what I’m getting. This gives me somewhere to look while I push the subject further. “Besides, whatever did happen, he still tortures himself over it.”

  Heather slaps her menu on the table. “You talked to him about it?”

  “We didn’t have a chance,” I say, “but his whole body showed it.”

  She looks over at the closed door to the kitchen. When she turns back to me, she presses her palms against her temples. “Why are people so complicated?”

  I laugh. “Right? It would be so much easier if they were just like us.”

  “Okay, before he comes back,” Heather says, “here’s what I know about him. And it’s only what I know for sure—no rumors.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Caleb and I have never been friends, but he’s never been anything but nice to me. There must be—or must have been—another side, but I’ve never seen it.”

  I motion toward her menu. “Then don’t be so cold to him.”

  “I’m not trying to be.” She leans forward and puts a hand on top of mine. “I want you to have fun while you’re here, but you can’t do that if the guy’s carrying more baggage than a jumbo jet.”

  The door slides open and Caleb walks out with a small pad and pencil. He stops beside us.

  “Are you hiring?” Heather asks.

  Caleb puts down his writing tools. “Are you looking?”

  “No, but Devon needs a job,” she says. “He refuses to look for one himself, but I know it would spice up his life a little.”

  “You’re his girlfriend,” I say with a laugh. “Isn’t that your job?”

  Heather kicks me under the table.

  “Or are you trying to get rid of him?” Caleb asks.

  “I didn’t say that,” Heather says a little too fast.

  Caleb laughs. “The less I know, the better. But I’ll ask my manager when he gets here.”

  “Thank you,” Heather says.

  He turns to me. “If you’re hoping for hot chocolate, you should know we don’t have any candy canes. It might not meet your standards.”

  “Coffee’s fine,” I say. “But with tons of cream and sugar.”

  “I’ll take the hot chocolate,” Heather says. “Can you add extra marshmallows?”

  Caleb nods. “Be right back.”

  Once he’s out of earshot, Heather leans forward. “Did you hear that? He wants to meet your standards.”

  I lean right back at her. “He’s a waiter,” I say. “That’s his job.”

  When Caleb returns he’s carrying one ceramic mug topped off with an exaggerated pile of marshmallows. He sets it on the table and a few of them spill out.

  “Don’t worry, I’m brewing more coffee,” he tells me.

  The door at the other end of the diner opens. When Caleb looks over to see who walked in, a mix of surprise and happiness appears in his eyes. I turn and see a mom with twin girls—maybe six years old—smiling at Caleb. The girls are thin and both wear hooded sweatshirts, tattered at the cuffs and a size too big. One of the girls holds up a crayon drawing of a decorated Christmas tree high enough for Caleb to see.

  “I’ll be right back,” he whispers to us. He walks over to the girls and is presented with the drawing. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “It’s like the tree you gave us,” one of the girls says.

  “It’s all decorated now,” the other one tells him. “It looks just like this.”

  Caleb looks closely at the picture.

  “They don’t remember the last time they had a tree,” the mom says. She adjusts the purse strap on her shoulder. “I barely remember getting one myself. And when they got home from school, their faces . . . they just . . .”

  “Thank you for this,” Caleb says. He brings the drawing close to his chest. “But it was my pleasure.”

  The mom takes a deep breath. “The girls wanted to thank you in person.”

  “We said a prayer for you,” one girl says.

  Caleb slightly bows his head toward the girl. “That means a lot.”

  “When we called the food bank, the man said you do this on your own,” the mom says. “He told us you worked here and probably wouldn’t mind if we stopped by.”

  “Well, he was right about that. In fact . . .” Caleb steps aside and points to the nearest table. “Would you like some hot chocolates?”

  The girls cheer, but the mom says, “We can’t stay. We—”

  “I’ll put them in to-go cups,” Caleb says. When the mom doesn’t decline, he begins walking in our direction and I turn back to Heather.

  When he’s in the kitchen, I whisper, “That’s why he buys all these trees? To give them to families he doesn’t even know?”

  “He didn’t say anything to you when he bought them?” Heather asks.

  I look out the window to the cars passing by. I charged him full price for that first tree and I’m sure Mr. Hopper’s doing the same. But here he is working at a diner, buying tree after tree after tree. I’m not sure where to place this new information with the other story I’ve heard about him.

  Caleb returns from the kitchen. In one hand he holds a cardboard carrier with three to-go cups with lids. In the other he has a mug of coffee, which he sets in front
of me before continuing on to the family. I stare at Heather as I sip my coffee, already mixed with the perfect combination of cream and sugar.

  Eventually Caleb returns and stands beside our table. “Is the coffee okay?” he asks. “I mixed it in back because I couldn’t carry their drinks and yours with the cream and sugar.”

  “It’s perfect,” I say. Beneath the table, I kick at Heather’s shoe. She looks at me and I slightly tilt my head to the side, asking her to scoot over. If I were to ask Caleb to sit beside me, it’d be a definitive sign that I’m interested. If Heather invites him, after already saying she’s with Devon, it becomes a mere friendly conversation.

  Heather scoots over. “Have a seat, tree boy.”

  Caleb looks surprised but pleased by the offer. He gives a quick glance to the other tables before sitting across from me.

  “You know,” Heather says, “it’s been a while since anyone gave me a crayon drawing of a Christmas tree.”

  “I was not expecting that,” Caleb says. He sets the drawing in the middle of the table, turning it so it faces me. “It’s really good, isn’t it?”

  I admire the tree, and then I look at him. He’s still looking down at the drawing.

  “You, Caleb, are a man of multitudes,” I say.

  Without taking his eyes off the drawing, he says, “I need to point out that you used multitude in a sentence.”

  “It’s not the first time,” Heather says.

  Caleb looks at her. “She may be the first person in this diner to ever use it.”

  “You—both of you—are ridiculous,” I say. “Heather, tell him you’ve used peruse in a sentence before. It’s two syllables.”

  “Of course I . . .” She stops herself and looks at Caleb. “No, actually, I probably never have.”

  Caleb and Heather bump fists.

  I reach over and snatch that silly looking soda jerk hat from Caleb’s head. “Then you should use more interesting words, sir. And buy yourself a comb.”

  He holds out his hand. “My hat, please? Or the next time I buy a tree, I’m paying for it all in one-dollar bills, each one turned a different direction.”

  “Fine,” I say, still holding his hat out of reach.

  Caleb stands up, his hand out for his hat, and I eventually give it back. He perches the completely uncool thing back on his head.

  “If you do come for a tree, don’t expect any drawings,” I say, “but I work from noon to eight today.”

  Heather stares at me, a half-smile appearing on her face. When Caleb leaves to check on the other customers, she says, “You basically just asked him to stop by.”

  “I know,” I say, lifting my mug. “That was me obviously flirting.”

  I get to work an hour before Mom thought I would be needed, which is a good thing. The lot is busy and a flatbed truck full of replenishing trees from the farm arrived early. With my work gloves on I climb up the ladder at the back of the truck. I step carefully onto the top layer of trees, all netted and laid sideways one on top of the other, their wet needles brushing against the bottom of my pants. It must have rained for a good part of the trip, giving the trees a smell that’s close to home.

  Two more workers join me up here, moving their feet as little as possible to keep the branches from snapping. I lace my fingers into the netting of a tree, bend my knees, and slide it over the edge of the truck so another worker can grab it and carry it to a growing stack behind the Bigtop.

  Andrew takes the next tree I lower and, rather than carry it to the Bigtop himself, he passes it off to someone else.

  “We got this!” he shouts up to me, clapping his hands twice.

  I almost tell him we aren’t in a race, but Dad drops his hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

  “The outhouses need restocking, pronto,” he says. “And let me know if you think they need a deeper cleaning. That decision’s up to you.”

  When my muscles start to tire, I take a moment to stretch my back and catch my breath. Even when exhausted, it’s easy to keep a smile going on the lot. I look out at the customers moving through our trees, the joy on their faces evident even from way up here.

  I’ve been surrounded by these sights my entire life. Now, I realize that the only people I’m seeing are the ones who will have a tree for Christmas. The people I don’t see are the families who can’t afford a tree even if they want one. Those are the people Caleb brings our trees to.

  I put my hands on my hips and twist in both directions. Beyond our lot—beyond the last house in the city—Cardinals Peak rises into the cloudless pale blue sky. Near the top of that hill are my trees, indistinguishable from here.

  Dad climbs the ladder to help me slide more trees down to the workers. After lowering a few, he looks at me with his hands on his knees. “Did I react too strongly with Andrew?” he asks.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, “he knows I’m not interested.”

  Dad lowers another tree, a delighted smile on his face.

  I look out over the workers on the lot. “I think everyone here knows I’m off-limits.”

  He stands up and wipes his wet hands on his jeans. “Honey, I don’t think we put too many restrictions on you. Do you?”

  “Not at home.” I send down another tree. “But here? I don’t think you’d be too comfortable with me seeing anyone.”

  He grips another tree, but then stops to look at me and doesn’t pass it over the side. “It’s because I know how easy it can be to fall for someone in a very short time. Trust me, leaving like that is not easy.”

  I lower two more trees and then notice he’s still looking at me. “Okay,” I say. “I understand.”

  With the trees finally unloaded, Dad takes off his gloves and shoves them into his back pocket. He heads to the trailer for a short nap and I walk toward the Bigtop to help ring up customers. I pull back my hair to wrap it into a bun when I see, standing at the counter, Caleb in his street clothes.

  I let my hair fall to my shoulders and scrape a few strands forward.

  I pass him by as I head to the counter. “Back again, making someone else’s Christmas bright?”

  He smiles. “It’s what I do.”

  I nod for him to follow me to the drink station. Next to my Easter mug I set a paper cup for him and then I tear open a packet of hot chocolate. “So tell me, what made you start doing this with the trees?”

  “It’s a long story,” he says, and his smile falters a bit. “If you’ll take the simple version, Christmas was always a big deal in my family.”

  I know his sister doesn’t live with him anymore; maybe that’s part of the non-short story. I hand him his cup of hot chocolate with a candy cane stirrer. His dimple reappears when he sees my Easter mug, and we both take a sip while looking at each other.

  “My parents would let my sister and me buy whichever tree we wanted,” he says. “They’d invite friends over and we’d all decorate the house. We’d cook a pot of chili and afterwards we’d all go caroling. Sounds really cheesy, right?”

  I point to the flocked trees around us. “My family survives on cheesy Christmas traditions. But that doesn’t explain why you buy them for other people.”

  He takes another sip. “My church does this big ‘necessity drive’ during the holidays,” he says. “We collect things like coats and toothbrushes for families that need them. It’s great. But sometimes it’s nice to give people what they want instead of only the necessities.”

  “I can appreciate that,” I say.

  He blows steam from the surface of his drink. “My family doesn’t do the holidays like we used to. We put up a tree, but that’s about it.”

  I want to ask why, but I’m sure that’s also part of the non-simple version.

  “Long story short, I took the job at Breakfast Express and realized I could spend my tips on families who wanted a Christmas tree but couldn’
t afford it.” He stirs the peppermint stick. “I guess if I earned more tips, you’d see even more of me.”

  I sip up a small marshmallow and lick it from my lip. “Maybe you should put out a separate tip jar,” I say. “Draw a little tree on it and have a note saying what the money’s for.”

  “I thought about that,” he says. “But I like using my money. I’d feel bad if that extra tip somehow took away from a charity that gives people what they actually need.”

  I set my mug on the counter and point at his hair. “Speaking of things people need, don’t move.” I run behind the counter for a small paper bag. I hold it out to Caleb and his eyebrows raise.

  He takes the bag, looks inside, and laughs so hard when he pulls out the purple comb I picked up for him at the pharmacy.

  “It’s time to start tackling those flaws,” I say.

  He slides the comb into his back pocket and thanks me. Before I can explain that the comb is first supposed to go through his hair, the Richardson family walks into the Bigtop.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up!” I give both Mr. and Mrs. Richardson hugs. “Aren’t you normally day-after-Thanksgiving tree buyers?”

  The Richardsons are a family of eight who have been buying their trees from us since they only had two children. Every year they bring us a tin of home-baked cookies and chat with me while their kids bicker over which tree is the most perfect. Today, their kids all say hi to me and then run out to start looking.

  “There was car trouble on the way to New Mexico,” Mr. Richardson says. “We spent Thanksgiving in a motel room waiting for a fan belt to arrive.”

  “Thank you, God, they had a pool there or the kids would have killed each other.” Mrs. Richardson hands me this year’s blue snowflake-covered cookie tin. “We tried a new recipe this year. We found it online and everyone swears it’s delicious.”

  I pull off the lid and pick out a slightly misshapen snowman cookie that has a ton of frosting and sprinkles. Caleb’s leaning in, so I offer him the tin and he takes a mutated reindeer with buck teeth.

  “The younger kids helped out this year,” Mr. Richardson says, “which you could probably tell.”