A Winter Dream

  The next morning I explained the episode to an only slightly interested wife.

  “So you didn’t hear anything last night?” I asked. “No music?”

  “No,” Keri answered, “but you know I’m a pretty heavy sleeper.”

  “This is really strange,” I said, shaking my head.

  “So you heard a music box. What’s so strange about that?”

  “It was more than that,” I explained. “Music boxes don’t work that way. Music boxes play when you open them. This one stopped playing when I opened it. And the strangest part is that there didn’t appear to be any mechanism to it.”

  “Maybe it was your angel making the music,” she teased.

  “Maybe it was,” I said eerily. “Maybe this is one of those mystical experiences.”

  “How do you even know the music was coming from the box?” she asked skeptically.

  “I’m sure of it,” I said. I looked up and noticed the time. “Darn, I’m going to be late and I’m opening up today.” I threw on my overcoat and started for the door.

  Keri stopped me. “Aren’t you going to kiss Jenna good-bye?” she asked incredulously. I ran back to the nursery to give Jenna a kiss.

  I found her sitting in a pile of shredded paper with a pair of round-edged children’s scissors in hand.

  “Dad, can you help me cut these?” she asked.

  “Not now, honey, I’m late for work.”

  The corners of her mouth pulled downward in disappointment.

  “When I get home,” I hastily promised. She sat quietly as I kissed her on the head.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight.” I dashed out of the room, nearly forgetting the lunch which Keri had set by the door, and made my way through the gray, slushy streets to the formal-wear shop.

  Each day, as the first streaks of dawn spread across the blue winter morning sky, Mary could be found in the front parlor, sitting comfortably in a posh, overstuffed Turkish chair, warming her feet in front of the fireplace. In her lap lay the third Bible. The one that she had kept. This morning ritual dated decades back but Mary could tell you the exact day it had begun. It was her “morning constitutional for the spirit,” she had told Keri.

  During the Christmas season she would read at length the Christmas stories of the Gospels, and it was here that she welcomed the small, uninvited guest.

  “Well, good morning, Jenna,” Mary said.

  Jenna stood at the doorway, still clothed in the red-flannel nightshirt in which she almost always slept. She looked around the room then ran to Mary. Mary hugged her tightly.

  “What are you reading? A story?” Jenna asked.

  “A Christmas story,” Mary said. Jenna’s eyes lit up. She crawled onto Mary’s lap and looked for pictures of reindeer and Santa Claus.

  “Where are the pictures?” she asked. “Where’s Santa Claus?”

  Mary smiled. “This is a different kind of Christmas story. This is the first Christmas story. It’s about the baby Jesus.”

  Jenna smiled. She knew about Jesus.

  “Mary?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “Will Daddy be here at Christmas?”

  “Why of course, dear,” she assured. She brushed the hair back from Jenna’s face and kissed her forehead. “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “He’s gone a lot.”

  “Starting a new business takes a lot of work and a lot of time.”

  Jenna looked up sadly. “Is work better than here?”

  “No. No place is better than home.”

  “Then why does Daddy want to be there instead of here?”

  Mary paused thoughtfully. “I guess sometimes we forget,” she answered and pulled the little girl close.

  With the approach of the holidays, business grew increasingly busy, and though we welcomed the revenue, I found myself working long days and returning home late each night. In my frequent absence, Keri had established the habit of sharing supper with Mary in the downstairs den. They had even adopted the ritual of sharing an after-dinner cup of peppermint tea near the fire. Afterward Mary would follow Keri into the kitchen and help clean up the supper dishes, while I, if home by this time, would remain in the den and finish the day’s books. Tonight the snow fell softly outside, contrasted by the sputtering and hissing of the warm fire crackling in the fireplace. Jenna had been sent up to bed, and as Keri cleared the table, I remained behind, diving into a catalog of new-fashioned cummerbunds and matching band ties. Tonight Mary also remained behind, still sitting in the antique chair from which she always took her tea. Though she usually followed Keri into the kitchen, sometimes, after she had finished her tea, she would doze quietly in her chair until we woke her and helped her to her room.

  Mary set down her tea, pushed herself up, and walked over to the cherry wood bookshelf. She pulled a book from a high shelf, dusted it lightly, and handed it to me.

  “Here is a charming Christmas tale. Read this to your little one.” I took the book from her outstretched arm and examined the title, Christmas Every Day by William Dean Howells.

  “Thank you, Mary, I will.” I smiled at her, set the book down, and went back to my catalog. Her eyes never left me.

  “No, right now. Read it to her now,” she coaxed. Her voice was fervent, wavering only from her age. I laid my text down, examined the book again, then looked back up into her calm face. Her eyes shone with the importance of her request.

  “All right, Mary.”

  I rose from the table and walked up into Jenna’s room, wondering when I would catch up on my orders and what magic this old book contained to command such urgency. Upstairs Jenna lay quietly in the dark.

  “Still awake, honey?” I asked.

  “Daddy, you forgot to tuck me in tonight.”

  I switched on the light. “I did, didn’t I. How about a bedtime story?”

  She jumped up in her bed with a smile that filled the tiny room. “What story are you going to tell?” she asked.

  “Mary gave me this book to read to you.”

  “Mary has good stories, Dad.”

  “Then it should be a good one,” I said. “Does Mary tell you stories often?”

  “Every day.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the old book. The spine was brittle and cracked a little as it opened. I cleared my throat and started reading aloud.

  The little girl came into her papa’s study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him . . .

  “That’s like you, Dad. You’re real busy too,” Jenna observed.

  I grinned at her. “Yeah, I guess so.” I continued reading.

  “Well, once there was a little pig—” The little girl put her hand over his mouth and stopped him at the word. She said she had heard the pig stories till she was perfectly sick of them.

  “Well, what kind of story shall I tell, then?”

  “About Christmas. It’s getting to be the season, it’s past Thanksgiving already.”

  “It seems to me,” argued her papa, “that I’ve told as often about Christmas as I have about little pigs.”

  “No difference! Christmas is more interesting.”

  Unlike her story’s counterpart, Jenna was long asleep before I finished the tale. Her delicate lips were drawn in a gentle smile, and I pulled the covers up tightly under her chin. Peace radiated from the tiny face. I lingered a moment, knelt down near her bed and kissed her on the cheek, then walked back down to finish my work.

  I returned to the den to find the lavish drapes drawn tight, and the two women sitting together in the dim, flickering light of the fireplace talking peacefully. The soothing tones of Mary’s voice resonated calmly through the room. She looked up to acknowledge my entrance.

  “Richard, your wife just asked the most intriguing question. She asked which of the senses I thought was most affected by Christmas.”

  I sat down at t
he table.

  “I love everything about this season,” she continued. “But I think what I love most about Christmas are its sounds. The bells of street-corner Santa Clauses, the familiar Christmas records on the phonograph, the sweet, untuned voices of Christmas carolers. And the bustling downtown noises. The crisp crinkle of wrapping paper and department store sacks and the cheerful Christmas greetings of strangers. And then there are the Christmas stories. The wisdom of Dickens and all Christmas storytellers.” She seemed to pause for emphasis. “I love the sounds of this season. Even the sounds of this old house take on a different character at Christmas. These Victorian ladies seem to have a spirit all their own.”

  I heartily agreed but said nothing.

  She reflected on the old home. “They don’t build homes like this anymore. You’ve noticed the double set of doors in the front entryway?”

  We both nodded in confirmation.

  “In the old days—before the advent of the telephone . . .” She winked. “I’m an old lady,” she confided, “I remember those days.”

  We smiled.

  “. . . Back in those days when people were receiving callers they would open the outer set of doors as a signal. And if the doors were closed it meant that they were not receiving callers. It seemed those doors were always open, all holiday long.” She smiled longingly. “It seems silly now. You can imagine that the foyer was absolutely chilly.” She glanced over to me. “Now I’m digressing. Tell us, Richard, which of the senses do you think are most affected by Christmas?”

  I looked over at Keri. “The taste buds,” I said flippantly. Keri rolled her eyes.

  “No. I take it back. I would say the sense of smell. The smells of Christmas. Not just the food, but everything. I remember once, in grade school, we made Christmas ornaments by poking whole cloves into an orange. I remember how wonderful it smelled for the entire season. I can still smell it. And then there’s the smell of perfumed candles, and hot wassail or creamy cocoa on a cold day. And the pungent smell of wet leather boots after my brothers and I had gone sledding. The smells of Christmas are the smells of childhood.” My words trailed off into silence as we all seemed to be caught in the sweet glaze of Christmastime memories, and Mary nodded slowly as if I had said something wise.

  It was the sixth day of December. Christmas was only two and a half weeks away. I had already left for work and Keri had set about the rituals of the day. She stacked the breakfast dishes in the sink to soak, then descended the stairs to share in some conservation and tea with Mary. She entered the den where Mary read each morning. Mary was gone. In her chair lay the third Bible. Mary’s Bible. Though we were aware of its existence, neither Keri nor I had actually ever seen it. It lay on the cushion spread open to the Gospel of John. Keri gently slipped her hand under the book’s spine and lifted the text carefully. It was older than the other two Bibles, its script more Gothic and graceful. She examined it closely. The ink appeared marred, smeared by moisture. She ran a finger across the page. It was wet, moistened by numerous round drops. Tear drops. She delicately turned through the gold-edged pages. Many of the leaves were spoiled and stained from tears. Tears from years past, pages long dried and wrinkled. But the open pages were still moist. Keri laid the book back down on the chair and walked out into the hall. Mary’s thick wool coat was missing from the lobby’s crested hall tree. The inner foyer doors were ajar and at the base of the outer set of doors snow had melted and puddled on the cold marble floor, revealing Mary’s departure. Mary’s absence left Keri feeling uneasy. Mary rarely left the home before noon and, when she did, typically went to great lengths to inform Keri of the planned excursion days in advance. Keri went back upstairs until forty-five minutes later, when she heard the front door open. She ran down to meet Mary, who stood in the doorway, wet and shivering from the cold. “Mary! Where have you been?” Keri exclaimed. “You look frozen!” Mary looked up sadly. Her eyes were swollen and red.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said, then without an explanation disappeared down the hall to her room.

  After brunch she again pulled on her coat to leave. Keri caught her in the hall on the way out. “I’ll be going out again,” she said simply. “I may return late.”

  “What time shall I prepare supper?” Keri asked.

  Mary didn’t answer. She looked directly at her, then walked out into the sharp winter air.

  It was nearly half past eight when Mary returned that evening. Keri had grown increasingly concerned over her strange behavior and had begun looking out the balcony window every few minutes for Mary’s return. I had already arrived home from work, been thoroughly briefed on the entire episode, and, like Keri, anxiously anticipated her return. If Mary had looked preoccupied before, she was now positively engrossed. She uncharacteristically asked to take supper alone, but then invited us to join her for tea.

  “I’m sure my actions must seem a little strange,” she apologized. She set her cup down on the table. “I’ve been to the doctor today, on account of these headaches and vertigo I’ve been experiencing.”

  She paused for an uncomfortably long period. I sensed she was going to say something terrible.

  “He says that I have a tumor growing in my brain. It is already quite large and, because of its location, they cannot operate.” Mary looked straight ahead now, almost through us. Yet her words 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 around Mary. I put my arms around the two of them and we held each other in silence. No one knew what to say.

  Denial, perhaps, is a necessary human mechanisim to cope with the heartaches of life. The following weeks proceeded largely without incident and it became increasingly tempting to delude ourselves into complacency, imagining that all was well and that Mary would soon recover. As quickly as we did, however, her headaches would return and reality would slap our faces as brightly as the frigid December winds. There was one other curious change in Mary’s behavior. Mary seemed to be growing remarkably disturbed by my obsession with work and now took it upon herself to interrupt my endeavors at increasingly frequent intervals. Such was the occasion the evening that she asked the question.

  “Richard. Have you ever wondered what the first Christmas gift was?”

  Her question broke my engrossment in matters of business and weekly returns. I looked up.

  “No, I can’t say that I’ve given it much thought. Probably gold, frankincense, or myrrh. If in that order, it was gold.” I sensed that she was unsatisfied with my answer.

  “If an appeal to King James will answer 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 said firmly. “Understanding the first gift of Christmas is important.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mary, but this is important right now.”

  “No,” she snapped, “you don’t know what is important right now.” She turned abruptly and walked from the room.

  I sat quietly alone, stunned from the exchange. I put away the ledger and climbed the stairs to our room. As I readied for bed, I posed to Keri the question Mary had asked.

  “The first gift of Christmas?” she asked sleepily. “Is this a trick question?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Mary just asked 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 of the first gift of Christmas until I gradually fell off in slumber. That night the angel haunted my dreams.

  The following morning at the breakfast table, Keri and I discussed the previous evening’s confrontation.

  “I think that the cancer is finally affecting her,” I said.

  “How is that?” Keri asked.

  “Her mind. She’s starting to lose her mind.”

  “Sh
e’s not losing her mind,” she said firmly. “She’s as sharp as you or me.”

  “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 know what it is, but there is something.” Keri walked over to the counter and brought a jar of honey to the table. “Mary is the warmest, most open individual I’ve ever met, except. . . ” She paused. “Do you ever get the feeling that she is hiding something?”

  “Something?”

  “Something tragic. Terribly tragic. Something that shapes you and changes your perspective forever.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  Suddenly Keri’s eyes moistened. “I’m not so sure that I do either. But there is something. Have you ever seen the Bible that she keeps in the den?” I shook my head. “The pages are stained with tears.” She turned away to gather her thoughts. “I just think that there is a reason that we’re here. There is something she is trying to tell you, Rick. You’re just not listening.”

  Chapter V

  Y CONVERSATION with Keri had left me curious and bewildered. As I gazed outside at the snow-covered streets I saw Steve in his driveway brushing snow off his car. It occurred to me that he might have some answers. I ran upstairs to the Christmas Box, removed the first letter from it, and scrolled it carefully. Then stowing it in the inside pocket of my overcoat, I quietly slipped out of the house and crossed the street. Steve greeted me warmly.

  “Steve, you’ve known Mary a long time.”