“Welcome, boys and girls,” said Mrs. Gillipetti, the director of the play, when the students had taken their seats in the auditorium. “As most of you know, we have been rehearsing for about two months now. We have a long way to go — we haven’t even held a dress rehearsal yet — but we thought you’d like to see our progress.”
Nikki admitted later (just to herself; she would never say this to her friends) that the play did indeed have a long way to go. The scenery, which was only partially painted, kept toppling over backward. The kindergartners never seemed to know where on the stage they should be, and one of them actually fell off the stage — then, to everyone’s relief, simply stood up and ran back to his spot in the scene. And with one exception, every kid who could read was still using a playbook. It was, Nikki felt, a bit difficult to imagine this as a true play when the characters were wandering around in their school clothes, reading their lines from books. Only Ruby didn’t carry a book. “I’ve already memorized all my lines,” she had told Flora and Olivia and Nikki that morning.
This turned out not to be true.
In the second act, a boy named Jerry McCabe, who was playing Alice Kendall’s neighbor John Parson, walked onto the stage (wearing his blue jeans and a Boston Bruins sweatshirt, and carrying his playbook) and read, “What is that perched on your house?”
Nobody on the stage answered him.
Jerry consulted his playbook again and then said more loudly, “What is that PERCHED on your HOUSE?” No response. He looked squarely at Ruby. “I SAID, WHAT IS THAT PERCHED ON YOUR HOUSE?”
Mrs. Gillipetti leaned onto the stage from the wings. “Ruby, dear, that’s your cue.”
“Oh!” said Ruby. She paused thoughtfully, then said, “Why, it’s nothing but a crow, John Parson.”
“Wouldn’t you call it a familiar?” read Jerry.
“Um,” said Ruby. “Um …”
This time only Mrs. Gillipetti’s hand appeared from the wings. It held Ruby’s playbook. Ruby took it and thumbed through it. She used the book for the remainder of the program. And she bravely ignored the giggling in the audience.
When the assembly ended, so did school. Nikki and her classmates walked through the hallways of Camden Falls Elementary as fast as they could without actually running.
“Vacation!” Nikki cried to Olivia and Flora.
“Christmas!” Olivia cried.
Flora said nothing, and Nikki reminded herself that this holiday was not going to be as joyous for Flora and Ruby as it would be for most of their friends. Nikki took Flora’s hand and squeezed it, then let it drop when Flora began to smile and said, “I can’t wait to deliver the presents this afternoon.”
Nikki and Olivia and Flora gathered up their backpacks and coats, then called “Good-bye!” and “Happy Holidays!” to Mr. Donaldson and their classmates. Mr. Donaldson reminded everyone to read at least one book over vacation, and then Nikki was free. She and Flora and Olivia flew to the front door of their school and waited there for Ruby. The four friends ran most of the way to Main Street, catching snowflakes on their tongues as they went.
“Maybe we’ll have a blizzard for Christmas!” cried Nikki.
“No, we don’t want a snowstorm on Christmas Eve,” said Ruby.
“Why not?” asked Nikki, as Olivia elbowed Ruby in the ribs.
“Here we are!” said Flora loudly. She opened the door to Needle and Thread. “Look, everything is ready.”
Waiting by the couches at the front of the store were a number of bags filled with wrapped Christmas presents. Nikki looked at the bags proudly. Not only had she made several of the gifts, but she had helped to wrap them. Now they were going to be distributed with the day’s Special Delivery meals. And Nikki, Flora, Olivia, and Ruby were going to accompany Mr. Pennington on his route.
“There’s Mr. Pennington now!” exclaimed Ruby. She flung open the door as Mr. Pennington pulled up in front of the store. “We’re ready! We’re ready!” she called.
“Ruby, darling, you need to calm down just a teeny bit,” Min said quietly.
Mr. Pennington entered the store with a smile on his face and a list in his hand. “Greetings,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve already picked up the meals, girls. Now we need to find the right gifts.” He held out the list. “We need the presents for these ten people.”
In no time, the gifts had been located and the girls piled into Mr. Pennington’s car.
“I didn’t know Sonny Sutphin would be on the list,” Nikki commented as Mr. Pennington set off down Main Street.
“I believe he’s a new client,” said Mr. Pennington. “At least, this is the first time he’s been on my route. He lives nearby, so we’ll go to his place first.”
“I haven’t been to Sonny’s house before,” said Olivia, sounding awed. “It’s funny, but I never thought of him actually living somewhere. I just always see him on the street.”
“It’s like you never think of your teachers living anywhere because you only see them in school,” said Flora.
Mr. Pennington had turned off Main Street and driven a couple of blocks to a road where the houses were small and crowded together, and paint was peeling, and here and there roofs were missing shingles.
They look kind of like my house, Nikki thought, and glanced at her friends. They were staring out the car windows. Nobody spoke.
Mr. Pennington parked his car in front of a pale blue house with a wooden Santa in the yard. There was a snowman, too, but it had fallen over and was leaning against a bush.
“I think his door is at the back of the house,” said Mr. Pennington. “I’ll get the meal out of the trunk. Who has Sonny’s present?”
“I do,” said Nikki.
“What if he’s not at home?” asked Olivia. “Isn’t he usually in town?”
“I think he’ll be here,” said Mr. Pennington.
A few moments later, Nikki knocked on the back door of the house. She heard a small thump and then the door was opened by Sonny Sutphin.
“Merry Christmas,” said Mr. Pennington heartily.
Sonny grinned. “Merry Christmas! I didn’t expect a whole party. Looky here, it’s Flora and Ruby and Olivia and — are you Nikki?”
Nikki nodded, then held out the present. “This is for you.”
“For me? A gift for me?” Sonny’s grin widened. “Please come in,” he said, backing up his chair. “Won’t you come in for a visit?”
“We’d love to,” said Mr. Pennington, “although I’m afraid we’ll have to keep it short. Here, let me put this in your refrigerator, Mr. Sutphin. It’s a complete dinner, as well as some food for the weekend. All you have to do is heat up the dinner in the oven. No cooking involved.”
Nikki stepped through the doorway and into Sonny’s apartment. It consisted, as far as she could see, of two rooms. The room in which she was now standing was a sitting room with a kitchen at one end. Through a doorway, Nikki glimpsed a small bedroom. She looked around for decorations and saw that Sonny had hung a cardboard wreath in one of his windows.
Sonny set the present on the table. “I’m going to wait until Christmas Day to open this,” he said.
“It’s handmade,” Ruby informed him.
“That’s the best kind.”
Mr. Pennington asked Sonny if he planned to go to the Christmas Eve festivities on Main Street, and then Ruby invited him to her concert. “It’s at the community center,” she said. “Two o’clock.”
“Well,” said Mr. Pennington a moment later, “we should be on our way.”
“So soon?” asked Sonny.
“I’m afraid so.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent driving from one home to another. Nikki and her friends visited with people who were sick and a woman who was blind and a couple who reminded Nikki of Mr. and Mrs. Willet, except it was the husband who was confused and forgetful. The woman who was blind burst into quiet tears when Olivia handed her the wrapped gift. The man who was confused wanted to open his present right away, and
when his wife said okay, he set the package down, went off in search of a pair of scissors, and forgot about the present.
The next-to-last house they visited belonged to a man who sounded very old, but no one got to see him. Mr. Pennington knocked on his door, and an irritated voice called, “Who is it?”
“Special Delivery!” replied Mr. Pennington.
“Well, leave it where you always do.”
Nikki frowned. “We have a present for you, too,” she said.
“Good.”
“Don’t you —” Flora started to say, but Mr. Pennington shushed her.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Crasden!” he called.
At the last stop, the door was opened by a woman leaning on a walker. She accepted the meal and the gift with tears in her eyes, and as her visitors were leaving, she pressed chocolates into their hands and told them they were her Christmas angels.
Mr. Pennington drove Nikki to her house after that, and as she ran to her front door, she felt grateful for Mae and her mother and Tobias and each small reminder of Christmas that would be waiting for her inside.
Each time Flora Marie Northrop walked to Mary Woolsey’s house, she remembered her first visit to the little cottage in June, when Mary’s yard, which was really just one enormous garden with a house in the middle, had been lush and colorful, alive with flowers and insects and birds. Now the house was a drab island in a sea of snow.
“Brr,” Flora couldn’t help saying as she made her way along the path to Mary’s front door. More snow was falling, and Flora’s toes were turning numb.
But Flora didn’t mind. She was holding a small bag in one hand, and every time she thought about its contents (a lacy pink-and-green sachet handmade by Flora), she felt a thrill of excitement and happiness.
“Can I come see you tomorrow?” she had asked Mary at Needle and Thread the day before.
Mary had replied, “You certainly may. A Christmas visit. Lovely.”
Flora noted that Mary’s walk was tidily shoveled, and that a wreath of holly hung in each window. She had a feeling that Mary had made the wreaths herself.
“Merry Christmas!” called Mary suddenly, opening her door with a flourish.
“Merry Christmas!” Flora replied.
“Come in out of the cold. You must be freezing.”
Flora stepped into the cottage and removed her boots and coat. She held the gift bag out to Mary. “This is for you,” she said.
Mary took the bag, which was red and decorated with a picture of wrens holding ornaments in their beaks and fluttering around a shimmering woodland Christmas tree. “Thank you, Flora,” said Mary. She smiled. “Don’t you wish things like this really happened at Christmastime?”
“Things like what?”
Mary pointed to the bag. “Like this.” She indicated the birds decorating the tree. “Magical things.”
“Maybe they do,” said Flora.
“And we just don’t see them,” agreed Mary. “Come, sit down.”
Flora followed Mary Woolsey into the parlor. “Oh!” she exclaimed. She didn’t know why she was surprised to find that Mary had decorated the inside of her house for Christmas, but she was. Flora was standing before one of the most beautiful trees she had ever seen. And that wasn’t all. Garlands wound with ribbons were draped over each window. A parade of angels marched across the mantelpiece. Mary had even hung a miniature wreath on the door of the cuckoo clock.
Mary looked fondly at the tree. “Do you like it? I saved all the ornaments my mother and I collected when I was a little girl. And I’ve been collecting ever since. Making ornaments, too. See those snowflakes? They’re crocheted. And my mother and I made those beaded ornaments.”
“Ooh,” said Flora. The tree glittered, its branches weighed down with hundreds of gold lights, with tinsel, with tin soldiers and wooden jumping jacks and tiny Nativity scenes — one so small it had been carved into half of a walnut shell — and colored glass balls and birds with tails of spun glass. There was also a miniature bird feeder, a miniature sewing case, a miniature castle, and a teeny, tiny hummingbird.
Flora didn’t know what to say, so she just let out a sigh.
“We didn’t have much money when I was growing up, but my mother made Christmas special. It’s still special,” Mary explained.
“Do you want to open your present now?” asked Flora.
“Well,” said Mary, “if you don’t mind, I like to save all my presents for Christmas Day. But you can open yours now.” She reached under the tree, where a handful of gifts was scattered, selected a small one wrapped in silver and tied with a pale blue ribbon, and gave it to Flora.
“Thank you,” said Flora, feeling suddenly shy. “I think I’ll save mine for Christmas, too.” Who, Flora wondered, would Mary celebrate with on Christmas Day?
The clock began to chime then, and the wreath-bedecked door flew open, launching the cuckoo out of his house.
Mary looked at the clock. “Time for Christmas tea,” she said. “You sit here with the cats. I’ll be back in just a moment.”
Flora, her mind on Mary’s Christmas, sat on the edge of an armchair where Daphne and Delilah, the two orange cats, slept soundly, entwined in each other’s legs. Flora patted them until they rumbled with purrs, and finally Daphne opened one eye and looked sleepily at Flora. “Hi, Daphne,” said Flora, and Daphne closed the eye.
When Mary returned to the parlor, she was carrying a tray, which she set on the table in front of the couch. “Have you ever had Christmas tea?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.” Flora sniffed the air. “It smells spicy.”
“It is. And,” said Mary, “this is how you stir it. No spoon needed, no sugar, either.” She dropped a peppermint stick into one of the cups and handed it to Flora. “Use this.”
“Peppermint candy!” exclaimed Flora. She thought Mary was one of the cleverest people she knew.
When the peppermint had melted away, and Flora and Mary were sipping their tea and daintily chewing Mary’s ginger cookies, Mary said, “How’s the research coming?”
Flora swallowed dryly. “I haven’t … With the holidays and everything …” She cleared her throat.
“You haven’t been doing much research?” asked Mary with a smile.
“No,” Flora admitted. She thought about her history project, the one Olivia had mentioned to Mr. Donaldson when he had asked about the 350th birthday festivities. Flora had learned that her great-grandfather, Lyman Davis (Min’s father), who had been a stockbroker, had quit his job after the great stock market crash of 1929. He had quit because so many of his clients blamed him for losing their fortunes, and maybe, thought Flora, he truly had lost their fortunes. Or maybe he hadn’t. In any case, his actions set in motion events that would alter the course of the lives of many people in Camden Falls — including Mary’s. Flora had thought and thought about this and realized that perhaps some people’s lives had changed for the better. Or in unpredictable ways. It was possible. Flora couldn’t simply say that because of Min’s father lots of people lost their money and their homes and had to start over. It was much more complicated than that.
Flora had started to think about history, and about how the smallest thing could affect bigger things and have consequences that reverberated for generations, maybe forever. One day, for instance, you’re talking to a friend you run into in the street, and you talk longer than you intended, so now that person is running late and, because of that, doesn’t stop in at the coffee shop (where normally he stops every day) and therefore misses meeting the person he might have married. (Tragic, tragic, thought Flora.) On the other hand, a simple missed meeting could prevent a catastrophe or a war.
So, Flora reasoned, wasn’t it possible that some unexpectedly good things came from her great-grandfather’s actions? This wasn’t necessarily the thrust of her project, though. She just wanted to know what had happened, good or bad, and she figured that plenty of people in Camden Falls had stories to tell, as Mary did. Flora th
ought she might find several of these people and interview them. It would be an interesting slice of Camden Falls history and perfect material for the town birthday festivities.
“I’ve read all the letters about Lyman Davis that I found in our attic,” Flora told Mary, “and I have a general idea of what happened after nineteen twenty-nine. But I want more personal stories. Like yours. It’s really interesting to know what happened to people, even if it isn’t all good.”
“In my case,” said Mary, “it led to a mystery.”
“Yes!” said Flora. “So there must be other stories. I should talk to Min again. But she’ll only be able to help a little because she wasn’t even born until several years after the crash. She doesn’t remember a lot of things, like the years when your mother worked for her parents.”
“You need to find some real old-timers,” said Mary. “People who are older than Min. You know, one person you might want to talk to is Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I don’t think you know her. I do lots of sewing for her, but she doesn’t come into Needle and Thread very often. The Fitzpatricks are quite wealthy, but it seems to me that wasn’t always so. I believe that the family lost money in nineteen twenty-nine. Whether it was because of your great-grandfather, I don’t know. But Mrs. Fitzpatrick would be an interesting person to talk to. And she might tell you about some other people you could interview.”
“Okay,” said Flora. “Thank you.” She took a final swallow of peppermint-laced tea, and for a moment gazed at the ornaments on Mary’s tree. “What about you?” she asked. “Have you found out anything more about your benefactor?”
“Not exactly,” said Mary, “but I did hear an interesting bit of information on TV the other day. Earlier I’d been going through my mother’s papers again, looking for clues, and suddenly I remembered something my mother had told me years and years ago. I was about twelve, I suppose, and I had asked Mother why we never visited my father’s grave. It was some holiday or other — I don’t remember which one — and I wanted to put flowers on his grave. I had just read about that custom in a book and it occurred to me that we had never gone to the cemetery. A very strange look crossed my mother’s face when I asked that question, and after a moment she said my father didn’t have a grave. I asked her why, and she replied that his remains hadn’t been found, so there was nothing to bury.”
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