A Little Christmas Spirit

by Sheila Roberts

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said and started to shut the trunk.

  She stopped him. “It looks like something to me.” She reached inside and picked it up. It bent its head in shame. “Oh, Stanley,” she said softly. “Was this for me?”

  “It looked a lot better in the flower shop,” he said miserably. “So much for the romantic gesture.”

  “Dinner at a nice restaurant, a romantic gesture... Hmm,” she mused and cocked her head at him.

  “I was going to ask you to marry me.” Oh, good grief. Just what every woman dreamed about: a proposal in a parking lot with a dead rose.

  “Oh, Stanley,” she cried and threw her arms around him, apparently unbothered by their surroundings. “You know I will.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course really.”

  “Wow.” Carol Bartlett, the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the world had just said yes. He grabbed her and twirled her around, both of them laughing for joy.

  “Everything’s turning out beautifully,” she said later as they sat at their table, the wilted rose lying next to her plate.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed. It didn’t get better than this.

  * * *

  But it did get better. He survived the big church wedding and managed to come up with enough groomsmen to match the six bridesmaids she had. Her cousin, who fancied herself a singer, sang Paul Stookey’s “Wedding Song.” She didn’t murder it, only maimed it severely. Stanley didn’t care. All he cared about was seeing Carol in that wedding dress, smiling at him, just as eager to begin their life together as he was.

  The reception was in the church basement—punch, nuts and mints, and a three-tiered wedding cake. He didn’t care about any of it. All he wanted to do was get to the motel where they were going to have their wedding night.

  That, it turned out, was well worth waiting for.

  They honeymooned in Victoria, barely leaving the room except to take a romantic, evening carriage ride and do some souvenir shopping. When they returned they moved to the town of Fairwood, north of Seattle, where her first teaching job was waiting. Stanley found employment as well, and they rented an apartment which they furnished with furniture their parents had given them and a few garage-sale bargains. Life was perfect.

  After two years they decided it was time to start a family, and Carol began to talk about buying a house.

  “It should have at least three bedrooms,” she said. “One for us and two for two kids.”

  “You said you wanted three,” he reminded her.

  “Two can share a bedroom until we can afford a bigger house.”

  He laughed. “You aren’t even pregnant yet, and we’re already talking about doubling kids up in a room and looking for bigger houses.”

  “You have to plan ahead,” she said, that trademark smile beaming at him.

  Planning ahead. Kids. The idea of parenthood made him nervous. It was a big responsibility.

  “You’ll make a wonderful father,” Carol assured him when he expressed doubts.

  He supposed he’d cross the fatherhood bridge when he came to it. Meanwhile, they bought that three-bedroom house on a cul-de-sac in a nice neighborhood. The woman next door befriended Carol instantly, and the couple across the street who were about their age became friends. Everything was going according to plan, and they were having a lot of fun working on making a baby.

  But where were the results? Disappointment became a monthly occurrence, and the pressure to produce began to leech some of the fun out of the procreation process. After three years of failure and enough tears to form a lake, they consulted a specialist. That consultation turned out to be the seal of doom.

  “It’s all right,” Stanley said as they drove home, Carol crying next to him in the front seat. He reached over and laid a hand on her leg. “We still have each other.”

  That wasn’t the comfort he’d hoped it would be. She continued to cry.

  Once they got home, he settled with her on the couch, his arms around her, as she sobbed against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, babe,” he kept saying. Sorry was small comfort for such a huge disappointment. He’d never felt so helpless in his whole life.

  The next few weeks felt robotic. They ate breakfast together, they went to work, they came home. She graded papers, he grilled burgers. She talked on the phone with her sister and her mom. They watched TV. They even went bowling a couple of times, but Carol’s smiles were weak, and she didn’t care what spot she stood on.

  “I don’t think I was meant to be a bowler,” she finally said, and he knew that was one activity they wouldn’t be doing together anymore.

  There was another activity they weren’t doing very much anymore. Carol was always conveniently asleep by the time he came to bed, even if it was only five minutes after her. Or she didn’t feel up for it. One time they made love, and he felt so connected, as if they were finally healing...until he saw her tears.

  “What’s the point?” she said miserably.

  “The point is we love each other,” he said.

  “I do love you, Stanley, you know I do. I’m just so unhappy.”

  How long was she going to be unhappy? Would he ever hear her laugh again? If only he could think of some way to bring back those genuine smiles and her love of life.

  “What about adopting?” she suggested one evening as they waited for the pizza they’d ordered to be delivered.

  “Adopting?” he repeated. “Somebody else’s kid? I don’t know.”

  “It wouldn’t be someone else’s. Once you bring a baby home, it’s yours.”

  She had a valid point. But it was still a big leap for him mentally.

  “Well...” he said, stalling.

  “We have a lot of love to give.”

  Yeah, to each other.

  She was looking at him so hopefully. How could he say no? What kind of selfish jerk would that make him? Selfish jerk. He suddenly remembered when she told him about the boyfriend she’d broken up with. He didn’t want to be that man. He wasn’t that man.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go for it.”

  It was like he’d turned on the sun. The old Carol came back, so bubbly and happy, so energetic and full of plans. Yes, this could work. She was right. They had a lot of love to give.

  After a long search, everything started coming together. They met the birth mother. She gave them a thumbs-up as parents for her baby. They painted the nursery and got a crib and changing table and clothes. Stanley sold his GTO, and they bought a station wagon. They were ready.

  The baby came. It was a boy. They called all the family and shared the news.

  Then the birth mother changed her mind. She decided to keep the child.

  The crib in the nursery mocked them, and there were more tears.

  “That’s not the only baby in the world,” Stanley said that evening as they sat at the kitchen table, their dinner untouched. “We can start again.”

  He’d hoped to lift her spirits, but he failed.

  She shook her head. “I’m done. I can’t go through this kind of disappointment another time.” She sighed heavily. “I think it’s a sign to quit. Maybe we’re not supposed to have children.”

  Maybe they weren’t. He was fine with it being just the two of them. But was she?

  “Are you okay with that?” he asked.

  “I guess I’ll have to be, unless a miracle happens and I get pregnant.”

  “You never know,” he said and tried to smile encouragingly. She didn’t reflect it back to him. “And don’t forget, you already have a whole classroom of kids.”

  “They’re not ours,” she snapped.

  Carol never snapped, and he blinked in surprise. He wasn’t sure what to say next.

  He thought a moment, then tried again, hoping to h
elp her look on the bright side. “They’re yours every day when you have them in class. That’s kind of important, isn’t it?”

  She bit her lip and looked down at her hands. “I suppose so.”

  “And Amy’s got two daughters now. She’ll share.”

  The look on Carol’s face told him what she thought of sharing.

  “You’ll be their favorite aunt.”

  “I’ll be their only aunt.”

  “Guaranteed favorite, then. And we still have each other.” If he said it enough, maybe it would be enough.

  She nodded. “Yes, we do,” she said, but she didn’t sound all that enthusiastic.

  “We can still have a good life.”

  “You’re right, we can.”

  Just not the one she’d dreamed about.

  He never said anything, but he mourned their loss nearly as deeply as she did. Not so much because of the baby. Even though he’d gotten excited over the prospect, it had never seemed real to him. What had been real was his wife’s misery and the knowledge that, while he could comfort her, there was nothing he could do to make up for what they’d lost.

  Like she’d said, it was probably a sign. Kids were not supposed to be a part of their life together.

  * * *

  Carol managed to make the best of things. She stayed heavily involved with her nieces, and over the years she kept in touch with many of her students as well.

  She and Stanley went hiking, attended church potlucks, watched as friends and family had children. Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been like if he’d had a son to hang out with or a daughter to walk down the aisle. What it would have been like to sit proudly at a kid’s high-school graduation or hold a grandbaby in his arms.

  But he didn’t bother with wondering for long. What was the point? Anyway, Carol had been enough for him. And they’d had a couple of dogs along the way. Carol called them their fur babies. Unlike kids, dogs never gave you any lip, never had you up late at night worried because they’d missed their curfew. Never fell in with the wrong crowd or did drugs. They’d dodged a lot of heartache. And that wasn’t such a bad thing, was it?

  7

  Stanley finished hanging the lights and set the outdoor socket timer. Then he put away the ladder, set the empty bin back on the shelf and went inside where it was warm.

  Okay, he thought. He’d done his Christmas chore. The house was decorated, and he’d proved he had Christmas spirit. Now, maybe he could enjoy some peace and quiet.

  He’d just gotten a beer out of the fridge when the quiet was shattered. Not by Carol. This time some neighborhood mutt was on his front step, making a ruckus. Good grief. Couldn’t a man get a quiet moment to himself?

  “Shut up!” he hollered and plopped in his recliner, his remote in hand.

  The stupid thing refused to shut up. It kept barking.

  And barking, and barking. After half an hour Stanley had had all he could take.

  Okay, no more Mr. Nice Guy. He unreclined himself and marched to the front door and threw it open to give Fido the boot.

  Before he could say “Scram,” the dirty thing rushed past him and into the front hall.

  “Hey!” Stanley protested.

  Arf! the dog replied happily, prancing around him, tail wagging.

  It wasn’t a big dog, didn’t even come up to his knees. With its pointed ears and doggy snub nose and those bright eyes, it looked like a West Highland terrier, the same breed Carol had been wanting to get before she died. Only this one was so dirty its fur was gray instead of white.

  Dirty as the animal was, Carol would have pronounced it adorable. But that was Carol. She’d loved kids and dogs. After their German shepherd, Max, died, Stanley had been done. Carol had lobbied for getting another and really wanted a Westie, but he’d kept resisting. You got too attached to pets, and then they croaked.

  His attitude hadn’t changed.

  “You don’t belong here,” he informed the intruder. “Out.”

  The dog sat on its haunches, tail sweeping the carpet, and cocked its head at him as if to ask What is your problem? It was a girl. That explained the stubbornness.

  “Out!” he commanded more firmly. To make sure she got the message, he moved a foot to her rear and gave her a nudge toward the open door.

  The dog let him push her only so far before dodging to the side, backing up and barking, tail wagging.

  “This is not a game,” he informed the beast.

  He’d have grabbed her by the collar and hauled her out the door, but there was no collar, not even a flea collar. What kind of irresponsible loser didn’t even get his dog a flea collar?

  Maybe the dog had been treated and didn’t need a flea collar. Maybe she’d slipped her regular collar and gotten away. Maybe she was chipped. Yes, that was it.

  There was one way to find out. “Okay, Dog, we’re going to take a ride.”

  He shut the front door and started for the garage. His visitor trotted along happily after him, probably thinking they were on their way to the kitchen for food. Nope, they were on their way to the garage door. And the SUV. And the vet.

  “We’re going to find out who owns you,” he said to the animal. “I can tell you right now, that’s not me, and you’re not staying.”

  The dog was happy enough to hop into the car and sit its muddy butt on the front seat. “You smell,” Stanley informed her.

  She didn’t care. She sat there with her tongue lolling, looking at him like they were buddies. He shook his head and pressed the garage-door opener.

  The dog should have been in a pet carrier, but Stanley didn’t have a carrier, had no need for one because he had no need for a pet.

  He hadn’t seen Dr. Graham in several years, but the receptionist remembered him. “Max’s daddy, right?”

  “That’s right.” He’d always thought it was stupid to refer to oneself as an animal’s parent, but Carol had thought it was great fun.

  The receptionist leaned on her counter and smiled at the dog resting happily in Stanley’s arms, getting his coat all dirty. “I see you have a new baby.”

  “She’s not mine. I found her. I want Doc Graham to see if she’s chipped.”

  “One would hope,” said the receptionist, taking in the dog’s lack of collar. “Doctor’s giving O’Malley an exam right now, but after that he can fit you in. Just take a seat.”

  So Stanley took a seat, the dog still in his lap. She was so happy to be there, she offered a public show of affection.

  “None of that,” he said, moving his face out of range and putting up a hand. “You use that tongue to lick your butt.”

  The dog whined, her feelings hurt.

  “It’s okay. You’re a good dog,” he said and patted her head.

  Which, of course, made her want to lick him again.

  He was still trying to keep out of range of the scruffy dog’s tongue when a woman left with an Irish Setter in tow. It was a beautiful animal with a silky coat. The woman gave Stanley a polite smile, then took in the condition of the dog in his lap, and her smile changed to a disapproving frown.

  “I found her,” Stanley said and then felt stupid. He didn’t have to explain himself to strangers.

  The woman wasn’t interested, anyway. She and the beautiful O’Malley kept walking.

  The receptionist showed Stanley and the dog to an exam room, and he set the animal on the stainless-steel exam table. She seemed perfectly content to sit there. No antsy squirming, no whining. This dog had probably never been to a vet, never had shots. Never had a chip put in. Stanley frowned.

  He was still frowning when Dr. Graham entered the room. He was still a young man, not yet out of his forties. No paunch. Happily married. Stanley remembered he had a couple of kids. Life was still good for Doc Graham.

  The vet greeted him like an old friend. “S
tan, it’s been a long time. How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” Stanley lied, then got right to the point. “I found this dog. I want you to see if she’s chipped.”

  “Sure,” said Dr. Graham. “How’s Carol?”

  “She’s dead.”

  The doctor’s easy expression turned to embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Stanley frowned. He’d put an announcement in the obituaries.

  But, then, who liked to read the obituaries? And why would someone Doc’s age even bother? Stanley sure never had.

  “Just tell me who owns this mutt.”

  “Sure thing. Where’d you find her?”

  “On my doorstep.”

  Dr. Graham checked. “Nope, not chipped.”

  “Great. And she didn’t have a collar.”

  “She might have slipped it.” The vet shook his head. “Hard to imagine anyone not wanting this little cutie.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like her,” Stanley ventured.

  The doc shook his head. “I already have two rescues. My wife said that’s enough. I guess you can take her to the animal shelter, ask if anyone’s been looking for her.”

  Stanley did. No one had been looking for the dog. And seeing all the mutts in cages, he knew he couldn’t leave her there.

  “You have to belong to someone,” he said as he started up the car. “We’ll make some posters.”

  The dog whined.

  “Hey, it’s the best I can do.”

  And if nobody responded to those, well, that was it. The dog would have to go to the shelter.

  “I can’t keep you. I’m done with dogs,” he explained as they pulled into the supermarket parking lot.

  But he wasn’t so heartless that he was going to make this one starve. They made a quick stop at the store where he purchased a double-bowl dog dish and a flea collar. And a regular collar. And a chew toy.