The Christmas Promise (Christmas Hope)

by VanLiere, Donna

  “How much is the bill?” Rod asked.

  He said he’d have a check made out to the electric company waiting at the church and told me about a car that had been donated to the church. “It came in a few days ago,” he said. “The title work is taken care of and someone is bringing it to you today or tomorrow.” I had been in Rod’s office years earlier when a car had been donated to the church. A family with whom I worked was in dire need, and the church and I struck up a working relationship.

  Something caught my eye in the driveway and I pushed back the curtain, clapping. “It’s already here,” I said. “Thanks so much, Rod. Talk to you soon.” I hung up the phone and pressed close to the window. “Well look at that! She’s a beauty.” I bolted for the door and pulled on a pair of knee-length yellow rubber boots with tops that folded down to reveal blue wool inside. One pant leg stayed hoisted above the boot but I didn’t care. “That’s a Chevy, isn’t it? Silver. I’ll call her the Silver Fox.” I swung open the driver’s side door and slid inside, turning the key. The engine grinded and I waited. I turned the key again and the engine wheezed before choking quiet. “I’ll get somebody out here to take a look at you ASAP,” I said, patting the steering wheel.

  I hustled back up the porch stairs and picked up the phone in the kitchen, dialing the number for my mechanic. “Jerry? It’s Gloria. Somebody left a Chevy that looks about eight or so years old. Would you have any time to look at it?” I looked out the window and examined the car.

  “Midge and I are headed out of town today,” Jerry said. “Her father had a stroke and is in the hospital. I don’t know when we’ll be back, but I can look at it then.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jerry. Don’t even think about it.”

  I hung up and pulled out the yellow pages, turning to “car repair,” but then I threw the book on the table. “I can’t think about that now.” There just weren’t enough hours in the day. I flew to the garage.

  Every wall was lined with shelves that held food items, pots and pans, dishware, towels, and supplies such as toilet tissue and paper towels. In the middle of the floor were racks of clothing sorted by size. I rummaged through the shelves and loaded peanut butter, crackers, soup, rice, and cereal into a box.

  The electric garage door had long been blocked with shelves, so I lugged the box back into the kitchen. I slipped on my coat, the soft jean jacket one with huge patchwork pockets on the front, then pulled a yellow wool hat down over my ears. Heddy said the boots and the hat together made me look like Big Bird, but I was warm so I didn’t care.

  I wanted to add milk, eggs, and bread to the box of food for Carla, so I made a stop at the local grocery. My daughter Stephanie called me while I was in the store; she usually checked in with me two to three times a week. “How’s your week?” she asked.

  “Great, except Rikki Huffman is in jail for drug possession,” I said.

  She sighed on the other end. “I’m sorry, Mom. You did all you could.”

  I grabbed a gallon of milk off the shelf. “That’s what Heddy said.” I reached for a dozen eggs and put them in my basket.

  “What are you doing today?” Stephanie asked.

  “Just seeing to some things,” I said.

  “Seeing Matt in every face?” she said, referring to my youngest son.

  I tossed bread into my basket and headed for the checkout. “Of course not. I’m not crazy, Stephanie.” I knew my children worried about me. My remaining two sons had long kept quiet about Matthew, but Stephanie wore her heart on her sleeve.

  “I know you’re not, Mom, but…” She was quiet. “It’s been years since—”

  “I know,” I said, stopping her. It was a daily sorrow of which I didn’t need to be reminded. I felt my throat tighten. “Kiss the boys for me and we’ll talk soon.” I threw the phone in my purse, grabbed my sack of groceries, and left the store.

  I drove to Carla’s apartment. Donovan, a five-year-old ball of fire, greeted me at the door. I pretended to fall over. “You scared me to death!” I said. He laughed, watching me clutch my heart. “Are my eyes bugged out of my head? It feels like my eyes are bugged out of my head.”

  Donovan lifted my eyelids and shook his head. “Nope. They’re in your head.”

  “What color are my eyes, Donovan?”

  He looked at me hard. “Red!”

  I bent over laughing, lifting the box of Cheerios out of the sack. Donovan tore into the top and I pushed him toward the kitchen. “Don’t eat out of the box. You’re not a bear.”

  Carla pulled her straight, black hair into a ponytail and I sat down, looking at her. Donovan obviously got his curly hair from his father, whoever he was.

  “Has Thomas been living here again?” I never tiptoed around what was on my mind. Some people would say I lacked tact, but after years of knowing her I had learned how to communicate with Carla.

  “No, Miss Glory.”

  “Because if he has been and he’s been sucking you dry for money and food and a place to live, then—”

  “He doesn’t know where I live now. I promise.”

  “Do you want to see him?” I asked. Carla turned her head away. She looked much older than her age, but she’d lived a lot of life in twenty-three years. “Carla, God didn’t create you for this. He didn’t create anybody for this.” She wouldn’t look at me. “That man uses you. He hurts you.” Carla wasn’t listening. She’d heard it all before from so many others.

  A string of losers. That’s what Carla’s mother called her boyfriends when I talked to her on the phone. The next one worse than the last. When Carla had been pregnant with Donovan, she had hoped his father would stay, but he didn’t. No man ever stayed. Thomas had been with her longer than the others, and Carla thought they could be a family, but she was wrong.

  I sighed. “Is your wrist better?”

  Carla rolled her wrist to show the movement she had again. “It’s much better. I didn’t even have to take all the pain pills the doctor prescribed.”

  I kept my voice low. “One day he could come in here and hurt you right in front of Dovovan. He may even hurt Donovan.”

  “I’m not going to see him anymore, Miss Glory.”

  “If he comes back, call the police and they’ll get rid of him,” I said.

  “I can’t do that, Miss Glory,” she said, whispering.

  I sat forward. “Call the police before he hurts you again.”

  Tears fell down her cheeks. “If I call them they might come in and take Donavan away from me again.” I shook my head. Her voice rose louder. “DFS will find out about the police and they’ll take him.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “They won’t take your son because you’re trying to protect him….” I reached for a tissue in my pocket and wiped her face. “If he comes back, promise me that you’ll call the police.”

  “I will, Miss Glory.”

  I had heard that before, but wanted to believe her. I stood and took Carla’s hand, leading her into the kitchen. I unpacked the food into the cupboards and opened the refrigerator. “Milk should always be in your refrigerator. Donovan needs it and so do you.” She nodded; she knew that, but days would go by without Donovan having a glass of milk or even a decent meal. I handed Carla the check. “Take this directly to the electric company. This is the last time I’ll be able to help pay it. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I got that job, so I’ll be able to pay all my bills now.”

  I hugged her, saying how excited I was for her, and bent over to kiss the top of Donovan’s head. “Adiós.”

  “Good-bye, Señorita Cuckoo.” He giggled and shoved a handful of Cheerios into his mouth.

  I got into my car and waved. Carla waved back and I prayed that this time she’d have the strength she needed to keep Thomas out of her life.

  A few days into the job Fred Clauson, the head of security, told Ray and Chaz that they’d have to rotate the night shift till after Christmas. “It’s supposed to be a season of peace,” Fred
said. “But somebody manages to break into the store around this time every year.” Chaz volunteered to take the shift by himself.

  “We always rotate the night shift through Christmas,” Ray said.

  “I can work it,” Chaz said, taking a swig of coffee. “It’s no big deal.” Actually, Chaz figured there were fewer people to deal with at night, so he could do what he wanted. He liked it that way.

  “Why would you want to work solid nights for weeks on end?” Ray asked.

  Chaz shrugged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “You are a hard one to crack,” Ray said, slapping the top of the desk. He slid a stale chocolate-chip cookie from an open package in the bottom drawer into his mouth. “Just be sure you keep up with the job, you know. Being alone here at night isn’t necessarily a good thing. It’s easy to get distracted and forget about the work.”

  Chaz nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Ray leaned back in the chair and folded his hands on top of his head. “Uh-huh. You’re thinking that Ray don’t know jack, but in reality Ray’s got your back!”

  “The Robert Frost of the security team.”

  Ray laughed and flung himself forward in the chair. “Oh!” he said, sliding a note in front of Chaz. “Be sure to go see Judy in the office before the end of the day.”

  Chaz thought about going to the local sports bar at the end of the street throughout his shift. Drinking was the high point of his life, and he looked forward to it to cap off each day. At the end of his shift he grabbed his coat and ran for the door but stopped, remembering that he needed to see Judy. He ran up the stairs to the main office and let Judy roll one finger after another into ink before pressing them down into tiny squares on a card. “What did employers do before fingerprinting?” she said, chattering on about her new granddaughter. “Guess it was easier for convicted felons to find a job!” She placed the fingerprints into a large envelope and sealed it. “That’s all there is to it,” she said. “Simple as that.” He rubbed his purplish blue fingertips together and walked out of the store toward the bar.

  He jumped awake at four A.M. The room was stiflingly hot and he couldn’t breathe; the sheets were covered with sweat. He sat up on the edge of the bed. Where did Judy say she was sending those fingerprints? To what screening company? “Simple as that,” she had said, sealing the envelope. What had he done? How could he have made such a stupid mistake? He looked at the clock again: four oh-one. Judy wouldn’t be at the store again until Monday morning. There wasn’t anything he could do about it over the weekend. He bent over the bathroom sink and splashed water on his face, trying to figure a way out of the mess he’d just made. His hands started to shake and he walked to the kitchen, where he cracked open a can of beer. He downed it, but a current surged through his body and he drank three more beers before the shaking stopped.

  His mother used to say that the most crucial lessons we learn aren’t the ones we learn once but the ones that keep coming back, bending us till we nearly break. Those are the ones that take longer to learn, she had said once. Again and again he would do something that screwed up his life. He raced full bore into one situation after another, and in each town in which he lived, he just seemed to gain more speed until he ended up wounded and bruised in a ditch of his own making. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung in the eating area. No matter how much he wanted to stop, he did the same things over and over again and despised himself for it. He was at the point where he lived in a perpetual state of dark equilibrium where he just sort of existed. Up until the last few months his life had always worked; he got by. Now, for whatever reason, it wasn’t working anymore. He slumped to the floor, clutching the beer in his hand, and rested his head against the wall. He stayed there till dawn.

  Three

  If the world seems cold to you, kindle fires to warm it.

  —Lucy Larcom

  Chaz shook to at eleven on Monday morning and reached for a Xanax, downing three glasses of water with it. The pills weren’t prescribed but he always knew where to get them, and he needed them to get through the day. He’d learned years earlier from a drinking buddy that his body would need a pill to help it get up and moving after a night of partying. The guy was right; a pill or two a day pulled Chaz together and allowed him to keep up with any coworker.

  Mallory, an apartment tenant, was in the parking lot as he left his building, and she waved. Chaz had met her on several occasions in the parking lot and he dreaded seeing her. His parents said the Mallorys of the world were mannequin people. His father used to say, Mannequin people try to look human but that’s as close as they get. Their goal is just to get through life. They aren’t concerned about you; it’s all about them. They plod off to work and then back home, and along the way they buy a house and a car and everything they need. They never back an organization or get involved with a cause because it’s too much trouble. They just exist and that’s it. Chaz knew his parents would have been saddened to see how easy it was for him to wander about without ever really knowing or caring about anyone else. He kept walking as Mallory blathered on about her recent dental work, her job, and high cholesterol. He walked faster and waved good-bye, bringing the conversation to an abrupt end.

  On his way to work he saw the same crowd of people he had run into on his first day in town flowing out of the church basement on the town square. He bumped into a man and stumbled, nearly falling. The other guy did fall, landing on his can, and somebody pulled him up. “You okay, Frank?”

  “Sorry, there!” The fallen man was yelling after Chaz, but he blew him off. He needed to get to the mailroom. Keeping this job was his ticket to somewhere else and he intended to keep it till he had enough money. He hurried down the main aisle for the stairs.

  “Chaz?” He jumped at Mr. Wilson’s voice.

  “Could you go out front and see to a homeless man? He’s harmless, but customers never want to come inside the store when…” He waved his hand in the air. “You know what I mean.” Chaz wanted to say that he wasn’t officially on the clock yet, but nodded and ran to the front of the store. The sooner he took care of the problem, the quicker he could talk to Judy about the fingerprints.

  The man was standing with his hands in his pockets and a gray wool cap pulled down over his ears. He was wearing a Carhartt coat that was too big for him, brown khakis, and work boots. His face was thin and a short beard covered it. Chaz was surprised, because he was either his age or younger. “Hi,” Chaz said, approaching him.

  “What’s up?” the man said, keeping his hands in his pockets.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” Chaz asked.

  “Nope.”

  Chaz needed to get inside and was annoyed with this guy. “Do you need anything?”

  “Nope.”

  Pulling teeth would be easier than a conversation with him. Chaz put his hands under his arms to keep them warm and looked out over the square. Someone was busy decorating three large fir trees by the gazebo. “I’m Chaz.”

  “Mike.” Chaz searched his mind for something else to say. “Why don’t you just tell me that the brass inside is uncomfortable with me standing here?” Mike said.

  “It’s the customers. You know.”

  “They’re afraid I’ll attack them and make off with their Gucci bags,” Mike said. Chaz shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave. Trying to find my way around town. I just got off the bus a few days ago.”

  Chaz smiled and pulled out some dollar bills from his pocket. It was worth it to get the guy off the sidewalk. “For coffee and a meal. I’m new here, too, but they say Grimshaw’s up the street has the best food in town.”

  Mike took the money and shoved it in his pocket. “The old ladies can breathe a sigh of relief now,” he said, walking away.

  Chaz ran inside the store and reeled past customers, pushing his way through two swinging doors that entered a room whose cinder-block walls were painted a pale yellow. Large mail bins lined one wall with each departme
nt the mail was intended for typewritten below each bin. White countertops made their way around two of the walls and they were covered with boxes and small packages. Huge industrial lights hung from the ceiling and he heard the bulbs buzzing above him. Two women, one around his age and the other in her midthirties, turned to look at him. “Hi, I’m Chaz,” he said. The young one looked at him and smiled and he knew he had her where he needed her. He stepped toward her and smiled, manipulating and maneuvering, his MO for any situation. “I work in security.”

  “What can we do you for?” the older one asked.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask you your name,” Chaz said.

  “Tricia.”

  “And I’m Kelly,” the young one said, leaning back against the counter and pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Are you the new guy?” Tricia asked. She was warming up to him.

  “Does it show?”

  “No. I heard they were replacing Ed after he retired. Finally retired! Are you married?”

  “No,” he said.

  Tricia glanced to Kelly and smiled. “Where are you from?” Kelly said.

  “All over, really.”

  “Do you have family nearby?” Tricia asked.

  “No. My parents are deceased.”

  Tricia wrinkled her nose. “I always ask too many questions.”

  Chaz smiled and patted her on the back. “No, you didn’t. You’re great.” He rubbed his hands together, thinking ahead. “Maybe you can help me out. Judy sent me down here to ask you to be on alert for a package that will be arriving from GKD Systems.”

  “What’s that?” Tricia asked.

  “It’s a screening company and they’re sending some materials here that must go through the security office first. You’re in charge, right, Tricia?”

  She shifted in her seat. “No. Bill’s the manager down here, but he doesn’t go through the mail when it comes in. We do.”