The Christmas Kite

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  “Can I…have a kite?” he asked, marveling at the myriad of designs surrounding them.

  Kites mesmerized him, and she saw no reason not to buy him a small, inexpensive paper one. She looked around for the cheaper models. “We’ll see what they have, Mac.” He accepted her remark.

  The shop seemed empty, but a door slammed in the back. Meara looked up to see a huge kite held by a pair of stubby hands come through the storage room doorway. The person owning the hands was hidden behind the colorful paper design with the long yellow-and-red tail.

  Mac gazed with awe at the huge creation until he swung around and grabbed Meara’s arm. “The kite man.” He pointed to the doorway. An elderly face peeked around the unique kite.

  “Well, hello there.” He grinned. “I’m just bringin’ in some new stock. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Placing the kite against the wall, he turned and headed back through the doorway.

  Meara bent down to Mac’s level and whispered, “That’s not the kite man, Mac. This man is too old.”

  Mac grinned. “No, the kite.” He pointed. “That’s the…kite man’s…kite.” His head punctuated every other word.

  As Meara studied the paper-covered frame, her gaze drifted to the long tail. She could envision the yellow and red ribbons curling through the sky. “It is, Mac. You’re right. This must be where the man sells his kites.”

  “Nice, huh?” The clerk’s voice interrupted their quiet conversation. He stepped toward them. “Now, may I help you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Meara said, pulling her gaze to the storekeeper. “I’d like to get a paper kite for my son. You know, one of the little diamond-shaped ones.”

  He chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the shop next door. We only have the kind yer lookin’ at here. Handcrafted, they are.”

  “And expensive,” Meara added.

  “I’m afraid so. At least, lots more expensive than those little paper toys. You like kites, son?”

  Mac grinned at the man. “Yep.” His pudgy hand jutted outward. “My name’s Mac. What’s your name?”

  The clerk leaned forward and took his hand in a broad handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mac. I’m Otis Manning.” He straightened his back. “Just a couple steps next door, ma’am. They have lots of kites for this young fella.”

  Meara’s heart lifted, observing the gentleman with Mac. He didn’t gawk at the boy’s disability or treat him like a second-rate citizen. His reaction warmed her heart. “Thank you. Ready, Mac? Let’s go next door and get your kite.”

  With a broad grin, Mac took her hand and they left the shop. Outside, the smell from the bakery tempted her taste buds. But that could wait. Instead she turned in the opposite direction to buy Mac’s kite. As she passed the display window, her gaze fell again on the Help Wanted sign. She paused. This would be a nice place to work. But reality tugged at her conscience, and she moved forward. She’d already decided to wait. By that time, the shop would have all the help it needed. Too bad.

  Glancing at the sign again with longing, she gave a wave through the glass at the elderly gentleman who watched them leave.

  Skimming the newspaper for rentals, Meara nibbled on a fresh oatmeal cookie from the bakery. She chided herself for the sweets—ice cream and now a cookie.

  “You know, Mac, we can’t keep eating all these treats. We’ll both be as big as elephants.”

  Mac giggled, dropping one of the new miniature trucks to the floor, and ran to her side. “I love you, Mama.”

  “I love you, too, Mac.” She gave him a big hug. Discouraged, Meara tossed the newspaper on the small table. Most rentals were summer cottages only meant for a one- or two-week vacation. One apartment seemed too expensive and was unfurnished. Only one held promise. Maybe later they would take a ride and check it out.

  Mac wandered to the sofa and picked up the yardstick-shaped package. “Make my kite, please,” he said, handing it to Meara.

  She unrolled the flimsy tissue paper and thin dowels, and, following the instructions, constructed the kite.

  Mac hung over her shoulder, watching, his eyes wide with wonder. “Can I…make it…fly?”

  “That, we’ll have to see,” Meara said, wondering what she owned to make the tail. She looked around the room, mentally assessed her wardrobe, and finally remembered a few pieces of ragged cloth in her trunk, kept there to clean her windows or wipe up spills.

  She went to the bedroom and returned with the cloth, tearing it into strips. After she tied the pieces together, she fastened them to the end of the kite, and Mac herded her to the beach.

  A light breeze stirred the trees near the cabin, but closer to shore a gusty wind blew, whisking the shimmering water into rolling whitecaps. Meara struggled to keep the paper kite from ripping away from her. She’d never flown a kite before, though she’d seen it done in movies or by others when she was a child. She prayed she wouldn’t disappoint her son.

  As if considering her the expert, Mac followed her every move. She unrolled a host of cord and let it fall to the ground.

  “Now, hold the ball of string, and I’ll run ahead with the kite.”

  Having no idea what she should do, she bit her lip and waited to make sure Mac appeared ready. While the wind pushed against her, she ran along the beach holding the kite in the air. Suddenly an air mass caught the paper and lifted it from her hands.

  “Hang on to the string,” she called, rushing back to Mac. But before she returned to him, the lengthy measure of string coiled on the ground offered no resistance to the aerodynamics, and the kite rose, then nose-dived into the water.

  Mac let out a cry, but she was helpless. The kite lay on top of the water, rising and falling with the waves. She looked at Mac’s downhearted expression, and disappointment coursed through her. She should have asked the shop clerk for tips on flying a kite. The “kite man” had made it look so easy.

  With her eyes on Mac’s disappointed face, she stepped forward to offer a consoling hug just as a huge red dog bounded between them. She struggled to keep her footing in the loose sand, wavering between success and failure, but the ground rose up to meet her. Though startled, she and Mac both laughed as the dog hovered above them, panted for a moment, then stayed long enough to lick her cheek.

  When the large, rambunctious dog settled into Mac’s awareness, his laughter faded. He let out a cry and dashed behind Meara, sending out sounds—a confused mixture of giggles and whimpers. With one hand, Meara patted Mac’s arm wrapped around her neck, and with the other, she held the dog at bay.

  A voice rose on the wind and she looked down the beach. The kite man raced forward toward her while she sprawled, pinioned to the spot by Mac and the big Irish setter.

  “Come, Dooley,” the man called. The dog lifted its head and turned toward him. “I’m sorry. Did he hurt you?”

  Dooley. The dog’s name. “No,” Meara said, a grin curling her lips, thinking of what she must look like. “Just my dignity, a little.”

  He grabbed the dog’s collar, pulling him away. “I’m usually more careful. I was maneuvering a kite through the door, and he shot out between my legs. He only does that when he sees the ducks.”

  “Ducks,” Mac repeated. “I want…to see…the ducks.” He punched the final word, tilting his head upward with a widemouthed smile.

  “Dooley scared them away, I’m afraid.” His gaze shifted from Mac to Meara, still sitting in the sand. “Let me help you.” He held the dog back with one hand and reached down for her.

  She felt like a downy pillow when he lifted her with ease. “Thank you,” she said, brushing the sand from her slacks and hands.

  His brooding eyes seemed friendly this afternoon, perhaps altered by the embarrassing situation Dooley had caused. His tight-pressed lips of yesterday looked more relaxed and the flicker of a grin curled the edge of his mouth.

  Meara’s gaze drifted to the thick cords of muscle that ribbed his arms as he controlled Dooley’s exuberance. The vision brought warmth to her cheeks.
She realized Mac still clung to her side.

  “Mac, the dog won’t hurt you. That’s his way of being friendly.” Looking at her child, Meara saw the beads of tears in his eyes.

  He took one step backward, but his grip on her arm tightened.

  “Would you like to pet the dog?” the man asked, his gaze searching Mac’s face. “I’m sorry Dooley frightened you.”

  “It’s not just the dog,” Meara said, noticing he had seen Mac’s tears. “It’s the kite.” She gestured toward the lake.

  He followed the motion of her hand. “Oh, I see.”

  Lapping against the sand, Meara spied the crossed dowels splotched with fragments of torn, soggy tissue. The rag tail advanced and ebbed in the undulating waves. “Not very successful, was I?”

  A wry grin teased his mouth. “It takes a knack.” He reached forward as if to touch Mac’s head, but drew back. “I’ll tell you what, pal. If your mother buys another kite, I’ll show you how to fly it.”

  Mac’s eyes widened, and he dragged his arm across his moist eyes. Apparently he’d forgotten the dog, because he stepped forward, his grin spreading from ear to ear. “Okay,” he said.

  Dooley’s tail flagged the air as he strained forward. When Mac noticed he stepped away, but the new promise seemed to give him courage, and he edged closer, eyeing the large dog.

  “He likes you, lad,” the man said.

  Mac eased nearer, inching his hand toward the dog’s shiny red coat. Finally his fingers touched the setter’s fur.

  Though his action was fleeting, Meara reveled in the progress Mac had made and the kindness of the man. The man. She had not introduced herself. Before she could follow through with the amenities, he turned and stepped away.

  “When you buy the kite, let me know,” he said, his face darkening as he distanced himself.

  “Thank you, Mr….” But he was out of earshot.

  Down the beach, he gave the dog free rein.

  Meara held Mac’s hand and watched the man following the dog until he disappeared around the bend in the shoreline.

  Jordan raced through the sand with Dooley a long stretch ahead of him. He sensed the woman watched, but he didn’t turn around to see if he was correct. Earlier she’d studied him, and he had watched her lovely face shift from laughter to concern to curiosity. So much life in one delicate face. Lila’s face had been round and sturdy, but this woman—He snapped his thoughts closed like a book he’d finally waded through and finished. No more of that. The child and his mother pressed against his thoughts too often. Talk about curiosity. He was as inquisitive about the child’s mother as she appeared to be about him.

  He skidded to a stop in front of the house and drew in a deep calming breath. Dooley had run a good race, but Jordan’s heart hammered for more reason than the swift dash along the sand. Mac had pierced his barricade. Why had he offered to teach the child to fly a kite? He should have escaped immediately. Instead his fatherly instinct had led him to open his foolish mouth. Now he would pay.

  Jordan remembered years earlier when he had built Robbie his first kite. The boy had a knack—like father, like son, as they say. With little help, Robbie ran through the field, the bright yellow tissue billowing, diving and soaring toward the clouds. A warm summer day, it was. And he’d thought then that they had so many bright sunny days to share.

  His chest tightened, holding back the emotion that burned his throat. His gaze lifted to the cerulean-blue sky, and he longed to shake his fist at Lila’s God. But the gesture was useless.

  No fist, no anger, no cursing could bring Robbie or Lila back.

  Chapter Three

  The following day, Meara drove Mac past the apartment listed in the newspaper. The location was near town, but the building needed paint and the grounds needed trimming. Was the inside as badly in need of care? She hesitated. Saying nothing to her son, she continued down the road. Maybe she’d check the newspaper one more time for another option before looking at this apartment.

  In town, Meara found parking and headed for the gift shop. Two kites seemed safer than one, after their last fiasco, and she let Mac select the ones he wanted. When she paid and stepped outside, the bakery lured her again, and she headed that way with the wavering promise she would only buy bread.

  Passing the kite shop, the Help Wanted sign rose to meet her. She paused. Closing her eyes, she asked God for a hint of what to do. When she opened them again, the elderly gentleman smiled through the store window and waved them in. Before moving she looked heavenward. Was this God’s doing, or just an older man’s friendly bidding?

  She pulled open the door, and Mac stepped in ahead of her.

  “Good morning,” Otis said. “I see you got a couple more kites today. No luck with the last one?”

  Meara chuckled. “‘No experience’ is the best way of putting it. I should have asked for a hint about launching one of these things. I’m grateful it was the two-dollar-and-fifty-cent version and not one of these.”

  Otis nodded. “Yep, you don’t wanna spend your money on one of these gems unless you know what you’re doin’. Now, that’s for sure.”

  Otis bent down and gave Mac a hearty smile. “How’s things goin’, sonny?”

  “Good. I like…kites. They’re high in the sky.”

  “They sure are.” He patted Mac’s head as the child’s focus swept the kite-filled ceiling. “You want to look at all the kites, boy? You can wander around if you want.”

  Mac looked at Meara, who gave an agreeable nod. “But not too long,” she added. “And don’t get into anything.”

  He wandered away, his mouth gaping at the colorful creations.

  “That’s a nice boy you got there.”

  “Thank you.” Flustered, she wondered if the comment was meant to open the door to questions about Mac.

  “I had a cousin with a Down syndrome boy. He threw temper tantrums till you could hardly bear it. Your son seems easier goin’.”

  Her question had been answered. “Mac’s no problem. He frightens easily. You know—dogs, birds, anything that comes up on him too quickly. But he’s a good boy.”

  “You’re a visitor in town. Tourist, I suppose.”

  Meara glanced down the aisle, checking on Mac. He stood near the back of the shop, staring at the kite they’d watched sailing over the lake. “No, we’re staying in a cabin up the road. I’m looking for a place to rent for a while.”

  “You and the boy are alone?”

  Her stomach jolted. She’d not been asked the question before and the reality shivered through her. “Yes, my husband died a few months ago. We lived with my in-laws and…” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I guess you didn’t ask for my life story.” She managed a smile. “We need a furnished place. Do you know of any?”

  He hesitated, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and finger. “So happens, there’s an apartment over this shop. Not too big. Couple of bedrooms and bath.”

  “We don’t need anything fancy for now. The cabin only has one bedroom, so most anything would be a mansion to us.”

  Dunstan’s family home was a mansion. The thought slammed into the pit of her stomach. Never again would she want to live in a huge estate like his, especially not as a prisoner. That’s how she’d felt. When she focused on the kite shop proprietor, he was studying her.

  “I even think the place up there has a few pieces of furniture,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the ceiling. “But it hasn’t been rented out since I can remember. Might be a mess now, for all I know.”

  “I’d like to take a look. Could I contact the owner?”

  “Let me talk to Mr. Baird. I’m not sure he’s even interested in using it as a rental. Right now, this whole strip of shops is in a bit of trouble…. But then, you don’t need to hear about that.”

  He gave her a friendly smile, just as she had given him. The “bit of trouble” phrase caught her curiosity.

  “Drop back tomorrow,” Otis said, “and I’ll let you know what
he says.”

  “Thanks. I’d really appreciate that.”

  Mac wandered back down the aisle, and she called to him. His grin stretched across his rosy cheeks. She held out her hand, and he rushed to her side. After thanking the man again, she and Mac left the shop, her spirit lifting with hope.

  Jordan hung the last pieces of cotton to dry. For the past two days he’d worked with batik wax-painting to design patterns on the cloth for an Edo warrior kite. Though beautiful, the design work was arduous, and the buyer would pay dearly for the creation.

  Dooley nuzzled his nose against Jordan’s leg, then rushed toward the door. With the family down the beach, Jordan hated to give the dog free rein. Rather than taking a chance, he tucked the leash in his pocket, opened the door and stepped outside, needing some fresh air himself. Dooley darted toward the lake. Jordan scanned the water’s surface for any poor, unsuspecting ducks that might be lolling on the waves, but none was in sight.

  At the water’s edge, Jordan turned left, then halted. Maybe today, for a change, he’d walk east along the beach.

  Who are you kidding?

  He shook his head. He knew full well why he was headed that way. Dooley sped off ahead, and he hurried behind the dog, glancing, now and again, into the woods, for the dilapidated cabins.

  He slowed his gait as they reached what he suspected was the area. A child’s laugh drifted from the trees, and Jordan looked through the foliage. Mac waved and lurched down the inclined path toward him.

  “Good morning,” Jordan said as the boy reached his side.

  Mac’s gaze drifted from his to Dooley’s, and he teetered backward, a look of fright rushing to his face.

  “It’s okay, Mac. Dooley won’t hurt you. Only thing he might do is knock you down trying to give you a big wet kiss.” He caught the dog’s collar, keeping him close to his side.

  “Dooley,” Mac repeated, maintaining his distance.