Christmas Bells

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Liam punched him lightly in the arm. “Shut up.”

  “Or what?” said Ryan, laughing. “You’ll tell Mom?”

  “Don’t think I won’t.”

  Ryan elbowed him. “Idle threats.”

  “We’ll see who’s laughing when you find coal in your stocking.”

  Ryan’s laugh rang out, and Liam grinned, and the snow fell lightly upon them.

  The sidewalk needed clearing again by the time the tour was finished, but instead of joining the rest of the family at the piano, where Sister Winifred was merrily leading them in Christmas carols, Liam offered to help shovel.

  They tackled the front stairs first, the snow light and powdery enough that a broom would have served well enough. “Your nephews were very impressed with the children’s choir,” Liam remarked, planting his shovel in a snowbank. “Connor loves to sing. He asked me if he could join.”

  “That depends. Is he any good?” Ryan ducked when Liam flung snow at him. “Seriously, he’s welcome to join. Sophia and Lucas are fantastic teachers.”

  Liam shrugged, considering. “When do they practice?”

  “Tuesdays and Fridays from four thirty until six. They sing at nine o’clock Mass every Sunday morning, and at the afternoon vigil Mass on the first Saturday of the month. They also have a few holiday concerts during the year, like today’s.”

  “Nothing on Wednesday?”

  “Not unless Christmas or Easter happen to fall on a Wednesday.”

  “That could work. Connor has this other thing on Wednesdays, a rocketry club.”

  “Really,” said Ryan, intrigued. “That sounds like fun.”

  “Yeah, it is. I wish they’d let me join. A few Harvard students started it a few years ago, and it’s really taken off.” He winced. “Sorry, bad pun.”

  “I forgive you.”

  “From a priest, that really means something.” Liam grinned. “Anyway, it’s a great organization. The kids learn all about rocketry—the science to it, not just the awesome explosions. Force, aerodynamics, thrust, lift, and lots of other things Connor could explain much better than I.”

  “It sounds perfect for a kid I know, one of the boys in the choir.”

  “I can email you the details. Or we can talk about it tomorrow at Mom and Dad’s.” Liam hesitated. “You are coming, right?”

  “I won’t be able to leave St. Margaret’s until three, but I’ll be there.”

  “So we’ll talk then.”

  “Sounds good.”

  With a sigh, Liam pulled his shovel free from the snowbank and resumed clearing the stairs, and after watching him for a moment, Ryan did too.

  They would talk tomorrow. Everything would be all right between them as long as they kept talking.

  • • •

  Sophia was immeasurably proud of her young singers, and she told them so after Mass, lighthearted and smiling, glowing in the aftermath of their musical triumph. Before they bundled into their coats and departed with their parents, she gave each child a candy cane and a Christmas ornament shaped like a quarter note and wished them a Merry Christmas. They all happily echoed the phrase, some flinging their arms around her waist in spontaneous hugs, and most offered her small gifts—homemade treats, hand-knit scarves, gift cards to local shops and restaurants, always welcome on a public schoolteacher’s budget.

  Her heart plummeted. At least for the next few months she could still claim that title. She should probably save the gift cards until then, when she would be forced to make severe budget cuts—unless somehow the funding came through for her school.

  Deliberately, she shoved aside all worry and dread over her pending unemployment. It was Christmas Eve, and the choir had performed the best concert of her tenure as director, and she did not want to spoil the moment.

  After the children were gone, Sophia and Lucas tidied up, joking and laughing as they recapped the concert. “Sister Winifred’s programs were a big hit,” Lucas remarked as he finished packing up his sheet music.

  “I think Charlotte’s poem deserves the credit.” Sophia slipped into her coat, wrapped one of her new scarves around her neck, and then, suddenly shy, she asked, “Are we still on for dessert?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”

  Sophia shrugged. “No reason.” She had spent every day since their last rehearsal contemplating Sister Winifred’s words, but if Lucas wanted to pretend the incident had never happened, so would she.

  Gathering up their gifts—between them they had received enough tasty baked goods to see them through all twelve days of Christmas—they left St. Margaret’s and walked down the block to Café Algiers for Turkish coffee and baklava. They chatted for a while about their plans for Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve—they both confessed that they planned to stay home on the last night of the year, Lucas to work on his thesis, Sophia to revise her résumé. After the server came by to refill their cups, Sophia smiled and reached for her bag. “Do you want to open your gift first?”

  “Absolutely.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together, feigning avarice.

  She laughed. “I hope you like this. If you don’t, feel free to regift it, because I can’t return it.” She took a thick, red envelope from her bag and set it on the table beside his coffee cup.

  He picked up the envelope and shook it close to his ear. “Is it a bowling alley?”

  “No, just the deed.”

  He grinned and carefully tore open the flap. “A card,” he said, peering inside. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to regift this.”

  “The gift is in the card, silly.”

  Obligingly, he looked. “Tickets to . . . something.” He studied them more carefully. “Oh, wow, this is great. Tickets to a lecture by Anders DeWitt.”

  “It’s next month,” Sophia explained, in case he hadn’t seen the fine print. “In New York. I know that’s inconvenient, but he isn’t speaking anywhere closer.”

  “Not a problem.” He regarded her, happy and amazed. “Are you a fan of Anders DeWitt?”

  “I thought you might be, and that’s what matters. I know only what I’ve read on the Internet.”

  “He’s one of the most prominent urban planners and designers of our time. I couldn’t even tell you how many awards he’s won. I have all of his books.” Then he paused. “Two tickets.”

  “Right. I thought we could go together, take the train and spend the day in New York and then go to the lecture.” Quickly she added, “But the tickets are yours. If you’d rather take one of your friends from school, that would be perfectly fine.”

  “No, let’s go together.”

  “One of your fellow students might get more out of the lecture than I would.”

  “Sophia.” He caught her eye and smiled. “I’d rather go with you. Really.”

  “Okay.” Relieved, she smiled and sat back in her chair. “Good.”

  He carefully tucked the tickets and the card back into the envelope and set it aside. “I have something for you too.”

  “You’d better.”

  He smiled as he took a small box from his bag, but something in his eyes suggested nervousness. “You know, I actually bought this for you last year.”

  “Really?” Intrigued, she studied the box as he placed it before her. “Why didn’t you give it to me then?”

  He shrugged. “Bad timing.”

  Her curiosity rising, Sophia unwrapped the box, lifted the lid—and discovered, resting on a soft bed of white cotton, a pair of exquisite combs with jeweled rims.

  With a soft gasp, she reached out a fingertip and traced the smooth lines of one of the combs. “Tell me you didn’t sell your pocket watch,” she said shakily, trying to keep it light.

  “I did.”

  She knew he never owned a pocket watch.

  “Sophia.” Lucas reached across the table and t
ook her hand. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

  “So am I.”

  “I also love you.”

  Her heart pounded, and she found herself without words.

  “I’m content to stay friends if that’s all we can be. Do you know why?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because your happiness is more important to me than my own.” He squeezed her hand, gentle and affectionate. “Your happiness is essential to my own.”

  She felt tears of joy springing to her eyes. “Do you know what would really make me happy?”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you’d kiss me.”

  • • •

  The more Alex thought about what Sister Winifred had said, the more he believed she was right. Alex was the man of the house while his father was away, and the man of the house made gingerbread pancakes on Christmas morning.

  On Christmas Eve he set his alarm, and on Christmas morning it woke him well before sunrise. Without turning on the light he tiptoed downstairs, past the living room, where he paused to admire the pile of colorfully wrapped gifts that had mysteriously appeared beneath the Christmas tree overnight. Grinning, he plugged in the lights, found a box with his name on the tag, and gave it a careful shake—then remembered his mission and hurried on to the kitchen.

  A few days earlier, he had found the recipe on a card in the wooden box by the toaster, and when his mom wasn’t watching, he had checked the pantry and the fridge to make sure they had all the ingredients. Now it was time to fill in for his dad, like Sister Winifred said.

  In a big glass bowl, he mixed together flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. He stirred in ginger, cinnamon, and ground cloves. In another bowl, he melted some butter in the microwave, added brown sugar and molasses, broke two eggs into the mix, picked out a few stray eggshells, and stirred it all together into a gooey mess. He added the dry stuff to the wet as he had seen his dad do and prepared the griddle.

  The first batch turned out burnt on the outside, soggy on the inside, so he threw them out and adjusted the temperature. The second batch wouldn’t flip right, so he ended up with a lot of crumbly half-circles and weird shapes. He could eat those, he decided, but he couldn’t use up all his batter on mistakes. Resigned, he turned off the griddle, went upstairs to Charlotte’s room, and shook her awake.

  “What do you want?” she groaned, rolling over onto her side. “We can’t open gifts until Mom gets up.”

  “I know that. I need your help with something else.”

  “What?”

  “Pancakes. What do you know about them? How do you make them turn out . . . like pancakes?”

  She rolled over and peered up at him. “I ask again, what?”

  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he began, and went on to tell her about his project gone awry. “Can you tell me what to do?”

  She flung off the quilt and sat up. “It would be easier if I showed you.”

  “Okay, if you want to.” He would never admit it, but that was exactly what he had hoped she would say.

  They tiptoed downstairs, and after Charlotte’s eyes widened at the mess and she declared in a whisper that he was responsible for cleaning it up, she was actually helpful. Her pancakes turned out perfectly round, cooked all the way through but not dried out or burnt to a crisp.

  “You’re a pancake genius,” Alex said, impressed.

  Charlotte smiled as she expertly flipped the last one. “Thanks.”

  Suddenly the overhead light went on in the hallway. “Kids?”

  Startled, they looked up and discovered their mother standing in the doorway, blinking in the light, mouth open, hand over her heart. Alex watched with increasing alarm as her gaze traveled around the kitchen, taking in the spilled flour on the counter, the trail of molasses on the floor, the ruined practice pancakes in the trash, the milk carton left open on the table, the fingerprints in batter on the refrigerator door, all of it.

  “We’re making gingerbread pancakes,” Alex said weakly. “It’s not Charlotte’s fault. It was my idea. She was just helping me. I was going to clean everything up before you saw it, and I still will, I promise.”

  His mother burst into tears.

  “Mom?” said Alex, horrified. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.”

  “I’m not sad,” she assured him, reaching into the pocket of her robe for a tissue. “I’m crying because I’m happy.”

  In a tiny, bewildered voice, Charlotte said, “But we made this huge mess.”

  Alex felt a sudden surge of love for her for that “we.”

  Their mother nodded. “Yes, but you made it together.”

  Words seemed to fail her then, so she smiled instead and held out her arms to them. Alex ran over and hugged her, and Charlotte—after removing the last perfectly cooked pancake to a plate and turning off the griddle—hurried over to join in.

  Soon their mom put on a pot of coffee, Alex set the table, and they all sat down to eat. They all agreed that Alex and Charlotte’s pancakes were second in deliciousness only to their father’s, and that they ought to seriously consider opening a pancake restaurant.

  Even though everything was happy and good, Alex suddenly felt a surge of loneliness. “I miss Dad.”

  “Me too,” said Charlotte, her eyes welling up with tears.

  “Can we talk with him today?” Alex begged. “Please, Mom?”

  “It’s not up to her.” Charlotte played with her fork, then set it down next to her plate, looking miserable. “It’s not her fault that—that the Internet is broken over there.”

  Their mother took a deep breath. “Kids,” she said, her voice trembling, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Charlotte shot her a sharp look and straightened in her chair.

  “What?” said Alex.

  She reached across the table, took his hand in one of hers, and Charlotte’s with the other. “I need for you to be brave.”

  Alex nodded, suddenly afraid.

  Their mother inhaled deeply. “Alex, Charlotte, the reason we haven’t—”

  At that moment, the phone rang.

  • • •

  Laurie jumped, released her children’s hands, and banged her knee against the table leg. Dishes clattered and the phone rang again. “Honestly,” she said, shaken, her thoughts immediately going to telemarketers and robocalls. “Who would call this early on Christmas morning?”

  “Grandma,” said Alex helpfully. “Aunt Susan. Uncle John—”

  “Oh, right.” Feeling foolish, Laurie rose and hurried over to snatch up the phone. “Hello?” she said, heart pounding from the strain of a confession narrowly averted. She could not ruin Christmas for Alex and Charlotte, not after all they had done to make the morning special for her.

  “Good morning. May I speak with Mrs. Moran, please?”

  “This is Mrs. Moran.”

  The voice was deep, crisp, and formal. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Jorge Reyes with the United States Army.”

  She could not breathe.

  “Yes?” She finally managed. Her voice sounded as if it came from a thousand miles away. Suddenly dizzy, she stumbled back to the table and sank into a chair. “Yes?”

  “I’m calling to inform you that your husband has been injured, and at this time he is being transferred to the Ramstein Air Base in Germany.”

  “You found him?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We found him.”

  “He’s alive? He’s all right?”

  “Mom?” said Alex, frightened. Charlotte darted from her chair and put her arm around his shoulders.

  Silent, shaking, Laurie wept while the officer anticipated her questions and answered them all. Jason had suffered injuries to the head, shoulder, and left leg in the attack, and it was believed that he had either sought shelter behind a rocky out
cropping or had wandered there, dazed from the blow to his cranium. After the convoy was forced to evacuate, two children from a nearby village had found him, and under the cover of darkness, they had guided him to their home. Their family had hidden Jason in a small back room, tending his wounds, keeping him warm and fed, risking their own lives to save his. They had no means to transport him to his base, nor any way to safely send a message to the Americans or their allies. The children’s mother, an educated woman who years before had taught a school for girls in her home in defiance of the Taliban, heard of a Western reporter asking around the village about the attack on the convoy. She managed to get word to him about their unexpected guest, and the reporter arranged for him to be smuggled out of the village and back to the base.

  “Two children,” said Laurie softly, wondering if they were a brother and a sister, if they were around the same ages as her Alex and Charlotte.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are they safe, the children and their parents?” she asked. “There won’t be any retaliation against them?”

  The lieutenant colonel assured her that the operation had been completely undetected. No one except the family and the correspondent knew that an American soldier had stayed in the village.

  “Your husband should be arriving at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center within two hours,” Reyes continued. “Before his flight took off, he asked us to pass on a message.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked us to assure you that he’s fine, and that he loves you all, and that he wishes you Merry Christmas.”

  Laurie closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back sobs, trembling. He was alive—injured, but conscious, and well enough to send them a message.

  “Mrs. Moran?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” she said quickly, suddenly aware that he had been speaking. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Your husband will be able to phone you late tonight—later this afternoon, East Coast time. Would you be around to take his call at fifteen hundred hours?”

  “Yes, of course. Of course. We’ll be home. We’ll be ready.”

  After the call ended, Laurie composed herself, assuring Alex and Charlotte—who were worried and frightened, with tears streaming down their cheeks—that their father was going to be fine, that everything was going to be fine.