by David Fulmer
THE NIGHT BEFORE
The storm began late in the afternoon after the sky had darkened from crystal blue to cobalt, delivering snow on Christmas Eve for the first time in seven years. The fat, pillowy flakes descending in a slow swirl brought gentle memories to Joe Kelly’s mind, faded pictures from the happiest part of his childhood. It was one blessing atop another, and about damned time.
Facing yet another holiday season with pockets on empty, he had been living in dread of Mariel’s wrath. She could make it hard on him and the kids by staying angry right into the New Year. Except this time around, he had a little surprise that would change all that.
Actually, not so little. After the better part of a decade scratching his way up a glass mountain, and with just twelve days before Christmas, his agent had called from New York with a breathless bulletin that a certain A-list actor had stumbled upon his first novel, loved it, and promptly made an offer to option it. Joe could hear the wonder in her voice; she couldn’t believe it, either. The amount of money quoted, though not stupendous, caused his breath to come short.
After they clicked off, he reeled around the house, sloppy drunk without having touched a drop, working his brain to process news that was edging on fabulous. He grabbed the phone three times to call Mariel, then snapped it shut again. It was no time for an ordinary Oh, by the way, honey… And though bursting to shout the news from the Eastborough rooftops, over the next days he accepted, signed, and FedEx’d a contract back to California, all without uttering a word to anyone except his old friend Billy, who took his turn at stunned silence before whooping like a redneck at a rodeo.
Once the initial rush had passed, Joe fretted himself into a funk until his agent called to confirm that the actor’s manager had done as promised and sent an advance, eighty-five percent of which flew into hiding in the savings account, inflating the balance in an electronic banking instant from a straggling three to a robust five figures. When he visited the ATM to check on the deposit, the little slip of paper appeared with the zeroes lined up like fat, sassy eggs.
Still not quite believing the U-turn in his fortunes, he went inside and withdrew fifty new hundred-dollar bills. The teller counted the stack into his hand and wished him a happy holiday.
The cash rested in his inside pocket as he drove across town. By the time he reached Gateway Mall, the snow was laying and he noticed the cheer on the faces of his fellow shoppers. The weatherman had announced that it would continue on and off through the night, and everyone was giddy.
Joe burst in from the storm, attacking the stores like the American consumer he’d never been, running amok through Target, Borders, and Toys’R’Us, blowing a fistful of his crisp hundreds on gifts for the wife and kids. He worked his way down his list, bought some more, and then stood in line with his cart piled so high he could barely see over it. He was certain that Mariel would take one look and make him haul half of it back. That was okay; he was an amateur at this profligate spending business, and mistakes were to be expected.
Mariel decided to celebrate the holiday snowfall with an early cocktail. Then she decided to go ahead and make up a pitcher. She mixed too much brandy and not enough egg nog in the blender and carried a frothing cup to the front window to watch as the yards up and down the street took on frostings of white. From upstairs, she heard music and the voices of the kids chattering back and forth. The snow, the party down the street, and the gifts stacked high and wide under the glittering tree had them excited and getting along for once.
Lucky them; this was as it should be. She hoped they’d remember, just as she recalled those rare holidays when a snowfall had arrived right on time. The memory would be something precious to cling to through the years. Something precious amidst the regrets.
She caught herself and laughed quietly at the melodrama playing in her head. Listen to me. Her children were healthy and they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. She had a job that wouldn’t be going away. There was money in the bank; never enough but… enough. Her husband, though an incurable dreamer, was a decent man and a good father. All this was true.
She flattened her palm on a windowpane and felt the chill through the glass. A moment passed and she found herself studying the lines on the back of her hand. Though her skin was still smooth, tiny cracks and the odd tan splotch had begun to appear. Or maybe it was just her imagination. Forty-four wasn’t old anymore; it was barely middle-aged. She worried too much. Somebody had to.
She pushed that thought away along with the others, took another good swallow of her drink, and allowed the brandy to mellow her mood. The panorama outside the window was as gorgeous as a postcard and she decided to stand there and enjoy it for a while.
Joe drove through the flurries with the boxes stuffing the trunk and back seat of his ancient Saab. The assault on the mall had been a gas, but he hoped the best gift of all would be waiting a few blocks away. He felt a quiver in his chest when he turned onto Church Street and pulled to the curb in front of a store that bore the weathered sign: “Brosman’s Antiques.”
The store occupied the middle of a forlorn trio of shops that had been pulled apart at the seams, the spaces on either side having gone long vacant. Once the mammoth retail centers had muscled in, most of Eastborough’s mom-and-pop establishments had been pushed off the map. Somehow Brosman’s had hung on, an old fighter sticking it out for one more round. The humble landmark had been in the same spot since Joe’s childhood.
With the wipers sweeping in a slow rhythm and idle music playing on the radio, he regarded the tarnished façade and recalled another snowy evening twelve years before.
It was their first Christmas as husband and wife and they had come upon Brosman’s in the midst of a wonderland of clear stars and drifting white. Fresh from drinks at the pub down the street, they stopped, dazzled by the window display of an antique train hauling a cargo of jewelry through a miniature Alpine landscape, hills and vales and a tiny Swiss village, all dusted with soap-powder snow. Dark felt had been added for a night sky and a constellation of tawdry gems glittered in its folds. Entranced, Mariel tugged his arm and they stepped inside.
Even then, the place was an old photograph, amber-lit, cluttered, a little dusty, and smelling faintly of time. Mr. Brosman, the proprietor, made his slow way from his office in back to greet them. At seventy, he was short, balding, bespectacled, and dapper in shirt and tie.
Joe lingered over a selection of first edition books near the front door while Mariel made her gradual way to a case at the back of the store that was framed in old brass, the glass stained to a sepia tint. On one of the shelves, encased in a tiny box of thin zebrawood, was a brooch that caught her eye. A little sigh came from her throat and she said, “Oh, my!”
Hearing the odd note in her voice, Joe left the books to join her.
Brosman smiled at the young couple. “Something you’d like to see?”
Mariel pointed. “What is that?”
“Ah…” The old man slid the door open with care and produced the little box. “This…” he said, drawing out the drama, “…is called an Epiphany Star. From Albania, I believe.”
The pendant was an oval of amber in a setting of old gold. A ruby so blood-red that it hankered for black was the center of a four-pointed star, each ray created from a different gemstone and each producing a special gleam: a dark Czech opal, a piece of antique jade, a deep blue sapphire, and a butter-colored amethyst. More gold filigree tied the elements to one another. Even in the dark of the store, the pendant glowed as if backlit by a flickering candle.
“How old is it?” Mariel said.
“I don’t know exactly,” Brosman said. “A hundred years. Probably more. I know I’ve never seen another one like it.” Mariel said, �
�I have.”
“Oh?” the old man said.
“I remember… when I was a little girl. My grandmother had one just like that. She never wore it. But at Christmas time, she would -”
“Drape it on a cross?” Mr. Brosman was smiling.
Mariel said, “That’s right. I remember how I loved to look at it. The way it caught the light. She said she would give it to me when I grew up. But then she died and I never saw it again. I don’t know what happened to it. No one knew.”
“Was her family from Armenia?” Mr. Brosman inquired. When Mariel nodded, he said, “That’s where this one came from.”
Mariel said, “So beautiful.”
“Would you like to try it on?”
She accepted the piece and let Joe hook the clasp for her, the thin gold thread all but lost in his fingers. The pendant rested at the level of her heart.
Mr. Brosman sighed and said, “Lovely. But not cheap, I’m afraid.”
Joe tugged at his scarf. “How not cheap?” He wondered if either of them heard the catch in his voice.
“The price is twelve hundred dollars.”
The words “Twelve hundred!” were out of Joe’s mouth before he could catch them.
Mariel had been gazing into the oval mirror that was perched atop the case and cupping the pendant as if it was warming her hand. Now she turned to regard Mr. Brosman soberly, her dreamy smile dipping. She said, “Oh!”
“With the age of the piece and that workmanship…” Mr. Brosman was apologetic. “Any store in the city would probably charge twice that.”
Joe didn’t doubt it. Even so, with only one hopeful book of fiction in his agent’s hands, it was far too much for their budget. The moment dragged and then seemed to stop.
He had never forgotten the look on Mariel’s face as she unclasped the chain and handed back the pendant. She glanced his way and he caught a tiny blade of something in her eyes, as if it was just dawning on her what being married to the likes of Joe Kelly might mean.
For a long time after, he told himself that he ever hit the jackpot, he’d go back and buy the piece for her. And if it was gone, he’d search the world for another, a gesture so rare that she could never be mad at him again. Whenever this came to mind, he wondered if one antique charm could make up for all the disappointments. Maybe not, but it would be a one hell of a down payment. He had imagined over and over again the surprise in her eyes when he opened the zebrawood box.
Now, after the years of driving past the store, sometimes looking, sometimes not, that particular fantasy was about to come true. He closed his eyes, opened them again. Yes, it was still Christmas Eve, snow was falling, and he was parked in front of Brosman’s Antiques with money in his pocket.
He got out of the car and plodded through the new snow. The sky had shifted to an early evening indigo, the dusky half moon almost lost in clouds of dark silver.
Joe was dismayed to find the window barren. There was no sign of any little train shuttling over a magical miniature landscape and his gut sank as he leaned to the glass. Two dim lamps glowed in the back of the store and he could hear the faintest strains of music. He tried the door and to his relief, found it unlocked. A tiny bell tinkled as he pushed it open.
It wasn’t the same inside, either. The shelves were almost bare and the display cases held a paltry selection of what appeared even to Joe’s untrained eye to be tawdry wares. The carpet on the floor was stained and boxes stacked in the corners suggested a move in progress.
He stood in the dim quiet for a moment before calling, “Hello?”
A chair squeaked, slippers shuffled, and the Mr. Brosman Joe remembered, plus a dozen years, appeared from the office.
“Yes, sir?” The old man stared for a long few seconds. Then his eyes lit up behind thick lenses and he clasped his craggy hands together. “The Epiphany Star.”
Nicole made a special effort to keep Malikah quiet as they trimmed the scrawny pine that Terry had dragged in from who knew where. It was a pathetic thing and she assumed it was a throwaway that he had snatched off the curb at one of the lots. But it was a tree. He hoisted it through the front door and then climbed the stairs to the attic to rummage for a half-dozen strings of lights that were coated with dust but still worked. On his second trip, he located two boxes of ornaments. He told her that all their Christmas things all been stashed away after his dad took off and hadn’t been brought out since. He seemed quite pleased with himself and went off to his appointment with his rehab counselor in a flush of pride.
In the back of Nicole’s mind rested a vague hope that his mom would be too hung-over or too lazy to crawl out of bed and that their Christmas would pass without an incident.
She put Malikah to work right away so that they wouldn’t annoy Myra while she watched her shows. The timing worked out. Malikah was placing the last ornaments when they heard the familiar noises from the bedroom above their heads. First came muttered grunts, like a bear waking from hibernation or the devil rising for another day in hell. Footsteps shuffled along the hall to the bathroom. The toilet flushed and at the sound Nicole again dreamed of Myra falling in and then washing down the pipes, gone forever.
Next came feet clumping on the stairs and Myra appeared on the landing in her usual bathrobe and slippers. Her face was as pale as paper and stitched with wrinkles beneath a straggly mess of hair that was dyed an angry ochre. A smoking Newport jagged at a right angle from her thin lips. She stopped in the living room archway and stared at the tree. Malikah clung to her mother’s side.
“Where the hell’d that come from?” Myra croaked.
“Terry found it,” Nicole said.
“You mean stole it.”
“Malikah did the decorations,” Nicole said.
“She did, huh?” The turtle eyes slid the child’s way. Malikah dipped her head shyly.
The old bitch couldn’t totally resist Malikah’s natural sweetness, but she had no time for Nicole, blaming her for Terry’s problems, when he was the one who couldn’t summon the backbone to stay clean without her propping him up. Nicole knew that if not for his mother, he’d be a different kind of man, the funny, bright, good-hearted one who surfaced enough to keep her hanging on. The same one who made promises from the bottom of his heart, like that he would steer clear of his old running partners and not even think about scoring. That he would make the meetings with his counselor without fail. That he’d talk to Myra about not being so rude. That this Christmas would be great.
So far, so good on that last one. They had pooled their resources and collected a small stack of gifts to arrange under the tree. Terry said it was the first real holiday they’d had since he was sixteen, and a sign of better times to come.
Myra broke into this daydream with a cough that sounded like a dull blade on rusty metal. She settled into her recliner with a bone-creaking groan. An inch of whiskey from the night remained in a dirty glass on the side table. Stale as it was, she’d get to it soon enough.
Her hand went scrabbling for the remote and the TV blared. This was Nicole’s signal to evaporate and she shooed Malikah through the dining room and into the kitchen, leaving the old woman to her talk show.
Once they were safe, Malikah rounded the kitchen table to the window and stood looking at the falling snow.
Nicole said, “That’s pretty, isn’t it?”
The child was quiet for a few seconds. Then she glanced over her shoulder and said, “It gonna be all right, mama?”
“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine,” Nicole said. She waited for Malikah to turn back to the window to let her smile fade.
Mariel had another drink, though she filled the cup only halfway, a prudent choice. She had much to do.
She called up to the kids to finish dressing, then went about preparing an antipasto the way Joe’s Italian mother had instructed her. It never failed if you lined up the right ingredients - the imported deli meats and cheeses, olives, artichokes, and so on - and then laid them down in a precise orde
r. With a sprinkle of balsamic vinegar and olive oil as a last touch, the dish was always a hit at their parties.
Once she finished and covered the platter with plastic wrap, she moved on to the gifts. The two for Joe first, before he got back from wherever he had wandered. She had no idea. He had been acting extra odd over the last two weeks, secretive and silly, like a kid hiding something. Not that she paid that much attention to him. Or he to her, for that matter. These days, they spent a lot of time passing each other by.
Joe walked back to the car in a state of full marvel. First at the old man’s memory; Brosman had drawn from a dusty corner of his mind the recollection of the couple who had wandered in from a snowy evening long ago and how the pretty woman had been mesmerized by the Epiphany Star. Then, like a wizard performing a special magic, he puttered and muttered for an absent minute before producing the zebrawood box from the secret place it had rested for all that time. He opened it with fingers that trembled with age.
The pendant was as Joe remembered it, untarnished by the years. “I can’t believe it’s still here,” he murmured.
“Maybe it’s been waiting for you,” the old man said. “I guess it’s your lucky night.”
The price on the item was the same and to their mutual delight, Joe counted the twelve hundred-dollar bills into the storekeeper’s palm. Except for the surprise part, he wished Mariel had been there to see.
Mr. Brosman walked him to the door and they spent a moment looking out at the snow.
“Reminds me of when I was a boy,” the old man said. “Every Christmas should be like this. But then it wouldn’t be so special, would it?” He patted Joe’s shoulder, wished him a happy holiday, and then locked the door behind him. By the time Joe got into his car and started the wipers, the lights in the store had gone off, as if it hadn’t been open at all. In a moment of panic,
he went digging into his coat pocket. The zebrawood box felt warm to his touch.
The kids tried to dash out the door, but Mariel snapped them back and made them stand for inspection. She didn’t have to worry about Christian. He had spent his upstairs time finding something nice to wear, then combing his hair and brushing his teeth. Hannah was the one who required checking. She was her father’s daughter and would leave the house wearing a patchwork of whatever she first laid hands on or struck her odd fancy. Sometimes the ensemble worked and sometimes she looked ridiculous.
