by Luanne Rice
But Brian had turned out to be a really extraordinary lawyer—and person. He cared completely about the underdog. Although he represented big corporations, he gave time and money to Amnesty International, New York City Audubon, and Community Access. At the time they met, he was volunteering at St. Ignatius Loyola’s soup kitchen and mentoring a kid from East Harlem.
His firm represented the Rheinbeck Corporation, and he had spotted Catherine in the elevator. They rode up to the fifty-fourth floor, and she turned to him. “This is the library floor. Perhaps you want one of the offices?”
“No,” he’d said. “I want to ask you out to dinner tonight.” She’d accepted, and they’d gone to Aureole, the next night Le Bernadin, then Café des Artistes—some of the best restaurants in New York. On the fourth day Catherine had said to Lizzie, “He’s wonderful. He really cares, really wants to change the world. But I’ve never seen him out of his suit! And the places he takes me—they’d be great once a year. But every night …”
“Tell him you need pizza,” Lizzie urged. “It’ll be a test. If he turns up his nose, you’ll know he’s just a stuffed shirt.”
And so Catherine had. She suggested they go out for pizza—in jeans. And Brian had risen to the occasion, laughing, saying he’d wanted to take her to special places because she was so wonderful and because he’d wanted to impress her; and Catherine had smiled, saying if he really wanted to impress her, he’d take her to John’s, down on Bleecker Street. They’d gone and discovered they both liked their pizza plain… . It was there, relaxing together, seeing Brian in jeans for the first time, that Catherine had started falling in love.
He learned that Catherine had grown up in Chelsea—not quite poor, but as the daughter of a New York City cop, far from rich. Crossing West Twentieth Street on her way to St. Lucy’s School, she would dream of what it would be like to live in one of the beautiful townhouses of Cushman Row—she showed him one night, on a moonlit walk. And when they got married, Brian bought one for her.
Brian had adored Catherine every minute of his life with her. They had had six years together. Melanoma had been a very fast way to die—go to the doctor to have a mole looked at, be dead eight weeks later. Sometimes Liz agreed with her best friend—turning her back on God for taking him from her seemed the only sensible thing to do. Liz had days when her prayers were all about yelling at the Most High. Not just over the loss of Brian but over the loss of Catherine.
Liz couldn’t bear to see her friend suffer. These weeks before Christmas, when Brian had passed away, were the worst. Catherine would look for him everywhere. She’d see mist in the air, imagine it was his ghost. Lizzie was quite sure she spent most nights in December haunting the little room up in the roof of their house, which she and Brian had always planned would be their children’s nursery.
Catherine had the nursery but no children. And no Brian. That was why, Lizzie knew, she was so emotionally involved with Danny. Brian had cared so much about the homeless and hungry, about kids in trouble, families who couldn’t stay together. He always walked around with a pocketful of dollar bills, giving them to panhandlers.
“You can’t ask what they do with it,” he’d told Catherine. “You can’t judge them. If you give them money, and they turn right around and buy a bottle with it—that has to be their choice. People need to hold on to their dignity.”
Lizzie knew that that was what Catherine was trying to do with Danny. She had tried to get him to call home and, when he refused, offered him all the help she could—she referred him first to the Family Orchard outreach liaison, and then, without his knowledge, to child welfare.
“He’s only sixteen,” she had said to Lizzie last year. “They can’t force him to go home, but maybe they can convince him to get off the street.”
But Danny “Harry” Byrne had outfoxed them every step of the way. He was a country boy from the Canadian seacoast, with a hunter’s skills and a tracker’s wiles. Whenever child welfare got close, he was gone. Lizzie knew he’d slept a few times in Catherine’s office, a few summer nights in Central Park. Other than that, his whereabouts were a mystery.
Catherine had given up trying to figure out Danny’s whys-and-wheres. She’d stopped trying to change or control the situation—and adopted Brian’s method of giving without asking questions.
It was hard, Lizzie knew. But seeing her friend smiling, leaning over to help Bridget spoon some Devon cream onto her scone, filled Lizzie’s heart. Catherine’s spirit seemed alive tonight. Her gray eyes were dancing. It made coming uptown a little easier to take.
Bridget held her breath, standing in the sea of people at Rockefeller Center, staring up at the great tree. Beautiful skaters glided around the blue-white ice rink down below—nothing like the bumpy rustic ponds she and Danny used to skate on at home. A band played Christmas carols, and cameras flashed constantly. Rising around the scene were buildings as tall as the sky, every window twinkling with light.
“See that gold statue?” Lucy asked, pointing at the almost naked golden man, presiding over the skating rink. “That’s Prometheus. He was the wisest of all the Titans—he gave fire to humans.”
“Wow, you know a lot,” Bridget said, gazing down at the younger girl. Lucy was just nine—four years younger, the same age difference as between Bridget and Danny.
“We study myths in school. How come you don’t go?”
“Go?”
“To school.”
“Oh, I do. But we get to come to New York for December so my father can sell his trees. That’s how we live.”
“‘We’?” Lucy asked, wrinkling her brow.
“My brother,” Bridget said.
“Harry!” Lucy said.
“No, his name is Danny,” Bridget corrected. She watched Lucy turn as red as her name—the blush spread up her neck, into her cheeks, as she glanced up at her mother and Catherine. “That’s okay,” Bridget said, because the little girl looked so embarrassed.
“Do you miss him?” Lucy asked.
Bridget nodded. She wondered how much Lucy knew, how much anyone knew, for that matter. She stared up at the massive blue spruce. She could almost see it growing in Nova Scotia, on a hillside at the farm, standing strong against the sea winds blowing from the east.
“So much,” Bridget said. “More than anything. Pa, too. He goes out looking for him every night.”
“Your father does? Every night?”
Bridget nodded. “I wish my father had come, because Danny’s here now,” she whispered, under the buzz of the crowd, and the music playing.
“You mean right now?” Lucy asked.
Bridget nodded. “I feel him,” she said. “He’s—he’s looking after the tree. Till the lights go on.”
“What happens then?” Lucy asked, spellbound.
“The tree comes back to life … in a new way. When the lights are turned on, it fills everyone’s heart. Just like, well, it probably sounds weird … but just like the way you feel on Christmas morning. The tree—I can’t explain it. But the tree wasn’t cut down in vain. It was cut for a reason—to make everyone who sees it believe in the season.”
“Believe what about the season?” Catherine asked.
Bridget looked up, startled. She hadn’t realized that Catherine was listening. She cleared her throat. Explaining this to Lucy was one thing; children understood about such matters naturally, even city girls like Lucy.
“Believe in the goodness of the season,” Bridget said, her voice breaking, partly because she felt nervous saying it out loud, and partly because her beliefs in the Christmas season had been tested last year, when Danny ran away.
“It sounds almost magic,” Lucy said, staring up at her mother with an oddly dangerous look. “Like Harry Houdini.”
“Sssh, sweetheart,” Lizzie said.
Just then the announcers began to talk, their voices ringing out of loudspeakers. The crowd pressed even closer together, trying to get the best view. Bridget’s heart was tapping in her chest�
�any second now, the lights would go on. She wished she knew where Danny was; and she wished her father could be here right now, to see such a beautiful moment. She missed her mother, who had never even been to New York City.
She felt someone take her hand. It was Catherine. Somehow Catherine had read her mind—there was something about her that made Bridget believe that Catherine understood the magic. Catherine had invited her to come here, to see the tree lighting. She wore black and had sad eyes behind her thin silver-rimmed glasses. Her hand held tightly to Bridget’s, as someone in the crowd began a countdown.
“Four—three—two—one!”
And suddenly two things happened: the magnificent tree was ablaze with thousands of lights, and someone pulled Bridget’s hat from her head.
“My hat!” she cried out, touching her head.
She wheeled around just in time to see a boy running, dodging through the crowd. He wore a different jacket, and his brown hair was long now, but she knew it was her brother who had stolen her hat. Bridget cried out, “Danny!”
But he was gone. Lucy crouched down beside Bridget, retrieving her hat. Bridget was almost disappointed to get it back—she had liked to think of her brother taking it. But when Lucy handed the green knit back to her, Bridget saw a piece of white paper folded inside. Since Lucy hadn’t spotted it, Bridget decided to wait for a moment of privacy. Palming the paper, she raised her eyes to the tree.
Everyone was gazing upward. The lights on the tree were as bright as Nova Scotia stars. Her brother had been here the whole time, standing watch. Bridget had felt it, had known he would guard the tree. She wanted to run home and tell her father. Trying to catch her breath, she hoped no one would guess what had just happened.
“Pa,” she whispered, before she could help herself.
When she glanced up, expecting to see everyone staring at the brilliant lights, she saw Catherine looking down at her instead. Catherine’s eyes were sparkling, as if she had just seen the lights on the tree turn to stars. As if she had suddenly witnessed the spirit of the season.
“Goodness,” Bridget whispered, looking into Catherine’s eyes.
“Goodness,” Catherine whispered back.
6
Catherine lay in bed on Saturday morning, the covers pulled up to her chin. Snow was falling, driven by the Hudson winds, tapping against her window. She kept thinking about last night—how, at the minute the tree lights went on, Bridget had whispered, “Pa.” She had wanted her father to see …
Getting up, Catherine’s bare feet were cold on the wooden floor. She padded upstairs to the attic room, where she went every day. Sitting in the rocking chair, she wrapped herself in the afghan and stared out the tiny window. The snow was white, furious, and she hoped Danny was somewhere warm.
Just thinking of him made her uncomfortable. Somehow, trying to help him, she had failed to realize how much his family missed him. He had never told her why he’d run away. She had, at first, assumed that his father was cruel to him. But the one time she had asked him about that, Danny had shaken his head hard and said, “It’s not that at all.”
She had seen him last night, weaving through the crowd like the Artful Dodger; even more, she had seen Bridget’s look of rapture, clutching onto the note he’d left her. What had he said to his sister? Catherine wished she knew.
“Tell me what to do, Brian,” she said.
She listened, but except for tree branches scratching the windows and heat clanking in the pipes, there was silence. Brian had been so good and smart—he’d always known how to help people. She wanted him to guide her now, help her figure out what would be best. Was she supposed to bring a family back together, or help a boy on the streets stay hidden? She couldn’t forget Bridget’s eyes sparkling as she’d clutched Danny’s note, the tree lights shining as she’d whispered, “Goodness.”
She thought back three years, to the night Brian had died. Catherine had cared for him through his short, terrible illness. She had loved her husband and been terribly afraid to lose him.
“Don’t be afraid,” he had said that night. “We won’t lose each other.”
“How can you say that? How can you know?” Catherine had asked, paralyzed with fear.
“I just do,” Brian had said, lying in bed and looking so thin and pale. But the warmth in his eyes was enormous and seemed to defy any possibility of death. Although his skin was yellow, stretched tightly over his cheekbones, his smile was radiant and pulled Catherine to sit beside him.
“Tell me how,” Catherine said, trembling as she held his hand. She wanted to be strong but was failing miserably. Here she was supposed to be taking care of Brian, and he had to reassure her.
“I can’t explain it to you, love,” Brian said, his voice fading. “But I know it with all my heart. I will never leave you.”
“How will I find you? How will I know you’re here?”
“You’ll just know.”
“But how?” Catherine had pressed, feeling frantic as she’d watched her husband’s eyelids quiver. A silence fell over the room. Outside snow had started to fall, and it brushed against the windowpanes. His breath began to slow. Catherine saw a tear in the corner of her husband’s eye—their time together had been so short, and this was so unfair. They stared at each other without looking away, trying to memorize each other.
“Brian—tell me?”
“Listen for me at Christmas,” he had whispered. “I’ll say hello to you, every year.”
“But how?”
“I believe in goodness, Cath,” he’d said. “And what we have is so good. It can’t die … I refuse to believe it. Don’t let it. Keep our love alive, however you can. Keep giving, Cath. As much as you can.”
“And you’ll come back to me? Somehow? You’ll let me know you’re here?”
Her husband hadn’t replied in words but had sat up straight, and his eyes suddenly became bright and clear. Catherine had had the feeling he wanted to get out of bed. Letting go of his hand, she began to lower the bed rail. When she looked up again, Brian was dead.
He had never come back.
That was the thing that Catherine found so hard to live with. She’d never once heard his voice, seen his face… . She’d look at mist and want to see ghosts, she’d listen to the wind and want to hear his whispers.
He haunted her heart—that was all. She came up to this room, where they had hoped their children would play. She prayed to hear him, see him. She had begged God to let her speak to him again. But it hadn’t happened.
All Catherine could do was remember Brian’s words, and keep giving … as much as she could. That was why helping Danny, and now Bridget, mattered so much to her.
She saw the snow was falling harder, calling her outside. Closing her eyes, she sent a kiss to Brian. Then she dropped the blanket and ran downstairs to get dressed for the weather.
“Pa,” Bridget said, dressed in her warmest clothes, boots, and the green hat Liz had given her last night. “No one’s going to buy a tree today. It’s a blizzard!”
“Those are the best days to buy a tree,” Christy said into the biting wind. “When you drag it home, take it inside, and have a cozy time putting on the ornaments.”
“But Pa, the trees have four inches of snow on them now—with more coming! All the New Yorkers are inside. Just imagine how fun and wonderful and empty the hill will be today. We’d have it all to ourselves!”
“I know, sweetheart,” Christy said, staring down at her. She wanted him to take her sledding.
It had started last night, when he’d gotten home from his search. She was still awake, sitting up in bed with her green hat on, bouncing with excitement. He’d heard all about the wonderful time she’d had with her new friends—the tea, the scones, the Norway spruce, Catherine holding her hand while they watched the lights go on …
“The tree came to life, Pa,” she’d said last night. “It really did! The lights looked just like stars in the branches—thousands of tiny constellations. I
felt so happy to know it was alive again. And it made me want to …” She had paused, bitten her lip, and looked away. Christy knew it wasn’t possible, but she looked furtive, almost as if she were telling a lie. “Seeing the tree all lit up put me in the mood to go sledding, Pa. At that place you took us once, remember? The first year we came to New York with you? I don’t know where it was, but you do, you remember—right, Pa? We have to go there—to that hill! Tomorrow!”
“Bridget,” he’d said, stroking her hair as Mary used to do, wondering why she was so charged up, “go to sleep, now. I’ll see you in the morning.”
And now it was morning, and they were out at the tree stand with snow coming down so hard, Christy couldn’t see across Ninth Avenue, and Bridget was at it again.
“Think of how grand it’ll be!” she said, dancing around him. “The hillside will be so thick with snow—the sled will just fly.”
Christy looked around. Bridget was right about one thing—the New Yorkers seemed to be staying in today. The street was deserted, except for the plows and sanders and the occasional yellow taxi.
“That hill would take too long to get to. Maybe we could go somewhere closer by,” he said, trying to remember whether Battery Park had any kind of rise. He gazed down at her, snowflakes sticking to her pale eyelashes. He’d been neglecting her this week, being so focused on Danny. “Just for an hour or so, till the snow lets up.”
“No, Pa,” she said, agitated. “Nowhere new. The place we went before. The one where you took me and Danny that first year. We have to go there.”
“That’s all the way up in Central Park,” Christy said.
Just then a shadowy shape emerged from the curtain of snow. Christy peered down the block. Stark against the white were her black coat and black boots. When she got close, he saw that her eyes looked positively silver. They glinted behind her glasses with the biggest smile that Christy had ever seen in them. It was directed straight at him, which made his heart twist in his chest.
