by Tim Greaton
When I finally stepped off the last bus, it was late morning on the day before Christmas. Christmas Eve was just hours away. The air here was cool, and my breath came out in great chilled clouds that I half-expected to fall to the ground as ice. I tugged my collar up as close to my ears as possible and thrust my hands in my pockets. The bus roared and began to pull away from the curb. I imagined a great, unified sigh of relief had just occurred on that bus. The vagabond was gone.
There was no actual bus depot here, just a little sidewalk sign that read, Bus Stop, Gray. A green wood and steel bench sat directly beneath the sign. Though the sidewalk had been well plowed, two or more feet of snow had already fallen here. A single bank of clean white snow lined either side of the road. It was tiny and quaint village just as Barwood had described it. There couldn't have been more than fifty buildings comprising the entire community. Tall evergreens rose against the backdrop of the roofs in every direction. It was as though a tiny village had been carved out of the northern wilderness which I supposed, in fact, it had been.
Fortunately for me, the sky was clear and bright and the town had plowed both the streets and the sidewalks. I would be able to move about easily.
To find the bridge first was probably the best idea. What a lark that would be, to come all the way to Vermont for a suicide only to get lost and never find the bridge. Though Gray was just a tiny village, that was no guarantee the bridge would be nearby. It was conceivable the bridge was miles from the township proper. The bus might even have passed it without me noticing. I hadn't realized we were this close to town until the driver had slowed for the Gray stop. I hadn't seen a soul out of doors yet, but was tempted to make my way into one of the small shops that lined the short street and ask where the bridge was. Of course, that would have been like out-and-out saying, 'I've come to be the next victim of your Christmas Leap.'
No, unfortunately, I would have to find this bridge on my own. I took out another Pop¬TartTM and munched as I crossed the street. Immediately opposite the bus stop was a little store painted a brilliant red with white trim. Atop the roof was the largest Santa hat I had ever seen. Constructed of plywood, it was mounted and painted in the same bright colors as the house. I think it would have been tacky if it hadn't been for the time of year and the snow all around. As it was, it seemed perfect.
Just below the hat, near the roofline, hung a sign declaring the building to be THE SANTA SHOP. I could see an amazing assortment of toys in the window and for curiosity's sake I opted to go inside. Maybe I could find a way to casually ask about the bridge while I was there.
An aggressive wind chime clattered as I opened the single wooden door. The smell of fresh sawdust and paint assailed my nostrils as I ambled into the simple but strangely appealing showroom. Wooden toys were placed in neat rows along carpeted shelves that lined every foot of the long room. The toys were wonderfully bright, seeming to come in every conceivable color. I didn't think I had ever seen so many hues and color variations in one place at one time. As I looked closer, I realized that these were not the typical wooden 'crafty' toys you would usually see at flea markets and discount shops. No, these were works of art that just happened to be in the form of toys. There were smiling dolls, jointed lions, leaping tigers, and colorful animals of every type. I could see cars and trucks from every era, and Victorian carriages pulled by finely carved wooden horses. There were wooden buildings, enough to build entire cities, and tiny jointed people that had been hand-carved with such impeccable detail that I almost expected them to up and move about.
I ogled shelf after shelf filled with spectacular playthings of every type, and I did it with a childish awe I knew I hadn't felt since I was a young boy. About three-quarters of the way down the large room, on the third shelf up I saw a blue wooden truck that sat beside a series of bulkier tractors. My breath caught. I knew that truck. I think I even believed that if I picked it up I would find a tiny version of me and my father sitting in there, waiting for the sun to rise so we could fish. It was one of the few childhood memories of him that I could cherish, and I think that's what made the truck doubly attractive to me. I wanted so badly to pick it up that my childish yearning made me queasy inside.
"Go ahead," a deep friendly voice said to me. "Try it. The wheels turn and both doors open. It's a good little truck."
I pulled my gaze from the toy and looked to the man who had just come through a door at the back of the store. From the strengthened wood scent and the sprinkling of sawdust on his flannel sleeves, I surmised he made these toys
"It's good to meet you," the man said, striding forward and extending a hand out. He was shorter and thinner than his deep voice would seem to indicate. I was immediately reminded of Barwood and was struck by this man's forthright sincerity. His smile was infectious and I readily returned it.
"Nice to meet you, too," I said, taking his strong hand in my own.
"Here," he said. He lifted the truck gently from the shelf and placed it in my hand. "We glued steel bearings in all four wheels. It's quiet and rolls fast."
I stared at the little blue pickup and it was like being transported back to that morning beside the lake. It was a time when my father and I were not enemies. He was dressed casually, unlike the suits he usually wore. He tousled my hair and talked to me about getting the biggest fish ever. I listened with awe and was convinced we'd catch a monster fish so large we'd have to chain it to the truck just to get it home. He was just a dad taking his son fishing, and I was just a loving son enjoying every minute of the attention. I'd almost forgotten that I had loved him once. And this memory almost convinced me that at one time he had even loved me back.
I shook my head and gazed at the pickup truck. Though only five inches long and less than two inches high, it was the most incredible toy I'd ever held in my hand. I could sense a quality about it that I knew only the most expensive collectible toys could hope to emulate. Most modern toys were plastic or die-cast metal, stamped out in the thousands or even the millions. They lacked personality, I thought, and craftsmanship. This little truck, however, had both. Though it was made of wood, I couldn't see a sand mark in it. And the paint was flawless, shining as brightly as any Matchbox I'd ever seen. I spun one of the front wheels. True to the shopkeeper's description, the wooden tire whirled effortlessly.
"It's wonderful," I said. "You make these?"
"That, and everything else you see here." He gestured proudly to all the toys on the shelves.
"I was really just browsing. I saw the Santa hat on the roof and was just curious what your store was like."
"Oh, we love browsers," he said. "It's nice to have our work appreciated."
"You own the store?"
He stared off to the left for a minute, then smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I guess I do. I officially take over tomorrow."
"You bought this place?"
"Heck no. My boss gave it to me."
"Free and clear?"
"Yeah, it's mine. Gave me his house, too."
"And a house?"
"Sort of a Christmas present."
"Your boss sounds like an unusual man." I didn't know whether I thought he was truly generous or just crazy.
"He's the best man I've ever known," the toy maker agreed. "Sorry he's not here for you to meet. You'd like him."
"You been working here long?"
"Only a year now. But he's taught me an awful lot in a year."
A year, I thought. Who gives away a store and a house to someone you've only worked with for a year? This man must have been family to the owner.
"Well, congratulations on the store, and thanks for showing this to me." I tried to hand the truck back to him.
He shook his head. "No. You keep it. That truck belongs to you. I could tell just from the way you looked at it. Toys and people are like that, you know. Some just belong together."
"I'm not connected to a toy," I said, but the words felt like a lie as they came out of my mouth. "And I'm about the last person in the world that needs on
e."
"You don't understand," the man said gently. "It's free. It's my Christmas gift to you."
Strangely, I was furious. Money wasn't the issue. As a matter of fact, Jenny had given me over fifteen more dollars than I had needed for the bus. I knew my thoughts were irrational, but I felt as though I was being scammed. I thrust the truck harshly back at him. "I don't want it," I said. "I just don't want it."
The man's smile never faded, growing instead somehow softer with understanding. "I'm sorry. I can see I was bothering you," he said. He accepted the truck and placed it gingerly back on the shelf.
"I should have been finishing up my projects instead of coming out here to rudely interrupt you like I did. You make yourself at home and just holler if I can help with anything."
He shook my hand a second time.
"If I don't see you again before tomorrow, have a great Christmas." He turned and strode back out into the workshop. I couldn't detect even a hint of insincerity in his voice or manner.
I looked around the shop again, but the initial magic I'd felt was gone. And I knew it was my fault. It was as though I'd just committed a sin in church. Filled with guilt, I walked back out into the snowy day.
I made my way to the restaurant two stores down from The Santa Shop. Glumly, I trudged inside and settled down at a bench near the door. There were only three other customers I could see, two elderly women sitting at a table near the back and one middle-aged man in a black snowsuit. He sat at the long counter that ran the length of the room. There was a cooking area behind the counter where a large balding man in a blue and white striped shirt worked silently stirring and turning various bits of food on a grill. He didn't look up to notice me. There were a dozen empty tables and at least that many empty bar stools. For the owner's sake, I hoped business was more brisk during regular meal times.
A heavyset brunette waitress dressed in the same striped blue and white uniform as the cook hurried over to help me. I could see the smile noticeably drop from her face as she got a good look at me. It's also possible that my aroma was stronger than she was used to.
"What can I get you?" she said tersely.
This was the type of treatment I was used to. I felt all the more guilty for the way I had treated the Santa Shop keeper that had gone so far out of his way to be nice to me.
"I'd like two slices of toast, orange juice, and a bowl of Frosted FlakesTM if you've got it."
"We don't have cereal."
"Pancakes?"
"Blueberry or regular?"
"Regular is fine."
She was eyeing my chest as though I had a third arm sprouting from it. I looked down to see the Pop-TartsTM flap hanging out of my jacket breast. Embarrassed, I pulled the box out and laid it on the table.
"I bought it for the bus trip," I said, feeling like an oaf. "Forgot it was in there."
For a long moment, she stared at me with an I-know-you-stole-it-and-I-hope-you-have¬money-to-pay-for-this-meal expression. I was happy when she scribbled a few notes on her pad and left me to my own.
Right about then, I was tempted to grab my Pop-TartsTM and take the door. However, that would have proved her theory of me and, besides, I deserved a last meal. Better to stick around and show her that I actually did have the money to pay.
Regardless of the stiff service, the food turned out to be wonderful. Martha Big did her best as did the other shelters, but compared to that this food was pure ambrosia. I was wiping my toast across the last of the syrup in my plate when the waitress returned. She laid a bill beside my empty glass.
"Will that be cash or charge?"
I'm not sure exactly why her attitude had angered me so much. Maybe I was sick of being treated badly, or maybe I just wanted to get in a few last licks before the cold river took me. Either way, I leapt to my feet and stared down at the rude little woman.
"You're not a very nice person," I told her. "And if you are, you're not a very nice person to me.”
"I'm happy for you,” I continued, “if you have a warm place to sleep every night, and I'm happy if you don't have to wonder when and if you'll get your next meal. That's great for you. But is it too much to ask that you have a little courtesy? Is it too much to ask that you treat me like a human being?"
The stern look never left her face. "Will that be cash or charge?"
Drained of the fight, I said, "Cash," and handed her a ten.
"Merry Christmas," she snarled as she came back and slapped several bills and a handful of change on the table. She took two steps back and seemed to be waiting for me to leave.
Like a bouncer, I thought. I could see that the other three customers were trying not to be conspicuous but they couldn't help but stare. I didn't blame them. The cook hadn't glanced my way even once during my visit, but just then I caught his eye. He shrugged and shook his head as if to say, Doesn't matter. She just doesn't get it.
"Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too," I said to her as I stuffed the Pop-TartsTM back into my jacket and the change into my pocket. Then I thought better of it. I pulled out the one-dollar bills and laid them on the table. What use did I have for the money, anyway?
The woman's eyes flickered from my face to the money and back again. She shook her head. I could see the struggle of emotion in her face.
"That ain't right," she said. She picked up the bills and held them out to me. "I don't deserve a tip."
"You fed me didn't you? That's more than some restaurants can say."
She nodded. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Don't sweat it. Apology accepted." I buttoned my jacket and left.
I wondered at what had just occurred. Somehow a bad encounter had turned good, all because I decided to leave a tip in spite of my own anger. There was a lesson to be learned here. I was only sorry that I wouldn't have a chance to make use of the knowledge...then again, maybe I would.
I strolled purposefully back to The Santa Shop. Once again, chimes sounded off as I entered. Bright colors and cheerful wooden faces greeted me. I grinned as my eyes lit upon the little blue truck on the third shelf up.
"Excuse me," I said loudly, but careful not to holler.
The friendly man instantly emerged from his workshop in the back. His face was bright with a smile. There didn't seem to be any falseness to him.
"I'm glad you stopped back," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to say I'm sorry for acting the way I did."
"It's all right, really. It's a shame, but Christmas is a difficult time for a lot of people. I'm fortunate that I found the spirit again. Or, more correctly, I should say the spirit found me." He grinned widely.
"Must be easy to have the spirit when you're surrounded by all this." I gestured toward the bright shelves.
He surveyed his little store and seemed like a proud father, standing over his children. "You're right. The Christmas spirit is strong here."
"It must be nice to watch the children."
"Yes, it is. But we're all children, you know. We bigger folk try our best to be brave and strong. But inside we're all just kids. Sometimes seeing the sparkle of an adult's eyes over the right toy is even better than seeing that of a child. Children are surrounded with the magic of life, but so many of us forget all about it as we get older. I know I did."
"Me, too," I said.
The man nodded at the truck. "I sure wish I could convince you to accept the truck. There's a lot of pleasure in giving, you know. You'd be doing me a favor."
"In that case, I accept."
"Good." He crossed the floor in three easy strides. With reverence, he lifted the truck from the carpeted shelf again and handed it to me.
"Merry Christmas, little boy," he said, his smile as wide and genuine as one can be. "Merry Christmas to you."
I could think of no words to match the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. "Thank you," I said simply as I took my present and left.
"No. Thank you," I heard his voice amid the ringing chimes. Then the door closed behind me.
Chapter Eight
A Last Hurrah
