Christmas Jars Reunion

by Jason F. Wright

  “Just trust me.” He picked up the piece of scrap wood again.

  “Famous last words.” She turned back to face the sander and felt Clark ease up close behind her.

  He put his arms through hers and took her hands.

  She caught her breath when she felt his on her neck.

  “Take this.” He put the piece of scrap wood in her right hand. Slowly he guided their hands closer to the sander. “Hold just the back of it. Trust. Let my hands do the work. The trick is movement.” He moved their hands toward the sander’s belt and then away, then again, and again. Each time the block of wood made contact, sawdust exploded off the piece and Hope’s hands tensed. “Relax,” he said.

  Easy for you to say, she thought, suddenly recalling vividly how lonely she always felt the day after Clark vanished for another month of chasing baseball.

  Clark moved his head to look over her other shoulder and captured the scent of what he thought might have been strawberry shampoo. After a few seconds he moved again, but took his time passing by the back of her head and breathing in the scent, knowing he’d remember it long after she’d gone home for the night.

  Clark rolled the piece through her hands and smoothed the corners until all the edges rolled effortlessly along their fingertips. More time passed than either would have guessed.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Clark asked. “It’s energizing. Taking something rough and making it smooth. Making it beautiful. I see why Adam thought the work was so noble.” Clark powered off the sander. “It’s a magical process.”

  Hope turned around to face him but hadn’t realized just how close Clark’s face was to hers. She leaned back against the workbench.

  “Magical.” Hope removed her goggles and fixed her hair.

  Clark backed up and removed his goggles, too. “Well.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, thanks for dinner. That was great.”

  “Of course. Keep the box I brought for Dustin. Have it for lunch tomorrow.

  “Thumbs up,” Clark both said it and gave one.

  Hope smiled and sighed. “It’s late. I’m off.” She moved toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  “Yeah?” Hope turned and felt her heart hiccup.

  “I owe you.”

  “Whatever, you do not, dinner was on me.”

  “Not for dinner. For the company. The conversation. I said I’d help you with your project if you gave me some insider information on Lauren and the shop.”

  “A man of his word—rare.” She winked though she didn’t mean to. “OK, Monty Hall, not tomorrow, but the next day. Meet me at Chuck’s in the afternoon.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Meetings at the paper, a couple of media interviews to generate buzz, nothing big.”

  “Look at you—”

  “Hush,” she said, turning the doorknob. “See you then. We’ll put you to some real work.” She winked again. I have got to stop doing that.

  She walked out and sauntered coolly and with confidence to her car, giving her hips a hint of extra sway, just in case Clark was watching from the window.

  He was.

  ~~~

  When I first saw it, I didn’t know what to say.

  I just stood there looking at it and thinking, “Is this a dream?”

  —Alicia

  Sixteen

  ~~~

  Al slept well again. The bed, the room, the sheets, not being in Idaho Falls—all of it contributed to more blissful sleep than he’d had in far too long.

  He hopped out of bed on his good leg and grabbed the newspaper that had been slipped under his door. He hopped a few more times to the bathroom, then back to his bed where he spent an hour reading The Daily Record.

  World news and sports news. Business news and stocks. New babies and obituaries. Wedding announcements and classifieds. But what caught his eye most was a column on the left-hand side of the front page of the Lifestyles section: “Hopeful Words,” by Hope Jensen. He thought she looked much better in real life than in the photo accompanying her byline.

  The column told Hope’s story of meeting a slick corporate attorney on a recent flight. The man had confided that he finally recognized he’d been operating in the gray areas of the law and life for too long. He was on his way to San Diego to look at a coffee shop for sale and planning to launch a new midlife career he could be proud of. “I’ve spent my career making everything personal,” he told her at 35,000 feet. “Battling for my clients even when I knew we were wrong. Usually we both knew we were wrong. We’ve been fighting and scraping and dancing with the truth when we didn’t need to.”

  Hope commended her new friend for his courage to change his life and closed the column by challenging her readers to find a mirror and stare at their reflections for as long as it took to find answers. “Am I living, working and playing with integrity? If not, what changes should I make to fulfill my destiny and find true happiness?”

  Al recalled his time with Cowboy Craig. Despite his distaste for the long drives, and the fact that all his clothes smelled like teriyaki jerky, he’d been a good employee. Good enough, anyway, he thought.

  He finished the paper and tossed it on the floor. He had only a few minutes before the free breakfast ended and bathing—his only option with the cast—was a time-consuming process. He threw on a wrinkled T-shirt and his jeans with the left pant leg cut off below the knee. It was good enough for the hotel lobby, but he was grateful he had no one to impress that morning.

  The dining area was still crowded with last-minute guests filling their plates with mini-boxes of cold cereal, danishes, toast, and yogurt. Al certainly didn’t have to work very hard for offers of help. He simply hobbled toward the stack of Styrofoam plates, picked one up, dropped it, and before he could have possibly bent over, a woman’s voice stopped him from behind.

  “Lemme git that fer yew.” Her accent was rich and attractive.

  He turned to see her face.

  It was not.

  The homely woman’s smile was as kind as her voice, but to Al that was the end of her upside. Her complexion was blotchy and cratered. Her eyebrows—or eyebrow—Al noticed, was unruly.

  “Can I git some breakfast fer yew?”

  “I couldn’t ask that, but thank you.” He began to hobble toward a table.

  “Yew don’t have ta ask, sir, I’m doin’ it.” She smiled again and Al noticed at least one other highlight: a full compliment of teeth.

  He sat at the nearest table and rested his crutches against a wooden column.

  Two children raced into the lobby from the elevator. “Yew beat us here, Momma!” a little girl shouted.

  “I sure did, honeybun. I told yew I would.” The mother tickled one girl’s belly when she got close.

  “Lesley and Wendi, would ya sit with my friend here while I git him some breakfast?”

  Al protested. “You really don’t need to—” But it was too late; Southern Accent was already filling two plates.

  The girls sat on either side of Al and introduced themselves. They each shook his hand and Wendi said, “Nice to meet yew, sir.”

  “Pleasure to meet yew, sir,” Lesley added.

  The girls bubbled like soda water and Al struggled to keep up with the questions. Every few seconds he checked the breakfast bar. What’s taking so long? he thought. Is she slaughtering the pig for a couple slices of bacon? Then he realized she probably could.

  “I’m sorry that took so long,” she said, putting the plates on his table. She’d brought two kinds of toast, three boxes of cereal, 2% milk, skim milk, orange juice, two donuts, a bagel, an English muffin, jelly, butter, and three varieties of yogurt.

  “I wasn’t sure what yew’d want.”

  He thanked her.

  The woman and her two children said gracious good-byes and walked away. But before they were out of range, he heard Wendi say to her mother, “That man was so nice, Momma. I sure hope his leg gits better.”

  Al wat
ched the girls skip through the hotel lobby and out the automatic doors.

  Then he ate so much he wished he’d written down the number for the Flab Strap.

  Later in his room he rifled through his wallet and found the sticky note with the phone number for Queen and Laura’s apartment.

  The phone rang twice.

  “Ross residence, Lara speaking.”

  Al hesitated.

  “I said, Ross residence, Lara speaking.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hello?”

  “This is Mr. Allred. Is your mother home?”

  “Hi, Mr. Allred! It’s Queen.”

  Al smiled and moved the phone from one ear to another. “Thanks, Queen. I wasn’t quite sure.”

  She giggled. “Mom’s still sleeping.”

  “Oh, I can call back then. It’s early there.”

  “That’s OK. I’m not still sleeping.”

  Neither spoke for a moment.

  “Have you been checking my mail for me?”

  “Yes, I have! Mom says you get a lot of bills like us.”

  Al began to laugh but caught himself. “I figure I do.”

  “Mom puts your mail on the counter every day. Just like you asked.”

  “That’s nice of her,” he said. He switched ears again with the phone. “And how are you doing?”

  “I’m tired today. And my stomach hurts. But yesterday was a good day. Mom said I didn’t have to go to the hospital so we went to the park instead.”

  “In the winter? Wasn’t it cold?”

  “It was freezing. But Mom said you never know when your last trip to the park might be.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mom said parks don’t last forever.”

  Al lay back on the bed. “Your mother is right.”

  “Uh-oh, hold on a minute—”

  In the background he heard the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. Then he heard Queen’s mother. “It’s alright, Lara. I’m here now. It’s alright.”

  The toilet flushed and as the sound faded he could tell Queen was crying. He pulled the phone away from his head and counted to thirty. Then he put the phone back to his ear.

  “Hello? Are you gone, Mr. Allred?” It was Laura.

  “Oh, hi. I was just hanging up. I’ll call later.”

  “No, don’t hang up, it’s settled down. Queen’s gone to change her shirt. . . . How much did you hear?”

  “Not much.” He paused. “How is she?”

  “Up and down. Yesterday was up. Today is down. She’s on some new medicine that’s making her sick. Obviously.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. It’s life.”

  “No news on the list?” He zigged.

  “None.”

  “How’s everything else?” He zagged.

  “Your mail is piling up on my counter. We’ve not opened anything of course, but we’ve flipped through it and there doesn’t seem to be anything scary.”

  “What exactly does scary mail look like?” Al asked with a light laugh.

  “Well, let’s see. Letters from the IRS, collections, hospital bills, jury duty notice, Halloween party invitations.”

  “Good point,” Al said.

  “How’s your trip?” Laura asked.

  “Good so far.”

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Better. It doesn’t hurt much anymore when I don’t keep it elevated.”

  “That’s good. Crutches getting easier?”

  “As easy as crutches get.”

  Al heard Queen reenter the room. “I like this shirt better anyway,” Queen said.

  “Me too,” her mother said.

  “Can I talk to Queen again real quick?” Al asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Hi, again,” Queen said a moment later.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much better, thanks! Are you coming back to Idaho soon?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Where are you anyway, Mr. Allred?”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you again. You know that Christmas Jar you tried to give me?”

  “Um, yeah.” She giggled.

  “Go get it.”

  “Really? OK, don’t leave.” She dropped the phone on what sounded like a Formica kitchen counter. “Queen’s back,” she blurted fifteen seconds later.

  “Look at the bottom of the jar,” Al said.

  “There’s a sticker.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says, ‘Someone loves you! You’re holding a Christmas Jar. The miracle starts with you! www.ChucksChickenAndBiscuits .com.’”

  “I’m there.”

  “At ChucksChickenAndBiscuits.com?”

  Al laughed in a loud, healthy bellow. “No Queen, I’m at the diner. I’m down the street, actually, in a hotel.”

  “Cool.”

  “Your Christmas Jar came from right here. This is like the North Pole for Christmas Jars. They collect them here. Then they give them away. There’s money and jars everywhere. I’ve never seen so much money.”

  “Cool!”

  “I’m going to help them collect more jars than ever, Queen. We’re going to take the idea all across America. From here all the way to Idaho. That’s cool, too, right? Oh, and guess what else? They have a truck dressed up like a chicken. It has a big yellow beak on the front and when it honks it makes a ‘buck buck’ sound. It’s called the Cluck Truck.”

  “Way cool. Maybe I could ride in it sometime?”

  “I thought you’d like that. Maybe someday.”

  “Hmmmuhhh . . .” Her voice trailed into a long hum.

  “Are you OK?”

  Suddenly Queen became silent. “Uh-oh, I gotta go—”

  This time Al didn’t listen.

  ~~~

  We know the money in these jars can in no way begin to solve this family’s financial difficulties, but our hope is they know how very much they are loved.

  —Marge

  Seventeen

  ~~~

  Eva and Hope were giggling about her spontaneous woodshop date with Clark when they looked out the window and saw a cab pull away. Seconds later Al walked in the front door of Chuck’s. He wore a light blue, buttoned-down shirt under a burgundy V-neck sweater with wrinkle-free khakis he’d picked up at a department store two blocks from his hotel. Instead of cutting off the entire left pant leg to the height of his cast, he simply cut the seam to the knee. He also wore one shiny loafer.

  Eva sat him at the counter and put his crutches by the coatrack.

  “Nice to see you again,” she said in a sincere tone. Al realized he’d nearly forgotten what sincerity from a woman sounded like.

  “You got that jar filled yet?” Hope asked with a playful slap on the counter. She recognized his face immediately.

  “Working on it, Hope.”

  “Ah, so you’re good with names. I’m impressed.”

  “Not really.” He pointed to a newspaper clipping with her photo under the glass on the counter in front of him.

  “Ouch!” she said, grinning, and Al wondered if her big, healthy smile would be better suited for sales than journalism.

  “Sorry. But if it helps, I would have remembered your name anyway.”

  “Too late,” she said, slapping the counter again. “No tots for you.”

  Al laughed. “And do you remember my name?”

  Hope put her palms together as if to pray and then placed her fingers against her mouth. “Let me think.” She closed her eyes and hummed. “Scott? Greg? With two Gs? Tim? Buckaroo Bartholomew?”

  Al shook his head.

  “Don’t tell me. Jason? No. Allen?”

  The kitchen door swung open and Gayle appeared. “Welcome back, Al,” she said on her way to the register.

  Al smiled.

  “Al was my next guess,” Hope said.

  “Uh-huh,” Al teased.

  “I won’t forget again, Al, I promise.” Hope touched his shoulder as she wal
ked by to meet Gayle up front.

  Eventually Eva returned to take his order. “Sorry about that, I’m alone today.”

  Al ordered a chicken sandwich and lemonade and read clippings under the glass until his food arrived. Every few minutes he stole a glance across the diner at Hope and Gayle talking. Gayle was dressed too nicely, he thought, for someone who spent so much time in a greasy southern diner. She wore a soft purple sweater over a white blouse with an oversized collar. Al thought it unfortunate that only her calves were visible below her black, knee-length skirt. Still, he decided, she was a striking woman for her age.

  No, striking at any age, he corrected.

  He ate his lunch as slowly as he could, partly to savor the flavor but mostly to prolong his time in the diner. He couldn’t overhear them, but Hope and Gayle were in serious conversation, constantly moving back and forth from cases of jars by the Christmas Tree to a three-ring binder by the register.

  When Eva cleared his plate away, Al ordered a piece of pie. After the pie was gone, he asked for a refill on his lemonade. When she checked on him again, he asked if she’d mind getting him the newspaper he saw on the table of one of the empty booths.

  “You still here?” Hope said, standing across from him at the counter.

  Al looked left and right and down at his hands. “Seems so,” he grinned.

  Hope rolled her eyes. “If you stay much longer, we’ll put you to work.”

  “How so?” Al sat up.

  “I was kidding,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “But if you’re offering . . .”

  “Name it. I’m here to help.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Name it. Happy to help.”

  “You don’t have anywhere to be?” Hope asked.

  “Not today.”

  Hope studied him. “You’ve got a story, don’t you?”

  “A story?”

  “About a jar. A Christmas Jar.”

  Al looked away. “I got one, yeah—well, sort of got one, I figure—and I think the concept is brilliant.” He looked back at her. “It’s marketing gold.”

  “Go on.”

  “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I figure this thing, your work here, it hasn’t scratched the surface. This could really become something national. Even international. It’s got so much potential.”

  Hope was silent; hearing someone else talk about the same goal somehow gave it new weight.