From across the street, he could still see the two dogs playing, one of them stopping to smell the air. Both were golden retrievers with lush coats, one of them older, an adult, the other an energetic pup. Just then the younger of the two darted across the road, smartly checking for cars before doing so, and before too long it had bounded into the park, its paws sinking into the mounds of snow. Its companion, as though just noticing it was alone in front of the Trading Post, chased after it, and soon both dogs were playing, barking happily, their sound like the tune of life. Thomas watched with growing amusement as the dogs came running up the steps and into the gazebo, coming before Thomas with tongues out, tails wagging. He reached down and pet one, the second worming his way for attention as well. The dogs’ antics were entertaining, and he felt a momentary rush of wonder. He could not remember a time when he had let go with such abandon, or when his body had not been filled with the ache of age. He envied them their own, playful world.
“Buster . . . Baxter, what are you doing over there?” came a voice from the porch.
Thomas stood, saw one of the twins making her way up the path of the park.
The dogs, seeing her, sensing they had done something wrong, jumped down from the gazebo and went running back into the drifts of snow. They danced around her, and she did her best to quiet them down.
“Sorry, sir, hope they didn’t disturb you . . . they don’t know their own power.”
“Oh, they are just fine. . . . I’m sorry, are you Marla or Darla?”
“Darla,” the woman said after a moment’s thought, as though even she wasn’t sure. Or it could just be a twin thing, keeping friends and neighbors off guard as to who was who. Served them well in town from what Thomas had heard.
“A pleasure. It’s nice to see them play so happily together.”
“Buster is the older one,” she said, ruffling the dog’s fur as it lapped around her legs in a back-and-forth routine. “I got him a couple of years ago, and like my entire life, my sister just had to copy me. So she got Baxter. Part of the litter, so Baxter is Buster’s son.”
The word son reverberated in Thomas’s mind and he felt a sudden lump in his throat.
“Father and son, playing,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “As it should be.”
“Some days, I’m not sure they even know which is which,” she said, a dry laugh escaping her mouth. “Just like me and my sister.”
Not referring to her as Marla but “my sister.” Keeping their enduring mystery alive, not unlike relationships themselves, whether it was between sisters, fathers and sons, or our canine counterparts. What kept a bond strong, what events forced them to fade into memory? Such worldly thoughts occupied Thomas’s mind as the twin who claimed to be Darla gathered a squirming Baxter in her big arms to carry him safely across the street, Buster following with an eagerness he could only envy. Soon the dogs were inside the store, and all that remained of their presence were their paw prints, indelibly imprinted in the deep snow. Existing only for the moment, gone at first melt.
Yes, life was fleeting, your impact on the world lasting as long as someone remembered you, and at last, Thomas knew why he had come to the park on this day. He was ready to face what he’d come here for, but another interruption kept him from advancing. Like his mind was prepared, his body still steeling itself for the next steps.
A gleeful yelp caught his attention, and he looked up to see young Janey Sullivan running toward the gazebo . . . toward him.
“Thomas! Thomas!” she called out. “I told Brian that was you!”
Rising from his seat, Thomas noticed that Janey wasn’t alone on the sidewalk. There was Brian standing at the edge of the park, watching as things unfolded. Thomas indicated all was good, he was happy to welcome the young girl’s company. Brian acknowledged him with a friendly wave.
“She’s in good hands, I’ll take good care of her,” Thomas said from across the park, his voice strong, newly empowered. He hadn’t set a young woman’s heart such aflutter for a long, long time, making him feel more like the wide-eyed curious boy of yesteryear. Like when he met his dear Missy, that same feeling of a experiencing a special connection with another person washing over him. The fact he was nearly eighty-five and she just nine, well, it meant the world to him. Generations were not gaps, they were bonds, and what sealed theirs was loss.
Janey approached quickly, out of breath as she clambered up the steps to the safety of the gazebo. She gave Thomas a big hug around his waist, looking up at him as she did so. Her smile was infectious, and he couldn’t help but return it before inviting her to sit down beside him.
“So, Miss Janey, what brings you here?”
“Mark can’t work his shift tonight at the tavern, so my dad had to come in, and he can’t leave me by myself and Cynthia and Bradley had to take little Jake to the doctor for a checkup, so I rode with him to town. I was going to hang out till six, when Cynthia could pick me up. I don’t really like staying at the bar, it smells in there; oh, and I’m not supposed to call it a bar, it’s a tavern, Dad says that sounds nicer. I think he just doesn’t want to hear a little girl use the word bar.”
Thomas found laughter bubbling up inside him at the generous outpouring of words from her tiny body, and even though he knew she’d been blessed with a unique, earnest streak, there was something entirely refreshing about the way she spoke. Was it her zest, her wide-eyed innocence? Whatever drove this child, Thomas was happy to have it rub off on him, laughter filling his heart.
“Janey Sullivan, my goodness, the marvelous things your mind comes up with. A bar, indeed! But whatever the circumstances that bring to me your company, I am very happy for them,” he said. “Now tell me, how is your schoolwork?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Why do adults always ask kids about school?”
“I guess because we don’t know what else to ask,” he said. “Let me try that again. How is your very nice windmill?”
“Quiet,” she said.
“Quiet?”
“There’s been very little wind this week, so the windmill is just standing there with very little to say. I guess it needs its rest, winter is coming and we tend to get big storms.”
“Is that okay, then, that the windmill is quiet?”
She looked like she was processing the question, seriously considering her answer. “The windmill holds my mom’s spirit, and when it’s quiet I just think that she’s sleeping. She can’t talk to me all the time. Like the other night, on Sunday? Remember all that rain and wind we got, lots of kids are scared of storms but not me, because I watched from my bedroom window as the sails turned and turned while the wind battered the house; Brian even left the back porch light on, so I could see the windmill in its bright glow. I talked long into the night to my mom, told her that Christmas was coming again, but first we had to get through Thanksgiving.”
“Get through?”
“Well, last year we went to Brian’s parents, but this year we’re not. We’ll be home.”
“So it’s different?”
“Different, yeah, but also the same. I mean, I used to have Thanksgiving with my mom. Now I celebrate it with Brian . . . I mean, with my dad. That’s what I call him, even though he’s really not, but that’s another story. My real father died when I was very young, even younger than you were when you moved away from Linden Corners. Why did you leave, anyway?”
Thomas felt the pull at his heart. A common bond indeed, he and this young girl.
“May I show you something?” he asked.
“You mean, like when I showed you the windmill?”
“Yes, it’s my turn to share something special with you.”
“Is it far? I’d have to ask Dad.”
“No, it’s very close, right over there in fact,” he said, pointing toward the marble stones.
Taking her hand in his, Thomas led Janey down the stairs and to the series of stones, six of them in total. He watched as Janey’s small fingers touched the golden leaf l
etters that were engraved into the marble, tracing out a random name.
“John Masters,” she read.
“I think he was Elsie’s uncle,” Thomas said. “Do you know why his name is there?”
“Because he died?”
Thomas nodded. “Do you know what this park represents?”
“Sure, our school class came here, oh, a couple of years ago,” she said. “Our teacher said it was to remember the people who gave their lives for the wars. Then we had to write a report on our thoughts about war, and why these people had to die and what it meant to us. I got an A.”
“Wonderful. That must mean you really understood the lesson,” he said.
She nodded once, yet her eyes were tinged with newfound sadness. “Do you know someone here, Thomas? Is that what you want to show me?”
“Yes, and yes,” he said. “Come with me.”
The first of the marble stones listed names that dated back to the Civil War, the second one represented local residents who died in World War I, and the next one was for World War II. It was to this stone that Thomas led Janey, placing her hand upon the cold stone right where the name Lars Van Diver was engraved. He covered her hand with his, feeling her pulsing warmth. This girl before him was blessed with a big heart and with deep feeling. This moment, for Thomas, was powerful, a long time coming. It was one thing for a teacher to rattle off history to her class, quite another for it to strike a personal, powerful connection in one of the students. Janey again traced the name with her fingers, her red lips moving silently, like she was getting a taste of the name before speaking it aloud.
“Lars? Is that how you say that?”
“Yes, Lars Van Diver.”
“Lars Van Diver,” Janey repeated. Then she looked up at Thomas. “Was he your dad?”
“Yes, he was,” Thomas said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I bet you missed him a lot.”
“Yes, Janey, I did very much.”
“I miss my mom very much, every day,” she said. “Brian . . . Dad, he’s great.”
“And my mom, she was great, too. She cared for me so much.”
“She didn’t want to live in Linden Corners? I mean, after . . .”
“We had to make a sacrifice, just like my father did,” Thomas said. “Like we all do.”
“That’s a big word, sacrifice.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“It means you give something up for the better of someone else,” she said.
“Beautifully said.”
“Thank you for showing me and telling me about your dad,” she said.
“It was my absolute pleasure, Janey Sullivan,” he said. “You know, I’ve been back home in Linden Corners only three months now and this is the first time I’ve visited the memorial. Ever, in all my life. But today was the day I decided to come here, I just woke up and knew it. I guess I needed some courage, and your being here . . . you gave it to me. I needed a friend.”
“Is that what we are? Friends?”
“I hope so.”
“That’s weird, we’re not even the same age.”
“That’s what makes our friendship so special.”
Janey seemed content with such knowledge, and the two of them left both the memorial and the gazebo, walking down the path back toward the tavern. It was coming on five o’clock in the afternoon, Elsie would be coming for him soon, and that was a good thing, as he was now both physically and emotionally exhausted. Yet while his body was tired, his heart was full, near to bursting from this visit. They reached George’s, the lights now blazing inside and out, a few cars already parked in the big lot. Thomas helped Janey up the front stairs and inside the warm coziness of the bar.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” Brian said from behind the bar.
Janey rolled her eyes. “He says that to me every time I visit, he still thinks it’s funny.”
“Indulge me, little one,” Brian said. “Why don’t you head upstairs, Janey, hang out at Mark and Sara’s, watch some TV or . . .”
“I know, read a book.”
“Always a good idea.”
Before departing for the upstairs apartment, Janey again wrapped her little self around Thomas and thanked him for sharing his special memories with her. As she bounded up the stairs with an energy possessed only by youth, Thomas sidled up to the bar, settling himself upon a tall bar stool. A quick check of his watch, he decided perhaps he could indulge his nightly Manhattan here while in the company of Brian Duncan and the denizens of George’s Tavern. Elsie would find him. He nodded politely at the two gentleman sitting at the bar, both about fifty years of age, then placed his order.
“I’d like to buy you one, too, Brian, if I may. Thank you for that little gift of a girl.”
“Thanks, Thomas, but I’ll stick with my seltzer.”
He accepted Brian’s answer without question, didn’t pry. Like Janey said, everyone has their stories, they share them when they’re ready. Just as he had done today, sharing the memory of his father with her. Truthfully, he had journeyed to the park today in an attempt to visit the memorial, still not convinced he would actually go through with it until Janey’s presence pushed him over the edge, and happily so. He felt richer for the experience.
“I’ll warn you, I don’t usually make Manhattans, there’s not much call for them in a bar that pays it bills with beer, so pardon me if it’s not perfect,” Brian said, setting the highball glass in front of his customer, pouring the whiskey and vermouth into it. Thomas took a sip; he tried to hide his grimace but it was apparent Brian’s bartending skills needed more work.
“It’s fine. But next time . . . less vermouth. Dry means very little—”
“I barely put any in!”
“Next time, just wave the bottle over the glass, that’ll do the trick.”
“Noted,” Brian said with a knowing understanding. “Thomas, may I ask what your plans are for Thanksgiving? I’m sure Edgestone sets out a nice meal, but Janey and I, along with our neighbors Cynthia and Bradley Knight—and little Jake—would be honored if you could join us at the farmhouse. It’s a small crowd, since Gerta, Nora, and Travis are headed to New Hampshire for a family dinner with one of her other daughters. But Gerta, she did promise to leave a couple of her pies for us, pumpkin and her special strawberry. . .”
“A strawberry pie? I’m still amazed at such a concoction. How extraordinarily sweet it was that night,” Thomas said, “and Brian, I thank you very much for the invitation. But alas, I have other plans—out of town.”
“Oh, I . . . well then, I hope you have a wonderful holiday.”
“As do I, for me and for you and yours,” Thomas said, sorry not to give Brian more of an excuse. But just as the barkeep had offered up no explanation beyond his choice of seltzer water, Thomas, too, felt that certain facts were best left to the inner soul, to be revealed only when the world forced them upon you. Sometimes you wanted to keep special things private.
“But I hope you’ll keep the day before Christmas Eve open,” Brian said. “It’s the night of our annual tavern Christmas party, with more food—including Gerta’s famous pies—than you can imagine, even gives ol’ Martha at the Five O’ a break from cooking. The whole village turns out to the point where you’ll never see George’s more crowded. It’s going to be a great night, filled with the kind of surprises Linden Corners excels at.”
“Consider it done, my good son. I wouldn’t miss a party such as that for anything,” Thomas said, taking another hesitant sip from his less-than-perfect Manhattan. “And hopefully by then the fair Miss Nora will have found the book I am seeking. The clock is ticking, Brian, time is not on anyone’s side, least of all mine. The holidays will be here sooner than we think, and only when I have that book in my hands will my Christmas, at last, be complete.”
It would be like he and his father had been reunited.
As he’d done in Memorial Park, tracing his name, feeling as close to him as he had in years.
For a passing, joyful second, he was reminded of those beautiful golden retrievers, Buster and Baxter, and he smiled at the memory of the dogs happily entwined, their barks and their endless bounds, their uncomplicated lives. They did their breed proud, for they had retrieved a bit of magic for Thomas, their effect indeed golden.
INTERLUDE
TODAY
Family means more than just blood, more than nature’s bond, it’s created out of the ether from a notion called love; a concept so real and potent, yet so indefinable. That’s what I’ve learned, my dear, a lesson as large as life itself, something I discovered in just the quick passing of a few months. I suppose when I made the difficult decision to come to Linden Corners I was uncertain about what I would find, what ghosts awaited me. Certainly the windmill still stood, healthier today than when I befriended it as a child, my little body trying to reach to the heavens but never able to soar higher than the spinning sails of the windmill. The farmhouse, too, remains as cozy as ever. Also, there is a girl here, and some days I think it is her remarkable spirit that keeps the old windmill turning, and other days . . . it’s just the opposite, that she endures only through the energy churned from those magnificent sails.
A Christmas Hope Page 13
