A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  “Ha ha. Okay, I get it, you don’t have to hit me over the head.”

  Giving her son a taste of his own medicine, Nora stuck out her tongue, rolling her eyes like one of those aforementioned teenagers. “Tell you what, hang with me for a couple of hours and we’ll see what the weather is doing outside.”

  “Where else would the weather be?”

  She ruffled his hair, laughing. “Such a wiseass. Come on, let me show you what I need. Maybe after an hour we’ll take a break and get some hot chocolate over at the Five O’. Martha makes a mean cup.”

  “Why would I want a mean cup?”

  “It’s just an expression. Like when you say something is bad, you mean good.”

  “Mom, don’t try and talk street, okay?”

  “How about you stop stalling, there’s a lot of work waiting for you.”

  Indeed, much had changed in the month since Nora had taken over the place once known as Elsie’s Antiques, not least of which was the sign outside, flapping now in the growing wind. Handcrafted from thick pine, the words A DOLL’S ATTIC were painted in simple, scripted red-colored letters, not unlike a lawyer’s shingle hung out to attract passersby, and she supposed her subtle choice in signage was not only appropriate but deliberate. Her one concession to her lawyerly past, now just memories and mementos stored inside a briefcase. The store, too, had begun to undergo a cosmetic overhaul, beginning with the counter space that was now clean, open, and inviting, rather than encased by an array of objects for sale, those dusty old items now relegated to the rear of the showroom, some just tossed out. Sometimes you had to cut your losses on stuff that had been hanging around nearly as long as Elsie herself. A few new items had found their way to the store, first-time customers dropping in with an array of items that might just find an interested party. The curiosity factor for once fell in her favor.

  With the transformation from antique shop to consignment store nearly complete, filled not just with furniture and lamps, chinaware and crystal, she now stocked vintage candy you could still actually order from wholesalers, games she remembered playing with her older sisters, like Operation and KerPlunk and even Battleship, which they hadn’t played because “it was for boys.” Assorted action figures had come in, too, red flyer sleds and a plastic toboggan much like one from her youth, both of which would probably move fast after the storm passed. But that’s what she wanted her store to be, not so much antiques from a time no one from her generation would remember, but rather a time capsule of the simpler life, their childhoods, hers included, when toys and innocence played together in harmony. Before you learned about things like love and death, marriage and separation.. . .

  “Mom, where did all these boxes come from?” Travis said, settling onto the floor in the storeroom, the first of the dozen boxes opened.

  “Oh, most of those came from a woman named Katherine Wilkinson—I told you about her, she’s the nice lady who lives in a big house near the river? Her daughter liked to travel and she would always send home precious gifts. I guess Mrs. Wilkinson felt it was time to start clearing some things out of the house. She lost both her husband and daughter and maybe for her the memories are too strong.”

  “That’s sad, to not have family at Christmas,” Travis said. “I don’t think I want to grow old . . . not so old that all your friends and family are gone; and besides, shouldn’t you want to hold on to that stuff, you know, to remember them by?”

  Crouching down, she tried to read into her son’s eyes, wondering if this had anything to do with his father. He wasn’t dead, but he was absent, and such separation could, in his young mind, be interpreted the same way. “Everyone’s different, honey, to some people it’s just stuff taking up unnecessary space. Some don’t need objects to remember people by,” she said. “Look at me—I don’t need many of my dad’s things, I’ve got him right where I want him.”

  “In your heart?”

  “Yup, and in your eyes,” she said.

  “My eyes?”

  “You look just like him, Travis,” she said.

  He smiled widely. “Wow, you never told me that before.”

  “Maybe that’s because I never realized it until now . . . or maybe it’s being back in Linden Corners, living at home and working down the street from where he worked. You know, my dad spent his whole life in this town, met your grandma, settled and had a family.”

  “You think Grandma misses him?”

  “Every day,” she said. “But she has such a great group of friends.”

  “Brian and Janey?”

  “Among others, but they’re the best ones,” she said. “Now come on, let’s get to work.”

  Just then the jangle of bells from over the door sounded. Was someone looking to buy an old game of dominoes or some similar distraction in which to pass the time during the storm? She wouldn’t think such things took precedence over milk and bread and juice, but who was she to question the desires of her customers—she had, they wanted, they bought, she stayed in business. Simple philosophy of surviving the retail grind. She excused herself, only to see it wasn’t a customer, just her usual mailman, the dependable Emmett Anders. He had a pile of mail for her today, topped off by a flat cardboard package. Her eyes lit up at the sight of it—she knew just what it was, she’d been expecting it.

  “Afternoon, Nora,” he said with a tip of his hat, his New England accent reminding her of the bookseller down in Hudson.

  “Hello, Mr. Anders, wasn’t sure I’d see you today,” she said, accepting the mail wrapped in a rubber band.

  “You know how it is with us mail folk, through rain or snow . . . that’s the creed,” he said. “Though what they’re saying about this one bearing down on us, I best get done fast and be home with the missus, she’ll be wringing her hands with worrying. You have yourself a nice day, stay warm and inside. I suggest you close up, no one in their right mind is going to be out shopping for antiques, you know? They’ll need shovels, and new ones at that, ones that can handle the heavy snow. Keep Ackroyd’s busy, won’t they?”

  “I’m sure they will, good for Chuck. We’ll close up soon, just got some inventory to deal with. My son is helping out today. Snow day, gotta take advantage.”

  “Ah-yup, ain’t that why we have ’em?”

  With that, he tipped his hat again and headed back into the blustery wind, the bells above the door once again jangling. She kept telling herself she was going to take them down, but with Christmas less than a month away, it seemed not in the spirit of the season to do so. She would worry about that another day, for now she wanted to focus on her delivery. Dispensing with the rest of the mail, she opened up the package from Amazon.com, holding in her hand the antique reproduction edition of The Night before Christmas that Elliot the bookseller had told her about, and there staring back at her on the front cover was Santa Claus himself, dressed in a green-colored suit and hat. She drew in a sharp breath, because even as she knew this wasn’t the exact edition that Thomas held as a child—it had only been published twenty years ago—her sense of accomplishment at finding any book with Santa in a green suit made her think she’d made the right choice in opening this store. She had the drive for success, a natural instinct to not give up until she’d satisfied her customer, and as a result, herself. She read the cover credit: “Text by Clement Clarke Moore, Illustrations by Alexander Casey.”

  Once Nora had been given the information from Elliot, she’d gone back online and discovered the book, and while it was out of print, there were used copies for sale. Without even checking with Thomas, she clicked and added the book to her cart, paid with her credit card, and added shipping info. Since it was from an outside seller and not Amazon.com itself, they could only estimate the time of arrival, but here it was, and ahead of schedule. She couldn’t wait to see the reaction on Thomas’s face; who knew, maybe this book would strike a chord with him, perhaps this green-suited Santa would satisfy him.

  On closer inspection, she marveled at how beautifully it
had been printed, even in its used condition. The hardcover book was unjacketed, and instead the artwork was pressed into the paper—what printers called paper-over-boards—the spine a weave of red fabric. And inside, she flipped through thick-cut pages, familiar scenes playing out of Saint Nick flying through the air with the aid of his reindeer, landing on rooftops and slipping down chimneys, where stockings hung from hearths as he scattered gifts underneath trees. As she turned the last page, it, of course, ended with “And to all a good night,” and for a moment Nora could imagine a young Thomas sitting wide-eyed upon his father’s lap as the story was read to him. Indeed, visions of sugar plums would have been dancing in his head; that is, until he’d drifted off to sleep and his father had carried him upstairs to bed. So many years may have passed since Thomas was an impressionable child, and while the world may have changed in ways both good and bad, this book showed how Christmas remained a mainstay, its time-honored traditions as vibrant today as they had been eighty years ago, more.

  She was getting ready to pick up the phone to call Thomas when the door opened again, and this time it was a customer, a woman who held a baby carrier; the child was asleep inside, snuggly and warm. The woman was bundled up good, too, but even so Nora could see she had a friendly face, her blond hair cut short. A woman with an infant was not concerned about her appearance, or just didn’t have the time to worry.

  “Hello, welcome to A Doll’s Attic, I’m . . .”

  “Nora, right?”

  “Yes. Wait, we’ve met. . . .”

  “Cynthia Knight, and this young cherub is my son, Jake.”

  “Oh hi,” Nora said. “Please come in, come in . . . what are you doing out in this weather?”

  “Picking up some groceries, and then I was passing by and . . . well, I decided to stop in on a whim. I’ve heard so much about the store, thought I should check it out.”

  Nora believed the first part of her story, but not the second. The lawyer inside her was anticipating the big reveal, her mind all ready with an objection. She cut to the chase. “Is there something I can do for you, Cynthia?”

  “I wonder, do you time for a cup of coffee, maybe over at the Five O’?”

  Though the invitation took her by surprise, actually the idea of girl talk over a coffee was appealing. “Oh, well, sure, there’s not much going on here. But can I ask what this is about?”

  “Brian Duncan,” Cynthia said.

  Nora’s smile turned upside down, as the saying goes. Of course, now she remembered who this woman was. Cynthia Knight was Brian’s best pal in town, and no doubt he’d told her about the kiss. Objection overruled.

  The Five O’ was pretty quiet at the moment, the lunch rush hadn’t yet begun and breakfast had been digested hours ago. Even so, with the forecast as it was, Martha Martinson, proprietor and all-around jokester, told the ladies to take their pick of booths as only two of them along the long bank against the wall were currently occupied, both of them with burly men in flannels drinking coffee.

  “You can have your pick of them, the booth or the guys,” Martha said and then laughed heartily.

  So much for a quiet cup of coffee.

  “The booth is just fine,” Nora said, wishing Martha could tone it down a bit.

  Cynthia just waved off Martha’s attempt at humor. “Pay her no mind, Nora, it’s what we all do in Linden Corners.”

  “Just for that, I’m putting sour milk in your coffee,” Martha said.

  “Ah, so it will be an improvement over the swill you usually serve,” Cynthia said, who grinned up at Martha. Having been one-upped, she retreated back to the kitchen.

  Nora gave her . . . what, friend . . . friend of a friend . . . frankly, she didn’t know what to think of Cynthia Knight, about their relationship or what she wanted. They’d already established their topic of discussion: one Brian Duncan, but so far Cynthia hadn’t been very forthcoming with details. On their short walk over, Cyn had talked casually about the store and the coming storm and other safe subjects. Before leaving, Nora had told Travis she was going to have coffee with “Mrs. Knight,” promising to return soon with hot chocolate for him. He was actually fine with being left alone, turned out he was having fun pouring through the boxes and discovering the shiny Christmas trinkets and ornaments. Nora had reminded him to be careful, and he just rolled his eyes at her, the “duh” heard but unspoken. “Look what you have to look forward to with Jake,” Nora had said as they headed out the door.

  Now that they were settled with coffee and pastries set before them, Nora peered over the mug at Cynthia, eyes narrowed.

  “So, Brian Duncan, you said. What about him?”

  “Wow, you don’t waste time, do you?”

  “I’m used to it, I was a lawyer for too long.”

  “Aha, billable hours,” Cynthia said. “My husband, Bradley, he’s an attorney, too.”

  “What kind?”

  “Tax. Offices up in Albany.”

  Nora nodded. “So he spends all his time in an office or worse, a cubicle, pouring through files and watching the ticking of the clock. I’m familiar with it, even though I practiced criminal defense, so fortunately many of my days were spent in court. Broke up the routine.” When she said those words she surprised herself by having spoken of her career in the past tense, as though being confined to Linden Corners had closed her off to her previous life. Her past had lost its place in the world.

  “Linden Corners must be quite a change of pace.”

  “From sixty to zero,” Nora said.

  “That’s funny, never heard it said quite so . . .”

  “Succinctly?”

  Again, Cynthia laughed warmly, this time loud enough to catch the attention of the other people inside the diner. The burly guys ignored them, going back to their coffee, but the waitress who was refilling their cups came over to the booth. Nora noticed she was a cute young thing, blond and slim, with lots of makeup that made her cheeks rosier than . . . well, Santa Claus, she thought. Her name tag read SARA.

  “Sorry, ladies, I don’t mean to interrupt your day, but, Cynthia, um, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Sure, Sara. Hey, do you know Nora Connors? She’s the new owner of Elsie’s.”

  Sara said hello, then, “Yeah, sure, you come in for lunch sometimes, always to go.”

  “Nice to meet you, officially, Sara.”

  It was then Nora realized who this Sara was, the lucky woman engaged to Mark Ravens. Funny, she thought, meeting both of them in their place of employment, both of them waiting tables in places as different as could be, a greasy spoon and a fancy resort. She thought of Mark’s comment about wanting more out of life and trying to make things perfect for his girl. Nora stole a look at the modest engagement ring on Sara’s finger and felt a stab of jealousy hit her. Starting out, they were full of optimism and love.

  “What’s up, Sara?”

  She hesitated briefly, then blurted out: “I want to kill that Mark Ravens!”

  “Whoa, honey . . . relax,” Cynthia said. “I thought you two were getting married.”

  “Yes, we are, and if he has his way, well . . . he wants us to get married in a bar!”

  She spoke that way, with forceful exclamation points giving her words additional impact, so much so Nora felt she could actually hear the punctuation.

  “Oh, Brian told me about that,” Cynthia said. “Not a good idea, huh?”

  “Where’s the magic in that?” Sara asked. “Oh, we had such a big fight over it!”

  “Actually, Sara, if I can interject a moment,” Nora said. “I know it’s none of my business being the new girl in town, but I was there when Mark asked Brian about the idea, and he seemed so earnest . . . he just wanted to make you happy.”

  Sara rolled her eyes to the point that Nora wondered if kids ever outgrew the silent weapon known as sarcasm. “Oh please, two men planning a wedding, what, they want to raise a toast with cans of beer? That’s not the day I’ve been dreaming about since I was five!
”

  “And did you tell Mark that?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yeah, but he just stormed out, as though I’d done something wrong.”

  “So how did you leave it?”

  “Oh Cynthia, I think I just hurt his feelings big-time,” she said. “I mean, I guess I’ve been putting too much pressure on him lately, telling him I wanted to settle on a date, and I know he was trying to be sweet and romantic and . . . so Mark, by having us get married at the same place that he proposed—and on the anniversary of the engagement to boot—but really . . . a bar? Where’s the honeymoon? The Five O’?”

  “Hey!”

  It was Martha from over by the counter saying that, and all the women just erupted into peals of laughter, Martha included. The moment broke the ice, and finally Cynthia took hold of Sara’s hand and imparted a bit of wisdom. “Sara, if you don’t want to get married in a bar, then don’t. Talk to Mark, calmly, leave the exclamation points here, okay?”

  “Thanks, Cynthia, I knew you’d be rational.”

  “I think that’s a compliment,” she said.

  Sara was about to return to her station when Nora stopped her. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Sure, I like secrets.”

  “When it comes to what women want, men are usually pretty dumb. They don’t really understand what makes us tick,” she said, “but what I saw in Mark’s eyes that day, he adores you and only wants to give you the best, and not just on your wedding day but for your entire lives. For a man to admit such a thing in front of a perfect stranger—well, you’re a lucky girl.”

  “Thanks, Nora, I’ll remember that.”

  So Sara left them alone again, having forgotten to refill their coffee, which by now had grown a bit cold, not unlike outside, where the snow had begun to fall. Both women observed it, nervously checking their watches before looking back at each other.

  “Yeah, I think we should head out, no telling how quickly this storm will hit,” Cynthia said.

  “We never had a chance to talk, about Brian.”

  Cynthia reached over, placing her hand over Nora’s. “Just heed your own advice, men don’t understand women, and so if a woman is going to kiss a man and then tell him she just wants to be friends, well . . . that’s as mixed a message if ever I heard one. Look, Nora, we barely know each other and so maybe I’m overstepping my bounds . . .”