A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  Four days of bitter cold temperatures had passed since she had handed Thomas the book he’d asked her to find, and his quiet reaction was something she’d given much thought to since. As much as he had tried to mask it, she knew he was disappointed that all she had found was a facsimile edition of the book, published within the last twenty years. He’d attempted to assuage her guilt by saying she had performed a near miracle in finding even this edition, but she knew it was just hollow praise. What, exactly, should she do about it? Continue her search, and even if by some spark of inspiration she did begin again, could she ever hope to find the book in time for his deadline? From the start, Thomas’s request had come with a ticking clock, even if he wasn’t willing to admit to her the reason why. Even now, she still didn’t understand the book’s significance beyond it having been a gift from his father. It wasn’t like she had months to keep searching for the original, Christmas was looming, and she needed no further proof than today— lights lining houses stretching beyond the village, the five of them en route to chopping down their own trees. No doubt their trip would lead to an afternoon of decorating, perhaps dinner with Brian and Janey, and before long she would have lost yet another day.

  “You’re quiet today, Nora,” she heard Brian say, breaking her from her thoughts.

  “Sorry, I’ve just got a few things on my mind,” she said.

  “Care to share? Still got another ten miles till we reach Green’s Tree Farm.”

  “Just drive,” she said.

  With a free hand, he saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gerta chuckled. “Don’t even try, Brian, she’s been in a mood for days.”

  “I have not!” Nora protested.

  “Mom has trouble relaxing.”

  “Hey, you know, I do know how to wield an ax,” Nora said with mock protest.

  “And just think, when the police arrest you, you already know a good defense attorney,” Brian responded.

  Everyone in the close confines of the truck laughed aloud, except Nora, of course, but then she couldn’t help but laugh, too, when Janey said, “What does wield mean?”

  The mood in the truck much lightened, they made their way up the winding roads that took them beyond Linden Corners and neighboring villages Craryville and Hillsdale, the latter the largest of the villages in this part of Columbia County. Northward they turned, gradually pushing up Route 22 toward the border between New York State and Massachusetts and the lush countryside of the often misty Berkshire Mountains. Nora gazed out the windshield, admitting to herself how beautiful it all looked, like a postcard. Sure the air outside was freezing, but from the truck the expansive sky looked like blue crystal, and the rocky terrain was so different from the verdant, low-lying Linden Corners it was amazing to her they’d only driven a short distance.

  At last they turned into the large lot at Green’s Tree Farm, parking amidst many other cars and SUVs, where they unloaded themselves and their supplies from the truck. The jolly, old Albert Green, Sr., greeted them warmly, giving Janey and Travis extra attention. He even remarked that he remembered Janey from last year, with her scrunching up her nose in that way that even Nora had come to recognize.

  “You do?” Janey asked.

  “Think this round belly of mine and white beard is pretend?”

  “That does not make you Santa,” she said matter-of-factly. “He lives at the North Pole.”

  “Cold enough today, we might as well be living there,” he said with a hearty laugh of ho, ho, ho. “Okay, you all have yourselves a nice expedition up into my hills, I’ll be here when you get back, give you some instructions . . .”

  “I know, I know, on how to care for it so well, it’ll keep alive through June,” Janey said. “That’s what you said last year.”

  “And the same holds true this year, little lady.”

  Again, she scrunched her nose. “I still don’t know why . . .”

  “Why you’d want to have a tree in your house that long,” he said, leaning down to tap a cold finger upon her red nose. “See, I told you I remembered you.”

  “That still doesn’t mean you’re Santa Claus,” Janey said, and that’s when Brian stepped in and told her enough with the chattering, let’s not waste any more time finding our trees.

  “Before it’s our teeth that are doing all the chattering,” Gerta added.

  And so the five of them began the trek up winding, snowy paths. Travis dashed ahead with his strong athleticism, Janey’s little legs trying in vain to keep up with his long strides. Nora remarked to herself how much her son had grown in the six weeks since they’d arrived in Linden Corners, with his voice deeper and his body developing a sinewy grace. Just then she heard her own knee crack as she bent down to clear random sticks that hindered her mother’s progress. If Travis was getting older, she had to admit, so was she.

  “Grandma, come look at this one, do you think it’s too tall . . . ?”

  Travis took hold of Gerta’s hand and led her gently up a side path to where he’d picked one out of the tallest pine trees around. It looked all the more taller with the two kids dancing around its base. Janey was pointing upward at its top and wondering how they would get the angel positioned there, with Gerta adding maybe the angel would just have to fly there, and that sparked a whole fresh debate among the three of them. As laughter and squeals of delight filled the fresh-smelling canyons, pines and firs lined up like sentries, Nora felt a chill seep beneath her zippered coat.

  “You cold?”

  “Aren’t you, Brian?”

  He shrugged indifferently. “I’ve grown impervious to the cold. Guess I’ve gotten used to the winters up here, I’m fine.”

  “It’s so cold, I doubt even snowmen would want to venture outdoors,” she said, “and yet . . . here we are. I don’t know how my mother does it, must be the fact she’s lived here all her life. As you said, impervious.”

  “Speaking of, how goes things with Thomas?”

  “Not sure the transition works, Brian, but I’ll play along. I found his book, sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “It’s a long story, I’ll tell you in the summer when it’s warm.”

  Brian grinned, his breath misty. “I eagerly await your tale,” he said. “You know, you never did get around to asking me about the Van Diver family and their history at the farmhouse. That was one of your favors, right? Something about other families that lived there?”

  “I did, yes, but once I got the lead on Thomas’s book, well, it all seemed irrelevant.”

  “I could have told you that day we traveled down to Hudson, it’s an easy enough answer. The Sullivans bought the house directly from the Van Divers,” he said. “Dan Sullivan—Janey’s biological father—he grew up in the farmhouse bought by his grandparents and lived there after his parents passed and he married Annie.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be a house with much luck,” she said.

  “Oh, I have a feeling Janey will break the curse,” he said. “No matter how old she gets, she’ll still retain that youthful vigor, it’s just inherent within her. And as much as I have Dan and Annie Sullivan to thank for her genes, I think it’s the Van Diver ancestors who deserve more of the credit for what Linden Corners is today—after all, it was their decision to build the windmill. And while I know the Van Divers built it for practical purposes back then, today it just spins its daily dose of inspiration. Who Janey would be without it, I hesitate to say.”

  “Travis is the complete opposite,” Nora said. “He’s had to grow up so fast, more so than if Dave had not decided to play to the stereotype of a man fast-approaching fifty. A midlife crisis, I mean, really? I didn’t know I had married such a predictable man. The way Travis has rallied during this adjustment, sometimes I believe he’s the one holding me up.”

  “I think it’s different when you lose a mother at such an impressionable age, it’s like Janey wants to stay a little girl—despite her claims of having to play the adult sometimes,” Brian said. “Th
e older she gets, it just means she’s that much more removed from the time she had with Annie. This time of year is particularly sensitive, she and Annie had what seems a treasure trove of traditions that I’ve tried to uphold. The annual visit to Green’s Tree Farm is one of them.”

  “That’s so good that you’re so considerate of her feelings,” she said, but in a defensive tone added, “But you know, their situations are hardly similar. Travis didn’t lose his father.”

  “It wasn’t a case of comparing the two of them,” he said. “It’s just . . . maybe in a kid’s mind, death and desertion are not dissimilar.”

  “He didn’t desert his son,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “Bastard just . . . just . . .”

  “Nora, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said, angry with herself for letting the conversation go even this far. “I’m better than this. I’ve had more pressure in the courtroom, and trust me, Dave is a pussycat compared to some of the brutal judges I’ve been before. No matter, I’ve never once spoken ill of Dave, not in front of my son and I’m not going to start now. He made his choice, I made mine.”

  Brian put a comforting hand to her face, trying to soothe the anger lines from around her eyes. “I don’t know how we got started on this, but what do you say we drop it? This is supposed to be fun. Let’s just go pick a tree.”

  “No, no, let’s finish it. You’ve got a question, I can tell.”

  “Okay, but if you don’t like it you can tell me to take a flying leap,” he said. “But, I will remind you that it was you who said she needed a friend.”

  “Fine, Brian, my good friend. Ask away.”

  “What’s the real reason Dave left?”

  She didn’t respond, not right away, not even sure she could get the words out. Set amidst this seemingly endless forest of trees, the sky was smaller somehow, like the world was closing in on them, around her heart. The only way to conquer this growing sense of claustrophobia was to let out a scream, something she wasn’t all that keen to do, not here, and not now. She didn’t want to scare Travis or her mother . . . or any of the other people who were busy wandering the trails with axes and saws and other tools. So she just allowed herself a tiny chuckle, one tiny slip of emotion.

  “His boss recommended him for the job, and he accepted it.”

  “And the rest of the story?”

  “Oh right, Dave’s boss was going overseas, too,” she said, “and of course the two of them were, and continue to be having, an affair.”

  “And Dave’s boss is . . .”

  There was a protracted silence before Nora realized what he meant and she laughed so loud the sound rattled nearby trees, snow on their branches floating to the ground. “Oh, oh . . . no, thankfully we didn’t have to deal with that issue, too. No, no, Brian, Dave’s boss is female. That was rich, though. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in weeks. Oh boy, that would have been something. Come on, enough of this nonsense, we came to get a tree, let’s go grab one.”

  “Two,” he said, “things always come better in twos.”

  Nora decided the better response was to just punch him in the arm, and she did, her fist landing hard. He seemed to accept the jab with ease. When they rejoined the group, she noticed Janey tossing her one of her patented, curious looks, but the young girl didn’t say a word. She simply grabbed Brian’s hand and pulled him helplessly toward the tree of her choice.

  Travis finally picked out the perfect tree, an eight-foot Douglas fir that smelled as beautiful as it looked, with full, green branches spreading out above a thick stump that was proving difficult against the rusty teeth of the saw. With Brian’s assistance, Travis sliced at the base of the tree and as Nora urged them on, the tree finally separated with a crack. One crack and then it came crashing to the ground into a powdery puff of snow. In short order, Janey’s tree followed, almost as though she’d chosen it already but didn’t want to be upstaged by Travis. Their bodies near frozen from the long trek deep into the farm, they dragged their bounty down the snowy hill and to the truck.

  Mr. Green complimented Travis and Janey on their fine choices and helped first tie them then load them into the rear of the truck. Glad to be back inside the heat of the truck, they drove back to Linden Corners poorer in pocket though richer for the experience, Travis going on and on about what it had felt like the moment his saw sliced through the last of the stubborn bark. With Gerta promising fresh apple pie and steaming cups of hot chocolate, “yeah, with tiny marshmallows,” Janey happily adding as an afterthought, they headed back to Linden Corners with the promise of heat and nourishment.

  But as they arrived into the dusky downtown area of Linden Corners, Nora asked if Brian wouldn’t mind letting her out in front of A Doll’s Attic.

  “Mom, what about the hot chocolate?”

  “Save me some, okay? There’s something I’ve got to take care of at the store and it can’t wait,” she said, turning her head back to assure Travis that she’d only be an hour, not more. “Besides, nothing we can do with the tree yet, it needs to relax its branches before we can start decorating it. Help Brian get it out of the truck and into the stand, I’ll be home before you know it.”

  Brian pulled into the small parking lot near the old Victorian-style home, the truck idling as Nora quickly hopped out. Before pulling away, he remarked on how dark the building looked, even in the falling light of day. “You should put some up Christmas lights, compared to the rest of the village the outside of your shop looks like the single burned-out light on a string of bulbs. If you want, I can help. Janey gave me boxes of staples last year for Christmas, there are plenty left to attach them to the building.”

  “It’s because he used so many when lighting up the windmill,” Janey offered.

  “I’ll keep it all under advisement,” Nora said, wishing she hadn’t. She sounded too much like a lawyer right then, all businesslike. She smiled meekly in an attempt to keep her options open and then closed the passenger side door. The truck drove off with a friendly honk sounding in the air, but to her the effect was hollow, emphasizing the fact that she was alone.

  It might have only been three in the afternoon, but around her she felt the sunlight was fast diminishing, darkness coming sooner for her than others. Maybe that had to do with the lack of Christmas lights around the edge of her store, lacking any kind of invitation. For half a second she reconsidered Brian’s offer of help, told herself that could wait. Something else was motivating her, and so she made her way up the path toward her entrance, unlocking the door. Again she encountered that jangle of bells overhead, their sound lingering as she closed the door, making her way quickly behind the counter. Without hesitation, she fired up her laptop and, waiting for the screen to come to life, she ran to the kitchen to boil water for tea—she was still freezing from their winter excursion into the woods.

  At last settled in the quiet of her store, she sipped at herbal tea while she looked through her recent online searches. Because somewhere between complaining about the cold and cutting down a Christmas tree, Nora had found herself thinking not of her family but one that had existed years ago. No, the moment was not about she and Travis and her mother celebrating the holiday on the twenty-fifth, not about Brian and Janey waking to another Christmas morning in the shadow of the windmill reminding them of Annie. Who consumed her thoughts was Thomas Van Diver, he who seemed to have no one in the world with whom to exchange gifts. Yet for some reason he still sought out the book he had lost during his childhood, and if not to give it as a gift to someone, then what purpose did it serve? He hadn’t been very forthcoming with a reason why, all he’d asked of her was to find it. And she knew she had failed him, settling rather than pushing.

  The sense of failure ate at her, as it had all week. Even without Dave—the man to whom she had promised a lifetime of love to, even with him gone from their lives, probably for good—she still had a lot to be thankful for this season. Her son and ever-patient mother, this store and the o
pportunity it had afforded her, they all played their part in giving her the chance to strip away the façade of her business life and return her to a simpler time. That was life in Linden Corners, embracing a quality of life where neighbor looked after neighbor, where help was just a phone call away. Or, in this case, in an attempt at modernization, an Internet search away.

  She went online and returned to the bookmarked pages where she had found the facsimile edition, looking at the picture of the cover on the upper left-hand corner, reading through the details that helped potential buyers make their decisions. Something about the book was nagging at her, a detail that she had overlooked. She read over the specs one more time—the title, author, illustrator, publication date, as well as the many customer reviews posted below, and that’s when she found it . . . wonder filling her eyes, a true eureka moment. Because there among the posted reviews was a five-star review from a man named Nicholas Casey, who wrote the following: “This lovingly restored edition is a faithful reproduction of my great-great-great-grandfather’s personal interpretation of Moore’s classic story, complete with the Victorian legend of Saint Nick dressed not in his traditional red suit but in a green suit.”

  Nora looked back at the credit line again and for once her eyes focused beyond the author’s name, Clement Clarke Moore, and instead on the illustrator’s name. Of course, how could she have been so stupid? The key to the book lay in the unique illustrations; Moore never wrote of a green suit, it was something that grew out of the painter’s fabrication. With each book published, the variable in each edition came courtesy of the artwork. Alexander Casey was credited as the illustrator here, and now, over one hundred years later, his descendant was posting an online review about the publisher’s restored version of the long out-of-print volume.