A Christmas Hope

by Joseph Pittman

  “Hey, Mark,” Brian said from atop the ladder, wrapping lights around the rail of the upper level’s catwalk.

  “Saw you guys from the highway, thought I’d stop by.”

  “To help?” Bradley asked, hope in his voice.

  “Sorry, I’m on my way to RiverFront, but when I saw you . . . hey, Brian, got a sec?”

  “Sure, what’s up?” he asked, hopping off the ladder.

  Mark looked at Brian, then passed a quick look at Bradley.

  “You want, I can take a breather up at the house,” Bradley said.

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “He’s cool, Mark. What’s going on?”

  “Well, I mean, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me and Sara, and I . . .”

  He was fidgeting where he stood, feet crunching the snow beneath his feet into slush.

  “Mark, you’re gonna be late and I’ve got to get this finished before Janey comes back.”

  “Right, sorry, it’s just . . . I need a best man. I thought of you.”

  “Me?” Brian asked. “What about your uncle, Richie . . .”

  “You know Uncle Richie, he lives in his own world down at the Solemn Nights, and yeah, he was there for me a lot when I was a kid, but no one has done more for me lately. But if you don’t want to . . .”

  “No, no, Mark, that’s not what I meant. I’d be honored, thank you,” he said. “And am I to assume that Martha is Sara’s maid of honor?”

  “Yeah, old maid,” Mark said, a grin striking his scruffy face.

  “Have Martha hear that, your marriage will be short-lived,” Bradley said.

  “Nah, I’m in it for the long haul, for better, for worse,” Mark said. “The way it’s supposed to be.”

  And with that, he started off, soon zooming down the highway, his car cresting over the hill and disappearing from view. As for Brian, his heart warm after his exchange with Mark, again amazed at the generosity of spirit that existed in this tiny village, he climbed back up the ladder with newfound determination and resumed his post on the catwalk. With Bradley giving an able assist, they managed to finish off the remainder of the lighting of the windmill in just under two hours, and so, as daylight began to fall and the shadows emerged onto the land, Brian stole a look at his handiwork, and then in a test run flipped the switch inside the windmill. At four o’clock in the afternoon, already the glow was so bright it could probably be seen from high above, and that’s when Brian sent up a quiet message of hope. Here it is, Annie, here’s your windmill and soon your little girl will see it and her face will light up so brightly, she just might give it a run for its money.

  “You know, Bri, you’ve got a lot of lights on that thing,” Bradley said. “Ever worry about a power outage?”

  “You know, Bradley, what is with you lawyers?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think sometimes you forget to find the joy in life,” he said.

  “You talking about me, or some other lawyer you know?”

  And so at eight o’clock that same night, the farmhouse was aglow, the refreshing scent of pine swirling through nearly every room. Inside the living room, the fireplace crackled with heat, stockings hung just above it. The tree stood proud in the corner, alive with colorful lights and from the angel glowing from atop. Only two ornaments remained to be hung on the tree, they’d saved the best for last.

  “You ready?” Brian asked.

  Janey simply nodded, her face filled with eager anticipation.

  From its box, Brian withdrew the glittering red ornament, the name “Janey” written on it. He handed it to her, watched as she hunted for the perfect branch from which to hang it, and at last she did. The hook caught, and the ornament dangled in the glow of a tiny red light beside it, the effect like the rosy glow of Santa’s cheeks.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  Indeed it was, so Brian removed his own ornament, this one green. He placed it near hers but not so close they lost the effect of them both. As she had done, he placed it near a bulb of the same color, and again the reflection that came off the tree was an emerald glow. That’s when it struck him, her ornament was red, like Santa’s suit, his was green, like the Santa suit in Thomas Van Diver’s antique book. Years ago in this very room, with the fire crackling and spreading warmth, a young boy had sat on his father’s lap and listened as the story of Saint Nick unfolded with holiday joy. Many other Christmases had been celebrated here since then, with Dan Sullivan and his parents, later with Dan and Annie and one day with little Janey. The photos of those times were all upstairs in the attic, tucked away in the boxes marked “Dan.” Brian reminded himself that one night this week he would take that box down and he and Janey would share the memories; it was important to her heritage, her well-being, that she remember both Dan and Annie.

  But speaking of Annie, he took hold of Janey’s hand and led her to the back door. They put on their boots and wrapped their coats around their bodies, and together they trekked over the wide, snow-coated lawn, reaching the crest of the hill with heavy steps. And it was there, on this night when Christmas inched ever closer, a night that he and Janey had joyously celebrated both Sullivan and Duncan family traditions, the two of them held hands as they gazed down at the sparkling windmill, its glow like a halo from a faraway world.

  “Hi, Mama,” Janey said.

  Brian Duncan squeezed Janey’s hand in support, felt his heart about to burst.

  So many of the residents in this little town had felt the sting of loss. Yet promises still existed out there, whether through planning a long-awaited wedding or the eager anticipation of gifts to be given, to be received, some still to be bought, or through some unknown surprise that still awaited discovery. Christmas in Linden Corners was fast approaching, no more evident than those newly spinning sails of the windmill, today awash with light, with life, with hope.

  CHAPTER 16

  THOMAS

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “That’s okay, Thomas, I’m glad you felt you could reach out to me.”

  So said Brian Duncan as he helped the old man into the passenger seat of the old truck, getting him settled as comfortable as possible, securing the seat belt with a noticeable click. When he pronounced himself ready to go, Brian hopped back behind the steering wheel and drove away from Edgestone’s circular driveway. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief as he realized there was still time to make his scheduled train, something he hadn’t thought possible even a half hour ago when Elsie called to inform him she wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be able to drive him today.

  Since his arrival in Linden Corners nearly three months ago, Thomas Van Diver had not missed a single one of these trips, had not even considered the idea. Every Thursday his pattern never deviated, he awoke early and ate sensibly and then got dressed, always careful to pick out a colorful bow tie he knew would go over well. The staff there always commented on his sartorial appearance, and today promised to be no exception, as he had chosen a classic blue and yellow-striped rep. It was when he was still securing the tie around his neck that the phone had rung and the tone of his day had shifted.

  With the tails of his tie dangling, unfinished, he had sunk to his chair, his old body weary all of a sudden. Maybe he should just stay home, see if for once Elsie needed his assistance; he could return her favors, take it easy, relax. With his restless sleep keeping him from getting a full night’s sleep, he had to face facts: He’d been pushing himself too much, and so perhaps Elsie’s call was a message to be heeded. The idea of not going left him more bereft, however, so he thought about whom else he could call to take him. A cab service came first to mind, something he’d done for a few weeks until Elsie had volunteered to drive him. But even so, time was ticking away loudly on the clock, the cab could be late and he might miss his train. Then inspiration had struck and next thing he knew, he was calling over to the farmhouse.

  Brian had happily accepted,
wasting no time in arriving at Edgestone within twenty minutes, and now here they were hurtling toward Hudson on a brightly lit mid-December morning.

  “This is really very kind of you, Brian, such a very big favor.”

  “Mornings are my slow time, once I get Janey off to school, that is.”

  “Kids do not like to get up for school, especially when it’s cold out.”

  “You’re telling me,” he said, with an appreciative laugh. “Last week’s bitter temperatures, Janey acted even worse. She practically hid under her blankets.”

  “I remember the farmhouse being toasty warm in the winter.”

  “No complaints so far, but when there’s an occasional draft running through the house—you know, when the wind really picks up over that big open field behind the house—that’s when I strike a match in the fireplace,” Brian said. “Actually, speaking of the farmhouse, Thomas, you should come over for dinner again, and soon. Or better yet, we’d be happy to host you on Christmas—that is, if you don’t have previous plans. I know both Janey and I would enjoy your company. Just think how much you both have in common. Each of you having been born to the farmhouse, both of you having celebrated early childhood Christmases there. Perhaps you can even join us for Christmas Eve, after the wedding and vigil mass. I’ll even let you read Janey Twas the Night before Christmas. I bet she’d get a kick out of that.”

  “Oh Brian . . . how very kind of you,” Thomas said, feeling an odd mix of emotions. Joy, regret, sadness, and for a moment he wished his answer could be different. How to explain to this kind, giving man the reason why without offending him, or hurting his feelings? “I, I do have plans already. Otherwise . . . it’s a very nice invitation.”

  “No worries at all,” Brian said, his tone, however, indicating a hint of disappointment. “I suppose it was presumptuous of me to think you wouldn’t have plans. Look at today, here I was available on short notice to drive you to the train station. Seems you’re the one with the busy social calendar.”

  “Not so much busy plans as a necessary appointment,” Thomas said. It was a comment that inadvertently invited further discussion, he realized, one he was neither ready nor eager for. He quickly changed the subject. “You do know where the train station is located, correct? I have perhaps ten minutes to spare.”

  “Not a problem, Thomas, we’re almost there,” he said. “I was down here in Hudson just a few weeks ago with Nora, we passed right by it on our way to see a customer of hers. It’s funny, actually, both of Nora’s first two customers—you and Mrs. Wilkinson—hired her for Christmas-related jobs. You, the search for the book from your childhood, and she was giving away a few boxes of old ornaments. It’s like the two of you were diametric in your Christmas wishes—you wanted to find the past, just as she wanted to cleanse herself of it. Guess the holidays tend to bring out a strange array of emotions in people. No wonder we’re all exhausted come Christmas Day, we’ve put our bodies through the wringer.”

  “Not just our bodies, our hearts and our minds,” Thomas said.

  Brian shot his passenger a curious look, careful, too, to watch the road as they made their way into Hudson. Coming to a quick stop at a red light, Brian, hesitating ever so slightly, said, “Thomas, is there something I can help you with? You know, all you have to do is ask. If I’ve learned one thing about Linden Corners, it’s that we take care of our own.”

  “Brian Duncan, there’s nothing anyone can do, not anymore,” he said.

  Thomas found his new friend staring at him, lingering to the point that he missed the light changing over their heads. The impatient driver behind them honked him into moving, and soon they were riding west down Warren Street, the train station just a few blocks away. Thomas was glad the ride was nearly over, he’d come dangerously close to revealing to Brian everything—why he’d come back to Linden Corners and the importance of the book, where the train took him and why. When the tracks came into view, Thomas knew he could escape unscathed, the secrets of his heart still his and his alone.

  Or so he thought. He should have seen it coming, as Brian parked and insisted he stick around with Thomas until the train came. Despite his subtle protests, Brian accompanied him to the small, historic station, waiting on a bench while a dozen or so other passengers milled about, some with several pieces of luggage, Thomas with his lone overnight bag. To him, the bag was a red flag: He wasn’t going far, and he wasn’t going for long.

  “Really, Brian, I’m sure you have more important things to do today than waiting for a train you’re not even taking, especially since the board says it’s running ten minutes late. I’m perfectly fine, just as I am every week.”

  “Ten minutes late? The train to Albany is not for another thirty minutes and is right on schedule. All this waiting around, I could have just driven you straight up to Albany, it’s not that much farther and avoids the extra time you spend traveling. The train you’re looking at is the one to New York . . . unless that’s the one you have a ticket for.” That’s when Brian paused and studied Thomas, who looked away in guilt, like a child caught in a lie. And wasn’t that just what it was? Silence echoed between them, as mournful as the whistle of a train.

  “I’m afraid you’ve caught me in a bit of a fib,” Thomas finally said. “I apologize.”

  “Thomas, you’re under no obligation to tell me anything, you asked for a ride and I was happy that I could provide it. Your business is just that, yours, and whatever you wish to share is just as fine as whatever you don’t wish to. Obviously it’s a very personal mission you’re on, and I don’t mean in Linden Corners but wherever your weekly trip takes you—I respect your privacy and will say no more.” He paused, resting a palm on the old man’s wrinkled hand; Thomas could feel the heat emanating from his friend, how comforting it felt in the cool air of winter.

  Thomas opened his mouth to speak, just as the train came ’round the bend, its whistle blowing in the quiet of morning. The effect was almost as if Thomas himself had let out the wail, his voice reacting to being found out, his heart unable to process anything. Thomas rose from the bench, turned to Brian, and said, “I thank you, for your concern and your respect. Perhaps one day I will tell you all, Brian, because if I feel anyone in Linden Corners could understand my situation, it is you. For now, I bid you a good day.”

  “Wait, Thomas,” Brian said. “I have one more request, please . . . just listen?”

  The train was still several hundred feet away; while the other passengers made their way down to the platform, Thomas remained behind, waiting with a mix of anticipation and fear. He had opened himself too much to the kind people of Linden Corners, more so than he had ever intended, and here was one of its finest folks with a request on the tip of his tongue. Thomas hoped he could easily refuse.

  “About Christmas Eve,” Brian said, “I know you say you have plans, but we need you as part our village celebration. I know how much it would mean to Janey and myself, what it would mean also to the residents of the Corner and . . . heck, ask anyone in town. You came to Linden Corners to find your Christmas of the past and now you have an opportunity to bring it into the present. With our parade of children, the wedding, Christmas itself, it’s a chance to make new memories that will last far into the future. All three worlds colliding in a beautiful medley of traditions.”

  “Brian, the train is approaching . . . what is it you want of me?”

  “I . . . we, we want you to play Santa Claus.”

  The whistle blared again, loud, as the train rumbled into the station. Its doors quickly opened.

  Thomas said nothing to Brian, he couldn’t find the words. He just stepped onto the train and inched his way down the crowded aisle. He found a seat on the side that faced the river, which provided a spectacular view of the mighty Hudson, its ebbs and flows, the train hugging the banks so closely the many sides of nature—land, water, sky—may well have been melded into one stroke of crystalline, sunlight blue. But connections were a funny thing, how easily they
could be broken, like when the tracks curved away from the river and nature returned to its individuality. You could be lost in the woods, the sky closed off, the river’s path leading you astray. As the train pulled out, Thomas stole a glance back at the platform, but it was empty, Brian Duncan was gone. Another connection, gone.

  Like the one he’d shared with his father, like the one he’d discovered with the antique edition of Twas the Night before Christmas, both of them strong once upon a childhood, only to be taken away from him through the cruel twists of an angry fate. Was the bond he’d established with Linden Corners slowly beginning to slip away, too, not unlike a certain someone who meant the world to him?

  It was like his past had just swallowed him up. No longer was the train from the Sears catalog up on his wall, instead it took to the tracks and inside it was a five-year-old boy who didn’t understand why life took the turns it did. There were no tracks, just mysteries and unseen curves along for the ride.

  “How is she?”

  “Resting comfortably, Mr. Van Diver,” the woman said with a reassuring smile. She was fifty-ish, plump around the middle, and with wise eyes that said she had seen much in this world, both the good of the human spirit and sorrowful regrets, much of it witnessed in these stark white corridors. “Why don’t you go on in? I’m sure she could benefit from your comforting touch.”

  “Thank you, as always,” Thomas said, removing his coat and draping it over his arm.

  “Oh my, that’s another lovely tie, very old-school,” she said.

  Thomas smiled, nodded politely. “Another gift.”

  “Weren’t they all?”

  “Just as she was . . . is,” Thomas added, only to receive in return a supportive pat upon his shoulder.

  And so she went back to her desk duties while he shuffled along the end of the corridor to the last room on the left, the final steps of a journey that had begun earlier today. All during the train ride he’d been distracted, thinking not of her but about Brian Duncan and his surprise, final request at the train station . . . and how he had let the question go unanswered. It remained that way when he pushed open the door and came to the side of the bed, the steady, artificial sound of breathing filling the silence. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his knees creaking as he let out a deep sigh. He stared at her quiet face, unmoving, her eyes closed. A shadow crossed over the pattern of wrinkles as though smoothing them out, a deceptive attempt at reversing time. Bending down, he planted a kiss upon her cheek and when no reaction was forthcoming, he knew none of this was a dream.