by Jan Karon
‘The beards!’ said Hélène. ‘Oh, non!’
‘And the sack, we must have the sack.’
‘With all the excitement . . . je suis désolée! It is all on my kitchen table!’
‘Is Harley home?’
‘Oui, he is fixing the front burner on my stove!’
‘Tell him to get everything to us right away, please. Could you bring it all up?’ he asked his wife.
‘Consider it done, honey.’
Honey. In front of everybody! He could scarcely bear so much excitement.
He hefted the costume box. ‘A little privacy, please,’ he said, proceeding up the stairs.
‘There!’ Hélène exclaimed to all present. ‘I knew he would do it, I just knew it!’
• • •
MORE THAN A FEW CUSTOMERS dropped in before noon, one with a carry-out lunch from the Feel Good, which she ate sitting at the coffee station.
‘I didn’t know you had a café,’ said a student from Wesley.
‘We don’t. Just c-coffee. Free.’
‘Great. Cream and sugar, please.’
‘It’s s-self-help,’ said Sammy.
And there went the bell jangling, and in came Miss Mooney’s tribe with more than a few shouts and murmurs, not to mention gifts for Children’s Hospital.
‘Is Saint Nick on time?’ said Miss Mooney. ‘They’ve just had donut holes at Sweet Stuff and are absolutely wild; I can hold them down only so long.’
‘He’ll be here any minute,’ said Hélène, thrilled to be instrumental in such splendid commotion.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ Vanita told Hélène. ‘I won’t get close to anybody, I don’t know what it is. Maybe an allergy!’ Vanita aimed her point-and-shoot at the door. ‘I’m about to bust to see Saint Nick, I’ll shoot ’im comin’ in.’
‘No, no,’ said Hélène, ‘he will be coming down from above.’
And down he came.
Every head turning. The intake of breath. Those sitting, stood. All cheered and applauded. Miss Mooney was agape, her tribe astonished. Hélène felt faint. ‘Yay-y-y-y!’ said Vanita.
The velvet robe, the fur trim, the solemn procession down the creaking stairs; the crozier, the mitre, the bulging sack, and behind the beard and frosty eyebrows, the twinkling eyes so often ascribed to yet another bearer of gifts . . .
• • •
‘THAT AIN’T SANTY CLAUS,’ said a disappointed five-year-old.
Hastings McCurdy put in his two cents’ worth. ‘Saint Nicholas fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays and gave all his money to the poor.’
‘Bless you,’ Saint Nicholas said to Hastings McCurdy, and gave him a sweet.
‘Bless you,’ Saint Nicholas said to Sissy and Sassy and Timmy and Tommy and Jessie and Pooh, and all the tribe of Miss Mooney.
‘Do you live at th’ North Pole?’
‘Do you know Santy Claus? Why couldn’t he come?’
‘Do you go down chimneys?’
‘Are they any reindeers on this roof?’
Saint Nicholas was silent before these and other bewildered inquiries, saying only, ‘Bless you,’ to one and all, and giving each a wrapped sweet from his sack. Then, trailed by fourteen third-graders, he stepped into the window and began his next command: waving to all who passed.
‘That Santy,’ a boy told his mother, ‘ain’t got no teeth.’
‘It’s all the Christmas candy,’ she said.
In the ensuing hubbub, he and Cynthia slipped downstairs, where he was spied helping a customer.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Hélène cried, as if seeing a ghost. ‘It’s you!’
Doing his best to keep up, he was praising the merits of biography, the raw vigor of Knut Hamsun, the earnest authenticity of the nearly forgotten Conrad Richter, the persistent charms of Mary Oliver and John O’Donahue, and the generous grace of Seamus Heaney . . .
Which fiction bestseller could he recommend? Did he have anything by Cynthia Rylant? How about John Grisham’s latest, or James Patterson before he went co-op, or the book that came out ages ago about Julia Child that really wasn’t Julia but someone who cooked in a tiny kitchen in New York City?
He was in over his head. Way in.
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ he confessed to an English prof from Wesley.
‘Join the club,’ she said.
When he was priesting, people sat quietly, organized by rows, and listened—or pretended to. Now they scattered throughout the room like untended sheep, and when they had a question, as they often did, they rushed at him from every side. And of course there was no greeting them in an orderly fashion as they left the sanctuary of books. No, they simply went out into the world, packages under arm, and disappeared. Hardly any time to say, Have you read George Herbert or Patrick Kavanagh, and, Will I ever see you again, much less, Enjoy your book and peace be with you. They were customers, after all, not parishioners. Didn’t he know that?
‘How’s it going?’ he asked his wife.
‘Holy smoke,’ she said.
Miss Mooney was busy pinning a scrap to the corkboard.
IN A GOOD BOOK, THE BEST IS BETWEEN THE LINES. —Swedish proverb
She gave him a knowing smile. ‘So, Father, who’s your Saint Nicholas? He’s quite wonderful!’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘just someone who’s having a little fun that is funny.’
• • •
AT FIVE O’CLOCK, he met with his lighting techs. Last night, he had thought the thing through more clearly—why light only the tree in the upstairs window? He had a better plan. But how would they coordinate it?
‘Très simple, Father.’
Hélène presented Pooh and Jessie, who seemed pretty wired, and explained that he, Father Tim, would stand in front of the PO, under the streetlight, and when he raised his right arm, that would be their cue.
‘Got it,’ said Pooh.
‘Awesome,’ said Jessie, who would afterward post the results on Facebook.
‘Depend upon us!’ said Hélène, who refused to become a mere bystander at the PO.
At five-twenty, he wrangled the crowd across Main, whipped by a gusting wind—coattails flapping, one hat sailing.
In the light from streetlamps and angels, people thronged the sidewalk across from Happy Endings, hooting and coughing and waving to one another and generally being up for whatever might transpire.
There were Hoppy and Olivia, looking a handsome pair, and the mayor and his wife, and their new police chief with Puny and both sets of twins. There were Abe and his genial spouse, Sylvia, and Lew and Earlene, and, scattered among the legions, a major portion of the Cunningham troupe.
‘Look,’ said Cynthia. In the shadow beyond the light from an angel, Pauline and Buck.
He and Cynthia made their way to the lamppost where Bill Swanson and his grans—nine boys, to be exact—were congregated, and squeezed in among a contingent from Wesley, not to mention a few who wandered up from Holding, and a couple of Floridians looking dismayed in the wind . . .
Esther Bolick held fast to the arm of Adeline Douglas. ‘There is no tellin’,’ said Esther, ‘how many germs are bein’ exchanged out here.’
Adeline patted Esther’s hand. ‘Too cold for germs, honey.’
‘Okay,’ said Bill Swanson. ‘Tell us when.’
Only a soft lamplight shone forth from the bookstore’s darkened windows. He looked at his watch.
‘Go,’ he whispered.
‘Ten!’ chorused the Swanson brotherhood.
‘Nine!’
‘Eight!’
The crowd chimed in, he and Cynthia chimed in.
‘Seven!’
‘Six!’
‘Five!’
The wind had no mercy.
‘Four!’
‘Three!’
The goose bumps up his right leg, Cynthia’s breath vaporizing on the air.
‘Two!’
He raised his right arm as high as he could stretch it.
‘One!’
Good Lord! The crowd stepped back, incredulous.
It was a launch at Cape Canaveral, it was the Eiffel Tower lit by eight million kilowatts; it was their night, in their town, with every possibility lying open before them.
‘Ah!’ they said, and ‘Oh!’ and all the things that might be uttered in wonderment and surprise, and then they cheered and applauded and hugged their neighbors on either side.
The high window cast its colored light onto the awning and splashed into the street below—blue, yellow, green, the colors of the tree lights many had known as children. Angels danced at the tips of branches, ornaments shimmered and gleamed, and above all, at the very top—the single, shining star.
He drew out his handkerchief and passed it to his wife.
In the north window, Mary and Joseph waited with the wizened shepherd and his sheep . . .
In the south window, Saint Nicholas, just in from the third century and arrayed in the splendor of remnants, stood in the sudden halo of light. The crowd cheered and waved for dear life. The pectoral cross glittered as the old bishop leaned his crozier against the wing chair, then raised both arms and waved back.
‘Merry Christmas!’ someone shouted.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his glove.
‘Merry Christmas!’
‘Merry Christmas!’
‘C-cookies for ever’body!’ Sammy hollered. And looking both ways, they all fled across to the light, and the warmth, and the books, and the mystery.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Thank heaven for a chimney that, even in a strong wind, was drawing smoke sweetly up the flue.
On this gusty Sunday evening, their music was the sound of Sammy’s and Kenny’s laughter, punctuated by the sharp crack of cue tip against resin.
They turned their chairs to face the fire, rested their sock feet on the fender.
‘She’ll approve whatever we decide,’ said Cynthia.
‘There’s Vanita, of course.’ He was quite fond of Vanita, aka the Little Owl, as he sometimes called her privately. ‘But . . .’
‘But,’ said his wife.
Here was real news, and they couldn’t mess up. For the first time in history, the Muse might actually be a feed to the mighty Observer.
‘I’ll have to make a few calls,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to the right people, out of courtesy, but we can’t let Wesley scoop us on this. The story absolutely belongs to Mitford. Would you write it?’ Here was someone who made her living not only with pictures, but with words. Perfect.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Just . . . no?’
‘Yes. No.’
So. He could spill the beans to J.C., but the editor’s literary skills were on par with Vanita’s, minus the ardor for all-caps.
‘Would you gather the facts and write them down? It would eliminate the nuisance of an interview by the Muse and perhaps help deliver the truth in recognizable form.’
‘Consider it done,’ she said, smug as anything when thinking of the information she’d been given by phone a half hour ago.
Hessie. It would have to be Hessie. She would do an earnest and workmanlike job. On the other hand, Vanita would be devastated if passed over.
Before getting in a swivet, they prayed the prayer that never fails.
• • •
ACROSS THE DATES of December 24 through 31, he had scrawled: Dooley Home. Across December 24 through 28: Lace Home.
Dooley and Lace would be staying at Meadowgate with Marge and Hal Owen, Dooley subbing for Hal’s assistant, who was away for the holidays.
On Christmas Eve, he and Cynthia would finish decorating their tree and attend midnight mass in Wesley, and, on Christmas Day, drive out to Meadowgate with Dooley’s siblings. Hoppy and Olivia would join them, making a baker’s dozen around the farm table. It would be like going home, given the year he and Cynthia lived at the farm during the Owenses’ stint in France.
Harley, so often included as family, would have Christmas dinner with his landlady, who was roasting a goose.
‘First he buys dentures,’ he said. ‘Then there’s the cologne business. And now roast goose. Do you think . . . ?’
‘Wouldn’t that be grand?’ said his wife.
‘I can’t imagine it. She’s an educated woman.’
‘He’s an educated man, remember? He majored in American history under Lace Harper, who also taught him to conjugate a verb.’
He shook his head. ‘No way.’ Harley at one of Miss Pringle’s piano recitals at Mitford School? ‘Just no way.’
‘I have never conjugated a verb,’ she said, gazing into the middle distance, ‘and never will.’
• • •
ON THE WAY HOME from a frigid run on Monday, he stopped by Sweet Stuff.
He was eyeing the jelly donuts when she came through the curtains that divided customers from the kitchen.
‘Merry Christmas, Father!’
‘Winnie?’
‘I look that different?’
‘Well, yes. But . . .’
‘You should see Thomas, he’s a bronze god. He would step out an’ prove it, but he’s icin’ cakes for th’ Rotary tonight, an’ believe me, he does not like to be bothered when he’s icin’ cakes. He looks exactly like he did when we met in th’ ship’s galley—I was admirin’ his napoleons.’ She gave him the once-over. ‘You should use your gift certificate. They told me they gave you a gift certificate.’
‘Don’t start,’ he said.
‘Be careful whose hand you shake. Th’ Mitford Crud is goin’ around. People come in here sneezin’, coughin’, eyes waterin’ . . . Why don’t people stay home when they’re sick? People used to stay home out of respect for others. But that’s th’ trouble with people today, nobody has any respect for others. Lord knows, I’d like to get sick just so I could stay home for five minutes, but no way can I get sick ’til January. Have you heard about Vanita?’
‘What?’
‘Ended up in ER last night. Dehydrated. Mitford Crud, for sure. I think it’s that little microphone she carries around, all those people breathin’ in it.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine, just down for a week or two, her husband said. He came in for three brownies. I said she probably shouldn’t have brownies right now; he said they were all for him, he was stressed.’
‘I’ll have two baguettes,’ he said.
‘What will you do with two?’
‘Winnie, Winnie, what would anybody do with two baguettes? We’ll have one this evening and use the other for crostini.’
‘They say people in France used to eat two baguettes every single day. Fourteen a week! Can you believe it? Now everybody’s down to half a baguette a day an’ th’ government’s worried.’
‘What are they worried about?’
‘Well, because not eatin’ baguettes is terrible for their cultural image.’
That would be his international news for the day.
• • •
‘HESSIE, COULD YOU POSSIBLY meet me at Happy Endings? I’m subbing for Hélène Pringle. Noon to one, if that would work. You won’t be disappointed.’
Noon to one could be busy with customers shopping on their lunch hour. Or the store could be empty as a gourd. The deepest truth he had learned about retail was that it’s all about surprise. Right up there with farming.
‘You want an apple?’ Hessie said. ‘I’ll bring you an apple.’
• • •
HE SAT WITH HER in the Poetry section and told her everything he was approved to tell. If she closed her mouth during the entire s
cenario, he didn’t see it. ‘And we’ll have all the facts for you this afternoon. In black-and-white.’
‘Lord help. And Vanita down with th’ flu. I hate to admit this is th’ chance I’ve waited for—an’ now I’m scared to death. Th’ turnaround . . .’
‘You can do it,’ he said.
‘I guess you’re wonderin’ if I’ve forgiven her.’
‘I haven’t actually wondered that, but since you mention it . . .’
‘She’s a terrier, that one, but let her have her bone. Let her ruin her back in those spike heels if that’s what she wants to do. I’ll take my Social Security check an’ fifteen bucks an hour, an’ same time next year I’ll be sittin’ on a bench in St. Augustine. But yes, I forgive her, bless ’er heart.’
‘Are you running this by J.C. before you write it?’
‘No way. I’m just goin’ to write it and hand it to him in person. It will never have contact with the Desk Dumpster.’
‘How soon can we see it?’
‘If I get your info by three and work half th’ night, I can have it to him in th’ mornin’. He’ll have to tear up his whole front page, but he’ll do it for this story. Definitely. He’ll still be able to get the paper out on Thursday, just later than usual. What about pictures?’
‘We’ll give them to you with the facts.’ His adrenaline was pumping like an oil derrick, and there came three customers through the door. ‘Hessie, Hessie, thanks a million. Isn’t life wonderful?’
‘Stressful,’ she snapped.
After selling four books and ordering two, he called Cynthia. ‘Did you get what we need?’
‘I think so. Maybe. I hope.’
‘Hessie would like to have it by three at the latest.’
‘I used your computer and will never do it again. Everything printed out triple-spaced, in red.’
‘Seasonal!’
She was not amused.
‘How old is your computer?’ she said.
‘Maybe ten years?’
‘Ugh. Is Hessie home?’
‘She was headed that way ten minutes ago.’
‘I’ll take it over after I mail the packages to New Jersey and Mississippi. We’re out of wrapping paper, and Truman threw up on the pool room carpet.’
‘So how’s everything else at your end?’
