Noel Street

by Richard Paul Evans

  The north end of Noel Street—the opposite end of town from the Harrison—circled Garfield Park, a grassy public square with an old wood pavilion and its centerpiece, a massive hundred-and-fifty-year-old Norway spruce. The park was where the festival was held, with the Noel Street traffic flowing into it like a river into a lake.

  The Noel Street Christmas Festival was the kind of event that didn’t know its potential when it started. In fact, its evolution was so natural that there was an ongoing argument among the locals about who had started it and when it actually began.

  There were watermarks along its path. You could say it began sometime in the early fifties when the Downtown Merchants’ Association—consisting of less than a dozen business owners—decided to petition the Mistletoe city council to decorate the large spruce. Just a year earlier someone had suggested that the tree should be donated to Rockefeller Center in New York City and almost found themselves run out of town.

  With promised donations and the loan of a cherry picker, the council approved the request and the tree was decorated. Just a week later the local elementary school music teacher, Mrs. Carter (who has since passed away), decided to form the Noel Street Chorale, a hodgepodge of singers who met by the tree each weekend night during the holiday season to sing Christmas carols.

  At first it was just the singers; then their families came, followed by strangers looking for entertainment in a small town with few amusements. One night, someone had the idea to bring a container of hot cocoa for the singers, a simple act of goodness that led to an unexpected proliferation. By the next year both the size of the chorale group and its audience had doubled and the local women’s auxiliary set up a small but permanent stand serving hot cocoa and coffee—not just for the singers but for their audience as well—as a means to raise funds for their local service projects.

  Nothing spurs success like profit, and the next year there was another stand selling homemade bread with honey butter. This was followed two weeks later by a donut stand and Mrs. Bench selling hand-knit Christmas stockings and Christmas tree ornaments her husband carved by hand from olive tree wood.

  As the park’s crowds grew, the members of the original Downtown Merchants’ Association realized they had created something perennial, so they again petitioned the city council and reserved the square for an annual Christmas event. A committee was formed and one of the wealthier Mistletoe benefactors visited the famous Christkindlmarkt in Germany and brought back an entire notebook of ideas to bring to the small Mistletoe festival—some practical, some not.

  As the Christmas festival grew, it began attracting the citizens of neighboring places, first from the small border towns of Wilden and Tremonton, then eventually drawing those from the larger cities of Ogden, Layton, and Logan. Soon the festival filled the park and spilled out onto the neighboring streets. It was the only time of year in Mistletoe that open parking spaces weren’t a given.

  By 1975 the Noel Street Christmas Festival was a complicated affair with bureaucratic regulations and oversight, rented booths, merchant stalls, choir stands, a public address system, and a printed program with two weeks of scheduled performances. Vendors, now coming from outside Mistletoe, sold everything from mulled wine and baked apples to funnel cake and roasted nuts.

  There was both a gingerbread house contest, sponsored by the local credit union, and a crèche display, a life-sized nativity with a real donkey and oxen, a stall of reindeer, and, of course, a huge golden throne that Santa himself (accompanied by an enterprising local photographer) inhabited weekend evenings before Christmas.

  Dylan had waited all week for the evening, each day building in anticipation like Christmas. Like Christmas, he had trouble sleeping the night before.

  William picked us up a little after sundown and we drove downtown, parking in one of the reserved parking places behind the diner. Then the three of us wandered up and down the crowded sidewalks, stopping to watch street performers and carolers and peruse the vendors’ booths and sample their wares. Christmas music blared from every corner.

  “I can’t believe there are this many people,” I said, pressing our way through the crowds. “The festival just keeps growing.”

  “People are looking for something,” William said.

  We stopped at a booth selling German delicacies and ate bratwurst and sauerkraut sandwiches (something I could never have gotten Dylan to eat on my own) and Spätzle (ditto) with large cups of cider served in plastic steins.

  After we’d eaten, we made our way to the crowded square, holding hands with Dylan in the middle. We stopped to take pictures by the Christmas tree and then walked to the main pavilion to listen to a barbershop quartet sing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” followed by “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

  “This is impressive,” William said. “There are a lot of people here. I wonder where they’re coming from.”

  “It used to just be the locals and couples on dates,” I said. “Now look at all the families. They’re coming from all over.”

  We were standing near a large box or crate wrapped in Mylar and tied with a bow to look like a Christmas present. We could see our reflection in the box. Just then Dylan looked up at me with a large smile. “Look, Mama. We’re a family.”

  I smiled back at him, then looked over at William. To my surprise he wasn’t smiling. There was a peculiar look in his eyes. He suddenly released Dylan’s hand. “Hey, buddy. Want some caramel corn?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dylan hadn’t noticed William’s nuanced response, but I had. William left us for a moment, then came back with a large bag of caramel corn. From that moment on, William was different. Quieter and disconnected. He was also holding something so he couldn’t hold hands. I puzzled to understand what had happened.

  It was still early, just a little before nine when William said, “We probably shouldn’t keep Dylan up too late.”

  “You want to go already?” I asked.

  “It would probably be best.”

  I hid my disappointment. “All right,” I said. We walked against the flow of a still-growing crowd back to his truck. It was a little after nine o’clock when we arrived back at my duplex. I sent Dylan inside to get ready for bed, remaining outside with William.

  “Would you like to come in?” I asked.

  “Thanks,” he said. “But I’m a little tired.”

  I took his hand. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I looked into his eyes. “Are we okay?”

  The pause after my question was answer enough. “We’re fine,” he said.

  I just looked at him, still unable to read what had happened. Whatever it was, he clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

  I took a deep breath, then exhaled. “All right. Good night.” I stood on my toes to kiss him. He gave me just a light peck on the lips. “Good night.”

  He turned to go.

  “Call me tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  The next day William didn’t call or stop by the diner. I knew something had bothered him the previous night. As much as I wanted to see him, I didn’t reach out to him. Whatever he was dealing with he needed to work out. But it wasn’t easy. My heart ached. It didn’t help that in the days leading up to the school Christmas concert, Dylan asked me at least a dozen times if William was going to be there. I wished I knew.

  CHAPTER twenty-six

  To have children is, by necessity, to be vulnerable.

  —Elle Sheen’s Diary

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12

  The morning of the big program my heart wrestled with the competing emotions of excitement and dread. I still haven’t heard from William since the festival. Where is he?

  Dylan was over-the-top excited about the concert and his debut performance as a first-grade bell ringer. It was a really big deal for him, which only made me more anxious about not hearing from William. Notwithstanding, I didn’t want anything to take away from Dylan’s day.


  I put chocolate chips in his Cream of Wheat, something reserved for very special occasions, then dressed him in red corduroy pants with a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and green suspenders.

  “You, little man, look like Christmas personified,” I said. “Santa would be proud.”

  “Is Santa going to be there?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is Mr. William going to be there?”

  I deflected the question. “We’ll see. Are you ready to ring that bell?”

  He nodded. “I practiced.”

  Only seven kids in the entire school got to play an instrument; a fifth-grade boy who played the drum during “The Little Drummer Boy,” three third-grade girls who played plastic recorders during “Silent Night,” then the three children in Dylan’s class who got to ring bells for “Jingle Bells.” The rest of the children were assigned to general chorus duty.

  As I put on his coat, Dylan asked, “Is Mr. William picking us up?”

  “No. He’s coming from work. We’re going to meet him there.”

  His little forehead furrowed. “Is he coming for sure?”

  My heart ached at the question. “I don’t know for sure. He said he was coming. Unless there’s an emergency at work, he’ll be there.”

  “I hope there’s not an emergency,” Dylan replied. “This is a pretty big deal.”

  I still love that he said that.

  Dylan and I got in the car. I started it up and turned on the heater. There was a huge burst of air, then nothing.

  “No, no, no,” I said.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Dylan asked.

  I groaned. “This car hates me.”

  To my huge relief (and surprise), William was waiting for us at the school when we got there. Dylan picked out his truck in the school parking lot the moment we drove in. I didn’t know where he’d been but at that moment, I really didn’t care. I was just glad he was there. I just didn’t want to see Dylan disappointed on such an important day.

  William must have gotten there pretty early because he’d secured front-row seats for us. As usual, most of those in attendance were mothers and grandparents with a sprinkling of fathers who could get off work. William looked a little out of place. He was taller and younger than most and decidedly male. He was also dressed nicely, nothing he’d be wearing to work at Renato’s.

  I sent Dylan to his classroom and then walked up to the front of the little auditorium. It had been decorated for the concert with a few hundred snowflakes the children had cut out.

  William stood when he saw me. “Hi,” he said. Noticeably, he didn’t try to kiss me.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” I said. “Dylan asked me at least a half dozen times if you were going to be here.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.

  We sat down together. “How have you been?” I asked.

  He avoided my gaze. “Just busy, you know?”

  “I know,” I said. I looked at him. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” he said softly.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  He looked down, threading his fingers together. “No.” Then he reached over and took my hand. For the moment I let it go at that. I wanted his touch. I didn’t want to spoil anything.

  Fran arrived a few minutes before the concert. William hadn’t known she was coming, and all the seats around us were taken, so she said hello, then went and sat near the back of the room.

  The concert started promptly at nine thirty. Howard Taft Elementary School was small, with less than two hundred students in seven grades. The kindergarteners went first, which was more an exercise in herding cats than a musical performance. They were singing “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and someone had the bright idea of putting red noses—foam rubber clown noses, really—on each of the kids. Needless to say, the whole song (to the delight of photograph-snapping adults) was just an exercise in children chasing little red balls across the floor.

  After the teachers had collected the noses, the next performance was Dylan’s class with “Jingle Bells.” The kids sang loudly and happily, and Dylan, who was taking the bell thing way too seriously, rang his bell with stoic concentration, his eyes not once leaving his teacher, Mrs. Duncan, who was directing the song.

  We endured another four songs, and then William and I joined the rest of the parents in the cafeteria for milk and frosted Christmas-tree-shaped sugar cookies.

  I was looking around for Dylan when I noticed him on the other side of the cafeteria with a group of children. He was pointing toward us.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to William. I crossed the room, smiling like only a proud mother could. “You were so great,” I said when I got to him. “You really rang that bell.”

  Dylan just looked at me with a peculiar expression, the kind he wore when I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing.

  Just then, Mrs. Duncan walked up to me. “Hi, Elle.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “That was awesome.”

  “Congratulations to you,” she returned.

  I smiled. “For what?”

  “Dylan tells us he’s getting a father.” She looked across the room at William. “Is that the lucky man?”

  Dylan looked at me sheepishly.

  “Mr. Smith is only a friend,” I said. I looked at Dylan, unsure how to respond. I was torn between making him apologize and just holding him.

  Just then one of the boys said, “I told you he was lying.”

  Dylan ran out of the room.

  “Sorry,” I said to his teacher. I chased after him. I found him hiding behind a row of coats in his classroom. I squatted down next to him. “Are you okay?”

  He just looked at me with tears in his eyes.

  “I’m not going to get mad at you.” I breathed out heavily, then sat down on the floor. “You know, it’s hard not having a father, isn’t it?”

  He slowly nodded.

  “You may not know it, but we’re in the same boat, you and I. I don’t have a father either. Sometimes I even cry about it. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  He shook his head.

  “You need to know something. You have a father. And he was a really great man. A special man. Your father is a hero. But you never got to see him, and that’s not very fair to you. But he loved you very much, and he was so excited about coming home from the war and seeing you. He was excited about playing baseball and going tubing and taking you camping.” My eyes welled up.

  “But that didn’t get to happen. I’m so sorry. And I know that he’s sorry. But you have nothing to be sorry about. Because you’re just a wonderful little boy in a big world, and none of this is your fault. Not one little bit. Do you understand that? You have nothing to be sorry or embarrassed about.”

  Dylan’s eyes welled up too.

  “Mr. William likes you very, very much. He’s not your father, but he still cares about you and me, and that’s a good thing. The other day he told me what a great kid you are. Do you know what I told him?”

  Dylan shook his head again.

  “I told him that he was right, that you’re the best kid I know. But whether or not you ever have a father doesn’t change that one little bit.

  “And you know what? Someday you might have the chance to be a father. And that little boy or girl will be the luckiest person in the whole world except for me, because I’ll always be luckier. Because you’re my son, and I’m awfully glad I got to be your mother.”

  For a moment Dylan just looked at me. Then he came out from behind the coats into my arms. I just held him. “I love you, my little man. I love you with all my heart.”

  CHAPTER twenty-seven

  This afternoon, William…

  [I never finished writing this entry. Next to those words there was just the stain of two teardrops. I suppose that says more than I could have written.]

  —Elle Sheen’s Diary

/>   After a few more minutes I said, “Do you feel better?”

  He nodded.

  “Would you like to get a cookie?”

  He nodded again.

  I leaned back and kissed his forehead. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I held his hand as we walked back down the hall to the cafeteria. The crowd had cleared a little but there were still dozens of children swarming around the cookie table.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” I asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Okay. I’ll be over here with Mr. William.” I let go of his hand and he ran over to the cookies where the other children were.

  I looked around for William, hoping that he hadn’t left. I found him standing alone on the south side of the cafeteria, leaning against the wall. I walked over to him.

  “Where have you been?” he asked. Frankly, I wanted to ask him the same question.

  “I had to talk to Dylan. He was telling some of the other children that you’re his father.”

  William looked at me with a peculiar expression. “What?”

  “Don’t worry, I told him to stop.”

  William’s expression turned still harder. He looked upset. “Why would he do that?”

  The intensity of his response surprised me. “Why are you so upset by this? You should be flattered. Dylan looks up to you. He just wanted to be like the other kids whose dads are here.”

  William didn’t say anything.

  “Are you telling me that it’s never even crossed your mind?”

  “Has what crossed my mind?” he said angrily.

  My eyes welled up. I covered them with my hand. “Oh my gosh.” My pain turned to anger. I looked up at him. “What’s going on? Why haven’t you called?”

  “I told you.”

  “You told me nothing!” I shouted. I noticed all the other parents looking at us. “Come outside.”

  William followed me outside the school. I turned on him. “What is this?”

  “What is what?”

  “This… us.”