The reverend held the lightly folded Christmas gift in his hands and sat back. Ellen was looking out into the whiteness and Henriette had pulled the sleeve of her sweater around her hand, making a puppet.
“‘It was the best of times; it was the worst of times,’” he said. “‘Good and evil were rampant in the world and drew, like magnets, the willy-nilly hearts of men.’”
Ellen nodded into the blank window, trying to remember the way it had been.
The reverend stopped himself, quickly sticking his lower lip into his mouth and biting on it.
“Willy-nilly?” said Henriette. She laughed once and then held up her own wool-skinned hand. “You are engaged in the game willy-nilly, and cannot be mere lookers-on,” she said.
Quiet so the old man could sleep, Finn watched the gray light through a space between two pieces of hide. The dog was warm and curled around his back like a chair; the old man was wide-mouthed and snoring. He had prayed and his prayer had cleared the air of ghosts, gape-mouthed Fujino gone, riding his mule, slump-shouldered. Finn, exhausted but unable to sleep, thought about his life and laughed at himself for not being able to live it easily. Ah confession, where has it failed me? he thought. His guilt hung heavy whether he confessed or not. Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Sometimes he dreams of priests leaning forward, peering at him through the confessional wall.
“Finn? What? Is that you again?”
“Yes, father.”
“Bloody hell! You send ‘em out into the world and ninety percent of ‘em are back within the month. Guilty the lot!”
Light, cold like shafts of ice, made Finn close the hide curtain once more. Things would be different now. The old man’s prayer had changed everything. His was a prayer with force, a prayer with power. Finn had floated on the old man’s monotone for hours, the taste of salt salmon bracing him. As soon as he heard the beginning buzzes of the voice he knew what it was, that the old man was calling forth the following spirit of Fujino, bringing it right into the dark room with them. In a half dream Fujino had floated in clear liquid, a fetus like the one Finn had once seen bobbing in its small glass sea in a country sideshow in Ireland. It had been a restful sound, the old man’s voice. It contained a sense of familiarity reminiscent of the priests when Latin licked Finn’s childhood.
Finn, warm now and wound into the memory of the old man’s prayer, dreams a meaning into the Japanese language. Kaneda snores with the wide mouth of Fujino. Dark, dank odor like the den of a bear, but a good home for the dog. Finn pushes the dog a little with his elbow. Look at him, sleeping every minute.
“Hello, Mute, mute dog, wake up.” He takes a piece of salt salmon and chews on it. He gently takes a broad fish tail from between the jaws of the sleeping dog and holds it up in front of him. Broad tail, slack-jawed dog. A weapon such as this is what Fujino should have used, frozen sharp as it is. Would it have cut his belly as it did the water? Finn sets the tail back in the dog’s mouth and the mouth closes upon it softly. What dreams does a dog have? Of food? Of mounting or being mounted? No, those are men’s dreams. Dogs dream of rabbits skimming across spring fields.
Finn looks again at the old man, envies him sleeping deeply, proof of his innocence. If men get rich in Alaska this one will. Already his head is pillowed on lumps of money. Gold weighs the tent flaps down and reflects yellow off his skin. He looks like Phil, this old man. Long-lost brother, maybe. Alaska was once a part of Asia, he’d heard that said…. Alas, the land was broken and drifted apart, like family members, like marriages. Maybe the alphabet is the key to the way things are. Asia, Alaska, America, that fits too. And Finn, failure, Fujino. No, I’m too tired for this. The old man has prayed me away from all my guilt. If Fujino’s dead it’s Fujino’s fault, not Finn’s. I’ve my pensum to do and then I’ll be free. I’ll work for the old man and I’ll take what share he gives me. I only hope to God he’ll be fair. I wonder, were he and Fujino fifty-fifty? Finn leans heavy against the dog. What’s this—contentment?—I feel? He stretches, feels the short beard of his face. Chuck the guilt. Chuck the whole bloody raft of it. I’ll try marriage then. There’s Ellen. There’s Henriette. But enough, I should have been to sleep hours ago. Enough of this. Do other men spend such time thinking of themselves? Are there those who think only of others? Are the priests like that? Have I been unfair with them? So many possibilities.
Finn near sleep tosses about. I’ve my family’s name to think of; there’ll be no compromise. There’s Ellen. There’s Henriette. There’s Phil’s sister all tucked away in her virgin hut. A movement from the dog and Finn slips down further, droopy-eyed. This is silly, a man of my age. He chases thoughts here and there, missing each and every one. He casts about in the black back of his mind a bit, then gives up. Lord, Lord, what a week. Let it go. The warm tide of sleep washes him. Dark room, Finn dogged, old man sawing away like a lumberjack. Outside cold cold night. When will it ever stop? Sleep. Sleep. Not a fit night for man nor beast, would you say? Cold. Cold. Must be thirty degrees below zero.
The reverend was nervous and said, “Did you ever notice, in the village, the absence of a church? Services, during the winter, are held right here, in my house. People sit wherever they want to. I walk among them and talk, or sit and play the piano.”
“Do yourself the favor of relaxing, reverend,” said Ellen. “To be sure the services are held in your house. What did you suppose we thought the candles to be for?”
“It is so cold. On the eve of Christ’s birth you wouldn’t have thought it possible.”
“On this night nineteen hundred years ago the three wise men were following the star to Bethlehem,” said Ellen. “I once played the bearer of gold in a school play.”
“Three kings,” said Henriette, “wise or not.”
Last-minute details: the house turned to chapel, dozens of long candles burning bright, the reverend’s clean scrubbed head protruding from a boiled shirt, Ellen the calming influence, Henriette bright-eyed, struck by singing, no help at all. They sat, the dark window in front of them thick with night and sprayed by gusts of snow lifted to it and then laid like gifts onto its outer sill. ‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house … They told each other stories.
Ellen said, “In Ireland we had services, eleven to midnight. It was grand. Eleven to midnight for a small girl was an hour so rarely seen. And at the church we had our own pew, and I my spot in it, next to my grandmother, who hissed and pinched at me the entire time, saying, ‘Don’t fidget.’ I’d not be surprised if my legs were black and blue still.”
They talked and laughed. The packages were labeled, the loft floor laid with stocking pyramids, each pair folded like two tongues inside. They sighed and stood, snapped to their feet by the knock-knocking of the parishioners, lined up at the door.
“Oh, come in, welcome,” said the reverend. “Christmas comes but once a year. Come in. Come in.”
Short to tall they came. This was not a time for levity. The children climbed the ladder and sat, still as Ellen’s memory, legs dangling, waiting. The adults, too, were ushered to their usual places. They said hello to each other in whispers. “Hello there, how are you this evening? Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.”
After a moment’s settling Henriette at the piano struck a chord and the reverend raised his hands. Quiet. Quiet. “Thank you for coming,” he whispered. He cleared his throat and began.
“Everything boils down to this,” he said, “if it hadn’t been for His birth nothing else would matter.” The reverend paused a moment. “Well, well, well,” he said, smiling at everyone. “Merry Christmas.”
This will never do. The reverend had the strong urge to end it right there, to sit down and let them know that it was over. Everybody knows about Christmas, what was he going to say that they didn’t know already? His prepared sermon drifted from him casually. If he didn’t lunge now he wouldn’t be able to retrieve it.
People began to shift in their seats a little. If only he didn’t have gues
ts. Quickly he began to speak. “Uh…at the time of any birth, whether it be that of a savior or of a child of God like one of us, the people crowd around to see if it is a boy or a girl, to see how the mother is getting along, to help if they can, or just to celebrate the arrival of a new human being. And that is what happened in Bethlehem. Manger … Manger … We hear a lot about Him being born in a manger, but Judea was a country of mild climates, and to be born in a manger was no great hardship. There were people around. Others were staying in the stable too, and people strolled in the cool evening air. There was a general sense of excitement. ‘Hey, a baby is being born in that manger over there,’ someone said, and the people poured in. A thing like that doesn’t happen every day.”
Was this the right beginning? What he had planned on saying seemed dull to him now. This is a time of celebration, praise the Lord, Christ is born, who wants to listen to a sermon?
The reverend looked at Ellen, who looked at him. Henriette shifted in her chair then leaned heavily on the rumbling low notes of the piano.
“No,” said the reverend, “on that night there was no thunder or lightning. There was only Mary and the baby, and Joseph.…” The pressure was off for a moment and the reverend got his idea. He looked at the ground and said, “Joseph … When a baby is born, who ever thinks of the father?
“Joseph was a quiet man. He walked around with his hands in his pockets much of the time and he, though no one knew it, was a kind of philosopher. He thought about the nature of the universe and the differences between people. Think of it. Mary was exhausted and asleep, the baby at her side. All of the strangers, the excitement over, went back to whatever they were doing, and Joseph was left alone, late at night, wandering around the streets with nowhere to go. He was tired but he wasn’t sleepy, and a single question played upon his mind: What is it that makes a good father?”
The reverend looked at the faces of the people and knew he had them. They were interested, even Ellen and Henriette, and the familiar translations had started, people whispering into the ears of their neighbors. In his mind’s eye he gave himself the part of Joseph and furnished Bethlehem with dark doorways and drunks, an occasional lowered veil.
“What is it that makes a good father?” he said. “Joseph was not the first nor would he be the last to ask himself that question. He wandered up one dusty street and down another thinking about it. He was a father, sort of, and that made this no moot philosophical point. What is it that makes a good father? He decided he would ask the next three people he met.”
During the whole beginning of his sermon the reverend had stayed in one place, but he began to move now, first shifting from one foot to the other, then walking across the room in front of his parishioners. He took his hands out of his pockets and clasped them behind his back.
“The first person Joseph approached was a woman, but he decided to ask her anyway.
“‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but what is it that makes a good father?’
“The woman lowered her veil and smiled with black teeth. ‘Thirty pieces of silver,’ she said.
“Thirty pieces of silver,” the reverend said to the group again. “Well, Joseph thanked her, and though he did not understand the answer, he knew to be patient. He knew from past experience that time might well provide him with the understanding he lacked now.
“After that, finding other people was no easy matter, for the streets were dusty and the hour was late. Of course there were drunks, but Joseph preferred not to ask one of them.
“He turned corner after corner, met only by darkness. He would teach the baby his ways, and the baby would make him proud. People would say, ‘Joseph of Nazareth’s son went further than he did.’ Joseph’s son … Does it take a real father to be a good one?
“A blind man with snapping fingers sat on a rug in the middle of the dark street. ‘Ho,’ he said, hearing Joseph’s heavy footsteps.
“‘Ho,’ said Joseph. ‘What is it that makes a good father?’
“‘I am blind,’ said the blind man. ‘And I live here in the middle of the street. Are you talking to me?’
“‘Yes,’ said Joseph. ‘What is it that makes a good father?’
“‘Not all men are fathers, but all men are sons. Ask me how to be a good son.’
“‘I am a father,’ said Joseph. ‘I know how to be a good son, what I need to know is how to be a good father.’
“‘Being a good son is being a good father,’ said the blind man. ‘Don’t ask silly questions.’
“Joseph moved away quickly. Strange answers, he thought. Being a good son is being a good father? Thirty pieces of silver? That’s what you get for asking such a question at night.
“Joseph looked into the sky and saw the star that the three wise men were following, but he didn’t think much of it. He was beginning to get sleepy and he still had one more person to ask. It was bad luck to suspend these things before they were finished. A veiled woman, a blind man, who would be next? People were getting scarce. He’d even ask a drunk if he had to.”
The reverend took a moment and quietly walked the floor in front of them all. This was a pretty good sermon. The candles flickered off the round faces of the Eskimos, off the faces of the long-nosed women. People were listening….
“A woman came up behind Joseph,” said the reverend, “and Joseph thought, ‘Oh no, thirty pieces of silver will do for one answer, but not for two.’
“The woman pulled hard on his sleeve. ‘Did you upset that blind man back there?’ she asked.
“‘Upset him? I only asked him what it is that makes a good father.’
“‘Who put you up to this?’
“‘Why, no one. My wife just had a baby and … ‘
“‘He went blind trying to be a good father and you have to come along and rub salt in his wounds. His daughters lurk in the doorways around him, his sons are dead soldiers and you have to ask him how to be a good father! Of all questions!’
“‘I’m sorry,’ said Joseph. ‘I didn’t know.’
“‘You didn’t know,’ said the woman evenly. ‘That’s what they all say. You want to know what it is that makes a good father? I’ll tell you what makes a good father. Go blind!’
“The woman fairly screamed at him, then turned on her heels and marched off. ‘Go blind!’ she had said, and her words had hit Joseph in the eyes, dimming them. Go blind. Suddenly the light from the star seemed too bright for him and he feared that, yes, he might go blind even then. What kind of answers were these? Thirty pieces of silver. Being a good son is being a good father. Go blind. Had he asked all members of the same family? He wanted good advice. He had taken the walk to clear his head and to ask some sound advice from those he met, from those who knew better. Never tell a lie, that would have been the kind of answer he expected. Or be firm and strict but kind and fair. He’d heard someone say that before, or he’d seen it written down. But this …
“Joseph threw up his hands and turned back toward the manger. He was sleepy. He’d learn to be a good father day by day. He guessed he already knew how, but he had wanted a piece of advice, a saying to live by. When he got back it was nearly daylight. Mary and the baby were asleep in the dry hay, and the cattle, of course, were lowing, chewing their cuds. Joseph yawned and stretched. He found a spot a little way off and lay down. He closed his eyes. What is it that makes a good father? he thought. Ask a silly question … Still, he wanted to be involved in raising this boy, and already he felt secondary. Mary was more interested in the baby than she was in him. Too tired to think now, he decided to worry about it later. He’d make himself known to the boy. What is it that makes a good father? He’d gotten three answers, and nineteen hundred years later the question still confuses us.”
The reverend looked at his parishioners. They were still involved. A few of them were writing down the question and the answers and many others were still quickly translating the problem into Eskimo and putting it to their neighbors. He nodded toward Henriette at the piano, so
she played and began to sing in a clear, high voice, and after a chorus alone Ellen and the reverend and the Eskimos joined her. “Joy to the world,” they sang loudly, until the children understood that the sermon was over and got up and ran to the window looking seaward.
“Good sermon, reverend,” said Ellen, stepping forward. “A story I’ve never heard before.”
“Oh well…”
After the service there was a light snack, but nobody wanted to eat much. It was important to have an empty stomach on the day before a Christmas meal. Everyone seemed anxious to get home and to sleep as quickly as they could. As the Eskimos left, each took one of the candles and the reverend’s house got darker and darker.
“I guess I won’t light the lamps,” he said. “It is late and we must be up early with the gifts.”
The reverend, round with pleasure after his sermon, pointed toward the two sleeping areas, then stepped into his small kitchen, discreetly allowing the two women the freedom of changing their clothes alone.
“Nightgowns over clothing, clothing out from under nightgowns,” said Ellen. “Like this.”
Ghostlike, heads covered, the women undressed in their small tents. The Christmas packages were in a stack by the door, ready to be taken out into the later darkness. Candle wax froze warm in its run down the sides of the remaining candles, some burning faster than others. “Candles made from seals!” Henriette exclaimed when she’d first heard about them. And she could only imagine circus animals balancing flames on their noses.
Ellen went businesslike to bed, thinking how little sleep she would get before they’d take the packages out to that frozen tree. This was Christmas Eve. Other Christmas Eves stacked behind her like fence posts. She reached up and felt the skin across her face, looser than she remembered it. She locked her fingers at the base of her throat and prayed. Lord have mercy on poor Mr. Fujino. He died a terrible death and lived a good life. Lord keep Finn Wallace safe from himself and from his Catholic ways. Bless the reverend, who loves you, and bless Henriette, who is like a child. Ellen stopped, seeing herself kneeling at the side of her own child bed, large-bodied parents swaying above. God bless mother and father. I wonder do they live? Is father still stone-faced at his pub rail? Mother in her kitchen? And is grandmother’s clock still smashed? Christmas Eve, oh how she longed to be home. Amen. She rolled to one side, ashamed. Who could have guessed the path my life would take? She heard her father’s voice: “You’ll be wishing for home with a passion far greater than the one which makes you want to leave. Mark my words.”
Fools' Gold Page 14
