by Merry Murder
They walked until it was entirely Christmas Eve, and they were entirely alone in the snow that began to fall again, making tiny perfect stars of lace that lingered in her dark hair.
THE CHRISTMAS BEAR - Herbert Resnicow
“Up there, Grandma,” Debbie pointed, all excited, tugging at my skirt, “in the top row. Against the wall. See?” I’m not really her grandma, but at six and a half the idea of a great-grandmother is hard to understand. All her little friends have grandmothers, so she has a grandmother. When she’s a little older, I’ll tell her the whole story.
The firehouse was crowded this Friday night, not like the usual weekend where the volunteer firemen explain to their wives that they have to polish the old pumper and the second-hand ladder truck. They give the equipment a quick lick-and-a-promise and then sit down to an uninterrupted evening of pinochle. Not that there’s all that much to do in Pitman anyway—we’re over fifty miles from Pittsburgh, even if anyone could afford to pay city prices for what the big city offers—but still, a man’s first thought has to be of his wife and family. Lord knows I’ve seen too much of the opposite in my own generation and all the pain and trouble it caused, and mine could’ve given lessons in devotion to this new generation that seems to be interested only in fun. What they call fun.
Still, they weren’t all bad. Even Homer Curtis, who was the worst boy of his day. always full of mischief and very disrespectful, didn’t turn out all that bad. That was after he got married, of course: not before. He was just voted fire chief and, to give him credit, this whole Rozovski affair was his idea, may God bless him.
Little Petrina Rozovski—she’s only four years old and she’s always been small for her age—her grandfather was shift foreman over my Jake in the mine while we were courting. We married young in those days because there was no future and you grabbed what happiness you could and that’s how I came to be the youngest great-grandmother in the county, only sixty-seven, though that big horse-faced Mildred Ungaric keeps telling everybody I’m over seventy. Poor Petrina has to have a liver transplant, and soon. Real soon. You wouldn’t believe what that costs, even if you could find the right liver in the first place. Seventy-five thousand dollars, and it could go to a lot more than that, depending. There isn’t that much money in the whole county.
There was talk about going to the government—as if the government’s got any way to just give money for things like this or to make somebody give her baby’s liver to a poor little girl—or holding a raffle, or something, but none of the ideas was worth a tinker’s dam. Then Homer, God bless him, had this inspiration. The volunteer firemen—they do it every year—collect toys for the poor children, which, these days, is half the town, to make sure every child gets some present for Christmas. And we all, even if we can’t afford it, we all give something. Then one of them dresses up as Santa Claus and they all get on the ladder truck and, on Christmas Eve, they ride through the town giving out the presents. There’s a box for everyone, so nobody knows who’s getting a present, but the boxes for the families where the father is still working just have a candy bar in them or something like that. And for the littlest kids, they put Santa on top of the ladder and two guys turn the winch and lift him up to the roof as though he’s going to go down the chimney and the kids’ eyes get all round and everybody feels the way a kid should on Christmas Eve.
We had a town meeting to discuss the matter. “Raffles are no good,” Homer declared, “because one person wins and everybody else loses. This year we’re going to have an auction where everybody wins. Everybody who can will give a good toy—it can be used, but it’s got to be good—in addition to what they give for the poor kids. Then the firemen will auction off those extra toys and the idea of that auction is to pay as much as possible instead of as little.” That was sort of like the Indian potlatches they used to have around here that my grandfather told me about. Well, you can imagine the opposition to that one. But Homer overrode them all. Skinny as he is, when he stands up and raises his voice—he’s the tallest man in town by far—he usually gets his way. Except with his wife, and that’s as it should be. “Anyway,” he pointed out, “it’s a painless way of getting the donations Rozovski needs to get a liver transplant for Petrina.”
Shorty Porter, who never backed water for anyone, told Homer, “Your brain ain’t getting enough oxygen up there. Even if every family in town bought something for ten dollars on the average, with only twelve hundred families in town, we’d be short at least sixty-three thousand dollars, not to mention what it would cost for Irma Rozovski to stay in a motel near the hospital. And not everybody in town can pay more than what the present he bids on is worth. So you better figure on getting a lot less than twelve thousand, Homer, and what good that’ll do, I fail to see.” Levi Porter always had a good head for figures. One of these days we ought to make him mayor, if he could take the time off from busting his butt in his little back yard farm which, with his brood, he really can’t.
“I never said,” Homer replied, “that we were going to raise enough money this way to take care of the operation and everything. The beauty of my plan is... I figure we’ll raise about four thousand. Right, Shorty?”
“That’s about what I figured,” Shorty admitted.
“We give the money to Hank and Irma and they take Petrina to New York. They take her to a TV station, to one of those news reporters who are always looking for ways to help people. We have a real problem here, a real emergency, and Petrina. with that sweet little face and her big brown eyes, once she appears on TV, her problems are over. If only ten percent of the people in the U. S. send in one cent each, that’s all, just one cent, we’d get two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That would cover everything and leave plenty over to set up an office, right here in Pitman, for a clearing house for livers for all the poor little kids in that fix. And the publicity would remind some poor unfortunate mother that her child— children are dying in accidents every day and nobody knows who or where, healthy children—her child’s liver could help save the life of a poor little girl.”
Even Shorty had to admit it made sense. “And to top it all.” Homer added, “if we do get enough money to set up a liver clearing house, we’ve brought a job to Pitman, for which I’d like to nominate Irma Rozovski, to make up for what she’s gone through. And if it works out that way, maybe even two jobs, so Hank can have some work too.” Well, that was the clincher. We all agreed and that’s how it came about that I was standing in front of the display of the auction presents in the firehouse on the Friday night before Christmas week while Deborah was tugging and pointing at that funny-looking teddy bear, all excited, like I’d never seen her before.
Deborah’s a sad little girl. Not that she doesn’t have reason, what with her father running off just before the wedding and leaving Caroline in trouble; I never did like that Wesley Sladen in the first place. The Social Security doesn’t give enough to support three on. and nobody around here’s about to marry a girl going on twenty-nine with another mouth to feed, and I’m too old to earn much money, so Carrie’s working as a waitress at the Highway Rest. But thanks to my Jake, we have a roof over our heads and we always will. My father was against my marrying him. I was born a Horvath, and my father wanted me to marry a nice Hungarian boy, not a damn foreigner, but I was of age and my mother was on my side and Jake and I got married in St. Anselm’s and I wore a white gown, and I had a right to, not like it is today.
That was in ‘41 and before the year was out we were in the war. Jake volunteered and. not knowing I was pregnant, I didn’t stop him. He was a good man, made sergeant, always sent every penny home. With me working in the factory, I even put a little away. After Marian was born, the foreman was nice enough to give me work to do at home on my sewing machine, so it was all right. Jake had taken out the full G. I. insurance and, when it happened, we got ten thousand dollars, which was a lot of money in those days. I bought the house, which cost almost two thousand dollars, and put the rest away for the bad ti
mes.
My daughter grew up to be a beautiful girl and she married a nice boy, John Brodzowski, but when Caroline was born, complications set in and Marian never made it out of the hospital. I took care of John and the baby for six months until John, who had been drinking, hit a tree going seventy. The police said it was an accident. I knew better but I kept my mouth shut because we needed the insurance.
So here we were, quiet little Deborah pulling at me and pointing at that teddy bear, all excited, and smiling for the first time I can remember. “That’s what I want, Grandma,” she begged. “He’s my bear.”
“You have a teddy bear,” I told her. “We can’t afford another one. I just brought you to the firehouse to look at all the nice things.”
“He’s not a teddy bear, Grandma, and I love him.”
“But he’s so funny looking,” I objected. And he was, too. Black, sort of, but shining blueish when the light hit the right way, with very long hair. Ears bigger than a teddy bear’s, and a longer snout. Not cute at all. Some white hairs at the chin and a big crescent-shaped white patch on his chest. And the eyes, not round little buttons, but slanted oval pieces of purple glass. I couldn’t imagine what she saw in him. There was a tag, with #273 on it, around his neck. “Besides,” I said, “I’ve only got eighteen dollars for all the presents, for everything. I’m sure they’ll want at least ten dollars for him on account of it’s for charity.”
She began crying, quietly, not making a fuss; Deborah never did. Even at her age she understood, children do understand, that there were certain things that were not for us, but I could see her heart was broken and I didn’t know what to do.
Just then the opening ceremonies started. Young Father Casimir, of St. Anselm’s, gave the opening benediction, closing with “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” I don’t know how well that set with Irma Rozovski and the other poor people there, but he’ll learn better when he gets older. Then Homer brought up Irma, with Petrina in her arms looking weaker and yellower than ever, to speak. “I just want to thank you all, all my friends and neighbors, for being so kind and...” Then she broke down and couldn’t talk at all. Petrina didn’t cry, she never cried, just looked sad and hung onto her mother. Then Homer came and led Irma away and said a few words I didn’t even listen to. I knew what I had to do and I’d do it. Christmas is for the children, to make the children happy, that’s the most important part. The children. I’d just explain to Carrie, when she got home, that I didn’t get her anything this year and I didn’t want her to get me anything. She’d understand.
I got hold of Homer in a corner and told him, “Look, Homer, for some reason Deborah’s set on that teddy bear in the top row. Now all I’ve got is eighteen dollars, and I don’t think you’d get anywhere near that much for it at the auction, but I don’t want to take a chance on losing it and break Deborah’s heart. I’m willing to give it all to you right now, if you’ll sell it to me.”
“Gee, I’d like to, Miz Sophie,” he said, “but I can’t. I have to go according to the rules. And if I did that for you, I’d have to do it for everybody, then with everybody picking their favorites, nobody would bid on anything and we couldn’t raise the money for Petrina to go to New York.”
“Come on. Homer, this ain’t the first time you’ve broken some rules. Besides. I wouldn’t tell anyone; I’d just take it off the shelf after everybody’s left and no one would know the difference. It’s an ugly looking teddy bear anyway. ‘
“I’m real sorry. Mrs. Slowinski,” he said, going all formal on me, “but I can’t. Besides, there’s no way to get it now. Those shelves, they’re just boxes piled up with boards across them. You look at them crooked, and the whole thing’ll fall down. There’s no way to get to the top row until you’ve taken off the other rows. That’s why the numbers start at the bottom.”
“You’re a damned fool. Homer, and I’m going to get that bear for Deborah anyway. I’m going to get him for a lot less than eighteen dollars too. so your stubbornness has cost the fund a lot of money and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
We didn’t go back to the firehouse until two days before Christmas Eve. Monday, when Carrie was off. Deborah had insisted on showing the bear to her mother to make sure we knew exactly which bear it was she wanted, but when we got there the bear was gone. Poor Deborah started crying, real loud this time, and even Carrie couldn’t quiet her down. I picked her up and told her, swore to her, that I would get that bear back for her, but she just kept on sobbing.
I went right up to Homer to tell him off for selling the bear to somebody else instead of to me but before I could open my mouth, he said, “That wasn’t right, Mrs. Slowinski, but as long as it’s done, I won’t make a fuss. Just give me the eighteen dollars and we’ll forget about it.”
That was like accusing me of stealing, and Milly Ungaric was standing near and she had that nasty smile on her face, so I knew who had stolen the bear. I ignored what Homer said and asked, “Who was on duty last night?” We don’t have a fancy alarm system in Pitman; one of the firemen sleeps in the firehouse near the phone.
“Shorty Porter,” Homer said, and I went right off.
I got hold of him on the side. “Levi, did you see anyone come in last night?” I asked. “I mean late.”
“Only Miz Mildred.” he said. “Just before I went to sleep.”
Well, I knew it was her, but that wasn’t what I meant. “I mean after you went to sleep. Did any noise wake you up?”
“When I sleep, Miz Sophie, only the phone bell wakes me up.”
She must have come back later, the doors are never locked, and taken the bear. She’s big enough, but how could she reach it? She couldn’t climb over the shelves, everything would be knocked over. And she couldn’t reach it from the floor. So how did she do it? Maybe it wasn’t her, though I would have liked it to be. I went back to Homer. He was tall enough and had arms like a chimpanzee. “Homer,” I said, “I’m going to forget what you said if you’ll just do one thing. Stand in front of the toys and reach for the top shelf.”
He got red, but he didn’t blow. After a minute he said, sort of strangled, “I already thought of that. If I can’t reach it by four feet, nobody can. Tell you what; give me seventeen dollars and explain how you did it, and I’ll pay the other dollar out of my own pocket.”
“You always were a stupid, nasty boy, Homer, and you always will be. Well, if you won’t help me, I’ll have to find out by myself, start at the beginning and trace who’d want to steal a funny-looking bear like that. Who donated the bear?”
“People just put toys in the boxes near the door. We pick out the ones for the auction and the ones for the Santa Claus boxes. No way of knowing who gave what.”
I knew he wouldn’t be any help, so I got Carrie and Debbie and went to the one man in town who might help me trace the bear, Mr. Wong. He doesn’t have just a grocery, a credit grocery, thank God; he carries things you wouldn’t even find in Pittsburgh. His kids were all grown, all famous scientists and doctors and professors, but he still stayed here, even after Mrs. Wong died. Mrs. Wong never spoke a word of English, but she understood everything. Used to be, her kids all came here for Chinese New Year—that’s about a month after ours—and they’d have a big feast and bring the grandchildren. Funny how Mrs. Wong was able to raise six kids in real hard times, but none of her children has more than two. Now, on Chinese New Year, Mr. Wong closes the store for a week and goes to one of his kids. But he always comes back here.
“Look I have for you,” he said, and gave Debbie a little snake on a stick, the kind where you turn it and the snake moves like it’s real. She was still sniffling, but she smiled a little. The store was chock full of all kinds of Chinese things; little dragons and fat Buddhas with bobbing heads and candied ginger. I knew I was in the right place.
“Did you ever sell anyone a teddy bear?” I asked. “Not a regular teddy bear, but a black one with big purple eyes.”
“No sell,” he said. “Give.”<
br />
“Okay.” I had struck gold on the first try. “Who’d you give it to?”
“Nobody. Put in box in firehouse.”
“You mean for the auction?”
“Petrina nice girl. Like Debbie. Very sick. Must help.”
“But...” Dead end. I’d have to find another way to trace the bear so I could find out who’d want to steal it. “All right, where’d you get the teddy bear?”
“Grandmother give me. Before I go U. S. Make good luck. Not teddy bear. Blue bear. From Kansu.”
“You mean there’s a bear that looks like this?”
“Oh yes. Chinese bear. Moon bear. Very danger. Strong. In Kansu.”
“Your grandmother made it? For you?”
“Not make, make. Grandfather big hunter, kill bear. Moon bear very big good luck. Eat bear, get strong, very good. Have good luck in U. S.”
“That bear is real bearskin?”
“Oh yes. Grandmother cut little piece for here,” he put his hand under his chin, “and for here.” he put his hand on his chest. “Make moon.” He moved his hand in the crescent shape the bear had on its chest. “Why call moon bear.”
“You had that since you were a little boy?” I was touched. “And you gave it for Petrina? Instead of your own grandchildren?”
“Own grandchildren want sportcar, computer, skateboard, not old Chinese
bear.”
Well, that was typical of all modern kids, not just Chinese, but it didn’t get me any closer to finding out who had stolen the teddy bear, the moon bear. Deborah, though, was listening with wide eyes, no longer crying. But what was worse, that romantic story would make it all the harder on her if I didn’t get that bear back. She went up to the counter and asked. ‘Did it come in?”
