After a long while she answered, “I really can’t say.”
That’s how it went for the next two days. One moment Claire would be troubled by the flood of memories pushing their way into her head, and the next she’d find herself wondering how to get Sara past her stage fright.
The children in the class were the same age as David and a number of boys also had dark hair and dark eyes, but Claire turned her attention to someone else. Adam had hair as light as corn silk and eyes the color of a cement walkway. He was timid and frail, nothing like her grandson. Yet something about the boy haunted Claire. She remembered him crouched under the table and sitting alone. There was a certain sadness in Adam’s eyes, one that Claire simply couldn’t forget. When she thought about how he’d sat with his head bowed as if the weight of the world pressed down on it, Claire could believe Adam’s heart hurt as much as hers.
The night of the dress rehearsal Adam cautiously peered into the room, but once he spotted Claire he ran to her and wrapped his skinny little arms around her knees. He was a child she could so easily love, but Claire’s heart warned, “He’s not yours.”
The funny thing about love is that sometimes it latches on to you when you’re looking to run the other way. And apparently Adam had decided to love Miss Claire whether she wanted him to or not.
The night of the pageant the temperature plummeted to ten degrees, and even though the furnace was fired to its maximum the church auditorium remained colder than cold—frosty. Teeth chattered, hands were pocketed, and overcoats remained buttoned.
“I’m freezing!” the partridge said.
“Leave both sweaters on under your costume,” Claire replied. “That will help.”
“I’m too cold to sing.”
“It’ll warm up when the furnace gets going.”
As she dabbed a bit of glue on the calling bird’s loose plume, a masculine voice called, “Are you Miss Claire?”
The sound of an adult in the midst of all those children caught her ear. “Yes, I am,” she answered as she turned toward him.
“I’m Dorothy’s dad,” he said. “Sorry, but Dorothy has the flu and can’t come tonight.” He handed Claire his daughter’s French hen costume. “Hopefully you can get someone else to fill in.”
“There is no one.”
“Sorry,” he repeated then left.
The partridge, who now had a stream of tears rolling down her face, repeated, “I’m still too cold to sing.”
Claire gathered the little girl into her arms. “Sara,” she whispered, “are you afraid you’ll forget the words if you have to sing alone?”
The girl nodded.
“Okay,” Claire said. “A promise is a promise. When the curtain opens and you’re sitting in the tree, I’ll be hiding behind it and I’ll sing with you. That way you won’t forget any of the words.”
“Okay.” The partridge smiled and flapped her wings.
“Good.” Claire laughed. “Very good.”
The backstage room of the auditorium was crowded with people, mostly kids, but Claire had yet to see Louise. She stood and looked across the sea of heads. With her snow-white hair Louise should have been easy enough to spot, but—
“I’m not gonna be a stupid hen!” Brenda shouted as she began to remove her costume.
Rushing over Claire asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
“I’m not gonna be a French hen. People will laugh at me.”
“What makes you think they’ll laugh?”
Brenda, the tallest and chunkiest child in the class, placed her hands on her chubby hips and stood there with a rebellious glare fixed on her face.
“Because the song says three!” she said angrily. “Three French hens, not two!”
“I’m trying to get a replacement for Dorothy. As soon as I find Miss Louise—”
“I wanna be the partridge!”
“Brenda, dear, I’ve already explained, the platform is too small to hold you—”
“I don’t care!”
“Brenda,” Claire bent and whispered in the girl’s ear, “I chose you to be a French hen because they’re the stars of the show. The French hens get to stand in the middle of the stage, right in front!”
Brenda smiled. “Really?”
Claire nodded. “Everyone in the audience is going to be busy looking at you, and they won’t even notice if a hen is missing.”
Brenda smiled and strutted off, waving her tail feathers.
Claire continued searching for Louise. Finally she spotted Pastor Branford edging his way through the crowd.
“Excuse me,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder. “I haven’t been able to find Louise Farley yet. Have you seen—”
“She’s down with the flu and asked if you would take over the supervision of her group.”
“Me? But I don’t know—”
Pastor Branford, obviously preoccupied with something else, said, “Thanks,” then moved on.
“Oh, dear,” Claire murmured as she started through the room rounding up gold rings, geese, and swans. As it turned out one of the gold rings had his costume on backward, two geese were also home with the flu, and one swan had a broken wing.
“Five minutes ‘til curtain,” the pageant director announced.
Claire quickly scotch-taped the broken wing, reversed the gold ring costume, and went with four instead of six geese. She bunched each group together in the order of appearance on stage.
“I’ll be behind the tree,” she said, “so watch closely. When I give the signal, the group at the head of the line comes on stage singing. Now remember, you come onstage one group at a time, and you have to wait until I give the signal for your group. Okay?”
“Okay,” they answered, but Claire felt a nervous bubble bouncing around her stomach.
“One minute ‘til curtain.”
Claire hoisted Sara onto the platform. “Are you okay?”
Sara nodded wordlessly.
The house lights dimmed, the curtain opened, and the music started, but not a sound came from Sara. Finally Claire, who had squatted behind the tree, began singing a flat and somewhat off-key rendition of the song.
“On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…”
A roar of laughter came from the audience.
Claire kept singing but turned her head, peeking through the grid of the tree to check on Sara. The partridge now stood on the platform flapping her wings.
“Sit down,” Claire hissed as she signaled for the two turtle doves.
They came in on cue singing and moved to their assigned spot on the stage without incident.
The hens came next. Claire gave the signal but Brenda, preoccupied with a loose feather, failed to notice so the hens made a late entrance and Claire was already singing, “…three French hens…” The laughter from the audience sounded louder than before.
Claire peeked again. “Oh no,” she moaned. It was bad enough to have two French hens instead of the required three, but Brenda was strutting across the stage like a bandy rooster.
The calling birds came next with a flawless performance. Claire sighed with relief and signaled for the gold rings. Four gold rings marched in but Brian, the lad with his costume backward, was missing. They had already moved on to the chorus when Brian came running in—his costume backward again.
The audience laughed louder with each mishap. Between the straggling gold ring and the geese who were two short of their number, it was impossible to tell when one uproarious stretch of laughter ended and the next began. When the seven swans came on stage Claire saw her repair had not held and one swan was dangling a broken wing. Thankfully the swans were her last group.
Miss Burgess, who taught the seven-to-twelve year-olds, stood in the wings. Her maids-a-milking, ladies dancing, and lords-a-leaping moved on stage without incident, and the audience applauded loudly. The eleven pipers marched in playing flutes, and the drummers followed with real drums.
When the song ended more than
seventy children stood on stage, not counting Claire still crouched behind the tree. If there had been a trap door that would enable her to fall through the floor, Claire would have taken it. But there was none, so she stood and smiled at the audience. Then she lifted Sara from her perch and herded the group of children offstage.
When they reached the changing room, Claire turned to them and said, “You did a wonderful job. I’m very proud of you all.”
“Even me?” Sara asked shyly.
“Especially you,” Claire said, giving her a hug.
~ ~ ~
When the final chord of “Silent Night” faded from the auditorium, parents came to collect their children and the room became a whirlwind of activity. “Do you have your mittens?” mothers asked. “Where’s your sweater?” “Hurry up, Daddy’s waiting in the car.”
Claire was looking for Luke’s muffler when Adam pulled her aside.
“This is for you,” he said. He handed her a small raisin box and then ran toward the doorway where his father waited. Halfway there he stopped, ran back, wrapped his arms around Claire’s knees, and said, “Merry Christmas, Miss Claire.” Before Claire could say anything he was out the door and gone.
Until that moment Claire had not considered any part of the season merry. In fact, she’d struggled through the days just hoping not to cry. She had expected it to be the saddest and loneliest Christmas ever. There was no Christmas tree at the McDermott house that year, no gaily-wrapped presents. Yet when Claire showed Charlie the raisin box, there was Christmas. Inside the box she found three marbles and a matchbox car—a gift that brought tears to Claire’s eyes.
Charlie McDermott
What does a banker know about hiring a private investigator? Nothing, that’s what. Okay, I’ve watched a few episodes of “The Rockford Files” and “Magnum, P.I.,” but those guys deal with hardcore criminals. All I want is to find Jeffrey so we can see our grandchildren.
Claire thinks she’s the only one who misses Elizabeth and the kids. I miss them just as much as she does, but I can’t afford to let her know I’m hurting, or she’d fall apart.
The more sympathetic I am, the more depressed Claire gets. That’s not good for anybody. Life won’t stop and wait for a person to get over the pain. You’ve got to push past it and move on. If I don’t help Claire do that, who else will?
Helping out in Sunday school has been good for Claire. It took her mind off herself. She says it’s exhausting and she’s glad it’s over, but I’m hoping they’ll call her back. For the past few weeks she’s been sleeping at night, which is a lot better than wandering through the pitch-black house. It’s a relief for me, because I worried that she’d fall down the stairs.
Anyway, about this private investigator, I finally got hold of one. Dudley gave me the name of a guy. Funny, I never thought of Dudley as the sort of lawyer who’d need a private investigator. He says this Frank Walsh is good at finding out things about people who are involved in messy divorces.
Walsh seems nice enough, but he’s no Rockford. He’s skinny, wears a three-button suit, and looks more like a stockbroker than a private investigator. I definitely can’t imagine Frank Walsh crawling through drainpipes or popping bullets at someone.
I met with Walsh last Tuesday and gave him what information I had along with photographs of Jeffrey and the kids, at least the older two. Can you believe the only picture we have of Christian is the one taken in the hospital? Christian’s two years old now. He’s a blond-haired toddler, not a bald baby, so I doubt the hospital picture would be of any help.
Walsh seemed confident that he’d be able to locate the kids. Jeffrey’s more than likely changed his name, so I asked if that decreased the probability of finding them. Walsh said no. Apparently, a man with three kids is easier to trace than someone who’s traveling alone.
Even if Walsh finds them, it won’t help unless Jeffrey’s willing to let bygones be bygones. I can understand how hardships like losing Liz, then the store, and most probably the house can tear the guts from a man and make him resentful, but I’m hoping we can get past it. God knows I’ve got plenty of reasons to hate Jeffrey as much as he does me, but I’m ready to give it up for the sake of our grandchildren. I’m even willing to help him get back on his feet, if it lets us reassemble the pieces of Elizabeth’s life. I’d do anything in the world for our daughter, and that includes making sure her family is cared for.
Moving On
The following morning Claire awoke with Louise and her ill health on her mind. For weeks, Louise had talked about nothing but the pageant. She’d sewn feathers on costumes, painted gold rings, and threaded together enough leaves to fashion a tree, so it was strange that she’d miss the pageant. Louise was getting on in years and now rather frail, the sort of person who shouldn’t be living alone. If she had the flu, who would care for her? The flu could become serious. If her fever spiked she might stop eating; then what? For all anyone knew Louise could be—
Claire jumped out of bed, and within the hour she tromped across the street with a pot of chicken soup. She rang Louise’s doorbell and waited long enough to consider going for help when finally she heard the shuffling of feet and the door opened.
“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “You look awful!”
Louise did look terrible. She shivered from head to toe and looked as green and bug-eyed as a frog.
“What do you expect,” she said. “I’m sick!”
Claire pushed through the doorway and headed for the kitchen. She set the pot of soup on the stove, laid the potholders aside, and turned on a gas burner.
“This will be piping hot in no time,” she said. “It’s just what the doctor ordered.”
“I don’t think so,” Louise replied, looking like someone about to throw up what they hadn’t yet eaten. She turned and headed back to the bedroom.
Claire followed her. “You’ve got to eat something. You’ve got to keep your strength up. If you don’t eat—”
Louise waved Claire off with a flutter of her hand and climbed back into bed.
In the past two years Claire had become an expert at distinguishing fever from flushed, and she could tell the seriousness of a person’s sickness with little more than a glance. She placed her hand on Louise’s forehead and gasped.
“You’re burning up! You’ve got to get to the hospital!”
Louise protested, but by the time Claire stopped to listen an ambulance was already on its way.
When the medics loaded Louise into the ambulance Claire climbed in with her, and when they wheeled her into the emergency room Claire tagged along. Other than a sister in Minnesota, Louise had no one. She needed a friend, and Claire decided to be that friend.
She sat beside Louise throughout the day. She followed when they readied a room and moved Louise to an upstairs ward, and when Louise asked her if she would take care of teaching Sunday school for another week or two, Claire said yes.
Claire didn’t leave the hospital until nearly eight o’clock that evening. The sky had gone dark and icy cold while sleet drizzled. She thought of telephoning Charlie to pick her up, but she didn’t want to drag him out on a night such as this so she took a taxi. The ride usually took fifteen minutes at most, but when the taxi driver got to her street he stopped. Whirling lights from police cars and fire engines set the entire block ablaze, and the street was cordoned off.
“I’m gonna have to let you off here,” the driver said.
Claire thought of Charlie. She handed the driver a twenty dollar bill, jumped from the car, and began running down the street. No, her heart screamed, no, not Charlie, please, God, not Charlie! Then from a distance she spotted him huddled with a group of neighbors, all of them shaking their heads mournfully.
“What’s happened?” she exclaimed, running toward them.
Charlie pointed toward Louise’s house—now little more than a blackened shell.
An image of the soup pot sitting on the stove flashed through Claire’s mind and she fainted
.
When Claire came to she lay on her sofa, but the image returned and she began to cry. “What have I done?” she moaned.
“You?” Charlie said, looking bewildered.
Claire explained how she was responsible for the fire, how she’d set the soup on to heat then forgotten to take it off the stove, how she carelessly left the potholders atop the stove and how—
“You’re not to blame,” Charlie interrupted.
“I know you’re trying to be kind, but the truth is—”
“No, I mean, you’re really not to blame. The furnace exploded, and that’s what started the fire.”
“The furnace?”
“No doubt about it. Everyone on the street heard the explosion. We all came running out and Harry called the fire department right away, but the house was gone before they got here.”
“It was the furnace?”
“Yes,” Charlie answered. “It was old, and with the weather as cold as it’s been Louise probably had it turned up high.”
“You’re positive it was the furnace? The soup had nothing to do with it?”
“Absolutely nothing! In fact, you probably saved Louise’s life by getting her out of the house before it happened.”
Claire breathed a sigh of relief, then began worrying about where Louise would live once she came home from the hospital. With her house in ashes, there was no place unless…
Claire looked at Charlie and said, “Louise can live here. We’ve got that empty bedroom upstairs. It’s the perfect solution.
“I’ve no objection, but she might not want—”
“She doesn’t have family; where else can she go?”
“Doesn’t she have a sister?”
“In Minnesota! If it’s this cold here, can you imagine how cold it is there?”
~ ~ ~
The next morning Claire returned to the hospital with a heavy heart. It had fallen upon her to be the bearer of bad tidings. She found Louise sitting up in bed.
Cracks in the Sidewalk Page 27
