A Christmas Story

This story was based on an event that occurred when I was a bank teller. After you read the story, I'll let you guess what happened. If you can't guess, message me and I'll tell you!

A CHRISTMAS STORY

by Catherine Maven

copyright © 1997

I

Twilight was falling as gently as the snowflakes that drifted through the late afternoon chill. One by one the houses began to light up until the street glowed like a downtown department store window. Walking home from the library in silence beside her older sister, Megan felt enwrapped in the lights, sensed them as warm, inviting, promising of delights; a tingle ran along her spine, and she hugged herself happily.

The moment was ruined by her sister. "Look at the witch's house!" Kelly cried, pointing. "No lights for her!" The older girl laughed nervously. "Witches hate lights, don't they?"

Megan looked through the dusk toward the darkened house. The windows at the front were never lit, she knew. Only if you lived beside her, as Megan's family did, could you see her kitchen window glowing faintly at the back of the house every night. "She's not really a witch," she said loudly to break the eerie feeling that had come over her. "She's just a crabby old lady."

But the bright feelings were gone, and she suddenly wished she was already in her own familiar home. A few moments later, while she was still tugging off her winter clothes, she called "Mo-om?", the word forming two syllables in her anxiety. Then, getting no response, more insistent: "Mom!" The muffled response seemed to come from upstairs, and Megan took them two at a time.

Her mother was sitting on the floor by the old blue trunk, carefully removing Christmas tree decorations from their yellowed tissue wrappings. She held one of the oldest ornaments in her left hand; the other hand lay idle in her lap, and her eyes held the unfocused look of someone lost in thought.

Megan knew then that her mother was remembering other Christmases, perhaps back to her own childhood, and felt a sudden embarrassment.

Before she could turn away, however, her mother looked up at her, the reverie broken. "Do you want something, cookie?"

"Well, yeah," hesitated Megan, the subject seeming out of place in this comforting place. "It's just, well ... Why does old Mrs. Lewis hate Christmas so much?" she burst out finally.

A new look came into her mother's eyes – a guarded look. "I'm not sure," she began. "Perhaps something sad happened to her one Christmas, and she can't forget."

"Like what?" responded Megan. "And why does she hate kids? We never did nothing to her!"

"What's the matter, Meg?" asked her mother in concern. "Has she been yelling at you again? You know she doesn't mean any harm. She's just old, and lonely, and probably in pain."

"No, it's not that.  It's just … well, it's her house. It's so dark and scary, you know? She doesn't even have an outside light, let alone Christmas lights."

"Yes, I know that. But why are you so upset about it all of a sudden?"

"I don't know" shrugged Megan. "I just feel kinda bad, or scared, or something." She turned away suddenly without waiting for her mother's response, and ran into the room she shared with Kelly. Her sister was already there, reading.

Megan felt a strange sort of anger within herself. She couldn't decide if she was angry at herself, or Mrs. Lewis, or the world. She sat on her bed and looked helplessly at her sister.

"I want to give her something," she announced into the silence, her words surprising her ears.

Kelly didn’t even look up from her book. "Who?"

"Old Mrs. Lewis, that's who."

Putting her finger in the book to save the page, Kelly closed the book and stared at her little sister. "What? … Why? She hates us."

"Maybe she's just lonely, or sad … Should I buy her a pet?"

"Don’t be silly. You can't. When her cat died last year, remember? She told Mom that she was too old for another pet.  Besides, you don't have any money, do you?"

"Okay, okay, so I won't buy her a pet. I've only got eight dollars, anyway."

"You won't get much for eight bucks!" her sister said over her shoulder, getting up to leave the room, her book still in her left hand.  "Good luck!"

Alone in the room, Megan looked around at her belongings. Surely there was something here that she could give the old lady. She fingered her jewelry absently, knowing that none of it would be appropriate for a woman who must be ninety, at least. She glanced through her books, but couldn't imagine Mrs. Lewis reading any of them. She began to look through her closet. There was nothing there, either.

Finally, discouraged, she slumped to the floor at the front of the closet. What could she do? Then something at the back of the closet caught her eye. Whatever it was, was buried in a pile of shoes and socks, and Megan had to dig to get it out.

She laughed when she saw what it was. She'd outgrown it a year ago at least! So why was it here? She held it for a moment, then became embarrassed, and tossed it back into the closet. She was still for a moment, looking at the toy lying helplessly amid the shoes, and then slowly reached in and picked it up, a smile on her lips. There was an empty shoe box in the back, too. Perfect.

II

Megan awoke with the first rays of sunlight that crept through her curtains on Christmas morning. She felt a surge of excitement as she dressed silently, careful not to wake Kelly. She took the box from her closet, tip-toed downstairs, paused only for her boots, and cautiously opened the front door. There was a fresh dusting of snow on the walk as she went down the steps, out to the sidewalk, and over to Mrs. Lewis' house. In the faint rosy glow of dawn, the old woman’s house had lost its fearsome appearance.

The cold was already beginning to bite through her sweater by the time she carefully laid the open box on the old lady's porch and pounded on the door. After a moment, though, her courage failed her, and she turned to race home. She now felt free to shake and inspect the colourful parcels she had glimpsed under the tree on her way out.

III

Old Mrs. Lewis was up and awake in her kitchen when she heard the pounding on the door. It surprised her mightily; she didn't think anyone else rose as early as she. She shuffled to the door, opened it, and saw nothing. Except girl-sized foot­prints in the snow leading from the house next door. Now what is that girl Megan up to? she wondered in irritation. The child was always coming over to ask her questions, or bring her tea or annoy her in other ways.

She was aware of the irritation she felt whenever she thought about the child, who refused to leave her alone, which was all she really wanted. Her eyes followed the footprints along the walk to her own door, and she became aware of a box on the step. What was this? She stooped slowly, and as she got closer, saw that it was a box with a blanket in it.

She picked the box up; it wasn't heavy. She carried it to her kitchen table, and set it down. Then she unfolded the blue blanket, and gave a start. 

A baby! Her heart began to pound. The baby wasn't moving. She reached for her glasses, her hands shaking as she tried to put them over her ears.

She looked again. A doll! There was a note pinned to the warm clothes the doll was dressed in. Still shaking, she picked up the paper, but couldn't read the jumping words. 

She had to sit down. At last her hand calmed enough for the words to stand still. The note read: "Please love me. I am all alone in the world."

Her eyes began to blink rapidly. No! her heart cried. No! Don't do this to me! How did you know? How did you know? 

The paper dropped out of her hands back into the box. She struggled from the chair, and backed away from the table, her heart drumming within her breast.

How had the girl known? How could she have been so unkind, on this of all days? Her mind, crowded suddenly with memories and emotions, became cloudy. She felt nauseous and weak. She retreated to her bedroom, and lay down on the bed. No, she thought feebly. No. I won't remember. I can't.

She lay for a long time in perfect stillness on top of the cover. Finally, the ghosts she had pushed away crowded around her, demanding audience.

"Maggie," pleaded her husband. "Maggie, I love you, I need you.  Why are you so cold to me? There'll be other babies, Maggie, please, Maggie ..."

She heard her own answer as though she had just said it, rather than sixty years ago. "My name is Margaret. Don't call me Maggie ever again. I'm not Maggie any more. Do you understand?"

And then her sister: "Margaret, your husband didn't leave you. He died. I miss him, too.  But Frank was sick, Margaret. He was in pain. I'm sure he's better off now."

And again her answer, another door closing: "Don't call me Margaret. I'm Mrs. Lewis. Mrs. Frank Lewis. Is that clear?" Emily. Her own sister, for God's sake.

And finally, in her cold clear pain, she could not even feel remorse when her sister died too. Now there was no one to call her by her first name. No one even knew what it was. She had no one. Still she could not cry. Cry for what? For what couldn't be changed? Not her!

Her heart surged in rebellion against unkind life. It plays too many sad, sick tricks, she thought. I'm weary. She felt her eyelids closing, and forced herself beneath the covers. She was cold, very cold.

She woke with a start. A baby was crying! But what, where …? The room was dark. Her mind refused to clear. Crying, ... the baby ... needed her. She got out of bed, pulled on her late husband's work socks and his old soft robe, and went through the darkened house to the kitchen. She didn't need to turn on lights. She had been in this house for so long that she knew it without looking.

When she got to the kitchen, the crying had stopped. The room shone with the dim glow of moonlight through the window. There was something on the table, something she knew didn't belong there. A box? Had she ordered something? She felt for her glasses, discovered they were already on her nose. When had she done that?

She moved closer, looked in the box. It was Jimmy! No, it was a doll. Was it? She reached out to pick up the tiny figure in the box, and saw the note again. Even in the faint glow from the street lights, she could read the childish scrawl: "I am all alone in the world".

Oh Jimmy! her heart cried. Tears welled up in her eyes. She tried to shake them away. I won't cry, she said to herself. This is just a doll. 

But her will was no longer her own, and her desperate arms were reaching out. Before she knew it, the baby was cradled in her arms, the little eyes closed, the face turned naturally toward her breast. Jimmy! She suddenly found herself seated.

The last ghost had come. Jimmy, she begged, Jimmy, why did you leave me? I loved you, you were perfect, I don't care what they said about your heart, you looked perfect to me. The tiny face was snuggled against her, accepting her as she began to accept the ghost. Jimmy. Her only baby, gone, gone.

She saw something from the corner of her eye. She shook the tears from her eyes, and looked up. "Frank, I'm sorry," she said to her husband’s ghost.

He stood before her, his arms reaching to them both. "I love you still, Maggie," he said.

Her sister was there, too. "Love him, Maggie," Emily counselled. "Love this baby the way you always wanted."

She looked down at the child in her arms. When she looked up, the ghosts were gone. Tears were flowing down her face in a steady stream, all the years of bright hard courage melting in her grief. 

She looked down again, and saw it was a doll she was holding. She reached to put it back into the box. Just a doll. But somehow she couldn't; she couldn't let it lie alone, as she had lain alone these long and empty years.

She turned away from the kitchen and carried the doll back to bed. She tucked it in beside her, cradled in her arm. The love that flowed from her then was for all the ghosts, all the people whom she had refused to love after the death of her baby. She drifted off to sleep, an unaccustomed smile nestled among her tears.

IV

Two days later, Megan found a letter in the mailbox addressed to her. It said 'Megan' on the outside in the thin high scrawl of the very old.

Inside, all it said was "Thank you." It was signed, "Maggie". Megan felt something stir within her. Old Mrs. Lewis was Maggie?

She understood then for the first time that Christmas is not about the gifts we receive, but about the gifts we give. For this short note meant more to her than all the shining packages she had unwrapped. She had made a friend.

THE END