Once Upon a December: A Holiday Short Story Collection (6 page)

I toss some files into my briefcase. “You know, maybe you should. Women like to know they're loved.”

“Yeah, yeah, you get that crap from Dad. All Mom has to do is bat those eyelashes.”

It’s true. After nearly forty years of marriage, our parents are still crazy about each other.

Rising from my chair, I reach for my coat and quickly zip it up. “Well, I’m out of here. I have to do some shopping.”

“Shopping? On Christmas Eve?”

I shrug and grab my briefcase.

“Still haven't found her a gift, huh?”

His laughter rings down the hallway as I make my way through the lobby and out into the frosty Minneapolis air.

I hate shopping. I especially hate Christmas shopping. Megan hates shopping in general but loves Christmas, so she’s happy to fight the crowds to find the perfect gifts for our family. She even loves to wrap them—even though I've repeatedly explained there are store employees who will happily do that for her. Of course, I’ve also tried to convince her there are decorators who can trim trees and caterers who can bake pies, but she insists on doing everything on her own.

It’s just another example of how differently we were raised.

My parents freely admit we were spoiled. Dad’s law firm was, and still is, one of the most respected and successful family-owned firms in the nation. Because of that success, my siblings and I never really had to struggle for a lot growing up. Mom has always been a disaster in the kitchen, so paying complete strangers to decorate the house or fix appetizers for a dinner party had been a normal part of our childhood.

Then, I met Megan Lambert —a beautiful, green-eyed, redhead who sat next to me in my third-year Legal Writing class. While the rest of us typed lecture notes on our laptops, Megan relied on pen and paper. As the daughter of a firefighter, Megan had learned from an early age how to be self-sufficient and frugal. Growing up in a single-parent home without the luxuries of . . . well, almost anything, had given her a shrewd mind and a dogged determination. She was intelligent and funny, and falling in love with her had been effortless.

By some miracle, she fell in love with me, too.

Dating had been tricky because she always refused to let me pay for anything. Popcorn at the movies. Hot dogs at the football game. It was a fight every time I reached for my wallet. It took nearly six months of dating before she finally let me pay for dinner. Despite our differences, we were absolutely crazy about each other. She taught me the importance of saving money for the future while I convinced her it was okay, within reason, to enjoy the fruits of your labor.

It was an education for both of us.

We dated for two years. After we graduated and found jobs—me with the family practice and Megan with a downtown firm specializing in real estate law—I decided there was nothing I wanted more than to ask her to be my wife.

But even that had taken some negotiating.

The first time I proposed, Megan threw the five-carat wedding ring at my head and told me to get a grip on reality.

Mom still laughs about that one.

To this day, I’m not satisfied with the modest stone that has rested on her hand for the past three years, but she loves it, and I love her, so I deal.

I tighten my scarf around my neck and continue down the icy sidewalk. While my wife loves to shop for everyone else, she isn't as forthcoming when it comes to her own Christmas list, which usually translates to me buying something outrageously expensive she forces me to return the very next day.

But it’s Christmas Eve, and I am officially out of time.

Desperate for a sign, I scan the brightly-lit windows hoping inspiration will strike. Everything is twinkling and beautiful, but there’s nothing hanging in the windows that she’ll love.

I stop when a bookstore window catches my eye. There on display is a set of children's books. With a deep sigh, I slowly scan the titles, recognizing many of them from the bookshelf in our nursery. Back in June, we had been ecstatic to learn that we were pregnant, and the very first thing we bought was a bookshelf. Megan is thrifty with everything except books, and she had filled the bookcase with hundreds of children's stories.

Then we miscarried, and the nursery and all the books inside it remain untouched to this day.

There’s only one thing in the world Megan truly wants. The one thing money can’t buy.

A little me.

A little her.

A little us.

The doctor's explanation of “sometimes these things just happen” didn't satisfy either of us, but the fear of losing a baby is still so raw and suffocating that Megan won’t even discuss trying again. The doctor gave us the green light, but it’s now six months later and she still isn't willing to try.

I really want to try.

I pull my jacket closer and make my away around the corner to find a tiny crowd gathered just outside the coffee shop. A guitar player and carolers sing “Silent Night,” and when the song ends, the little audience erupts in applause. Some of the spectators drop money into the open guitar case on the sidewalk. I’m just reaching for my wallet when someone grabs my arm.

“Do you hear drums?”

I turn and find myself face-to-face with a man. Homeless, I assume from his appearance. He’s dressed in a tattered coat and looks desperately in need of a bath. I try not to cringe as he tugs on my designer suit.

“The drums,” he says again, his voice forceful. “Do you hear them?”

Drums?
All I see is a guitar player.

“No. Sorry. I don’t hear a drum.”

I turn to walk away when he tightens his grip on my arm.

“Listen, son. Just listen.”

Sighing tiredly, I play along and pretend to listen. The city is deafening on any given night, but especially so on Christmas Eve. The city is filled with noise. Busy shoppers. Impatient drivers. People yelling. Horns honking.

Still, I listen. And that’s when I hear it.

Rum pum pum pum.

It’s faint, but it’s there. A quiet, rhythmic beat that blends into the night. How this old man heard the sound is beyond me.

“You hear it, don’t you?”

With a nod, I look around, hoping to find the source of the sound. The man points toward the coffee shop’s covered alleyway.

“Back there,” he says.

The carolers begin their rendition of “O Holy Night,” and once again, I hear the “rum pum pum pum” coming from the darkness.

Intrigued, I step away from the old man and walk slowly toward the alley. Each step brings me closer to the beat, until finally, I see a little boy, nestled in the corner. His only light comes from a lantern, and a snare drum rests in his lap. The drum is scarred and the strap is frayed, but it’s obviously his most prized possession.

Probably his only possession.

Does he live here? In this filthy alley? And where are his parents?

“Shall I play for you?”

His voice is just a whisper. His clothes are dirty and ragged, and the faded blue jacket he wears is about three sizes too big.

“I heard you playing,” I tell him, keeping my voice soft and light. The last thing I want to do is scare the kid. “You’re very good. Are you alone?”

He nods.

“Where are your parents?”

His face contorts in pain, and my stomach lurches. He can’t be more than five years old. Maybe six.

“Shall I play for you?” he asks again. A little stronger this time. A little more determined.

Because I don’t know what else to do, I nod. The covered alleyway has thankfully kept most of the snow away, so I find a flattened section of shredded cardboard and sit down. I don’t think about the fact that I’m probably ruining my thousand-dollar suit. I just sit and listen.

The boy’s sticks pound the head of the drum.

Rum pum pum pum.

Rum pum pum pum.

Each rhythmic thump pierces my soul, and when he comes to the end of his song, I reach inside my jacket for my wallet.

“No, sir,” he says softly. “I don't need your money.”

It’s hard not to laugh. The kid is surrounded by dumpsters and living in a cardboard box. If anyone needs my money, it’s this child.

“What
do
you need?”

“Just food.”

“I can pay you with food?”

The boy nods vigorously, and I notice his eyes are suddenly a little brighter. The poor guy is probably starving and could definitely use a bath. Dirt cakes his face, but he has the biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

 “Why don't you come home with me?” I hear myself say. “My wife loves to cook.”

He shakes his head. “I can't leave. My mom told me to stay here. I have to stay here.”

“How old are you?”

“I'm six, sir.”

“Do you have a name?”

“My name’s Luke.”

“Well, Luke, my name is Justin Banks, and it's cold out here. It's going to keep snowing.”

“Yes, sir,” he whispers, his voice trembling.

“I could take you home with me for a little while. You could take a bath and eat some dinner with us.”

At the mention of a bath, he smiles.

“And then we can try to find your mom and dad.”

The little boy bows his head, and when he looks up at me again, the light in his eyes is long gone.

“My mom told me to stay here.”

I close my eyes in frustration. I can talk a judge and jury into almost anything. Have I really met my match in a six-year-old living in a cardboard box?

Maybe so.

But I have a secret weapon.

“You realize it is ten degrees
and
Christmas Eve? Do you know how hard it was to find a cab? This better be one delicious cup of coffee.”

With a grin, I kiss my wife’s cold cheek.

“Can the coffee wait just a bit? I want to introduce you to someone.”

Taking her gloved hand, I gently pull her toward the alley. Understandably, she hesitates when she notices the direction in which we were headed.

“Justin, have you lost your mind?”

“Probably,” I mutter, but I pull her along anyway.

With the distant light of the lantern as our guide, we slowly walk toward Luke's cardboard box. He’s still there, holding his drum. His eyes grow wide when he sees the beautiful girl by my side.

“Luke, this is my wife. Her name is Megan.”

Megan's eyes are frozen on the little boy. Her hand clutches mine, and I hold my breath as she examines his surroundings. There really isn't a lot to see in the dark, but you don't have to see much to know the situation isn't ideal.

“Hi, Luke.”

“You're pretty,” he says softly.

I smile.
Secret weapon, indeed.

“Thank you.”

“Shall I play for you?”

Megan's eyes settle on the drum strapped around his tiny body, and she nods. The drumsticks begin their slow tapping, and I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close to shield her from the snow and wind.

“Where are his parents?” she asks quietly.

“I don't know.”

“We have to do something. We can’t just leave him here.”

“I know, sweetheart. I tried to get him to come home with us, but he just keeps saying he has to wait for his mom and dad.”

“How long has he been waiting?”

“I don't know.”

There’s something really beautiful about my wife, and it is a quality that a lot of people never have the chance to witness. There is a certain look in her eyes and a particular expression on her face that lets you know she's made a decision, and you’re an idiot if you even try to stand in her way. I have seen her work her magic on stubborn clients, deadbeat dads, and arrogant attorneys.

This kid doesn't stand a chance.

Megan drops to her knees in front of the little boy, right there on the dirty ground.

“Luke, I just made some homemade chili. Do you like chili?”

He nods quickly.

“I also made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Justin loves them, and I always make a bunch extra. Do you like peanut butter and jelly?”

Luke licks his lips, and my heart breaks.

“Why don't you come home with us? You can help Justin eat his sandwiches, and later, we'll try to find your parents.”

I can see the indecision on his little face. He doesn’t want to say no. That’s another incredible thing about my wife. Telling her no is virtually impossible.

“My mom told me to stay here.”

“But it's so cold, Luke,” Megan murmurs, her voice breaking with emotion.

“I'll be okay.”

Megan lowers her head, and for just a second, I worry that even my amazing wife has met her match. But then I hear her quiet sniffles, and Luke's face falls when he realizes she’s crying.

He steps closer to her. “Why are you crying, Megan?”

She lifts her head and gazes into the little boy's eyes.

“Because I'm going to worry about you tonight. I'm afraid you'll be hungry and cold.”

“Please don't cry.”

I hold my breath as he reaches for her, pressing his dirty little hand against her face. Megan doesn’t even flinch.

“I'll go home with you, Megan. Please don't cry.” Luke then looks up at me. “Can I bring my drum?”

“Of course you can.”