The Christmas Box (5 page)

It was the sixth day of December.

Christmas was only two and a hal
f w eeks away. I had already left for wor k a nd Keri had set about the rituals o f t he day. She stacked the breakfas t d ishes in the sink to soak, the n d escended the stairs to share in som e c onservation and tea with Mary. Sh e e ntered the den where Mary rea d e ach morning. Mary was gone. In he r c hair lay the third Bible. Mary's Bible.

Though we were aware of its existence, neither Keri nor I had actuall y e ver seen it. It lay on the cushio n s pread open to the Gospel of John.

Keri gently slipped her hand under th e b ook's spine and lifted the text carefully. It was older than the other two Bibles, its script more Gothic an
d g raceful. She examined it closely. Th e i nk appeared marred, smeared b y m oisture. She ran a finger across th e p age. It was wet, moistened by numerous round drops. Tear drops. She delicately turned through the gold-edge d p ages. Many of the leaves wer e s poiled and stained from tears. Tear s f rom years past, pages long dried an d w rinkled. But the open pages were stil l m oist. Keri laid the book back down o n t he chair and walked out into the hall.

Mary's thick wool coat was missin
g f rom the lobby's crested hall tree. Th e i nner foyer doors were ajar and at th e b ase of the outer set of doors sno w h ad melted and puddled on the col d m arble floor, revealing Mary's departure. Mary's absence left Keri feelin g u neasy. Mary rarely left the hom e b efore noon and, when she did, typically went to great lengths to inform Keri of the planned excursion days i n a dvance. Keri went back upstairs unti l f orty-five minutes later, when sh e h eard the front door open. She ra n d own to meet Mary, who stood in th e d oorway, wet and shivering from th e c old.

"Mary! Where have you been?"

Keri exclaimed. "You look frozen!"

Mary looked up sadly. Her eyes wer
e s wollen and red.

"I'll be all right," she said, then without an explanation disappeared dow n t he hall to her room.

After brunch she again pulled o
n h er coat to leave. Keri caught her i n t he hall on the way out. "I'll be goin g o ut again," she said simply. "I ma y r eturn late."

"What time shall I prepare supper?"

Keri asked.

Mary didn't answer. She looke
d d irectly at her, then walked out int o t he sharp winter air.

It was nearly half past eight when
Mary returned that evening. Keri ha d g rown increasingly concerned ove r h er strange behavior and had begu n l ooking out the balcony window ever y f ew minutes for Mary's return. I ha d a lready arrived home from work , been thoroughly briefed on the entir e e pisode, and, like Keri, anxiousl y a nticipated her return. If Mary ha d l ooked preoccupied before, she wa s n ow positively engrossed. She uncharacteristically asked to take supper alone, but then invited us to joi n h er for tea.

"I'm sure my actions must seem
a l ittle strange," she apologized. Sh e s et her cup down on the table. "I'v e b een to the doctor today, on accoun t o f these headaches and vertigo, I'v e b een experiencing."

She paused for an uncomfortabl
y l ong period. I sensed she was goin g t o say something terrible.

"He says that I have a tumor growing in my brain. It is already quite larg e a nd, because of its location, they cannot operate." Mary looked straigh t a head now, almost through us. Yet he r w ords were strangely calm.

"There is nothing that they can do.
I have wired my brother in London.
I thought you should know."

Keri was the first to throw her arm
s a round Mary. I put my arms around th e t wo of them and we held each other i n s ilence. No one knew what to say.

Denial, perhaps, is a necessar
y h uman mechanisim to cope with th e h eartaches of life. The followin g w eeks proceeded largely without incident and it became increasingl y t empting to delude ourselves int o c omplacency, imagining that all wa s w ell and that Mary would soo n r ecover. As quickly as we did, however, her headaches would retur n a nd reality would slap our faces a s b rightly as the frigid December winds.

There was one other curious chang
e i n Mary's behavior. Mary seemed t o b e growing remarkably disturbed b y m y obsession with work and no w t ook it upon herself to interrupt m y e ndeavors at increasingly frequen t i ntervals. Such was the occasion th e e vening that she asked the question.

"Richard. Have you ever wondere
d w hat the first Christmas gift was?"

Her question broke my engrossment in matters of business an d w eekly returns. I looked up.

"No, I can't say that I've given i
t m uch thought. Probably gold, frankincense, or myrrh. If in that order, it wa s g old." I sensed that she was unsatisfied with my answer.

"If an appeal to King James wil
l a nswer your question, I'll do so on Sunday," I said, hoping to put the question to rest. She remained unmoved.

"This is not a trivial question," sh
e s aid firmly. "Understanding the firs t g ift of Christmas is important."

"I'm sure it is, Mary, but this i
s i mportant right now."

"No," she snapped, "you don't kno
w w hat is important right now." Sh e t urned abruptly and walked from th e r oom.

I sat quietly alone, stunned fro
m t he exchange. I put away the ledge r a nd climbed the stairs to our room. As I readied for bed, I posed to Keri th e q uestion Mary had asked.

"The first gift of Christmas?" sh
e a sked sleepily. "Is this a trick question?"

"No, I don't think so. Mary jus
t a sked me and was quite upset that I didn't know the answer."

"I hope she doesn't ask me, then,"

Keri said, rolling over to sleep.

I continued to ponder the questio
n o f the first gift of Christmas until I gradually fell off in slumber. That nigh t t he angel haunted my dreams.

The following morning at the breakfast table, Keri and I discussed th e p revious evening's confrontation.

"I think that the cancer is finall
y a ffecting her," I said.

"How is that?" Keri asked.

"Her mind. She's starting to los
e h er mind."

"She's not losing her mind," sh
e s aid firmly. "She's as sharp as you o r m e."

"Such a strong 'no'," I said defensively.

"I'm with her all day. I ought to know."

"Then why is she acting this way?

Asking weird questions?"

"I think she's trying to share something with you, Rick. I don't kno w w hat it is, but there is something." Ker i w alked over to the counter an d b rought a jar of honey to the table.

"Mary is the warmest, most open individual I've ever met, except . ." Sh e p aused. "Do you ever get the feelin g t hat she is hiding something?"

"Something?"

"Something tragic. Terribly tragic.

Something that shapes you an
d c hanges your perspective forever."

"I don't know what you're talkin
g a bout," I said.

Suddenly Keri's eyes moistened.

"I'm not so sure that I do either. Bu t t here is something. Have you eve r s een the Bible that she keeps in th e d en?" I shook my head. "The page s a re stained with tears." She turne d a way to gather her thoughts. "I jus t t hink that there is a reason that we'r e h ere. There is something she is trying to tell you, Rick. You're just no t l istening."

Chapter
V

THE
STONE ANGEL

My conversatio
n w ith Keri had left me curious an d b ewildered. As I gazed outside at th e s now-covered streets I saw Steve i n h is driveway brushing snow off hi s c ar. It occurred to me that he migh t h ave some answers. I ran upstairs t o t he Christmas Box, removed the firs t l etter from it, and scrolled it carefully.

Then stowing it in the inside pocket o f m y overcoat, I quietly slipped out o f t he house and crossed the street.

Steve greeted me warmly.

"Steve, you've known Mary a lon
g t ime."

"Pretty much all my life."

"There's something I want to as
k y ou about."

He sensed the serious tone of m
y v oice and set the brush down.

"It's about Mary. You know she's lik
e f amily to us." He nodded in agreement. "There seems to be somethin g t roubling her, and we want to hel p h er, but we don't know how. Ker i t hinks that she might be hiding something. If that's the case I think that I might have found a clue." I looke d d own, embarrassed by the letter I was holding. "Anyway, I found som
e l etters in a box in the attic. I thin k t hey're love letters. I was hoping tha t y ou could shed some light on this."

"Let me see it," he said.

I handed the letter over. He read it
, then handed it back to me.

"They are love letters, but not to
a l over."

I must have looked perplexed.

"I think you should see something.

I'll be over at Mary's Christmas Eve t o v isit. I'll take you then. It'll be aroun d t hree o'clock. It will explain everything."

I nodded my approval. "That will b
e f ine," I said. I shoved the letter bac k i nto my coat, then paused. "Steve , have you ever wondered what th e f irst gift of Christmas was?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious, I guess." I walke
d b ack to my car and drove off to work.

As had become the norm, it wa
s a busy day spent helping brides-

to-be match colorful taffeta swatche
s t o formal-wear accessories; choos e b etween ascot or band ties; pleated , French-cuffed shirts with wingtip collars or plain shirts with colorful ruffle d d ickies. I had just finished measuring and reserving outfits for a larg e w edding party. Upon receiving th e r equired cash deposit from the groom , I thanked them for their business , waved goodbye, and turned to help a y oung man who had stood quietly a t t he counter awaiting my attention.

"May I help you?" I asked.

He looked down at the counter
, swaying uneasily. "I need a suit for a s mall boy," he said softly. "He's fiv e y ears old."

"Very good," I said. I pulled out
a r ental form and began to write. "I s t here anyone else in the party that wil l n eed a suit?"

He shook his head no.

"Is he to bearing bearer?" I asked.

"We'd want to try to match his suit t o t he groom's."

"No. He won't be."

I made a note on the form.

"All right. What day would you lik
e t o reserve the suit for?"

"We'd like to purchase the suit," h
e s aid solemnly.

I set the form aside. "That may no
t b e in your best interest," I explained.

"These young boys grow so fast. I'
d s trongly suggest that you rent."

He just nodded.

"I just don't want you to be disappointed. The length of the coat canno t b e extended, only the sleeves an d p ant length. He may grow out of it i n l ess than a year."

The man looked up at me, initiatin
g e ye contact for the first time. "We'll b e b urying him in it," he said softly.

The words fell like hammers.
I looked down, avoiding the lifeles s g aze of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said demurely. "I'll hel p y ou find something appropriate."

I searched through a rack of boy
s s uits and extracted a beautiful blu e j acket with satin lapels.

"This is one of my favorites," I sai
d s olemnly.

"It's a handsome coat," he said. "I
t w ill be fine." He handed me a pape r w ith the boy's measurements.

"I'll have the alterations mad
e i mmediately. It will be ready to b e p icked up tomorrow afternoon."

He nodded his head in approval.

"Sir, I'll see that the jacket is discounted."

"I'm very grateful," he said. H
e o pened the door and walked out , blending in with the coursing river o f h umanity that filled the sidewalks at Christmas time.

As I had spent the morning measuring out seams and checking the availabilities of jackets, Keri was bus y a t her own routine. She had fed , bathed, and dressed Jenna, then se t t o work preparing Mary's brunch. Sh e p oached an egg, then topped a biscuit with it, dressing it with a tablespoon of Hollandaise sauce. Sh e t ook the shrieking teapot from th e s tove and poured a cup of peppermint tea, set it all on a tray, and carried it out to the dining room.

She called down the hall, "Mary
, your brunch is ready."