Authors: Joseph Pittman

A Christmas Hope (17 page)

BOOK: A Christmas Hope

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“Thomas . . . it's just a reproduction. It's not what you wanted.”

“What I want is not achievable, Nora, too much time has passed. The world I knew has passed me by, and the only one who doesn't seem to realize that is the man I look at in the mirror every morning. It's high time I faced facts. I have lived so long . . . too long, they are reproducing things that should have already been put to rest. And speaking of rest, I think that's what I need most. Thank you, Nora, with all my heart,” he said. Then, his voice grew serious, as he added, “Please do send me a bill. And merry Christmas.”

And then, with the book securely tucked underneath his arm, he shuffled slowly down the corridor, knowing that his lack of speed denied him any chance at a dramatic exit, but his words more than made up for it. As though, even with three weeks remaining before the world would celebrate Christ's birthdayâand indeed he would celebrate his eighty-fifthâhe was saying good-bye to her.

“Thomas . . .”

Her voice lingered down the hallway, only to fall flat as it hit a closed door.

Three forty-seven
A.M.
according to the clock on his bedside table. Shards of moonlight slipped through closed blinds, cutting across his eyes to the point where they opened wide with weary exhaustion. Not that his usual twinkling eyes needed much prompting; sleep had already proved elusive during this long night, like so many others the past few weeks. His mind absorbed with matters more important than rest. He lay there, alone of course, in the soft comfort of his twin bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, trying to lull his mind into shutting down and falling into peaceful slumber. Such thoughts were only making the situation worse, to the point that he gazed over at the photograph on his bedside, edged by a silver frame, a black-and-white shot of a man dressed in a sharp-looking tuxedo, the woman at his side beautiful in pearl-encrusted ivory, a lace veil partially obscuring her features. Still, he could see her beaming face, her porcelain skin. Usually he took great comfort in the image, but tonight he knew nothing would soothe him. So he just gave up on forcing sleep's elusive muse to visit him, tossing back the covers. He stretched his legs out over the bed until they came to a rest on the floor.

Slowly padding his way to the closet, he slid open the door and pulled out his navy silk robe, wrapping it around his pajamas and cinching the belt tight against his waist. He then slid his bare feet into a pair of matching slippers that had been given to him just last Christmas; the contours of his toes already well imbedded.

Making his way to the darkened living room of his apartment, he reached for the book he'd placed earlier that day on the glass-topped coffee table.
The Night before Christmas, or A Visit from Saint Nicholas
was its officially published titleâhe'd forgotten this volume hadn't used “T'was.” He ran his slightly bent fingers over the lettering, like braille to a blind man. The title said so much about what awaited you within its pages, like the use of the word
visit
. With such homespun images throughout the volume, who wouldn't want Saint Nick to pay a call to their home? Who didn't want gifts delivered to them, an acknowledgment of how nice they were? Why receive, when giving filled you with such joy?

Thomas sighed, a soft echo present in the hollow morning. What to do about the book, that was the decision mostly weighing on him. Did its presence really complete his mission, or was this facsimile edition simply another bitter disappointment in a life filled with them? Yes, Santa might be dressed in the green suit, but aside from that detail he just wasn't satisfied with the reproductionâit wasn't about quality, the book was wonderfully, lovingly reproduced. It was about having the original that continued to evade him, a lost treasure of his childhood, not unlike his father himself. Thomas had so much riding on possessing the book that had defined his early holiday memories, he shouldn't be surprised at the disappointment that had settled inside him. To him, the book was the bridge between life and death, a final, tenuous reminder of the bond he had shared with a father he'd barely known, a representation of what he'd lost when his father went off to fightâand dieâin the war. While the situation he was in now had its differences, one fact remained a constant: the looming sense of loss.

Cradling the hardcover book in his arms, Thomas made his way toward the front door of his apartment, unlocking it to emerge into the harshly lit corridor. All of Edgestone Retirement Home was quiet, the squeak of his door echoing down the hall. In his mind he heard the phrase “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” and the famous line brought a tentative smile to his lips. He gingerly made his way to the quiet recreation center, bypassing the front desk, which was not occupied at this late hour; perhaps the night nurse was grabbing a needed cup of coffee in the kitchen. He found his way to the Christmas tree, situated near the fireplace, finally decorated with lights and shiny ornaments, with tinsel that had glistened. The tree seemed tired, its lights turned off, silent as the cold night. Such a thing didn't last, if he was awake, so, too, could be the tree, and so he flipped the light switch and the darkness of the room suddenly was cast in a colorful glow of illumination.

Pulling up a chair, Thomas settled down and opened up the book. He began to read, silently, his lips reading the couplets even though he knew them all by heart. What captured his attention were the illustrations, Santa in that green suit. The effect made Thomas remember his father, who had also worn a uniform of green, a faded, muted palette the army somehow found appropriate for sending innocent men off to battle. Closing his eyes, he conjured an image of his father, and then at his side, his mother, also long since gone from this world. She had lived to a ripe age of seventy-seven, having watched as her son grew, graduated from high school and college, saw him secure a teaching career at the local university, witnessed his wedding to the beautiful Missy, craved the grandchildren that never came. Never once had she wavered in her support of the boy she'd given birth to. She'd never remarried, Lars Van Diver had been all she ever desired, and now Thomas held tight to the belief they had long since been reunited.

The shuffling of feet on the hard flooring drew him out of his world and into the present. Approaching him was a figure backlit by the glow of the tree, her shadow approaching first.

“Well, Thomas Van Diver, shouldn't you be asleep?”

“I could say the same for you, Elsie Masters.”

“Oh, some nights, I just can't rest. Guess my body is still getting used to this new life. It's always nighttime when doubt creeps in, when I question my recent decisions. Selling the business . . . renting the building, moving here. When you reach a certain age, you start doing things because that's what's expected of you. You listen to your brain rather than staying true to what your heart is telling you. Age brings wisdom, the experts say. The experts must not be elderly.”

“Very well said, Elsie,” he replied with a gentle nod, his voice quiet, almost reverential at this late hour . . . or was it considered an early hour? No one really knew whether it was the dark of last night or the dawn of a fresh day.

“I've never seen you here,” Elsie said. “Not at this hour.”

“That tells me that this isn't your first nocturnal visit.”

“Oh, I've wandered these halls many nights since I moved in,” she said, “but tonight was different. When I saw the lights of the Christmas tree I knew I wasn't alone in my insomnia. You switched on the tree lights?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“May I ask why?”

“Do you know what today is . . . I mean, what yesterday was?”

“December fifth,” she said. “
Sinterklass.
The annual Dutch celebration of Saint Nick.”

“Linden Corners has never forgotten its Dutch heritage, has it?”

“The windmill is a constant reminder of the original settlers of this land.”

“Including the Van Diver family,” he said.

“They built the windmill, right where it stands today.”

He felt pride strike his heart. It was an uncommon feeling for him.

Without asking, Elsie took up a seat beside him, touching her hand to his arm. “Can you tell me something, Thomas?”

“If I can.”

“You obviously are a man of traditions. Does
Sinterklass
have meaning for you?”

He smiled despite his unsettled mood, reaching far into the past for the warm memory. “Family, for starters,” he said with a hint of remorse lodged in his throat. “Not that my young self ever understood it, but my father insisted that every December fifth we decorate the Christmas tree, it was his way of honoring his ancestors. All those Van Divers who came to the Hudson River Valley way back in the eighteen hundreds and made this their new homeâthe very same men and women who built the farmhouse and established a community farm, and one summer built the windmill that still stands today.”

“After you left Linden Corners, did you continue those traditions?”

“Some, not all,” he said, sorrow laced in his quiet voice. “My mother was not Dutch, so when we moved to Virginia to live with her parentsâmy maternal grandparents, the only ones I ever knewâtraditions changed. As the years progressed I guess we lost our appreciation for all my father had taught us, taking on more of the O'Neil clan's identity. The Dutch influence I'd been introduced to early in my life gave way to the Irish, and our once-solemn holiday became a raucous celebration of life. And when I married, I, too, married an Irishwomanâand even more of my childhood traditions faded away. But the one thing I insisted upon, each yearâand that included my teen years and my married daysâwas that the Christmas tree went up on December fifthâon
Sinterklass
. That was the one thing I would not change.”

“Thomas, oh, I know I talk a good game around the others and I know what they think of me. Elsie Masters, she's the life of the party because she's always getting into everyone's business,” she said, “but it's not just about gossip, I do care. About people, yes, but mostly about the keeping alive of this village's past, its history. Who knows, maybe it's the late hour that's got me confessing to such things. Think about it, though, I would not have devoted my entire life to selling antiques if I was a person who dreamed of what the future held. I like to see how the past impacts our present day, it's one of the few parts of life we can control. The future? Eh. For my money, we may as well call it the unknown. So while some folks may find my style abrasive, I'm really a gentle soul.”

“Oh Miss Elsie, that is clear to me,” he said, “the generosity you have shown me . . .”

She waved off his comment, embarrassed by the easy compliment. She was quiet for a moment, but Thomas could tell there were words waiting to spill out from her, and he readied himself for her revelation. He knew that Elsie Masters had suffered a loss, too, it was why she was here among friends, seeking comfort in their company, not unlike himself. That said, it might be four in the morning, but Elsie was still Elsie and that brought a smile to his lips. “Thomas . . . I don't mean to pry, it's not my nature . . . no, don't laugh, it's not my fault people tell me things, I rarely ask them. But tonight I will, because I think it's important.” She hesitated, Thomas saying nothing, just waiting. “Those rides I give you to the Hudson station, you're not catching the train to Albany, that much I know. I stayed behind one day to make sure the train was on time . . . and there I saw you emerge from the station and board the train that went in the opposite direction. Toward New York.”

Thomas remained still for some moments, lost in his own thoughts. The entire retirement center was so quiet, peaceful, it was almost like all of the residents were listening for his answer. But in truth it was just him and Elsie and a tree that sparkled with the spirit of the season. Since Elsie herself had been so kind to him, he felt there was no holding back anymore.

“No, I do not go to Albany,” he said, “New York City is my destination.”

“To see someone?”

He just nodded, even though he would not allow words to confirm hers.

Expecting her to push the issue, her next action caught him by surprise. Rising from her chair, she put a warm hand to his shoulder and squeezed ever so gently. Her rare bit of subtlety washed over him like a gentle wave of gratitude. He reached up, his hand resting atop hers. The warmth spread from their hands to their faces, rueful, regretful smiles cementing their friendship.

“I'm sorry if I pushed too far, Thomas,” she said.

He nodded, not sure if his action was forgiveness or just acknowledging her apology. She understood him so well, it seemed, even though she was fifteen years younger than him. She knew about growing older, people and objects both, she knew their value.

“Thank you, Elsie, for all you've done for me . . . for us.”

“That book in your hands, I can see its title,” she said. “Am I to assume it's part of the reason you're here in Linden Corners, right?”

BOOK: A Christmas Hope

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