Remembering Christmas (11 page)

This he knew firsthand.

As he stepped out from his car, a trail of vapor seeped through a manhole cover in the middle of the road. Thin layers of mist floated into the air from puddles along the edge of the street. He set his cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee on the hood for a second. That’s when he saw him peeking out from behind the corner of the church.

Columbo.

Only this time, he had a blanket wrapped around the overcoat, partially covering his head and shoulders, like some Arab warlord. The man backed away when he saw Rick.

Good idea, crazy man. Rick had no intention of acknowledging him this morning. If he wanted, he could come back at 3:00 when Andrea showed up. Rick got his things together and closed the car door. He carefully made his way down the little stairwell, almost slipping on a spot of ice clinging to one of the steps. He set his things on the concrete half-wall and fidgeted through his keys, looking for the one to the front door. He wasn’t sure if it was the smell or the noise that alerted him, but he looked up and saw Columbo peeking around the corner again. Maybe five feet away.

He had better put a stop to this. “Hey,” he called out. “You, around the corner.” He couldn’t remember the man’s name. Some combination of initials.

The man stepped out in the open, then ducked back. Then stepped out completely. “You got it?” he asked.

“Got what?”

“It’s almost 9:00. I been freezing all night. ’Bout the only thing keeping me goin’ the past few hours was that it was almost 9:00.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t got it?”

“Apparently not.” Oh shoot, thought Rick. The Egg McMuffin. “Look, you’re going to have to go somewhere else for breakfast for a while.”

“Where else?”

“I don’t know. Where does everyone else go for breakfast, start there.” Rick didn’t want to look at the man’s face. He didn’t seem angry, more like confused.

“I’m so cold.”

That will happen when you sleep outside, moron
. “Well, so am I. Look, you come back in about twenty minutes, I’ll give you a cup of coffee, but that’s it. I’m not stopping off to get you Egg McMuffins. That was Art’s thing, not mine.”

“Twenty minutes?”

Great, Rick thought. Why did he say that? “Yeah, or thereabouts.”

The man disappeared. Rick opened the door, then went back for his stuff and set it on the counter. He was about to head right back and start the coffee but decided, no, he wasn’t going out of his way for this guy. He began going through the little startup routine Andrea had shown him.

Making coffee was step five.

Two hours later, the coffee in the Mr. Coffee maker was giving off a smell. Coffee was part of it, but something else had joined in. Rick wasn’t used to this. The secretaries never let things get this far. Smelled like black licorice. At least it smelled and tasted right when he’d first made it; he and Columbo were the only ones who’d know. Not a single customer had come into the store yet.

The second ninety-minute Christmas cassette was playing through the store. At the moment, Johnny Cash sang “The Little Drummer Boy.” He lifted the coffeepot out. The smell was much stronger now and the coffee two shades darker. Should he make a full pot or a half pot?

Such decisions.

A few days ago, he’d helped an owner of a multimillion-dollar lumber company decide if he had sufficient capital to buy out a competitor who’d fallen on hard times.

Rick walked the carafe back to the sink, holding it out like a stinky diaper. As he fixed the next pot, he heard voices over his shoulder. Elderly ladies. Must have come in while the water was running. He turned to see them. They were by the greeting cards two aisles over. All he could see were the tops of their hairdos, both curly, one silver, the other darker.

He sighed when he recognized their voices. Molly and Fran, if he remembered right. They reminded him of Lucy and Ethel from
I Love Lucy
, if the show had gone on another twenty years. He probably should acknowledge them in some way. He pushed the start button and walked over but stopped one aisle back and listened to their conversation.

“Molly, how come none of these cards say ‘Good Luck’ or ‘Best Wishes’?”

“What?”

“Can’t find a single card that says ‘Good Luck on Your Birthday.’ Birthday cards always say that . . . or ‘Best Wishes.’”

“We don’t believe in luck or sending wishes.”

“We don’t?”

“Not anymore. We’re Christians, Fran. Christians don’t believe in such things.”

“We don’t? I’ve been sending cards all my life wishing people good luck. What’s the harm?”

“No harm, it’s just . . . well, it’s just stupid.”

“Good luck is stupid?”

“Think about it, dear. You think there’s some big luck dispenser in the sky? What . . . some luck angel or luck elf fills up a glass and sprinkles it over people they like?”

“I suppose it is rather silly,” Fran said. “But I’ve had bad luck all my life. You know that. You always say, ‘You’re the unluckiest person I know.’”

“Well, I don’t say it anymore.”

“No, I suppose you don’t. So what do you figure happened to all my bad luck then?”

“Nothing happened. Your bad luck never happened. You want me to say it? Okay, I was wrong. You’re not the unluckiest person I know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Now, please, can we just pick out a card?”

“Okay, but most of these are red and green. They look more like Christmas cards.”

“That’s because they are, dear. Come over to this rack.”

“Oh,” said Fran. They quietly worked their way through the cards. Then Fran said, “The thing is . . . I’ve always believed I
was
unlucky. It kinda made sense. I don’t know what I’m supposed to think now.”

“Are you still harping on that?” said Molly. “Now, see, whatever it was you had, it wasn’t bad luck. And it’s all in the past now, washed by the blood.”

“Amen, sister,” said Fran. She paused a moment, then got the biggest smile.

Rick, standing one aisle back, just shook his head.

Who are these people?

Rick thought better of interrupting the two sisters with some pretentious greeting, so he walked down the aisle, got behind the counter. Made just enough noise so they’d know he was there. He looked through a small stack of LPs, the records Andrea had used to make up the ninety-minute cassettes playing through the store. She’d said folks would often come up and ask who was singing this or that song. Then they’d go right over and buy the album.

Except for a few big names from the real world—like Johnny Cash or BJ Thomas—Rick hadn’t heard of a single one. He was reading the back of an album cover when Molly came up to greet him.

She set a birthday card on the counter. “It’s Rick, right?”

“Yes. Will that be all for you today?” He hoped a courteous, professional demeanor might forestall any chitchat.

“This’ll be it for me, but Fran back there . . . she’s feeling guilty about just buying Madeline a card. Me? I don’t think Madeline will mind. Now, I will buy her a Christmas present in a couple of weeks.” She leaned across the counter as if to whisper, but it still came out pretty loud. “Truth is, Fran’ll feel guilty with just one of us giving Madeline a birthday present. She’ll write on the gift tag that it’s from both of us, so I come out ahead either way.”

Rick forced a smile. “Want me to ring this up, or do you want to wait for her and pay together?”

“Heavens no, ring it up. She’s got her money, I’ve got mine.”

He rang it up, told her the price. She handed him a five, and he gave her change. Rick put the card in a bag and handed it to Molly. She was staring at him.

“Trying to see whether you look more like Leanne or Art,” she said.

“It would have to be Leanne. Art’s not my father.”

“You don’t say. Well, that was going to be my guess anyways. Could have come from either one, though, and you’d have turned out fine. Best folks I ever met, Art and Leanne. Changed our lives for good a year back.” She leaned forward and loud-whispered, “Especially for Fran there.”

Molly was about to unload on him. He could feel it. He was trapped.

“See, we’d come in here off and on, like today, and get a gift for someone. Most of our friends are churchgoers. But we’d been going to a church all our lives that never explained anything. Very traditional. Guess they figured they taught us all we needed as kids. Anyway, we believed in God, even believed in Jesus, but poor Fran here was so unhappy. All the time. Never smiled. Lived all alone till my poor Bill died a few years ago, then she moved in with me.”

Please . . . someone come through that door. Someone call on the phone
.

“I knew what it was made her so unhappy. But she’d never talk to me.” Molly leaned forward again. “Happened during World War II. She was in love with a guy named Hank. She wanted them to get married. He wanted to wait till he got back from the war. But a few nights before he shipped out, they got a little too close, if you get my meaning.”

Why was she telling him this? No wonder Fran didn’t talk to her.

“Poor ol’ Hank got himself killed at Iwo Jima, and Fran was sure God was punishing her for what they’d done. And because of it, she never married, though she had plenty of takers. She lived under the guilt of that thing right up until one of our visits here to the Book Nook a year back.”

Rick looked over at Fran. How long can a woman take to pick out the right knickknack?

“We’d come in here, and each time your folks treated us so nice. Your mom especially took an interest in Fran. Like she could see the hurt in her eyes. She took it real slow, asked Fran some questions, never too personal. Served us that delicious coffee. Sometimes with muffins. And there was always this beautiful music playing. After a few visits, I could see Fran warming up to her.”

Rick had a thought. “Speaking of coffee, I just made a fresh pot. Care for a cup?”

“Maybe when Fran gets up here. Anyway, one of those visits—I’ll remember this day as long as I live—we had just sat down for coffee. Art was up front here watching the counter. Nobody in the store but us. Next thing I know, Fran is telling Leanne all these deep things she’s lived with all these years, crying up a storm. Then I start crying. Leanne just sits there calmly, holding Fran’s hand, helping her get it all out till Fran had nothing left to say.”

Molly’s eyes were tearing up as she spoke. Rick saw a box of tissues next to the register and slid it over.

“Then Leanne opened up a Bible on the coffee table, read a few verses to Fran, and explained what they meant. She said, ‘Fran, you see what this is saying? God doesn’t want you living your whole life carrying all that guilt over your sin. That’s why he sent Jesus. He punished Jesus for what we’ve done. That’s what the gospel’s all about. Us putting faith in what he did for us on the cross. God doesn’t hate you, Fran. He loves you . . . right this very minute and for the rest of your life.’”

Molly picked up a tissue and dabbed her eyes. Just about then, Fran came walking up full of smiles. She noticed Molly with the tissues. “Now, what in the world?”

“I’m just telling Rick here about that day his mama changed our lives.”

“Figured it had to be something to get you in such a state.” She set her card and two Precious Moments figurines on the counter. “Both your mom and your dad are—”

“Art’s not his daddy,” Molly said. “He’s your stepdad, right?”

Rick nodded.

“Well, as I was saying, Art and Leanne are the dearest couple we’ve ever known. Molly and I were just saying that yesterday over morning coffee.”

“And we meant it,” Molly added. “Then we said a prayer for Art. A long one.”

Fran looked Rick straight in the eye and said, “It’s wonderful meeting you, Rick. But I gotta tell you, it’s hard not to think of Art standing there behind that counter.” She reached for a tissue.

“Oh, stop now, Fran. I just got cleaned up. Now you got me going again.” Molly reached for a tissue.

Rick felt nothing, except a strong hope that this visit was about to wrap up. Felt if he said a single warm or friendly thing, it would never stop. “So will this be all for you?”