Remembering Christmas (2 page)

That was also part of the deal. JD never went inside.

Both of them knew JD didn’t buy any books. Art said that the way JD looked and some of the things he did scared people away, ones that did buy books. Art said it real nice, with that pleasant face he had, and JD didn’t feel bad about it. Art had this way about him; whether saying something negative or positive, it always came out positive. Some of the downtown store owners would just yell at JD if he hung around too long, or threaten to call the cops.

This arrangement wasn’t bad at all.

He looked around the corner again. Nothing.

“I think you should go inside,” said a deep voice behind him. JD didn’t even turn around. He recognized the voice instantly: his friend Taylor.

“I’m not supposed to,” JD said. “You know that.”

“But something is wrong,” said Taylor. “Clearly.”

“What if I go in there and he comes in and finds me, and that’s it? No more Egg McMuffins.”

“That won’t happen,” said Taylor. “You know he’s not like that.”

Taylor was right. Art wasn’t like that. JD turned and looked up at his friend, who was over six feet tall. “Anyone ever tell you, you look just like that new president? You know, the actor.”

“Ronald Reagan,” Taylor said.

“That’s him,” said JD. “’Course, you’re way younger.”

“You’re just changing the subject.”

JD turned around and peeked at the stairwell again. He looked up. Beyond the corner, it was like the whole world disappeared. He hated fog. “I just want to give it another minute. He doesn’t come then, I’ll go check the door.”

“Fine,” Taylor said. “But I think you’re making a mistake.” A few seconds later, “You can call me Ronald if you’d like.”

JD ignored him. Usually if he did that long enough, Taylor would disappear. Art could never see Taylor, and JD found that strange. But then so many people couldn’t see Taylor. Once, when he first started coming around, Taylor was standing right next to him when Art gave him his Egg McMuffin. JD felt bad that Taylor didn’t have one, had asked Art for a dollar to go buy him one. Art had just smiled, looked right through Taylor, and said, “Now, JD, you and I both know you’re not asking for a dollar to buy another egg sandwich.” Strange.

Well, it was time. JD looked at his watch again. Just a few minutes before 9:00. Something had to be wrong. He turned, but Taylor was already gone.

Fog or no fog, JD stepped out from behind the corner and walked along the sidewalk, looking every which way to see if anyone saw him. He was used to the stares. Everyone did the same thing: stared, looked away, stared some more, looked away. Through the mist he saw a few people across the street and the bottom half of a few more down at the intersection, but no one seemed to be heading this way or paying any attention. He headed down the six uneven stairs. Looked through the sheers covering the glass part of the door but couldn’t see anything. He wanted to knock but was afraid it would draw attention.

Just turn the knob.

It wasn’t Taylor’s voice, but it might as well have been. He listened, turned the knob, and the door opened right up. He slipped inside. The store was all lit like it should be, but he saw no one inside. There was the cash register on the short counter off to the left. Even had a miniature Christmas tree on the end. All sparkly. To his right, the four rows of books. In the far right corner was the little paneled office, where Art did his paperwork.

Right beside it, where he made that wonderful coffee.

JD walked down the last two steps, just inside the door. “Hello?” he called. “Anybody here? Art?”

He stepped farther inside. He noticed a black picture frame on the wall hanging to his left, about head high. It was that article Art had showed him a few months ago, the one the newspaper did about the Book Nook. Art said it was in the religion section. He’d clipped it out and his wife Leanne had framed it. There was a picture of the two of them, Art and Leanne, standing behind the counter, smiling.

JD started to read:

To churchgoers all over town and from every evangelical stream, the Book Nook seems more like an enchanted cottage than a bookstore. A harbor from the cares of life. Some call it a little slice of heaven. It is run from the basement of St. Luke’s Church downtown. “No matter what condition you may be in,” says patron Dorothy Parker, “when you walk down those uneven steps, and duck to avoid the low-hanging doorway, and spend whatever amount of time you need, you’ll walk out overwhelmed with a sense that you’ve encountered the presence of God.”

Most, if asked, could not tell you exactly why this is so. But if pressed, they will say it has everything to do with the owners, Art and Leanne Bell. This sweet couple, in equal parts and in their own way, seem to radiate the love of God. It’s on their face, in their eyes; it flows from their words. Some say you can even feel it in their touch. To be around them is to experience God’s grace.

JD stopped, suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing. It was now after 9:00. A customer could walk in at any moment. “Hello, Art? You in here?”

No answer.

He looked to the front door, thinking perhaps he should run right out, when he smelled the most wonderful smell. Coffee brewing from the back. Art had to be here. JD walked carefully down the first aisle. Noticed a red and silver garland of tinsel, in loops across the top shelf. Up ahead he saw a light on in the office. He was about to look inside but stopped. He didn’t hear anyone, not a sound. He looked down.

Oh no
.

There on the floor, sticking out through the doorway, a pair of legs. He recognized the pants and the shoes. “Art?”

No answer. He looked inside.

It was Art, unconscious on the floor.

He turned the car on. Instantly, the radio began blaring Johnny Mathis’s rendition of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

Rick Denton quickly pushed a cassette in to stop the madness. He liked Christmas music as much as the next guy, but, please, did they have to start so early in the year? It was just Thanksgiving yesterday. Now he remembered hearing something on Wednesday, a DJ saying something about playing Christmas music the entire four-day weekend.

A moment later, the soothing music, then the voice of Christopher Cross, filled the car. The song was “Sailing,” and Rick was quickly taken away to a much better place.

He started singing along. Had the road to himself, why not? After the tense meeting he’d just had with a client, he needed Christopher Cross way more than Johnny Mathis. He was supposed to be skiing right now, but his client had insisted they meet this morning, get things wrapped up so he could fly home to Pittsburgh. Rick was driving back to the CPA firm in Charlotte where he parked his desk every day. A simple plan from here. File a few things, write down a few notes while his thoughts were fresh. Then hit the slopes at Sugar Mountain, just a few hours northwest of town. His friends had been there since yesterday afternoon.

The chorus to “Sailing” came back around again
.

For the most part, Rick mangled the lyrics but sang like he knew them all, got close here and there. Felt he could just as easily trade out “sailing” for “skiing” and the song would work just as well. He loved doing both.

And he loved the fact that he had plenty of money to do both. He surveyed the insides of his Toyota Celica: leather interior, wood-grained dash, speakers in the front and back. Still had traces of the new car smell. He sat in that leather seat wearing a three-piece suit and the tie he’d taken fifteen minutes this morning to pick out.

How much he’d changed from a decade ago, when he’d fled home for college. Drove a VW van back then, hair halfway down his back, stoned almost every day before noon. He would have despised the man he’d become now. He was officially a sellout, part of the establishment.

Once more, the chorus of “Sailing” returned
.
He hummed along a few measures, tapped the dashboard, then belted out the end.

He
would
soon be free. Life was better now. Much better.

He turned right, left, stopped at traffic lights, threaded the mindless maze back to the office. Traffic was light the whole way, because everyone else was off. The parking garage formed the first three floors of the high-rise where he worked. It, too, was nearly empty.

He took the elevator to the tenth floor by himself. Then again, he wasn’t totally alone. He was joined by the Lennon Sisters singing a spirited rendition of “Winter Wonderland.” He stepped out and walked through the lonely halls until he reached the entrance to the firm.
In the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is Parson Brown
. How was he going to get this song out of his head?

There wasn’t even a receptionist at the front desk. He made his way past the open center section, a vast array of cubicles he’d been delivered from last year.
But you can do the job when you’re in town
. He heard a few typewriters clicking away somewhere near the middle, a welcome sound. As he turned the corner toward his office, he was surprised to see another human. A young clerk hired to assist a more senior accountant three doors down. She wasn’t unattractive, but not his type.

“Hi, Mr. Denton. Surprised to see you here.”

“Hello.” He’d forgotten her name. “Had one last appointment this morning. Just came in a minute to take care of a few odds and ends. How come you’re here?”

“Still under thirty days, so I only got yesterday off. But I don’t mind. Getting a lot done with no one around.”

He opened his office door and stepped inside.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind, but I left a note on your desk. The phone kept ringing every few minutes, so I figured it must be something important. Guess you forgot to turn your answering machine on.”

“Thanks.” He walked to his desk and set his briefcase down. He lifted a pink phone message from a brass spike, saw it was written at 10:30 a.m. About thirty minutes ago.

Your mother called. Said it was extremely urgent. Something about your father having a stroke and being in the hospital. She left this number, the hospital waiting room.

“Great.” Rick had spoken with his mother yesterday on Thanksgiving. It was like pulling teeth. She went on and on about the latest things happening down at their little store, how cute it was with the new Christmas decorations they added. Then she asked him all about the things going on in his life. He never knew what to say or how much. He loved her; she was his mom, but they had nothing in common. And he knew she wouldn’t approve of half the things he did if he told her the truth. He didn’t go to church. He drank too much and too often, had too many girlfriends, not the right kind.

He sighed, dialed the number.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice.

“Hi, my name is Rick Denton. Is this a hospital waiting room?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m looking for my mother, Leanne Bell. Is she there?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t work here, but let me check.”

He heard her voice, away from the mouthpiece, asking if anyone named Leanne Bell was there. Then some muffled reply.

“Someone said she’s here, but she’s in the room by her husband’s bed. They don’t allow phones back there. I’ll go ask the nurse to get her.”

“Uh, ma’am. If you don’t mind—” He heard a bump. Clearly, she had set the phone down. He waited for what felt like fifteen minutes.

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Rick? Is that you?” She started to cry.

“It’s me, Mom. I got your message.”

“I’m so scared, Rick. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Mom, just tell me what happened.”

She paused. He could hear her trying to catch her breath. “It’s your father. They think he had a stroke. I guess it happened sometime this morning, just after he got to the store.”

My father
. . . “How bad is it?”

“They don’t know yet. He isn’t responding at all. He’s alive. They’re saying his vital signs look good. But . . . I can’t talk to him, Rick. His eyes won’t open. He doesn’t even look at me when I talk to him.” She started crying again.

Rick knew that his plans to hit the slopes that afternoon had just collapsed. “Okay, Mom, listen.” He sighed. “Is anyone with you?”

“I’ve called some friends from church, but so far I haven’t been able to reach anyone.”

“Do you want me to come down there?” Of course she would, why even ask?

“I hate to bother you, Rick, but I’ve never been so scared. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him. And then there’s the store—who will run it? The doctor said it could be days before we know anything for sure, maybe longer. That’s if he survives.” Now she was sobbing.

“Well, I guess I could get down there for the weekend.”

“You’ll come?”

“Yes. I’m not sure I can get a plane because of the holiday. Probably take me the rest of the day to drive there.”