The Red Gloves Collection (4 page)
E
dith Badgett’s heart had ached for her missing son since the day he disappeared. The fact that she was an old woman and her son a man in his fifties did nothing to ease Edith’s pain.
It made it worse.
Life didn’t wait forever. She knew that better than most people. If Earl didn’t come home soon, if he didn’t call or leave a message or write a letter, she and Paul might not be around when he did. They were pushing eighty now, and neither of them in good health.
Edith lowered herself into a chair by the window and stared out, the same way she did every morning. It was December already. Five years since that awful day when their family had changed forever. She drew a shaky breath and dismissed the memories; they were not welcome, not now or ever. She and Paul had spent enough time grieving. There was precious little time left, and she refused to spend it dwelling on a moment in time she could do nothing about.
She reached for her leather journal and the blue pen she kept tucked inside. The book held hundreds of lined pages, but after nearly five years most of them were written on, filled with letters she’d penned to Earl. At first the letters had been about the tragedy of that long-ago afternoon. But eventually Edith wrote about other things—Earl’s childhood, his high school days, the feelings she had for him and wasn’t sure she’d told him.
The times he had lost since leaving.
Earl’s brother and sister still lived in Redding, still came by every few weeks for Sunday dinner or a game of Hearts. There were nieces and nephews and whole seasons of life that Earl was missing.
But … maybe he wasn’t missing them. Maybe he was delusional or drugged or even dead.
Edith found the first blank page and began to write. Today she wanted to talk about Christmas. Christmas had been Earl’s favorite time of year, after all. The time when he had always seemed most like the little boy he’d once been.
Dear Earl.
She paused and gazed out the window once more.
Where is he? How is he getting along?
For a moment she closed her eyes and remembered him the way he’d been before he left.
Come home, son. Please. Before it’s too late.
She blinked her eyes open and returned her attention to the matter at hand. Slowly her pen began to move across the page.
It’s December again and I must tell you, son, my hope is strongest at this time of the year. I picture you, somewhere out there, and know that wherever you are you know this much: Special things happen at Christmas. I hope—wherever you are—you’re still thinking of us, Earl. We’re still here—your father and I. Still waiting for your return.
Still watching the door.
A single tear fell on the page and Edith gave it a delicate brush of her fingers. She had never been a praying woman; she didn’t figure it mattered much whether some sort of silent words went up to a God who maybe didn’t exist. But days like this she almost wished she did believe.
She reached for a tissue and wiped it beneath her eyes. As she did, Paul entered the room and quietly took the seat beside her.
“Writing to Earl?”
She nodded and met his eyes. No matter how much time passed, she and Paul had promised each other they would not forget their youngest son. They would continue to hope for his well-being, and most of all for his return. They would keep watch for him and believe with each passing season that one day he would come home.
Paul stroked his wrinkled chin and turned to the front walkway. “It’s Christmastime again.”
“Yes.” Edith closed the journal. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Every Christmas since he left—” Paul took a quick breath. He was winded more often now, weaker than he’d been even a year ago. “—I tell myself this is the year. He’ll find his way home. Walk up the sidewalk and make Christmas perfect. Like it used to be.”
This was what she loved about Paul. He shared his heart with her. So many men couldn’t, wouldn’t do that. But not Paul. They had cherished each of their fifty-seven years of marriage because they were first and always friends. Best friends.
She reached over and laid her hand on Paul’s. “Maybe this is the Christmas.”
Normally, when she made a statement like that, Paul would smile and agree with her. After all, they had nothing if they didn’t have hope. But this morning Paul’s eyes narrowed. After a long pause, he gave a shake of his head. “I don’t think so, Edith. Not this time.”
The corners of Edith’s mouth dropped. “What?”
He stared at her and what she saw in his eyes left a pit in her stomach. Paul didn’t have to answer her. His eyes told her exactly what he didn’t want to say.
After five Decembers without Earl—without hearing from him or having any idea where he was—Paul had given up. The thought grieved Edith deeply. Because Paul’s hopelessness could only mean one thing. He no longer expected Earl to come home. Not this Christmas or next.
Not ever.
T
he red gloves had been gone for five weeks, and Earl no longer recognized himself.
Always before there had been a remnant deep within him, a small shadowy bit of the man he’d once been. But not now.
He glanced around the mission, grabbed a plate, and headed for his corner table. His hair was wet and his bones ached more than usual. In the days since he’d been robbed, Earl hadn’t been able to find a tarp. Instead he’d ripped apart an old cardboard box and used that to shield himself from the rain and ice. He was fighting a cold, and a cough that seemed worse every day. But he didn’t care. So what if his lungs filled with fluid? If he was lucky, it would kill him in his sleep. Then he wouldn’t have to look for a way to die.
That’s what his life had come to: looking for a way to end it. He could beg a few dollars, buy a bottle of wine, and throw himself in front of a bus. Or hole up beneath his stairwell and never come out, not for food or water or anything.
But neither plan seemed like a sure thing.
The only certainty was that he would never see his girls again.
Though he had long ago given up on life, Earl had still harbored a thought that somehow his family was in heaven. And that if he came around at some point and let D.J. pray for him, maybe, just maybe, he’d wind up there, too. Then they could spend eternity together. Not that he’d ever regularly entertained the thought of eternity, even before he was robbed. Still, it had been there. Lying dormant in the shallow soil of his heart.
But not anymore.
The red gloves were all he’d had, the only thing that had mattered. What kind of God would take his family and then his will to live? No, the whole God thing was a pipe dream—a crutch that helped people through the frightening valley of death.
Well, that was fine for other people, but not Earl. He didn’t need any help. He
wanted
to find death. Wanted it so badly it was all he thought about anymore. How he could do it… where … when …
He stared at his plate. Stew again. There was a stale roll beside the mound of mushy meat and potatoes, but only one. The mission must be losing money. Usually they gave two rolls. Maybe he should go back and get another one, before they ran out.
He looked up. And there, standing beside his table, was a young girl whose soulful eyes took his breath away. “Hello, sir.” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Can I get you anything?”
She was small—underweight, even—and she wore a woolen beret. Her brown hair was thin and scraggly, and her clothing was faded. She was definitely not the most beautiful child Earl had ever seen.
But there was something about her eyes. Something almost angelic.
Don’t look at me that way, kid.
Earl kept the words to himself and let his gaze fall to his plate again. Kids worked at the mission now and then, but they always left him alone. He expected this girl to back away, but instead she took a step closer.
“Sir?” The child stood there, unmoving. “I said, is there anything I can get you?”
Earl planted his fork into a piece of meat and lifted his eyes to hers once more. “They only gave me one roll.”
Again she smiled. “That’s easy. I’ll get you another one.”
She walked off, slower than most children. He watched her approach the line, take an empty plate, and slip two dinner rolls onto it. Then she carried the plate back to him, set it down, and waited.
“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” Her voice was gentle, like a summer breeze.
“Leave me alone, kid.”
The girl hesitated for a moment, then pulled out the chair opposite Earl and sat down. “My name’s Gideon.” She scooted her chair in. “What’s yours?”
Earl didn’t know whether to yell at the kid or get up and find a new table. Maybe if he answered her question, she’d go away. “Earl.”
“It’s only three weeks till Christmas, Earl. Did you know that?”
Christmas?
Why was the girl here? There had to be a dozen old ladies in the room who would enjoy a conversation with her. Why him? He swallowed a bite of stew and let his eyes meet hers for a brief moment. “I hate Christmas.”
He expected that would do the trick. Tell most kids you hate Christmas and they’d get the hint. But not this girl. She clasped her hands neatly on top of the table and stared at him. “My daddy and I were talking about the perfect Christmas. You know—if you could have the perfect Christmas, what it would be like.” She waited. “Wanna know mine?”
His meal was half finished, so there was no point looking for a new table. Maybe she’d leave if he said nothing. He took a bite of the roll and lowered his eyes.
The child was undaunted. She took a quick breath and continued. “A perfect Christmas would have a real tree that reached almost to the ceiling, with twinkly lights and a star that lit up the room. And a fire truck for my brother, Dustin, and a brand-new doll with golden hair and a lacey dress … for me.” She drummed her fingers lightly along the edge of the table, completely at ease. “How ‘bout you, Earl? What’s your perfect Christmas?”
The girl’s question did unexpected things to his heart. His throat grew thick. He had to set his roll down and take a swig of water. The perfect Christmas … For the briefest instant he could see it all the way it had been, year after year after year. Him and his family around the Christmas tree, celebrating and—
A burning anger rose up and stopped the memory short. Earl stared at the girl one more time. Who was she, anyway, and what right did she have asking him questions? “Get lost, kid.”
The child blinked, but her eyes remained the same. Deeper than the river that ran through downtown.
“Daddy and I prayed for a Christmas miracle. My teacher says Christmas miracles happen to those who believe. If I can’t have a new dolly, a miracle would be pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Listen.” A stale sigh eased between Earl’s weathered lips. “I eat my meals alone.”
“Oh.” The child pushed her chair back and stood. “I’ll leave.” There was a sorrow in her expression that hadn’t been there before. Something about it gave Earl a pinprick of guilt. Like he owed the child an apology.
The feeling passed as quickly as it came.
As she turned to leave, the girl tried one last time. “Maybe if you believed, God would give you a Christmas miracle, too.”
This time Earl raised his voice. “I don’t believe in anything.” He slammed his cup down. “Now leave me alone.”
F
rom across the mission mess hall, Brian Mercer worked the food line and kept an eye on Gideon. She had lived up to her promise, finding ways to make the tired, weary street people smile as she moved from one table to the next.
But not the old man.
Brian had watched Gideon as she got the man a few dinner rolls and then as she sat down across from him. Clearly the man didn’t want Gideon’s company. But how dare he shout at her? Brian had to fight back his own anger.
What type of miserable man could do that to a child? A. child who’s only trying to help?
Brian was about to go find out when D.J. came up beside him. The two of them had gone to high school together and been friends as far back as Brian could remember.
D.J. pointed in the old man’s direction. “That’s Earl.”
“Oh, yeah?” The frustration in his friend’s voice told Brian everything he needed to know about the man. “He yelled at Gideon.”
“I know.” D.J. frowned. “I saw it.”
Brian shifted his attention to his daughter. She had crossed the room and was working beside Tish. Her energy seemed half what it had been before. “She wanted to make him smile.”
D.J. pursed his lips and exhaled hard. “No one ever reaches old Earl.”
“If he can yell at a kid like Gideon, no one ever will.”
Gideon crossed the room and came toward them. Brian wanted to shake the old man for taking the bounce out of her step.
“I tried, Daddy.” She pointed at the man in the corner. He was hunched over his food, shoveling it in as though the table had a time limit. “But I can’t make Earl smile.”
Brian clenched his jaw and waited until his anger subsided. “Forget about him, Gideon. Look at all the people who did smile.” He lowered himself to her level. “You were great out there. Those people came for a plate of food and instead they got a cup of happiness.”
Gideon’s dimples deepened and her sorrow lifted somewhat. “Earl needs a whole bucketful.”
D.J. took a step closer. “Don’t worry about him, Gideon. We’ve all tried to reach old Earl. He’s not a happy man, honey. Believe me, it would take a miracle to make him smile.”
Gideon’s mouth hung open for a moment, her eyes wider than before. She turned to her father, her voice filled with awe. “What did he say?”
Clanging came from the kitchen as volunteers washed the dishes. Brian moved closer to his daughter so she could hear him. “He said it would take a miracle.”
“Good.” Gideon’s eyes lit up and she turned to look at Earl again. He had dropped his plate in the tub of dirty dishes and was making his way out into the cold, dark night. “That’s what I thought.”
And with that, she skipped off toward another table of street people. Her energy seemed to have returned as quickly as it had left. Brian wondered why. Whatever thoughts were going through Gideon’s head, he hoped they had nothing to do with old Earl.