A Christmas Hope (27 page)

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Authors: Joseph Pittman

BOOK: A Christmas Hope
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And that's when Thomas Van Diver took from his sack of toys a thin, hardcover volume, opening it up with a slight squeak from age, the other hand pushing his glasses atop the bridge of his nose. Brian stood beside him to assist if needed, having transformed himself from best man to helpful elf faster than the revolution of the windmill's sails. After a quick check of his green-suited Santa, all systems were good to go. Thomas cleared his throat, the only sound in all of Linden Corners, and, with a crowd of children gathered on a blanket inside the gazebo and countless others gathered on steps and in the field around them, he began to read....
“Twas the night before Christmas. . . .”
The village of Linden Corners listened rapt with attention, even Buster and Baxter, who lay quietly, almost sensing the reverence that spread through Memorial Park, throughout the entire village. Brian, too, listened, even as his gaze fell elsewhere, far down Main Street and back toward the farmhouse, and in his mind he saw a flash of light, as though the windmill had suddenly burst back to life, vibrant once more against its former black backdrop. Perhaps it was only in his hopeful dreams, or perhaps it was true. Regardless, he knew that his world was filled with an energy powered by something more than electricity, love in its many forms swirled all around them, sweeping across the land like in an all-encompassing wind. Yes, Annie was here, he thought, and she wasn't alone. George, too, and maybe Dan Sullivan and maybe even Lisbeth and Lars Van Diver, Mary Wilkinson and her father, Chester, and perhaps even the artist, Alexander Casey, and Philip Duncan, a brother who had first taught Brian the meaning of Christmas. They all hadn't come just for a visit, because like life itself they arrived with a purpose, carrying with them mysteries that could only be understood in the world in which they thrived.
“When are you going to be back?”
“Before you wake up in the morning,” Brian said. “Just after Santa's visit.”
Janey Sullivan scrunched up her freckled nose, just like she always managed to do when she didn't understand or just plain didn't like something. “Are you sure about that, Dad? I mean, your track record with Christmas morning isn't exactly stellar.”
Brian laughed. “Guess I didn't have to get you a dictionary for Christmas,” he said.
“So I'll stay at Cynthia's then, right?”
“Uh, no, not tonight, sweetie,” Brian said.
“Why not?” she said, disappointment in her voice.
“Sometimes, sweetie, you have to allow families to have their special moments together. This is Cynthia and Bradley's first Christmas with Jake, so we should let them establish some new traditions of their own that Jake will remember for the rest of his life. Like you have, like I have, and now like we both have. So let's leave them some privacy; and don‘t worry, we'll see them later in the day tomorrow, we have to—we have gifts for them all. By the way, you did a beautiful job tonight with Jake, I barely heard a peep out of him.”
“Jake and I, we've got a really strong bond, he listens to me,” Janey said. “But if I'm not staying at the Knights, where am I staying?”
“With Gerta, of course,” Brian said. “And Travis.”
“And Nora?”
“No, actually, Nora is coming with me.”
“So, you do like her,” Janey said.
Brian just ruffled the little girl's hair; she was always looking for motives behind every little moment. “Can we leave that discussion to another time? Right now she and I have to keep a promise we made.”
“Helping Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“That's a good thing, Brian.”
“Well, thank you, Janey, I hope so,” he said. “And you know, your understanding of why I need to do this, it's just the best Christmas gift you could give. To me, and to Thomas.”
“I liked the book he read, it had such pretty pictures,” Janey said. “Now I get why Thomas wore a green suit tonight, weird as it was.”
A short pang of regret hit Brian in the gut, knowing the book's ownership was somewhat in doubt. Not that Janey knew anything about its existence beyond Thomas's possession of it, but had she known the book was a gift to her from her father—the last gift she would ever receive from him and that it had been up in the attic all this time, he wasn't quite sure how she would react. The parallel of the two fathers and their final gifts to their children hit too close to home. So for now, what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Christmas Day would be all about her, but for now, Christmas Eve, the promise lay with him and Nora fulfilling the dreams of an old man who had come to town in hopes of finding his past, succeeding beyond his wildest imagination. He was ready now to say good-bye in the only way he knew how.
It was seven o'clock when Brian and Nora and Thomas said good night, all of them back at Gerta's house for a quick cup of hot chocolate or coffee, anything to keep them going on this exhausting, long day. As the families exchanged hugs and assurances they would see each other in the morning, the three of them made their way toward Brian's truck.
“Not a chance I'm getting in that thing, not tonight,” Nora said. “Fifteen-minute trips here and there are fine, but not a three-hour journey on snowy roads.”
“What do you suggest?” Brian asked.
Nora pulled her keys from her coat pocket and tossed them at Brian. “You've so been wanting to drive my sporty little car ever since you rear-ended it on Halloween. Even though I still suspect you were the one who wasn't paying attention to where he was going that day, that's how much you liked my car. So here's your chance, Windmill Man, get behind the wheel of my red Mustang and take us into the wind.”
“Like Rudolph himself,” Brian said, happily.
They headed out of Gerta's driveway and down the road toward Main Street, eventually working their way west toward the Thruway, but before they even left Linden Corners they found a good-luck charm riding alongside them. In the open field near the village borders, there stood an old-style windmill, and not only were its sails turning in the gentle wind, it was all aglow with a powerful glow of white light. And even after it disappeared from the rearview mirror, its power fueled them onward, headed as they were into the darkness and into a night filled with sudden uncertainty. Brian was still unsure of what awaited them on the other side of this journey, but he put his trust in Thomas, just as the man had done with him.
There were mysteries still to uncover.
C
HAPTER
21
T
HOMAS
H
e had shared the story of his life with so few people, but now, on the eve of his eighty-fifth birthday, Thomas found himself wondering why he had maintained such a tight aura of privacy for all these years, more the past few months. His world had been a small one to begin with, just he and his parents in a big farmhouse on a piece of land dotted by an old windmill, and then one day it grew smaller still, just he and his mother, the larger world having swallowed his father and in turn a piece of Thomas he would never recover. Even when they went to live with his maternal grandparents, the boy with the big name had kept to himself, quiet and studious. Was it any wonder he had grown up to be a college literature professor, immersed in stories told to and written in the past? He was never happier than when lost amidst endless stacks of other people's lives. Until the day he had met her, and she had opened up one part of himself he thought was closed forever.
His heart.
Her name was Melissa Dinegar, yet to him and him alone she was his “Missy,” and from the moment their hands had touched upon the same volume in the school library—a gilt-edged, leather-bound edition of Miguel Cervantes's
Don Quixote,
he knew his life had shifted to a new axis. They shared a nervous laugh and each tried to offer the other the book, and when Thomas admitted with a sheepish grin that, “I've already read it,” the woman with the dazzling smile and the sorrowful eyes he would come to call Missy said, “Me, too, three times. There's something about Quixote's fanciful lunacy that continues to appeal to me, the way he sees enemies when it's only windmills he is fighting.”
“Tilting,” Thomas had said to her, “the phrase in the text is tilting at windmills,” and he said it again now, to Brian and Nora, his story flowing out of him with images of literary allusion making it all seem like a fairy tale. “Something I felt I did, too, always battling against enemies I could never see, and when in college I read the misadventures of Quixote and Sancho, it was like Cervantes himself was talking to me. I could picture the windmill, of course, and why not? I had been born under one's shadow, and even though Linden Corners was far from my life, it was never gone from my mind. For much of my youth, that Christmas memory defined me and so when it came to starting anew with Missy at my side, I knew there was only one way to close out the past. We were married, like Mark and Sara tonight, on Christmas Eve.”
For the past two hours, the three of them had journeyed in near darkness, with only the headlights of the Mustang guiding their way. Few other cars were on the road, and why would they be, this was a night in which to travel the sky by sleigh, powered not by six-horse engines but by eight magical, flying reindeer—nine, if you were to believe another fanciful, magical tale of overcoming adversity. Brian concentrated on the road, Nora sat with her head turned, focused on Thomas's face, encouraging him to keep telling his story. The way they both looked at him, with such comfort settled within their giving eyes, he held nothing back, letting go his tight grip on his controlled life. How good it felt to share his life, and not just with anybody. With these two, two souls who had given so much of themselves to provide him his dreams.
“And so she agreed to marry you on Christmas Eve?” Nora asked.
“Just a few of us, my mother and a friend, under a star-lit sky, where Missy and I exchanged our vows. Not unlike tonight—without the fire engine, of course,” he said, his face glowing with the memory of that long-ago night. He spoke of the way her hand had felt in his, their connection unlike anything he had ever felt, her kiss when they were pronounced man and wife as thrilling a feeling as any, sweeter than any strawberry pie. “We never had any children, not in all those years together, and I suppose neither of us ever questioned it—sure, we wondered why our little world continued to grow ever smaller, but we left our lives up to the fates, as it had seemed they were in control from the very beginning anyway. We lived a lovely life together, we traveled and we taught—she at the elementary level, trying to instill in students a good study ethic, me at the college level trying to undo all the bad habits from the middle years—and we made a good team. The best team. We traveled and we celebrated the joy of having found each other each and every Christmas, and I was determined that this year would be no different. No, that's not exactly true.” He paused, holding the book in his grasp, still unbelieving that after the mistake of eighty years ago, leaving it behind in the attic, that it was once again in his possession. He had gained something, even as he stood to lose something more precious.
“Perhaps our Christmas Eve wedding was a way for us to mark all our celebrations in a short period of time—as you know, I am a Christmas baby, and Missy was born on New Year's. So in the span of two weeks we could dispense with all yearly celebrations, then spend the rest of our days doing as we wished without the burden of gifts. That's how in sync Missy and I were, how much she knew me, and I her. She need only look deep into my eyes to know what I was thinking, and indeed last Christmas she saw something new. Neither of us was getting any younger, that's what she said, and so she urged me to finally search for the book—‘before it's too late, Tommy.' Did I tell you that she called me Tommy? I never thought of myself as anyone but Thomas, strait-laced, thoughtful. But that's how much another person can change you, can claim you . . . Tommy and Missy, childlike names in adults who had never given rest to a lost past.”
“She was the woman,” Nora finally said.
“What woman is that?” Thomas asked.
“The woman Elliot mentioned,” she said. “He told me of this woman who had called him asking about the Casey edition of
Twas,
but she never identified herself... oh, last summer or so, wouldn't you say, Brian? She inquired about the antique edition.”
“He said six months ago,” Brian said.
Thomas smiled. “That would be my Missy.”
“Elliot said he never heard from her again,” Nora said. “What happened?”
“That, my dear,” Thomas said, “is what you're about to find out.”
“And soon,” Brian added. “We just hit New York.”
The view was different from that of the train rides he had taken the past months, as Brian eased them over to the East Side of Manhattan. Thomas could see the tight look on Brian's face, almost as though he knew in which direction to drive but his body was resisting it for some reason. He knew Brian had lived here once upon a time, but Thomas didn't know the details and as he'd said before, we all have stories within us, we tell them when the time is right. Tonight, the tale belonged to Thomas, and more so to his beloved Missy, and he felt his heart beat with fresh anticipation. For so long he had imagined this night when they came together in wedded harmony, neither of them knowing what the future held, not beyond the next minute or hour, day or coming year. Now somehow here he was, ninety minutes from the clock forcing his eighty-fifth year upon him and he didn't know how he'd gotten so old, much less how his Missy had landed in her condition. One day you wake to sunshine, then you blink and the rain has begun to fall . . . or in the case of Linden Corners, the snow.
Only a light snow was falling over the city, the skyline bright against dark clouds.
Brian swept the car off the exit ramp of the FDR drive, making his way toward the Upper East Side. Thomas directed him at Ninety-sixth Street, and it was almost like he didn't need to, Brian's instincts taking over, on the ramp and onto the turn to the usually busy thoroughfare, tonight nearly empty as the city that never slept dozed. Down Second Avenue they drove, looking past buildings where lights dotted balconies that rose far into the sky, at businesses that were shutting down for the night; at Ninetieth Street, a vendor of Christmas trees was packing up the few remaining unsold trees. Christmas Day was just a short while away, plans were made, decorations in place. All that waited the world were gifts to be opened.
Thomas directed them to First Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street, Brian easily finding a parking spot along the street; only a major holiday would afford him such a lucky privilege. As Thomas made his way onto the street with the aid of Nora, Brian came around to join them. He looked up, all around him, let out a heavy sigh.
“You okay, Brian?”
“I lived here . . . not far from here. For many years before Linden Corners came calling.”
Nora came up to him. “You miss it?”
A cab drove by, honked its horn at another.
Brian laughed. “Not at all.”
Before they took a step toward the building on the corner named the Melton Home for the Aged, all three of them stopped. Thomas clutched the book again, ensuring it was still with him. Still real. As he went toward the entrance, he saw both Brian and Nora remain in place.
“Thomas, I think this is as far as we go, the rest of the night . . . it's yours.”
Brian looked at Nora, who agreed, although with a bit of reluctance.
Thomas knew it couldn't end like this, he couldn't leave the two of them on the street, not after the story he had told. It had no ending. “Nonsense, you've come this far, I can't just send you back to Linden Corners now.” He smiled broadly, as though he had truly just opened up his world. “Brian Duncan, Nora Rainer, come upstairs and meet my Missy.”
 
So they followed him into the tastefully decorated lobby, where an eight-foot Christmas tree glistened in the corner; all three of them were greeted warmly by the staff inside the nursing home, were guided toward the elevator. Up to the seventh floor they went, the doors opening up and allowing them a chance to step out. Thomas walked with determined strides down to the very end of the hall, not even stopping to say hello to the nurses on duty; it was a skeletal staff tonight anyway, so they arrived at the room without even being noticed. Thomas wasn't sure of the visiting hours for guests, but rules were his least concern now.
He opened the door to a near-darkened room, a lone night-light throwing off a soft glow upon the quiet figure lying in the bed. A machine beeped, air seeped out with a gentle hiss. Making his way beside her, he leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“Happy anniversary, my dear,” he said in hushed tones that somehow held joy. A fresh tear trickled down his cheek. “And merry Christmas.”
Taking up his usual seat beside her bed, he set the book down on the table and reached for her hand. His warmth spread to her cool touch, and he believed he could feel her blood pulse anew beneath her sallow skin. Her eyes were closed, as they always were; she hadn't opened them in months, not since the first stroke had silenced her. Yet he still clung to the hope that she could hear him, that with each visit to her side he kept her living that much longer. He felt the touch of hands upon his brittle shoulders, looked up to see Nora. Brian was next to her, and the expression of sorrow on his face made Thomas wonder if this was evoking some other memory within him. Was he recalling Annie, the woman he and that sweet Janey had lost? Had he been selfish in bringing Brian here, Nora, too? She was not without loss, her father a couple of summers ago. She should be home with her son, and Brian with his daughter, not with an old man with only the past to cling to.
“I'm sorry,” Thomas said.
“No, no,” Nora said, “it's us who are sorry. For what you've had to endure, and alone.”
“Such is my nature, for as long as I could remember, it was me, and then me and Missy.”
“That's no longer true,” Brian said. “You have us, you have Linden Corners.”
“Ah yes, Linden Corners. It was Missy's idea to go back, though of course the plan was for us both to live there, that was . . . until the first stroke. She couldn't survive on her own, and so once I decided to follow through with her idea of finding my childhood again, I knew she had to be as close to me as possible. This was the best facility I could find within easy travel,” Thomas said. “Well, since you're here, allow me to make some introductions.”
So he did, Missy Van Diver quiet as Brian, then Nora said hello.
Thomas smiled as new connections were made, a strong bond made stronger by a world created by the windmill. Yes, he had seen it glowing once again when they left town, and he felt he could feel its power now, reminding him of the boy who used to run like the wind down the hill, that boy being himself, and then he thought of the young girl who embraced the same magic, how on this night when she should have been with her family she was alone, and it was his fault. He had wanted so badly to be with his Missy, he had selfishly forgotten that other people had loved ones to be with.
“Brian, Nora, I think this is where our stories must come to an end,” he said. “I have one last promise to keep to my wife, and you have promises of your own. Christmas Day is here, the clock has just struck midnight, and hours away sleep your children, both of whom are still filled with the wonder of Christmas morning, and so I urge you . . . please, go be with them. I will be fine. This night has held so many unexpected surprises already, playing Santa to the children of Linden Corners and being a part of another Christmas Eve wedding . . . and most of all, sharing with everyone my memory of this book . . . one I treasured when my father presented it to me . . . one I tossed away in anger against the world, without regard to how I would one day feel. Hang on to what's precious in this world, just as I am doing here. I have my Missy. You, Nora, you have Travis and he needs you, even as he claims to how grown he is. And Brian, that sweet piece of preciousness that is Janey Sullivan, how lucky you are, you and she and that old home that has shared so many memories, you have so many more to make. The windmill that spun back before I was a child and continues to do so, bridges generations as it seeks out the link between past, present, and yes, future, keep its spirit alive. So go and share your holidays, and I will see you soon . . . I promise. You blessed an old man with so much, with today, and with the hope of tomorrow, but mostly,” and then he paused to pick up the antique edition of
The Night before Christmas or A Visit from Saint Nicholas,
then said, “but mostly, what you gave me was what I was seeking all along. The past.”

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