Christmas Bells (30 page)

“The one for the Alice Longfellow Creative Writing Competition? Of course I remember. It was excellent, and I say that as a professional.”

“The thing is . . .” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Remember the poem I put in it, about the choir? The good news is that Sister Winifred wants to print it in the programs for the Christmas Eve concert.”

“Charlotte, that's wonderful! Congratulations.”

“What's the bad news?” Alex demanded.

Charlotte prepared to speak—and discovered she couldn't.

“Honey?” Her mother threw her a wary glance before returning her gaze to the road. “There's something else?”

“The bad news is that Mrs. Collins thinks I plagiarized the poem.”

“What? How could she think that?”

Charlotte shrugged and knotted her fingers together in her lap, her eyes filling with tears.

“That's crazy,” said Alex. “You'd rather get run over by a car than cheat at school. You don't even need to cheat.”

“No one
needs
to cheat,” said their mother emphatically. “Charlotte, are you sure? Is it possible you misunderstood her?”

“No. Definitely not. You can read what she wrote on my paper. It's pretty clear.”

“That's preposterous.” Her mother gripped the steering wheel tightly and her voice carried an edge. “You've had straight A's since the first grade and she can't see fit to give you the benefit of the doubt?”

“I guess not.” Disbelieving, Charlotte peeped at her mother from the corner of her eye. Wasn't she going to ask if the poem was really hers? Without any evidence or cross-her-heart testimony, was her mother really going to side with Charlotte against a teacher? Grown-ups always believed one another before trusting a kid, or so she had always thought.

“Her poem is so good that Mrs. Collins thinks a real poet wrote it,” Alex speculated. “I mean, obviously.”

Their mother shook her head, her mouth tight, her expression indignant and angry. “It's a sign of something very wrong in our schools that students are penalized for doing too well.”

“Next time I'll throw in a few spelling mistakes,” said Charlotte glumly, but before her mother could protest, she quickly added, “I was just kidding.”

“Always do your very best work, both of you,” their mother emphasized. “Oh, sweetie, I can't believe this. What grade did you get?”

In a small voice, Charlotte said, “She gave me a C.”

“What?” cried Alex. “You got a C? You?”

“Alex,” their mother admonished, but she was too distracted to put much force behind it. “Charlotte, I'd like to read your teacher's comments tonight. I'm curious to see her reasoning. Either way, as soon as we get home, I'm going to email her and schedule a conference. I might ask the principal to join us.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“Actually, I think I do.” Their mother fell silent for a long moment. “Honey, I think it's wonderful that your poem will be printed in the concert program, but I'm sure you must be disappointed about the contest.”

Charlotte nodded, thinking of how much she had wanted to see her mother's face shining with pride as Charlotte read aloud her story at the special lunch with the editors and judges, how she had wanted to give the plaque to her for Christmas and tell her she owed her everything, how she had looked forward to running out to the end of the driveway on Christmas morning to bring in the newspaper and show her mother and Alex her story, running in a neat, wide column beneath her name and her school photo.

“I know it's not the
Boston Globe
,” her mother continued, “but my editor wants some Christmas features for the next issue, and he might be interested in your story. Would you like me to submit it?”

“Yes,” cried Charlotte. “Yes, please! Except—can I change a few things first? I thought of a better introduction and I don't like the description of the choir director on the second page.”

Her mother laughed. “Spoken like a true writer. Of course you can revise it first. I won't need to show it to my editor until Monday morning, but that deadline is absolute.”

“I'll have it done,” Charlotte promised. Her heart sang; her head felt light and merry. She should have told her mother ages ago.

“Mrs. Collins is so stupid,” said Alex scornfully. “She should've known Charlotte didn't cheat.”

“I think we can all agree on that,” said their mother.

“All Mrs. Collins had to do was type part of the poem in Google and she would have known in five seconds that it hadn't been published anywhere before.”

“Oh my gosh.” Charlotte turned in her seat to stare at him, astounded. “You're not only a witness, you know how to find the evidence.”

“Your word is evidence enough for me,” their mother said.

Gratified, Charlotte smiled at her. “But not for everyone.” Turning back to Alex, she shook her head in amazement. “You're a genius, Alex, and not just at setting things on fire.”

Alex grinned, pleased and proud. “But
especially
at setting things on fire.”

•   •   •

Ryan would have called his brother as soon as rehearsal ended, but he needed time to plan what to say. Sister Winifred's wise words were a revelation that had rendered him stunned and enlightened. All those years, all those cutting remarks about the Church and the priesthood—Ryan had always assumed that Liam scorned his calling. It had never occurred to him that perhaps his brother envied it.

Somehow that changed everything. Liam had always deserved his compassion and understanding, but it was a lot easier to be understanding when one actually understood.

He braced himself with a strong cup of coffee before dialing his brother's number. The conversation was stiff and awkward, so Ryan cut the small talk short and apologized for their argument over Thanksgiving dinner. Liam replied that it wasn't Ryan's fault
and it wasn't an argument, more like a heated discussion. “Whatever it was, I regret it,” said Ryan. “Especially since it upset Mom and Dad.”

“Yeah,” said Liam, his pained tone perfectly conveying a wince. “That was unfortunate.”

“Let me make it up to you,” said Ryan. “I know you love local historical architecture. Why don't you come by St. Margaret's and I'll give you the grand tour?”

“Isn't this your busy season?” Liam said archly, but then his tone softened. “Actually, I've read about St. Margaret's, and it's intriguing from both historical and aesthetic perspectives.”

“Two words, bro: grand tour.”

“Well—”

“Why don't you come on Christmas Eve, you and Eileen and the kids? You could bring Mom and Dad too. We have a great children's choir, and they're putting on a concert before Mass. I could show you around afterward.”

“I don't know.” Liam hesitated. “I don't know. I'll need to check with Eileen. She might already have something else planned for our Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. Well, it is kind of last-minute.”

“I'll let you know, okay?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Either way, thanks for asking.”

Ryan assured him it was no problem, and if Christmas Eve didn't work out he'd be happy to give Liam a tour another time. Heart heavy, he hung up the phone, stared into space for a long moment, then sighed, washed his coffee cup, and returned to the chapel to find solace in his evening prayers.

As the weekend passed, Ryan hoped Liam would call to let him know his plans, but the busy days swiftly passed without a word from his brother. And then it was the morning of Christmas Eve, sunny and cold, crisp and blue-skied, although as she spread
jam on her breakfast toast, Sister Winifred put her head to one side, listened intently, and declared that it would snow after nightfall. Somewhat unnerved, Ryan glanced at the table and was relieved to see the same prediction on the front page of the
Globe
.

Ryan did not know whether his brother intended to accept his invitation until an hour before the Christmas concert, when Liam texted, “On our way.” Eagerly, nervously, Ryan waited in the vestibule, welcoming parishioners and stealing quick glances outside whenever someone opened the front doors. At last they arrived—Liam looking wary, his wife hopeful; their mother on Liam's arm, beaming; their father stoop-shouldered and keen-eyed; Liam's sons looking around with interest, nudging each other and whispering private jokes.

Overwhelmed with joy and relief, Ryan hurried forward to greet them, but as soon as the others in the vestibule realized the newcomers were their priest's family, so many came forward to be introduced that Ryan had no opportunity to speak with his brother before they were obliged to take their seats for the concert.

Ryan was very happy that his family had chosen that day to come to St. Margaret's. The children's choir performed beautifully, their sweet voices the perfect joyful noise to celebrate the sacred anticipation that was Christmas Eve. Young Alex performed his solo with exceptional grace and richness, astonishing in a boy his age. Afterward, Ryan saw him glance over at his sister, grinning, and she returned a proud smile—a Christmas miracle in miniature. He hoped Laurie had seen it too, and he decided that if Charlotte and Alex could set aside their sibling rivalry in honor of Christmas, surely he and Liam could.

After the concert, Ryan celebrated Mass with an abundance of reverence and joy. The children's choir sang for the Mass, their pure, clear, youthful voices a touching reminder of how Jesus had come into the world as a child, as a helpless infant, beloved of his
parents, subjected to the persecutions and political turmoil of his day. As Christians professed to love the baby Jesus, so too should they love all children—their own, of course, but also their neighbor's, and the stranger's, and the children who would enter the world in generations to come, long after they themselves had moved on.

After the service, Ryan returned to the vestibule to wish his departing parishioners a merry Christmas, and then, while a beaming Sister Winifred led the rest of the family to the parish house for coffee, apple cider, and gingerbread cookies, Ryan took Liam on the grand tour of St. Margaret's. “I hope I didn't oversell this,” he remarked as they put on their coats and headed outside.

“You raised my expectations when you called it the ‘grand tour,'” Liam warned, smiling faintly as in unison the brothers tucked their hands into their pockets. “I feel like I already know quite a lot about St. Margaret's from your pianist.”

“Lucas?”

Liam nodded. “He took my History and Theory of Historic Preservation class a few years ago. I assigned a paper on a local building of historical significance and its role in the community, and he wrote about St. Margaret's.”

“I remember. Lucas told us he picked St. Margaret's from a list his professor made.” Ryan stopped short and put his hand on his brother's shoulder. “This is amazing. You sent Lucas to us.”

“Hardly. I gave the class a list. Lucas picked your church.”

“You put St. Margaret's on the list.” In spite of Liam's envy or sense of rejection or whatever other emotions complicated his feelings, he had included Ryan's parish on the list.

“It's architecturally and historically significant,” said Liam, somewhat defensively.

“Yes, and we all know that places fitting that description are hard to come by in Boston and Cambridge.”

Liam punched him lightly in the arm. “Shut up.”

“Or what?” said Ryan, laughing. “You'll tell Mom?”

“Don't think I won't.”

Ryan elbowed him. “Idle threats.”

“We'll see who's laughing when you find coal in your stocking.”

Ryan's laugh rang out, and Liam grinned, and the snow fell lightly upon them.

The sidewalk needed clearing again by the time the tour was finished, but instead of joining the rest of the family at the piano, where Sister Winifred was merrily leading them in Christmas carols, Liam offered to help shovel.

They tackled the front stairs first, the snow light and powdery enough that a broom would have served well enough. “Your nephews were very impressed with the children's choir,” Liam remarked, planting his shovel in a snowbank. “Connor loves to sing. He asked me if he could join.”

“That depends. Is he any good?” Ryan ducked when Liam flung snow at him. “Seriously, he's welcome to join. Sophia and Lucas are fantastic teachers.”

Liam shrugged, considering. “When do they practice?”

“Tuesdays and Fridays from four thirty until six. They sing at nine o'clock Mass every Sunday morning, and at the afternoon vigil Mass on the first Saturday of the month. They also have a few holiday concerts during the year, like today's.”

“Nothing on Wednesday?”

“Not unless Christmas or Easter happen to fall on a Wednesday.”

“That could work. Connor has this other thing on Wednesdays, a rocketry club.”

“Really,” said Ryan, intrigued. “That sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, it is. I wish they'd let me join. A few Harvard students started it a few years ago, and it's really taken off.” He winced. “Sorry, bad pun.”

“I forgive you.”

“From a priest, that really means something.” Liam grinned. “Anyway, it's a great organization. The kids learn all about rocketry—the science to it, not just the awesome explosions. Force, aerodynamics, thrust, lift, and lots of other things Connor could explain much better than I.”

“It sounds perfect for a kid I know, one of the boys in the choir.”

“I can email you the details. Or we can talk about it tomorrow at Mom and Dad's.” Liam hesitated. “You are coming, right?”

“I won't be able to leave St. Margaret's until three, but I'll be there.”

“So we'll talk then.”

“Sounds good.”