On Shifting Sand (40 page)

“Mr. Brown and I are here to do whatever you need. I assume the place needs some sweeping up?”

“A little, yes. And the windows washed. I suppose I could clean out my father’s room for the coats and things.”

Mrs. Brown lays a tiny hand on my arm. “Like I said, you let us know what you need, and we’ll be there. How about first thing in the morning?”

She is at the door within an hour after I take Ariel to school, bucket and mop and broom in hand. We speak little, as she starts immediately on the large front window, standing on a stepladder to reach the top, while I go into the storeroom. It still looks like a spare bedroom, with sparse furniture and the very bed where Pa took his last laboring breath. I wish I could expedite this process as Greg had our father’s house, with nothing more than a douse of kerosene and a match. Since that is not an option, I decide to simply close the door and set about hammering a series of large nails in the wall on which people can hang their coats.

“If there are too many,” I say, nails perched in my lips, “they can take them upstairs.”

I take it upon myself to clean and oil the counter until it shines, and Merrilou takes to hanging garland from its top. The empty shelves that were once full of tools and seeds and sundry items are also given a hard-elbow clean to prepare them for displaying the gifts to be exchanged.

“Won’t that look nice?” Merrilou says. “A whole wall full of presents.”

We are nowhere near finished when Ariel comes home from school, so I set her to work cutting out paper snowflakes to hang in the windows. Hours later when Ronnie comes home, I send him right back out to go from door to door finding those who will contribute a chair to set against the wall. By Friday night, with a string of red and green lights running along the ceiling, the empty shop looks ready for a celebration. To maintain this pristine condition, we twist wet sheets and line every inch of the floor and windows, doubling them at the door.

“It looks nice,” I admit as Merrilou and I stand on the bottom step, preparing to go upstairs to my kitchen for a cup of coffee to celebrate.

“I think it will be a merry Christmas after all.” And in that moment, Merrilou Brown looks every bit a satisfied, jolly old elf.

The next afternoon, when Russ drives up with a Christmas tree lashed to the top of his car, he is greeted like a conquering hero. Word about the party only just appeared in this morning’s paper, but people come trickling by, peeking through the window to watch as we set the tree up in the corner. I think, at times, we should invite them inside, but then I feel like they are viewing our family the way they would look at a movie on a screen. There is Russ, so tall and handsome, laughing as the tree refuses to stand straight. I’ve dressed Ariel in something pretty, given over to us by a neighbor with an older girl, and Ronnie looks like such a young man, holding his own as he works with his father.

Russ has brought a few festive items, including a jug of apple cider, which I pour into clean glasses and serve with the gingerbread cookies from a tin given to him by one of the patients at the hospital. Not to be outdone by Ariel, I’ve donned a nice dress—nothing too fancy—and serve my family sweet treats, all while our community watches through the window. We acknowledge them with smiles and waves, and the excitement for the upcoming festivities grows. By the time we assemble in church on Sunday, there is a definite buzz, loud enough to make itself heard over the wind, and Russ faces the largest assembled congregation since the previous spring.

“The birth of our Savior is no small event,” he says, standing taller than he has in quite some time. His orator’s voice has returned, speaking to reach every ear. We will gather this evening, six thirty. Bring what food you can contribute and a gift, so that none will arrive or leave with empty hands. All are welcome to fellowship in the name of our Lord.”

And they come.

My little girl, a Christmas delight in a green velvet dress and bouncing red curls, unlocks the door to usher in a sea of well-wishers promptly at six. Thirty minutes earlier than we intended, but even then people
are lined up outside on this bitterly cold night. We’ve brought the radio downstairs and set it in a large galvanized tub to amplify its sound above the crowd. The counter, most recently crowded with foodstuffs distributed on behalf of the government, is now laden with all manner of roasted meats, pickled vegetables, macaroni salads, pies, cookies, cheeses, and bread. Ronnie and his cohorts look on the spread the way some young men would ogle a girlie magazine, and we as a crowd consent to give them the first place in line.

Never in my life have I been surrounded by so much warmth. Pa was not one to entertain, and church gatherings always carried excruciating pastoral responsibility. This is a party. Nothing but jovial conversation, music, laughter, and children. The tree, festooned with tinsel and bright glass ornaments, brings out conversations of other trees in other times, and for a while the sadness that has drifted into our town melts away.

The bell above the shop door rings throughout the evening with newcomers arriving late, including those who have been scooped up out of their homes and brought on the arms of neighbors. At some point, Russ orders the radio turned off and lifts his voice above the din. Inwardly I cringe, fearing he might mistake the occasion of our gathering for an excuse to launch into a sermon. Instead, he requests that we bow our heads in a brief time of prayer, asking God to bring comfort to those who are too far away to celebrate with us, and to bring us a sense of peace about those who celebrate this day in the very presence of our Savior, Christ the Lord. Then, with an almost-imperceptible nod to someone in the crowd, a pitch pipe sounds, and he leads us in singing.

Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright.

The words and tune are so familiar, we sing at a lusty, heartfelt volume. When the last note dies away, someone launches into a new song:

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me—

With this, we threaten to drown out the raging wind outside, even when the lyrics become so fuddled with laughter we lose collective count of the days.

Though our duties as host and hostess keep us buried in the crowd, Russ’s eyes rarely leave me, and I seek him above the heads and conversations of our guests. One of Ronnie’s friends has rigged a fishing pole with a sprig of mistletoe and wanders through the crowd, collecting what kisses he can. At one point, Russ grabs him by the shoulder, and while the boy—and the crowd—think surely the pastor is about to eject him for such salacious behavior, Russ’s true intentions are made clear as he drags the boy through the sea of people, heading straight for me. There, he takes me in his arms and brings me in for a kiss deeper than any we’ve ever shared this side of our bedroom door. My ears throb with rushing blood, muffling the sound of the cheers rising around us.

When we finally break away, Russ lingers, his nose a whisper away from mine, and says, “Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Merry Christmas.”

And around us the crowd erupts into song.

The rest of the night is buzz and blur. By ten o’clock there isn’t a Christmas mouse’s crumb’s worth of food left on the counter, and all of the proffered gifts have been claimed. Folks linger, chatting, coats half-on and half-off. I don’t mean to rush anybody, but the fatigue of the day is wearing. I send Russ upstairs with the children, as it is long past Ariel’s bedtime, and they still have stockings to hang for Santa’s visit. Ronnie, of course, participates in the ritual only out of consideration for his little sister, but Ariel believes with her whole sweet heart.

When the last guest is gone, I remain in the room, relishing the silence—a contented sound after so much joy. This is what I needed to feel whole, and in this moment I can forgive Russ for leaving us here for
the present time. Or, perhaps, we can rebuild. Sow the seeds of fellowship we enjoyed this evening and grow a whole new community.

When I turn off the switch for the string of colored lights around the window, a flash of red catches my eye, then disappears. I lock the door, then go to the back of the room to turn off the overhead lighting. The flash of red reappears. A cigarette, of course, glowing in the darkness outside. By now it is close to midnight, and I know. I don’t need to go to the window. I won’t open the door, lest the ringing of the bell above it call the attention of my husband.

Heart pounding, I move the chairs I’ve stacked against the storeroom door, and with a shaking hand, unlock it. No need to turn on a light, as I know the dimensions of this room as well as any other in my home. We kept the door to the alley latched as long as Pa stayed here. I reach up and draw it aside, carefully, silently.

A punishing blast of cold air hits me, tearing through the fabric of the dress that grew too warm during the festivities. And yet I do not shiver, for I’ve turned to ice myself. I grip the railing of the loading platform and watch as he comes around the corner. He wears a thick workman’s jacket and a cap pulled low over his face, and I do not need the illumination of the cigarette to know the identity of my midnight visitor.

  CHAPTER 25
  

“
Y
OU SHOULDN’T BE HERE.”
I speak softly, relying on the steam of my breath to carry the words to where he waits at the foot of the platform.

“Neither should you.”

Here in the alley, we are protected from the more brutal force of the wind, but the air remains bitter cold, sharp, and dry, and there is enough of a breeze to flutter the loose edges of his coat.

“You need to go,” I warn, but in response, he only moves closer, takes one last drag on his cigarette, and drops it at his feet.

“Where do you want me to go?”

“I don’t care. Back to wherever you came from.” I’m up against the door. One swift move on either part, and I could be on the other side, with the metal latch drawn between us. Surely he wouldn’t pound on the door. Not this one, nor the shop’s, nor the door to the apartment upstairs. I could flee, and he would leave, and I could crawl into the warm bed I share with my husband.

But I do none of this. I stand, still as a post, until he is once again in front of me, his hand cold against my face, his eyes warm as summer earth. His hair—grown long—escapes in wisps beneath his cap, and a soft, patchy beard accentuates the intricate contours of his face, framing the softness of his lips.

“I thought you might be . . . I mean, I really thought that my father—that he might have actually killed you.” My words come out a rush of stammers, my teeth chattering against the cold, and my feelings torn between penetrating fear and exquisite relief.

To my surprise, he laughs. “Well, then, thoughts must run in the family, because I’m pretty sure your pa considered it.”

“What happened?”

“I rode with him to Tulsa. We delivered the goods just like we said. Then, once we got outside of town, he stops the truck, tells me to get out, gives me a dollar, and says he’ll shoot me close to dead if he ever laid eyes on me again.”