The Treasure of Christmas (41 page)

After stoking up the faltering fire, she fixed dinner for them both, then busied herself with cleaning and straightening – afraid to allow herself to go back and review her day’s work. She knew she would only be disappointed with a painting that held nothing more than snow and trees and, oh yes, light. And although the snow scene was better than a blank canvas, it certainly wasn’t a landscape that Jeannie could interest Henri, or anyone else for that matter, in showing. But at least she was painting. That was something. For three days now she had actually worked – a real breakthrough. And it seemed no coincidence that this change had come only after she’d really broken down and prayed to God to help her. She hung a polished copper pot back on the rack and thought. Hadn’t that been about the same time that the dog had come into her life too?

So that night when Claire went to bed, she remembered to thank God for sending help. Maybe it did come in the form of a dog, but it was help just the same, and she knew it. Now if only she could keep this dog.

The next morning she awoke to the sound of her cell phone ringing. Certain it must be Jeannie checking up on her, she eagerly jumped out of bed, ready to tell her (and honestly this time) that she’d actually made a little progress – that she’d been painting! But it was a man’s voice on the phone, and one she didn’t recognize.

“This is Rick Marks,” said a gruff voice. “I hear you’ve got my dog.”

She felt her heart plunge like a rock as she looked at the dog now wagging his tail at her feet. She could tell he was ready to be let out. “Did you lose a pet?” she asked weakly as she walked across the room to open the door for the dog.

“Yeah, he ran off.”

“Really?” She thought about this. “Are you sure this is your dog? I mean, he doesn’t really seem like the type to run off – ”

He laughed, but not in a nice way. “Aw, that mutt’s always running off.”

She didn’t like this man calling the dog a mutt. “Well, maybe you should describe him to me. Maybe we’re not talking about the same dog.”

But when Rick described the shepherd-collie mix right down to the patch of white beneath his chin, she knew they were talking about the same dog. “What’s his name?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Mike.”

“Oh.” She looked out the window to see the dog, rather, Mike, now making his way back onto her porch, his limp barely noticeable. “What happened to his leg?” she asked, not even sure why, perhaps only as a stall tactic.

“His leg?”

“Yes, he had a bad leg when he first showed up.”

“Well, he was perfectly fine last time I saw him.”

She sensed hesitation in his voice and felt a flicker of hope. “Does that mean you might not want him back?”

“Aw, he’s my dog, lady. Of course, I still want him back.”

“Right.” She mechanically gave him directions to her house. “But that snow’s pretty deep,” she added. “And the roads haven’t been plowed over here. Are you sure you can make it here okay?”

“It’d take a heck of lot more snow than this to keep me off the road.”

Claire dressed quickly, then made sure that Mike got a good meal before his master arrived to take him away. After the dog finished licking the bowl clean, Claire knelt down on the floor and wrapped her arms around the soft fur of his neck. “You are such a good dog,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re going to leave me now.” She ran her hands down the silky coat on his back. “Thank you for coming to – to – ” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in his neck and sobbed for several minutes. Finally she stopped, feeling his warm wet tongue now licking her face, as if to comfort her.

At the same time she heard the rumble of an engine pulling up her driveway. The dog’s muscles tightened when the sound grew louder, and his ears peaked to attention. Then he gave a low growl and a couple of sharp barks. It was the first time she’d heard him bark. She peered out the window to see one of those ridiculously tall pickups with the huge oversized tires plowing up her driveway. It was painted a garish metallic blue and was trimmed with a row of lights that made it look like something from another planet. A heavyset man in a plaid flannel shirt climbed out and ambled up to her door, knocking loudly and causing the dog to bark again.

She stood by the door for a moment, unsure whether she actually wanted this man to come inside her house, much less to know that she was living out here all alone. Finally she decided to simply step outside with the dog.

“Hello,” she said stiffly as she closed the door behind her.

He tipped his head slightly then grinned as he carefully took in her appearance. “Howdy, ma’am. I don’t recall catching your name.”

She forced a smile. No sense in being hostile. “My name’s Claire.”

“You’re new ’round here.”

She nodded. “Yes. Just visiting. It’s my friend’s cabin.”

“Well, I still don’t know how Mike found his way clear over here,” said Rick, scratching his head as he looked at the dog. “It’s time to go home, buddy. Go get in the truck now.”

But the dog just sat there, as if rooted to the porch next to Claire’s feet. She restrained herself from reaching down to pat his head and say, “good dog.”

“I
said,
go get in the truck, Mike!” Rick spoke in a sharp tone and pointed to the pickup. The dog began to slowly walk toward the truck, his tail pointed straight down like a rod.

“He’s better, but his leg’s still hurting him some,” said Claire, following the dog with her eyes. “He might need some help getting up there.”

Rick made a snorting laugh. “Well, I guess I could give him a hand, just this once. There’s no sense in pampering your animals too much.” He easily hoisted the dog into the pickup bed that was partially filled with snow, then stepped back. Claire noticed there was no tailgate on the truck.

“Won’t he slip out and hurt himself?”

Rick laughed again. “He’s ridden like this his whole life.” Then he noticed the collar and quickly slipped it off. “And he don’t need no fancy collars neither.” He handed it to her. “Sorry that he troubled you.”

“He was no trouble.” Just then Claire considered offering him money for the dog, wondering if that would be an insult or not. “Uh – you wouldn’t be interested in selling Mike, would you?”

He laughed again. “Nah, my other dogs have been acting up since he’s been gone. He may not be much, but he’s a good ol’ dog.”

She nodded, fighting to hold back tears and telling herself she was a fool for caring so much in the first place. “Yeah, he is.” Then she turned back to the house, unable to look at the dog again, afraid she would completely break down in front of this less than sensitive man.

She listened as the truck’s loud engine started up again and waited until the sound became a dull rumble then faded away to nothing before she collapsed on her bed and sobbed uncontrollably. “Why, God?” she cried. “Why would you send this sweet dog to comfort me and then just snatch him away? Why?”

6

Claire was unable to paint a single stroke for the remainder of the day. Instead, she paced about the cabin like a caged animal, cleaning and straightening what already looked perfectly neat. Finally at two o’clock sharp she allowed herself to leave the confines of the cabin. The snow was well over a foot deep now – the deepest she’d walked in so far – and it made for hard work, not to mention slower. But she didn’t care. Perhaps the effort would be so taxing that she might forget all about the dog, at least temporarily. She should’ve known better than to let her heart become so attached – and to a silly animal! She trudged steadily along, hardly lifting her eyes from the ground, just following the trail – step after step – until she finally reached the dead tree. There she stopped to catch her breath and look around. But instead of seeing the beauty she’d been so fascinated by before, everything looked dull and flat and starkly white to her. Uninteresting even. And now a lifeless layer of heavy cloud hung low overhead. It was the color of an old nickel and probably filled with more snow. But she didn’t really care. Let it snow.

She turned to the right, as usual, and began moving toward the old footbridge, when she noticed those same two pairs of footprints as she’d seen before. Due to her recent distractions, first with the dog and then her painting, she’d almost forgotten about those sets of disturbing footprints. But now, here they were once again, and with fresh clarity, as if they’d just been made today. And while they weren’t quite as distinct as before because, like her, the walkers had been forced to trudge along slowly cutting their way through the thick snow, they were clearly the same sets of footprints – one large, one small. She walked along, following them, unwilling to step right in their tracks; yet, it was much easier to walk where they had already stepped. Once again, she wondered, to whom did they belong? Who had been out here walking in all this snow today? Perhaps they’d passed by just moments ago, for the imprints appeared fresh.

Maybe it was because she was tired, or simply just sad, but it didn’t take long before she began to imagine the two of them again. Father and son, strolling along – maybe they were hand in hand this time, the dad helping the boy through the deep snow, but still they’d be walking with that slow, distinctive gait. She tried to go faster now, hoping to spy them as she came around the bend in the trail up ahead, but when she turned the corner all she saw was snow and trees. And more snow and trees . . . nothing but snow and trees.

By the time she reached the bridge, the clouds had grown thicker and darker, and she knew she should turn back, but somehow she just couldn’t. And as tired as she was, she continued, panting breathlessly as she trudged through the thick layer of snow, following doggedly without looking up. Finally, maybe thirty minutes later, she noticed fat snowflakes were falling quickly now, and, despite her desperation to find the mysterious walkers, she knew she must turn back. For the second time, she had embarked on a fool’s errand, and one that could easily turn lethal if she didn’t return to her senses.

She couldn’t even be sure how she finally made it back to the cabin that late afternoon. But somehow she did. By the time she reached her driveway, her vision was almost completely obscured by the swirling snow and a bluish light that was fading fast. She went inside, stripped off her snow-coated, sweat-soaked clothing, and collapsed into bed without even eating dinner.

That night she dreamed she was caught out in the woods – in the midst of a howling blizzard and waist high snow. She was freezing cold, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t push her way through the deep snow. She felt trapped in quicksand and could feel herself being pulled down, down, down. And after a while she lost all strength to resist. She no longer cared. She entirely lost her will to fight. Better to give in, to just allow its cold forces to swallow her up. And then she would be no more. Feel no more. Escape.

But just as she yielded, resting her face in the cold, white snow, two angels appeared – one on either side. They were brilliantly white, even whiter than the snow! She couldn’t see the features on their faces because they glowed so brightly – like burning kerosene lamps. Still she could feel them near her, and each one held securely to an arm as they guided her through the snowstorm. They even lifted her up as if she were lighter than a rag doll, her feet trailing helplessly through the snow. And then they carried her up higher, as if she were lighter than a feather, and the three of them flew like birds above the evergreen treetops, up over the falling snow and the layer of clouds. She wanted to ask the angels their names but was so awed by them she was unable to find her voice to speak. It was a delightful dream, really, and she was sorry to wake up. But flying through the snowstorm with the angels had made her cold, and when she awoke, she was shivering in the darkness.

She looked across the coal-black room to see the fire had gone completely out. And why not, when she hadn’t even bothered to stoke it up after her wild and reckless walk? Now she paid for her mistake as her feet touched the icy floor and she struggled with freezing fingers to wad up old newspaper and stack the kindling. Her hands shook from the cold as she lit a match and held it to her little mound, blowing gently to help the fragile flame grow stronger.

Wrapped in a quilt, she huddled before the fire for more than an hour before she finally began to feel free of the icy grip that had laid hold of her. And by then, despite the hour, she was wide awake and unable to sleep, still fascinated by her captivating dream. Finally, she made a pot of strong coffee and went over to look at her two recently painted canvases, hopeful she might see something worthwhile in their content. She stared for a while then frowned. Nothing more than boring snowscapes – layers of white upon white upon white. Lifeless and blah. Not even good enough to be reproduced into Christmas wrapping paper!

How long she stood there, she couldn’t remember, but suddenly like a flash of light in the midst of hopeless darkness, it hit her. She moved a couple of lamps nearer her easel, then picked up a fresh pallet and opened a tube of paint. Those paintings simply weren’t finished yet.

She worked with a frenzy – a creative compulsion unlike any she’d ever known before – only pausing on occasion to stretch out her stiff arm and briefly sip on her long since cold coffee. Still working, she hardly noticed when the sun came up, although she appreciated the improved light, but she continued relentlessly on until it was nearly noon. Finally, her back and shoulders burned like fire and she was forced to stop, to step back and simply close her eyes.

Without even allowing herself the opportunity to pause and evaluate her work (for fear she would be sadly disheartened) she turned toward the kitchen area and opened a can of tomato soup, quickly heated it, then sat down at the table to eat in silence. She imagined how she must look, unwashed and unkempt, huddled there still wrapped in the worn quilt, eating her lukewarm soup with only the sound of the clock ticking and the clink of the spoon against the ceramic bowl.

“I’m a madwoman,” she said aloud as she set the empty bowl into the sink with a loud thunk. Suddenly, she imagined her favorite artist – Vincent Van Gogh – and the way he had cut off his ear and done other strange things, and for the first time she thought perhaps she almost understood. Sighing loudly, she paced the floor, careful to keep from accidentally seeing her recent painting, still unwilling to look at her work. “And now I’m even starting to talk to myself,” she mused.