by Ryan Byrnes
Jim Baker?
“Having a little family reunion, are we?”
Jim froze. Then he slowly turned around.
“Ethyl?”
He was a mess—dark circles under his eyes, stubble shading his neck and jaw, hair blowing every which way in the fluttering snowfall.
“So the rumors are true,” I crossed my arms. “You did become a bum after all. What are you doing with this truck? Who are these girls? Why is Luther in that crate?”
“We're going to Algeria to see Mum,” Luther piped up, climbing back out of the crate and jumping down to stand beside Jim.
“Algeria?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jim held out his hands as if in surrender. “Seems like Switzerland would be the natural choice, right? Turns out, Algeria is actually the best—”
“You jolly well know that's beside the point. If you and Luther are caught, you'll both be court-martialed for desertion. Blokes get executed for that shite. You know what execution is, right? Or should I explain it to you?”
At the word execution, Luther looked to Jim for guidance. Why did Jim get the final say-so? I'm the one who’d been looking after Luther. I'm the one who had calmed his tears, arranged to get him tested by physicians, and written letters on his behalf. And now he was looking to Jim for advice?
“Luther, you’re coming with me. Are you hurt?”
“Don't listen to her, Luther,” Jim stepped in his way. “You want to see Mum, right?”
“Oh please,” I crossed my arms. “Luther was already going to see his mum. His letter of leave should arrive in the post any day now. In fact, the letter's probably in one of these post sacks you're carrying.”
“Letter of leave?” Jim paused. “What's this about a letter of leave?”
“I arranged for several doctors to conduct a formal assessment of Luther. Like any sane person, each one concluded he's not fit for combat, that there was a mistake in enlistment, and recommended he be sent home. I compiled their reports and sent them to headquarters. I’m just waiting for the official letter.”
“That's a damn good plan,” Jim said, more to himself than to me.
“Of course, it’s a damn good plan.” I turned to Luther. “How does that sound,” I said. “Ready to go home?”
“I want to go see Mum.”
“I know you do,” I said. Then I turned back to Jim. “And what are you doing with three little girls? And how did you get a hold of this truck?” Ethyl eyed me up and down. “Did you really enlist?”
“I’m delivering mail to the troops,” Jim said, “and these girls seem to have decided I’m Santa Claus. They’re refugees. Discovered them hiding in the train from Le Havre.”
“And what are they doing in your—”
“What’s going on here?” I turned to see a mounted military police officer riding toward us. Bloody hell. I shot Jim a warning glance and started toward them, trying to block Luther from their sight.
“I’ve got an injured soldier in the ambulance,” I said, “but we stopped to see if this lorry driver needed help.”
“What is it? A flat tire?” The MMP looked at Jim’s lorry and then dismounted. That’s when he saw Luther. “Private? What are you doing here?”
Jim swore.
“Don’t you say a word,” I hissed at him. “I'm doing the talking.”
~ JIM BAKER ~
In seconds, Celeste and her sisters had managed to tuck themselves away in the mail sacks, but Luther was just standing there right out in the great outdoors. My first instinct was to throw Luther in the back, slam the gas pedal, and make a run for it. But my first instincts weren’t known for turning out so great. I’d be putting both Luther and the girls in danger. Ethyl grabbed my wrist in an iron grip, holding me fast.
“If I have to sacrifice you to save Luther and those three girls, I will,” she whispered.
The MMP stepped past me to look inside the truck. Luckily the girls were smart enough to stay hidden. He turned to Luther. “A sad day for the war,” he said. “Peace has broken out. Unauthorized truces have been bastardized. The day is rank with fraternization, and what's more, it appears, desertion.”
“It’s not desertion,” Luther said, pulling out the ticket I gave him. “I’m going to Algeria to see Mum. I have a ticket.”
In a flash, the MMP had pulled his pistol and had it expertly trained on my big brother. Without thinking I stepped between the MMP and Luther, whose eyes had widened at the site of the gun pointed right at him.
The officer studied Luther from his boots to the top of his head, and then snatched the ticket from his hand. “How does a Royal Warwickshire private come across a ticket to Algeria? He's found in the company of a postman, a nurse, and—” he strolled over to peer in Ethyl's ambulance. “Driver,” he called, “open these doors!”
The driver climbed out of the ambulance and opened the back doors. A body lay on a stretcher inside.
“Who is this?”
Ethyl stepped up. “Rodney Stoker of the Royal Warwickshires. Severely injured in yesterday’s battle.”
My God. Rodney? He was unrecognizable.
“Is he dead?” the MMP asked.
“Not if I can help it. I need to get him to the hospital immediately.”
“And yet you stopped to help a post lorry that, it appears, does not need your help. Sounds logical.”
He turned back to the lorry. And to Luther and me.
“You all are going to need to step away from the lorry,” the officer said. My knees buckled. He poked around in the driver's seat and the passenger's seat, and started to climb up in the back. He would find Celeste and her sisters at any moment. Love letters and Christmas greetings fluttered from the open sacks like autumn leaves. I knew I needed to distract them, but I was frozen to the spot.
“Excuse me,” Ethyl called, and the officer turned from the girls' hiding spot. “Private Baker is on his way home to Warwickshire, and we stopped to see him because he was injured with Private Stoker and wanted to say farewell to his brother-in-arms. Private Baker has permission to leave. Medical leave. There was a mistake in enlistment, you see. A mix-up. I'm getting papers to prove he is not capable of serving. He’s, uh, he’s different. Differently abled, and—”
“Differently abled?” the MMP scoffed. “What's this rubbish?”
“It’s a doctor’s diagnosis,” Ethyl huffed. “His brain does not work the way yours or mine does.”
The MMP held out his hand. “Show me the papers then,” he demanded.
“I … I don’t have the papers. Yet. I’m expecting them any day.”
“Sure you are.”
Ethyl was trying hard to keep her cool. “His papers are coming in the post! I swear it.”
Hang on, I thought. I'm the postman, aren't I? And didn’t I just see a letter addressed to Ethyl Brand? The same official-looking letter I'd seen on the train? Blimey. I’d just stuffed the envelope back into one of the bags! I just need to find it.
“That’s a great story, Miss, but you’re going to have to stand down or you're going to end up under arrest, too.” The MMP turned back to Luther and grabbed his arm. As soon as the officer touched him, he lost it. Hands flapping, moaning, rocking, the whole sordid bit.
“Luther, don't fight them,” Ethyl folded her hands in prayer. “Please don't fight. Your letter will arrive soon. We'll work this out.”
It was no use. Luther swung his fists and spun circles, startling the officer who tried to grab his hands again.
While they were distracted, I slipped into the lorry.
“Oye!” the officer called.
“Wait!” I shouted. “The letter is in here! I just saw it!” Where was it? I flipped through a few post sacks until I found the one marked for the hospital at Hazebrouck. I swore as I flipped through all the envelopes.
“Here! I have it. I found it!” I shouted as the officer dragged me out of the lorry. “The letter is right here. Here's your Christmas present, everyone.”
Ethyl Brand, the letter was addressed.
The officer snatched it. For a second, I thought he would tear it to pieces. But, seeing the seal of high command, he paused.
Ethyl stepped forward and held out her hand. “That’s my letter. That’s Private Luther Baker’s ticket home. And that’s why I stopped to help the post lorry. I hoped that today, Christmas Day, the letter would come.”
“This can't be real,” the officer shook his head. He handed the letter to Ethyl and instructed her to open it and read it aloud. His eyes darted from me to Luther to Ethyl and over to the ambulance where the driver waited and Rodney was moaning. He double checked our dog tags. He asked for our identification papers. He took the letter from Ethyl and read it again. It was obviously the real deal. General Haig’s signature was clear as day.
“So he's not right in the head?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say that at all,” Ethyl frowned. “He's just different, and only in certain ways. He's the most brilliant candy maker you've ever seen. He’s got more courage than anyone else I know. Jim here was sent to bring him back home to England.”
“Bollocks,” the officer snapped. “If he was going home to England, what's he doing with tickets to Algeria and hiding in the back of the lorry?”
That was a good point.
All heads turned toward me.
“Officer!” Rodney sputtered from his stretcher in the ambulance. “I did it.”
What?
We all gravitated over to the ambulance where, injured as he was, Rodney was trying to sit up.
“I gave Luther the ticket. To smuggle him out. He shouldn’t be here. Never should’ve been here.”
“Rod, no,” I whispered.
The officer, holding Luther's letter of leave in one hand, the ticket to Algeria in the other, peered down at Rodney.
“You're the man behind the smuggling?”
Rodney managed to incline his chin, evoking a nod.
“That's grounds for court martial,” the officer said. He looked down at Rodney, then at the letter, and then at Luther. Finally, he released Luther.
“Get him out of here,” Ethyl whispered to me. “You'd better be quick about it.”
But Luther had bent down toward Rodney, and I joined him at Rodney's side.
“Are you still afraid of me, Rodney Stoker?” Luther asked.
“No,” Rodney whispered. “You tried to save my life.”
“Thank you for writing the letter for me to give to Mum. I still have it.” Luther fished in his pocket and brought out a piece of paper with nothing but scribbling on it.
“I’m glad,” Rodney whispered and closed his eyes.
I leaned over my former best friend. “Rod, I can't repay you for this,” I said.
“We're square,” Rodney’s lips cracked in a sort of smile. “Visit my parents, will you? Tell them …” His voice faded. I ran back over to the lorry and pulled out the novel wedged in the front seat cushions. A Tale of Two Cities.
“Take this,” I set it beside Rod. “As a Christmas gift.”
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done,” Rodney croaked. “It is a far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known before.” He coughed, and then looked up at me through unseeing eyes. “Take Luther home, Jim. Eat some truffles for me.”
With that, we left Rodney to the officer.
Crunching snow was the only sound. Luther and I stepped over to the still-rumbling lorry. He slammed the door in the passenger seat while the officers watched.
I don’t know what nonsense it was that moved me, but I turned and blurted the damndest thing to Ethyl, “Come with us, Ethyl.”
“Not a chance,” she shook her head. “The war is still on, and my work isn't done. Besides, someone has to be here to take care of Rodney. Now go. Take care of Luther and those other precious packages in the back. I'll visit you from time to time, don’t you worry.”
“Right,” I swallowed.
With that, I clicked the lorry door shut and gripped the icy steering wheel.
“Ready to go see Mum, big brother?” I nodded at Luther in the passenger seat.
“Yes, little brother,” he smiled.
We cut through the snowy slush, gaining speed. Minutes later, the trench had faded from view. I'd later crack open the Leamington Courier to chuckle at the headline. Soldiers Carry Christmas Truce into January. I prayed that the snowmen enjoyed full, long lives in No Man's Land.
BOXING DAY, 1914
LEAMINGTON SPA, ENGLAND
~ CONSTANCE BAKER ~
Sleeping syrup befriended me in those months after Luther's enlistment. I had scarred the label with my fingernails but had not yet managed to tear it off. The label was the last thing I read before falling into bed at night. Each ounce of this single-use syrup contains alcohol, cannabis, chloroform, and morphine to guarantee a good night’s sleep.
The grandfather clock bong bong bonged for noontime when I woke. My stomach growled for lunch or at least some chocolate, so I sat up, cradling my aching head. My vision spun, but just a little. I stared at the wall across my bed, remembering where Luther's crib used to sit. Before his passing, James would hum songs for Luther, lowering him into the crib. His side of the bed would be smooth and creaseless, while on my side all my tossing and turning had twisted the sheets into a rope.
When Luther was a baby, I would sometimes enter the room to see James sitting in the rocking chair, Luther in his arms, both snoring softly. I would remember the scene in the coming years. I would hoard it and become drunk on it. Then, three Christmases later, I would stand at the window and watch my husband leave on a trip to the grocery from which he would not return.
And now, twenty-five Christmases later, staring out the same window, I looked down into the empty street, dusted with snow, untouched by footprints. All down the street, the business had “closed” signs on the doors. Work halted for a day, and gift wrapping filled the rubbish bins of every house.
All except mine.
Lavinia said she would be checking in on me in the evening. She used that phrase a lot these days, “Check on you,” like she was a doctor. She'd “checked in one me” Christmas morning, bringing me a gift I still hadn't opened. I’d gone right back upstairs and stayed in bed the rest of the day. What was the use? Without customers, I had no reason for dirtying the kitchen.
The day after Christmas, there’d be no business either. Good. I hadn’t the energy or the will to go downstairs. I sighed and leaned my forehead against the windowpane. Wait. There, in the distance, a few souls wandered the street. Odd. I squinted, pulling at the blinds for a better view—two men trailed by three little girls. One of the men hoisted the smallest girl on his shoulders, while the other two girls danced circles in the snow. Their footsteps trailed behind them all the way down the street. They looked like they were headed for the shop. Didn’t they know Christmas was already over? A few knocks rattled the door. At first, I didn’t bother to go down and answer it, but they persisted.
“Your carols won't help me,” I muttered, not nearly loud enough to be heard.
But still the knocks persisted.
Finally, I wrapped a sweater around my shoulders and pressed my feet onto the wood boards. At first, my legs wobbled, but I turned the doorknob to my bedroom and creaked down the freezing wood steps. The knocking persisted, this time from the back door, not the shop door like normal customers. Curious. I spotted their blurry outlines through the glazed windowpanes, and walked through the kitchen to open the back door.
“Love Mum!” two arms wrapped around me.
Crying out, I blacked out for a moment in Luther's arms. My head throbbed and my face glowed as blood rushed to my cheeks. Luther had brought others too—Jim and some little girls. I slammed the door behind them, locking it, but I couldn’t fit the key in the lock on account of my trembling hands. None of them would ever leave this house again, never.
“Mum, it's okay,” Jim took the key from
me gently. “Nobody's after us. Luther's here to stay. Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, James!” For the first time in years, I called him by his full name, his father's name. My son’s name.
I clasped his cheeks, his nose, his chin, just like when he was a baby. Three white-haired, round-nosed little girls waved at me from the doormat. Their cheeks swelled with butterscotches.
“Who are they?” I asked.
There hadn't been a little girl in this house since Ethyl Brand twenty years ago.
“Mum, meet the Moreau sisters,” Jim said. “Adele, Bernadette, and Celeste.”
“Bonjour Mère Noël,” the oldest said. “Is this North Pole?”
While the girls prattled on, Luther stared at the kitchen, boggle-eyed. He touched the handle of the cabinet that he would hide in after his tantrums, like an old friend. He didn’t dare open it, just touched it. He continued to the flour sacks and the jars of sugar, powder sugar, cocoa powder, almonds. He touched the hanging spoons and whisks from his candy-making days. His footsteps wandered through the door, to the shop, behind the counter. Silent as a ghost, he stared through the glass at the fudge selection, the jars of rainbow bonbons, and finally, at the end of the counter, he came to the chocolate truffles.
I followed, watching him raise the truffles to his eyes, inspecting them slowly. And then he started weeping like a baby.
“Mum.”
I was able to do my job again. I held him tight until every tear dried. Luther’s, mine, and even Jim’s.
Luther would have nightmares the rest of his life. Candy making wasn’t as fun for him anymore, but he still did it, mostly for the girls. He discovered in the Spring that Warwick Castle was still searching for a baker, and the job was his. We bought a bicycle, and he rode to work every day.