A Winter Dream

by Richard Paul Evans

  “Pretty much all my life.”

  “There’s something I want to ask you about.”

  He sensed the serious tone of my voice and set the brush down.

  “It’s about Mary. You know she’s like family to us.” He nodded in agreement. “There seems to be something troubling her, and we want to help her, but we don’t know how. Keri thinks that she might be hiding something. If that’s the case I think that I might have found a clue.” I looked down, embarrassed by the letter I was holding. “Anyway, I found some letters in a box in the attic. I think they’re love letters. I was hoping that you could shed some light on this.”

  “Let me see it,” he said.

  I handed the letter over. He read it, then handed it back to me.

  “They are love letters, but not to a lover.”

  I must have looked perplexed.

  “I think you should see something. I’ll be over at Mary’s Christmas Eve to visit. I’ll take you then. It’ll be around three o’clock. It will explain everything.”

  I nodded my approval. “That will be fine,” I said. I shoved the letter back into my coat, then paused. “Steve, have you ever wondered what the first gift of Christmas was?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious, I guess.” I walked back to my car and drove off to work.

  As had become the norm, it was a busy day spent helping brides-to-be match colorful taffeta swatches to formal-wear accessories; choose between ascot or band ties; pleated, French-cuffed shirts with wingtip collars or plain shirts with colorful ruffled dickies. I had just finished measuring and reserving outfits for a large wedding party. Upon receiving the required cash deposit from the groom, I thanked them for their business, waved goodbye, and turned to help a young man who had stood quietly at the counter awaiting my attention.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  He looked down at the counter, swaying uneasily. “I need a suit for a small boy,” he said softly. “He’s five years old.”

  “Very good,” I said. I pulled out a rental form and began to write. “Is there anyone else in the party that will need a suit?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Is he to be a ring bearer?” I asked. “We’d want to try to match his suit to the groom’s.”

  “No. He won’t be.”

  I made a note on the form.

  “All right. What day would you like to reserve the suit for?”

  “We’d like to purchase the suit,” he said solemnly.

  I set the form aside. “That may not be in your best interest,” I explained. “These young boys grow so fast. I’d strongly suggest that you rent.”

  He just nodded.

  “I just don’t want you to be disappointed. The length of the coat cannot be extended, only the sleeves and pant length. He may grow out of it in less than a year.”

  The man looked up at me, initiating eye contact for the first time. “We’ll be burying him in it,” he said softly.

  The words fell like hammers. I looked down, avoiding the lifeless gaze of his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said demurely. “I’ll help you find something appropriate.”

  I searched through a rack of boys suits and extracted a beautiful blue jacket with satin lapels.

  “This is one of my favorites,” I said solemnly.

  “It’s a handsome coat,” he said. “It will be fine.” He handed me a paper with the boy’s measurements.

  “I’ll have the alterations made immediately. It will be ready to be picked up tomorrow afternoon.”

  He nodded his head in approval.

  “Sir, I’ll see that the jacket is discounted.”

  “I’m very grateful,” he said. He opened the door and walked out, blending in with the coursing river of humanity that filled the sidewalks at Christmas time.

  As I had spent the morning measuring out seams and checking the availabilities of jackets, Keri was busy at her own routine. She had fed, bathed, and dressed Jenna, then set to work preparing Mary’s brunch. She poached an egg, then topped a biscuit with it, dressing it with a tablespoon of Hollandaise sauce. She took the shrieking teapot from the stove and poured a cup of peppermint tea, set it all on a tray, and carried it out to the dining room.

  She called down the hall, “Mary, your brunch is ready.”

  She went back to the kitchen and filled the sink with hot, soapy water and began to wash the dishes. After a few minutes she toweled off her hands and walked back to the dining room to see if Mary needed anything. The food was untouched. Keri explored the den but the Bible lay untouched on its shelf. She checked the hall tree and found Mary’s coat hanging in its usual place. She walked down to the bedroom and rapped lightly on the door.

  “Mary, your brunch is ready.”

  There came no reply.

  Keri slowly turned the handle and opened the door. The drapes were still drawn closed and the room lay still and dark. In the bed she could see the form lying motionless beneath the covers. Fear seized her. “Mary! Mary!” She ran to her side. “Mary!” She put her hand against the woman’s cheek. Mary was warm and damp and breathing shallowly. Keri grabbed the telephone and called the hospital for an ambulance. She looked out the window. Steve’s car was still in the driveway. She ran across the street and pounded on the door.

  Steve opened it, instantly seeing the urgency on Keri’s face.

  “Keri, what’s wrong?”

  “Steve! Come quick. Something is terribly wrong with Mary!”

  Steve followed Keri back to the house and into the room where Mary lay delirious on the bed. Steve took her hand. “Mary, can you hear me?”

  Mary raised a tired eyelid, but said nothing. Keri breathed a slight sigh of relief.

  Outside, an ambulance siren wound down. Keri ran out to meet it and led the attendants down the dark hall to Mary’s room. They lifted Mary into a gurney and carried her to the back of the vehicle. Keri grabbed Jenna and followed the ambulance to the hospital in Mary’s car.

  I met Keri and the doctor outside of Mary’s hospital room. Keri had called me at work and I had rushed down as soon as I could.

  “This is to be expected,” the doctor said clinically. “She has been pretty fortunate up until today, but now the tumor has started to put pressure on vital parts of the brain. All we can do is try to keep her as comfortable as possible. I know that’s not very reassuring, but it’s reality.”

  I put my arm around Keri.

  “Is she in much pain?” Keri asked.

  “Surprisingly not. I would have expected more severe headaches. She has headaches, but not as acute as most. The headaches will continue to come and go, gradually becoming more constant. Coherency is about the same. She was talking this afternoon but there’s no way of telling how long she’ll remain coherent.”

  “How is she right now?” I asked.

  “She’s asleep. I gave her a sedative. The rush to the hospital was quite a strain on her.”

  “May I see her?” I asked.

  “No, it’s best that she sleep.”

  That night the mansion seemed a vacuum without Mary’s presence and, for the first time, we felt like strangers in somebody else’s home. We ate a simple dinner, with little conversation, and then retired early, hoping to escape the strange atmosphere that had surrounded us. But even my strange dreams, to which I had grown accustomed, seemed to be affected. The music played for me again, but its tone had changed to a poignant new strain. Whether it had actually changed, or I, affected by the day’s events, just perceived the alteration, I don’t know, but like the siren’s song, again it drew me to the Christmas Box and the next letter.

  December 6, 1916

  My Beloved One,

  Another Christmas season has come. The time of joy and peace. Yet how great a void still remains in my heart. They say that time heals all wounds. But even as wounds heal they leave scars, token reminders of the pain. Remember me, my love. Remember my love.

  Sunday morn
ing, Christmas Eve, the snow fell wet and heavy and had already piled up nearly four inches by afternoon when Steve met me near the mansion’s front porch.

  “How’s Mary today?” he asked.

  “About the same. She had a bad bout of nausea this morning but otherwise was in pretty good spirits. Keri and Jenna are still at the hospital with her now.”

  He nodded in genuine concern. “Well, let’s go,” he said sadly. “It will be good for you to see this.”

  We crossed the street and together climbed the steep drive to his home. Still unaware of our destination, I followed him around to his backyard. The yard was filled with large cottonwood trees and overgrown eucalyptus shrubs. It was well secluded by a high stone wall that concealed the cemetery I knew to be behind it.

  “There’s a wrought-iron gate behind those bushes over there,” Steve said, motioning to a hedge near the wall. “About forty years ago the owner here planted that hedge to conceal the access to the cemetery. He was an older man and didn’t like the idea of looking out into it each day. My family moved here when I was twelve years old. It didn’t take us boys long to discover the secret gate. We hollowed out the hedge so that we could easily slip into the cemetery from it. We were frequently warned by the sexton never to play in the cemetery, but we did, every chance we got. We’d spend hours there,” Steve confided. “It was the ideal place for hide-and-seek.”

  We reached the gate. The paint had chipped and cracked from the cold, rusted steel, but the gate remained strong and well secured. A padlock held it shut. Steve produced a key and unlocked the gate. It screeched as it swung open. We entered the cemetery.

  “One winter day we were playing hide-and-seek about here. I was hiding from my friend when he saw me and started to chase. I ran though the snow up to the east end of the cemetery; it was an area where we never played. One of our friends swore he had heard the wailing of a ghost up there and we decided the place was haunted. You know how kids are.”

  I nodded knowingly as we trudged on through the deepening snow.

  “I ran up through there,” he said pointing to a clump of thick-stumped evergreens, “then up behind the mausoleum. There, as I crouched behind a tombstone, I heard the wailing. Even muffled in the snow it was heart-wrenching. I looked up over the stone. There was a statue of an angel about three feet high with outstretched wings. It was new at the time and freshly whitewashed. On the ground before it knelt a woman, her face buried in the snow. She was sobbing as if her heart were breaking. She clawed at the frozen ground as if it held her from something she wanted desperately—more than anything. It was snowing that day and my friend, following my tracks, soon caught up to me. I motioned to him to be quiet. For more than a half hour we sat there shivering and watching in silence as the snow completely enveloped her. Finally she was silent, stood up, and walked away. I’ll never forget the pain in her face.”

  Just then I stopped abruptly. From a distance I could see the outspread wings of the weatherworn statue of an angel. “My angel,” I muttered audibly. “My stone angel.”

  Steve glanced at me.

  “Who was buried there?” I asked.

  “Come see,” he said, motioning me over.

  I followed him over to the statue. We squatted down and I brushed the snow away from the base of the monument. Etched in the marble pedestal, above the birth and death dates, were just three words:

  OUR LITTLE ANGEL

  I studied the dates. “The child was only three years old,” I said sadly. I closed my eyes and imagined the scene. I could see the woman, wet and cold, her hands red and snow bitten. And then I understood. “It was Mary, wasn’t it?”

  His response was slow and melancholy. “Yes. It was Mary.”

  The falling snow painted a dreamlike backdrop of solitude around us.

  It seemed a long while before Steve broke the silence. “That night I told my mother what I had seen. I thought that I would probably get in trouble. Instead she pulled me close and kissed me. She said that I should never go back, that we should leave the woman alone. Until now, I never did go back. At least not to the grave. I did come close enough to hear her crying, though. It would tear me up inside. For over two years she came here every day, even in spring when the pouring rain turned the ground to mud.”

  I turned away from the angel, thrust my hands in my coat pockets, and started back in silence. We walked the entire distance to the house before either one of us spoke. Steve stopped at his back porch.

  “The child was a little girl. Her name was Andrea. For many years Mary placed a wooden box on the grave. It resembles the boxes the wise men carry in Nativity scenes. My guess is it’s the box you found with the letters.”

  I mumbled a thank you and headed for home alone. I unlocked the heavy front door and pushed it open. A dark silence permeated the mansion. I climbed the stairs to our quarters and then the attic, and for the first time I brought the Christmas Box out into the light. I set it on the hall floor and sat down beside it. In the light, I could see the truly exquisite craftsmanship of the box. The high polish reflected our surroundings and distorted the images, giving a graceful halo to the reflected objects. I removed the last letter.

  December 6, 1920

  My Beloved One,

  How I wish that I might say these things to your gentle face and that this box might be found empty. Even as the mother of our Lord found the tomb they placed Him in empty. And in this there is hope, my love. Hope of embracing you again and holding you to my breast. And this because of the great gift of Christmas. Because He came. The first Christmas offering from a parent to His children, because He loved them and wanted them back. I understand that in ways I never understood before, as my love for you has not waned with time, but has grown brighter with each Christmas season. How I look forward to that glorious day that I hold you again. I love you, my little angel.

  Mother

  Chapter VI

  SET THE LETTER back in the box and pulled my knees into my chest, burying my head into my thighs. My mind reeled as if in a dream, where pieces of the day’s puzzle are unraveled and rewoven into a new mosaic, defying the improbability of the cut edges fitting. Yet they did fit. The meaning of Mary’s question was now clear to me. The first gift of Christmas. The true meaning of Christmas. My body and mind tingled with the revelations of the day. Downstairs I heard the rustling of Keri’s return. I walked down and helped her in.

  “I came back to get Jenna some dinner,” she said, falling into my arms. “I am so exhausted,” she cried. “And so sad.”

  I held her tightly. “How is she?”

  “Not very good.”

  “Why don’t you lie down, I’ll put on some soup and get Jenna ready for bed.”

  Keri stretched out on the sofa while I dressed Jenna, fed her, then carried her downstairs to the den.

  It was dark outside, and in absence of a fire, the room was bathed by the peaceful illumination of the Christmas tree lights. Strands flashed on and off in syncopation, casting shadows of different shapes and hues. I held Jenna in silence.

  “Dad, is Mary coming home for Christmas?” she asked.

  I ran a hand through my hair. “No, I don’t think so. Mary is very sick.”

  “Is she going to die?”

  I wondered what that meant to my little girl.

  “Yes, honey. I think she will die.”

  “If she is going to die, I want to give her my present first.”

  She ran over to the tree and lifted a small, inexpertly wrapped package. “I made her an angel.” With excitement she unveiled a petite cardboard angel constructed with tape, glue, and paper clips.

  “Dad, I think Mary likes angels.”

  I started to sob quietly. “Yeah, I think she likes angels, too.”

  In the silence of the lights we faced the death of a friend.

  In the outer hall I could hear the ringing of the telephone. Keri answered it, then found us downstairs.

  “Rick, that was the hospital. Mar
y is dying.”

  I wrapped Jenna up warmly and set her in the car with Keri. We drove separately, so that one of us could bring Jenna home when the time came. We arrived at the hospital and together opened the door to Mary’s room. The room was dimly illuminated by a single lamp. We could hear Mary’s shallow breathing. Mary was awake and looked toward us.

  Jenna rushed to the side of the reclining bed and, inserting her tiny hand through the side rails, pressed the little angel into Mary’s hand.

  “I brought you something, Mary. It’s your Christmas present.”

  Mary slowly raised the ornament to her view, smiled, then squeezed the little hand tightly.

  “Thank you, darling.” She coughed heavily. “It’s beautiful.” Then she smiled into the little face. “You’re so beautiful.” She rubbed her hand across Jenna’s cheek.

  Painfully, she turned to her side and extended her hand to me.

  I walked to her side and took it gently in mine.

  “How do you feel, Mary?”

  She forced a smile through the pain. “Do you know yet, Rick? Do you know what the first Christmas gift was?”

  I squeezed her hand tightly.

  “You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I understand now. I know what you were trying to tell me.”

  Tears started to fall down my cheeks. I took a deep breath to clear my throat.

  “Thank you, Mary. Thank you for what you’ve given me.”

  “You found the letters in the Christmas Box?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry that I read them.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m glad the letters were read. They were meant to be read.” She fell silent for a moment.

  “I’d like you to have the Christmas Box. It’s my Christmas gift to you.”

  “Thank you. I will always treasure it.”

  The room was quiet.

  “Andrea waits,” she said suddenly.

  I smiled. “She has been very close,” I said.

  She smiled at me again, then lifted her eyes to Keri.

  “Thank you for your friendship, dear. It has meant a lot to me.”