by Jon L. Breen
By the time I was fifteen, he’d come for our holiday meal four times, exactly once every three years. I knew that he was Mr. Porchek, my parents having told me to address him as such. I knew he was my father’s brother, but I knew little else. After that Christmas Eve when I was fifteen, I didn’t see him again until the day of my Aunt Catherine’s wake, thirteen years later.
By that time, I thought that I had forgotten all about Mr. Porchek, but he was always there, a shadow somewhere in my soul, or in my imagination. He wasn’t a visible ghost, trailing chains like old Marley in Dickens. He was a feeling rather than a presence, like an uprising of mist from some subterranean stream that ebbed and flowed inside me, a mist that rose unbidden and then was forced back into the depths by law books, exams, briefs, boyfriends, new suits, new furniture, all the flotsam and jetsom of life that clogs the waters underneath.
No, he wasn’t like Marley, but he was a Christmas ghost all right, a ghost of Christmases past.
Christmas Eve twenty-two years ago began, as Christmas Eves always did, with my waking to wonderful smells. Mother had made the cookies and cakes days ago, but on the day before Christmas, by ten in the morning, she had begun the preparations for our traditional Polish Christmas Eve dinner, the Wigilia, more important to Poles than Christmas itself.
Unlike Dad, Mom had been born in the United States rather than in Poland, so our Wigilia wasn’t strictly traditional. We’d have the usual fish, potatoes, and cabbage, but Mom also made a piquant cranberry sauce, and an apple-and-sweet-potato casserole whose sweet-smelling brown sugar and orange juice bubbled in its baking dish.
I spent that morning helping Mom with the mundane tasks of wiping washed pots and pans, bringing up jars of red beets from the cellar, and squealing on Ray, my eight-year-old brother, whenever he tried sneaking out of the kitchen to head for the back door. I generally don’t like squealing, but if I had to work, so did he.
By three o’clock, I had pestered Mom enough to frazzle her into allowing me to get out the oplatek to lay on the table, and that’s when I found out about our honored guest. You see, just before dinner starts, Poles share oplatek, rectangular wafers of unleavened bread, with each other. You offer the wafer to someone who breaks off a small piece and eats it. At the same time, you make a wish for the person: good health, happiness for their upcoming wedding, etc. Of course, Ray and I always wished each other things like, “Hope you get bit by an anaconda,” “Hope all your ugly hair falls out,” “Hope your nose gets even bigger,” all under our breath to avoid censorship from Mom or Dad.
I liked to set the wafers at each person’s place, because that way I got to choose what color and picture I wanted. The wafers were generally white, pink, or blue, with pictures of the nativity, a choir of angels, etc. I always chose the three kings.
I usually set the least desirable wafer at the place set for the guest. We always kept the tradition of inviting an honored guest, because if you had an odd number at dinner, it was bad luck. Mom, Dad, Ray, me, and the baby, Annie, made five. Aunt Mary and Uncle Joe and their two children made nine altogether, so Mom always invited another guest, often somebody from the church who lived alone.
That Christmas Eve, I put the white wafer with its rather sketchy picture of the town of Bethlehem on the guest’s plate. “Who’s the guest this year, Mom?” I asked.
Mom, opening the jar of red beets, didn’t answer.
I assumed that she was concentrating so hard on getting off the top of the jar that she hadn’t heard me. So I repeated the question.
Still no answer.
“Mom,” I yelled in my most annoyingly squeaky pitch, “who’s the guest?”
“A new guest.”
“From the church?”
“No.”
This terseness was a mistake on Mom’s part, because it only set off my determination to have my question answered. “From where, then?”
“From nowhere.”
I thought about that. “Everybody’s from somewhere,” I announced.
“Yeah,” Ray piped in, “even you. From the moon.”
I stuck out my tongue at him, then turned back to Mom. “Mom!” I screeched.
Mother turned on me. “You don’t need to know. Go upstairs and get the good napkins.”
I was hurt, incensed, and amazed at such insensitivity on Christmas Eve, especially from Mom. It didn’t help that Ray was chuckling evilly behind me.
“I have to know what to call him,” I sulked.
To my surprise, Mom turned to me again and nodded. “Yes,” she said, “you do. He is Mr. Porchek.”
I was confused. That was our name. “You mean Grandpa?” I said.
Ray guffawed. “Grandpa’s dead.”
“Ray,” Mother said, in her Mother, not Mom, voice.
Ray stopped.
“Not Grandpa,” Mom said to me. “Just Mr. Porchek, Helen. You must be polite to him and don’t ask questions. He is the honored guest and he comes from a very long way away.”
I swallowed the “where” that sat on my tongue and began imagining what this Mr. Porchek would look like. I imagined a portly man with puffs of long gray hair. He wore black trousers and a red jacket. Then, I dismissed that image, which even at the tender age of six I recognized as a version of Santa Claus. I went through the repertoire of men I knew, mostly uncles, rejected them all, and settled on Mr. Porchek as a tall stately man with a solemn expression and carefully groomed thick black hair, a version of Monsignor Losciki, who ran our parish church.
As the day wore on, I became more and more curious about our honored guest and began to bother Ray about him, assuming Ray’s knowledge to be superior to mine, an assumption I dropped at age fifteen.
In this case, Ray did know more. “He’s Dad’s brother, dunce,” Ray said. Ray never missed an opportunity to reinforce my belief in his superior knowledge.
I felt vaguely disappointed. Dad had three other brothers that I knew of and another uncle hardly seemed to warrant the solemnity with which my mother had told me about Mr. Porchek.
Since Poles begin Christmas Eve dinner at the sight of the first star, or at dusk if snow or rain clouds block the stars, Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dick arrived at about four-thirty with our two cousins in tow. The four of us, Ray, Carol, Carl, and myself, sat in the parlor by the tree, guessing what was in the packages we would open after dinner. Poles traditionally open gifts on Christmas Eve, though Mom always hid a few gifts to be opened on Christmas Day. Ray and Carl scoffed and made gestures of oncoming violent stomach pains at Carol’s and my own expressions of desire for dolls. Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dick, who had come into the parlor with us as guards to foil any attempt to open packages, laughed.
At ten to five, the doorbell rang. I tensed, then relaxed, remembering that Mr. Porchek was only another uncle. But then I caught the look that passed between Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dick. Aunt Catherine looked frightened and Uncle Dick looked grim and angry.
We waited in the parlor, and each of us kids stiffened with the tension we had caught from Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dick.
I heard Dad, who’d just come up from the cellar where he’d been tending the coal furnace, open the door. I heard Mr. Porchek deliver the formal greeting that Poles give when entering each other’s homes.
From behind the frame of the parlor archway, I peeked at the kitchen entrance. I was astonished. Dad was holding Mr. Porchek in a bear hug, an unusual display of emotion for my loving but always reserved and polite father.
I turned to check with Ray on how to receive this display, but Ray had his mouth open in surprise, my very first inkling in a gradual process of realizing that Ray did not know all there was to know.
Even more disconcerting, Aunt Catherine had her head bowed and her hands clasped. Uncle Dick stood stiffly, staring straight ahead as if he were guarding some castle keep about to be invaded by the enemy.
I turned again toward the kitchen to watch Mr. Porchek hand Mother some rather wilted flowers. I wonder
ed where, at the end of December, Mr. Porchek had found flowers.
I did not have time to ask the oracle, and anyway, Ray was still looking a bit unsettled. I saw him glance at Carl, who was staring at Mr. Porchek. Carl was two years older than Ray and, as I was very soon to learn, possessed even more knowledge than Ray of the world and its inhabitants.
Dad led Mr. Porchek into the parlor. We all stood silently for a moment, like frozen actors at the end of a climactic scene just before the curtain goes down.
Then Mr. Porchek bowed to Uncle Dick. Uncle Dick tipped his head down once. When he raised his head, he kept his eyes looking downward.
Aunt Catherine did not move.
I stood still, too, afraid to move, lest I blunder in some unforgivable way that would bring Mr. Porchek’s wrath down upon me. For at that moment, I believed that he held some unassailably high position in the family. He did, but in a way I could not have imagined then.
In the silence, I could hear Mother running water. I thought I could also hear the snowflakes thudding against the ground outside, but I now believe that the noise came from my own tense and excited heart.
Finally, Mr. Porchek went forward to Aunt Catherine. He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips in the formal hand kiss Polish men give to women. They stood like that for a moment, then Aunt Catherine began to cry softly. Uncle Dick mumbled something about helping Mother and led Aunt Catherine from the room.
Dad led Mr. Porchek over to Carl and Ray and introduced him as Uncle Martin Porchek.
For the first time since Mr. Porchek had entered, I had enough wits about me to register what he looked like. I had not been far wrong when I imagined him to look like our tall, stately Monsignor. He had the same high cheekbones and firm strong jaw, only Mr. Porchek had curly hair, a soft white mixed in with the black that reminded me of the wool on the Christmas lamb that was always led into the church and up to the manger that the nuns had set up in the front of the apse. Usually the lamb sat quietly during Mass, but occasionally a lamb, for reasons best known to itself, got a little rambunctious, began to kick the straw about, and had to be led out.
Mr. Porchek did not look rambunctious. He looked sad and happy at the same time. His eyes glistened with tears, but he was smiling and nodding his head at Ray and Carl as if they looked just as he thought they should look. He reached into one of the deep pockets of his heavy gray coat, took out two packages, and handed one to Ray and one to Carl. He said something to Father, and Father turned to Ray and nodded.
Then Father, taking Mr. Porchek’s arm, turned to Carol and myself. I looked at Ray for moral support, but he was busy opening his package, which shocked me since gifts were never to be opened before dinner. For a moment, I considered running into the kitchen to cling to Mother’s skirts, but I rejected so undignified a move for which Ray would have teased me unmercifully.
Before I could even so much as back up a step, Mr. Porchek was standing in front of me, Dad having brought him first to me rather than Carol because I was the older child. Dad introduced me formally as Helena, not just Helen, Porchek. For a moment, I didn’t know he was talking about me. I bowed my head, as Aunt Catherine had done.
Then, Mr. Porchek took my hand. I almost fainted, but Dad’s smile gave me strength. Mr. Porchek lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. I fell in love.
Mr. Porchek reached into another pocket and handed me a small package. I managed to squeak out a “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Porchek,” Dad said, and I remembered that Dad had told me that it was polite to acknowledge by name the person who had given you a gift.
I repeated my thank you, adding Mr. Porchek’s name, and watched with some degree of jealousy as he lifted and kissed Carol’s hand. I felt pretty sure that he had not kissed her hand quite as softly as he had kissed mine, and I was sure that he had not smiled as broadly as he had at me. I thought, too, that her package looked a tad smaller than mine. I had no doubt that I was Mr. Porchek’s favorite.
“It’s all right to open the gift now,” Dad said.
I began to remove the blue paper, barely restraining myself from ripping it off, a practice Mother considered very impolite to the person who had taken the time and trouble to wrap the gift. When I had finally unwrapped all the paper, I stared at the wooden king that lay in my palm. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The king had his arms outstretched, holding up an intricately carved open box, containing the gold, his gift to the Christ child. He had a silver crown atop his flowing black hair and, just below his neck, a star held together the ends of his blue cape.
I decided then that I would marry Mr. Porchek and remained determined to do so even after, a few months later, Ray, to whom I subsequently refused to speak for three days, told me I could not marry one of my uncles.
Having finished baking the fish, Mother called us all in for dinner. Clutching my king, I entered the room walking beside Mr. Porchek.
Not before or since did the dinner table look so romantically, glitteringly beautiful to me as it did that evening. Nothing could spoil that dinner, not even the frown that lowered the heavy eyebrows over Uncle Dick’s eyes or the trembling of Aunt Catherine’s hand when she held out her oplatek to Mr. Porchek and wished him peace. Uncle Dick offered his oplatek, too, muttering a standard wish for good health.
Then, Mr. Porchek slipped into the chair for the honored guest and sat looking at us all in turn, a smile hovering on his lips. He was an elegant guest in his blue suit with its striped vest. It was the beginning of my love of vests.
Mother handed the platter of fish, as was fitting, to the honored guest first. He took two pieces of fish slowly and carefully, as if he wanted to stretch out the dinner as long as he could. He handed the fish to Mother with a “Thank you” and a little bow of his head.
He said little during the dinner, only complimenting Mother’s cooking and listening to Father’s talk of the new church the parish hoped to build.
No one asked him any questions about himself.
One more incident happened at that dinner that convinced me of Mr. Porchek’s worth, though, of course, I didn’t realize until years later the significance of the incident.
Father picked up the white horseradish and handed it to Mother. She took a little and passed it to Uncle Dick. “Take a good deal, Dick,” she said. “I’ve made some extra for you to take home.” Mother knew how fond of horse-radish Uncle Dick was.
I shook my head vigorously when Uncle Dick offered me some of the horseradish, as he did every year, teasing me because he knew how I hated the devil’s dish, as I thought of it then, and still do.
Father laughed. “Helen has not yet acquired a taste for horseradish.”
Mr. Porchek looked at me. “Perhaps little Helcia,” he said, using the Polish version of my name, “is like me. Perhaps she, too, feels that horseradish is from the devil’s own kitchen.”
I began to plan my wedding.
When dinner was over, Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dick left earlier than usual. Aunt Catherine kissed Mr. Porchek, and though I hated to see Carol and Carl leave early, I was not unhappy to see Uncle Dick go. He seemed to dislike Mr. Porchek, and so was born in me an antipathy for Uncle Dick that I carried for many years.
Father and Mr. Porchek sat at the table enjoying their coffee and talking while Mother came in to watch Ray and me open our gifts.
Afterwards, Ray and I went in to say goodbye to Mr. Porchek before we had to take an evening’s nap so as not to fall asleep at Midnight Mass.
I thanked him again for the king, then, panicking at the idea that he would leave, screwed up my courage. “Wouldn’t you like to come to Midnight Mass with us?” I asked.
“Yes, indeed, Helcia,” he said, bending toward me, “but I cannot. I must return to my home.”
“But there will be plenty of room,” I protested. “Mother and Father always go very early. And everyone will sing carols. In Polish. And in English, too. Won’t you come?”
“H
elen,” Mother said.
“Perhaps another year,” Mr. Porchek said.
“But when will I see you again?” I said. Ray stared at me.
Mr. Porchek tilted his head. “Perhaps God will allow it to be soon.”
But He didn’t. I did not see Mr. Porchek again for three years. By that time, I’d decided that, boys being so clumsy and dumb, I would not marry at all. But then I would pick up my king and remember how gentle and kind Mr. Porchek had been.
When I was nine, Mother told me at Thanksgiving that Aunt Catherine and Uncle Dick would be over on Christmas, but not on Christmas Eve. She said that Mr. Porchek would come to Wigilia that year. All my young love welled up again. But a week before Christmas, a dark cloud moved over my memories of Mr. Porchek.
Ray and Carl considered themselves much too worldly to hang around with the likes of Carol and me, but one cool evening the four of us were hanging around Larry’s store, eating chips and candy and reading comic books, with a promise to Larry that we would indeed buy a few, when I mentioned that the drawing of Silas Marner in the comic classics version I was reading reminded me of Mr. Porchek.
“He looks lonely and sad, just like Mr. Porchek,” I said.
“Well, if he’s lonely, it’s his fault,” Carl said.
I challenged Carl immediately. “How could it be his fault?” I said.
Carl gave me his best look of pity. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
Carl glanced round the store for spies, then leaned forward into our little circle. “I heard Mom and Dad talking. They didn’t know I was there,” he added proudly.
“So what did you hear?” I shouted.
Ray shushed me, looked at Larry and a customer over by the meat counter, and smiled reassuringly. “Almost got the comics picked out,” he said.
Carl scooted a bit closer into the circle. “You have to promise not to tell anybody.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. I was getting sick of Carl’s histrionics.
“Well,” he said, puffing up his chest, “Porchek’s a murderer.”