Christmas Bells

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  The contest was officially called the Alice Longfellow Christmas Creative Writing Competition, because it was sponsored by a foundation the poet’s daughter had created in the early 1900s. Though Alice Longfellow had been only ten years old when her mother died, in time she had become the mistress of the household, taking care of her younger sisters and looking after their father. She had never married, and after Henry Wadsworth Longfellow died, she had become the curator of her father’s legacy and a respected philanthropist, supporting many worthy causes that promoted historic preservation and education for women.

  When Charlotte made the connection between Alice Longfellow, her father the famous poet, the historic residence she had visited in third grade, and the new carol Miss Sophia had chosen for the choir’s Christmas Eve concert, it was as if a cartoon lightbulb had lit up above her head. Charlotte would write a story about a girl whose father had recently died (because to have her mother die would be too much like Alice’s real life) and who was searching for her brother, a Union soldier who had been wounded on the battlefield and had gone missing after being taken to a military hospital in Washington, DC. Her only clue would be a scrap of a letter that had been left behind, but she was determined to find him, nurse him back to health, and bring him home in time for Christmas.

  Inspired, Charlotte had thrown herself into the work, writing at a furious pace. She was fairly satisfied with her first draft and almost happy with the second, but she knew something was missing. It wasn’t until Alex was given the solo in “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” that she realized what her story lacked: a Christmas poem. A Christmas story inspired by a Christmas carol inspired by a poet’s Christmas poem really ought to include some poetry of its own.

  Charlotte had already decided that the brother in the story was missing because he had been taken to recover in a makeshift hospital set up in a church rather than a regular one, so of course her story included a choir. She decided it would be smart to use Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s own “Christmas Bells” as a model, so she began her poem with the line, “I heard the choir on Christmas Day/Their new and favorite carols play/Nice and sweet the stanzas beat/Of peace on earth, every day.”

  “No,” she had said aloud, disgusted, scribbling out the entire stanza. That was too much like Longfellow’s original, except stupider. Choirs didn’t play carols; they sang them. Stanzas didn’t beat, and “nice and sweet” sounded like a commercial for Christmas cookies.

  She had started over, and suddenly, again like a flash of light, a first line came to her, whole and clear: “The choir sang on Christmas night.” Simple and clear, with a perfect rhythm. More ideas flowed, and soon she had an entire stanza:

  The choir sang on Christmas night

  Of a heavenly star that shone great light

  Upon the manger where Jesus slept

  While tender watch his mother kept.

  Happily, she wrote the rest that evening, and over the next few days, she perfected the poem and nestled it snugly within her story. She typed it all up on her mother’s computer, printed out the story on good paper, and put it in a clear plastic binder for safekeeping.

  Then she submitted it to Mrs. Collins with fingers crossed, hoping she would receive not only an A-plus for the class assignment, but also the happy news that her story had qualified for the district competition.

  She had read her story to her mother, who had loved it, and to Alex, who had told her it wasn’t too bad but should have had more soldiers and fighting, and to Emily, who thought it was wonderful and declared that it would definitely be published in the Boston Globe on Christmas morning. Charlotte hoped she was right.

  A few days later Mrs. Collins returned the stories to their authors, placing them facedown on the students’ desks as she walked through the aisles, making general comments about what the class had done well as a group and where they clearly needed to improve. Eagerly, Charlotte turned over her story—only to discover a large red C at the top of the title page.

  Horrified, she quickly turned the story facedown again.

  “Did you win?” Emily whispered from the desk behind her.

  Charlotte swallowed hard, stole a look at Mrs. Collins, still distributing papers and droning on about margins, and quickly shook her head.

  “No?” came Emily’s incredulous whisper.

  Again Charlotte shook her head.

  “That’s impossible. What did you get?”

  Carefully, so no one else would see, Charlotte shielded the front page with her cupped hand and raised it just above her shoulder so Emily could learn the shocking truth.

  Emily gasped. “She must have given you the wrong paper.”

  For a moment Charlotte’s hopes flickered back to life, but then, holding the story on her lap and paging through it to read the comments, all hope died. Mrs. Collins had made hardly any corrections to her story, but she had circled the poem several times with broad red strokes. In the margin beside it, she had written, “Is this yours?” At the end of the paper, she had added a lengthier comment: “Please refer to the student handbook for the school policy regarding plagiarism. The entire project must be a student’s own original work.”

  Charlotte felt as if a giant fist was squeezing all the air out of her lungs. Of course the entire project was hers—the story, the poem, every word. She had written it in her bedroom, at the public library, and at the kitchen table with her favorite gel ink pen. Her name was on it. No one had ever accused her of cheating before, not even at Four Square or Monopoly, and she had no idea what to do.

  Right before lunch, the winner was announced—a boy from one of the other sixth-grade classes who had written a story about a young tollbooth operator who overcame a lifelong stutter in order to wish a Merry Christmas to the drivers traveling on the holiday, the last of whom was Santa Claus in disguise. Charlotte knew everyone had expected her to win, but she ignored their curious glances and pretended she didn’t care. If anyone asked, she would tell them that she had written her story the morning it was due and hadn’t really expected to win. Fortunately, she was spared from telling that lie because no one asked.

  Of course she shared the devastating accusation with Emily, who became outraged on her behalf and insisted that she go to Mrs. Collins immediately and explain that she had not cheated, that the poem was her own creation. “I did base it upon Longfellow’s poem,” Charlotte reminded her as they stood side by side at their lockers, packing up at the end of the day. “Maybe that’s cheating.”

  “Maybe ‘Christmas Bells’ inspired you, but your poem is nothing like his. His verses have five lines and yours have four. He repeats that line about peace and goodwill and you don’t. Your poems have the same meter and they’re both about Christmas, but that’s it.”

  “Maybe that’s enough.”

  “Inspiration is not plagiarism. Explain to her. I’ll come with you.”

  “Right now?” Charlotte said, dismayed, as Emily slammed both of their lockers shut and seized her hand.

  “Yes, right now.”

  “We’ll miss the bus.”

  “My mom’s driving me home today. She’ll give you a ride.”

  Emily was determined, and Charlotte was heartened by her support, so she allowed herself to be towed along to Mrs. Collins’s room. Their teacher was erasing the blackboard when Emily knocked firmly on the open door, and her eyebrows rose at the sight of them.

  “I’m glad you came by, Charlotte.” She gestured to a desk in the front row. “Please sit. Emily, you may wait outside.”

  “Charlotte didn’t cheat,” Emily declared.

  “Emily,” Mrs. Collins said distinctly, “you may wait outside. Please close the door.”

  As Charlotte took her seat, Emily reluctantly obeyed, throwing her one last encouraging look through the window as the door closed.

  Mrs. Collins sat down behind her desk, the ancien
t electric typewriter of school legend at her right hand. “Well, Charlotte? Did you have something you wanted to tell me?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “You wanted to know if the poem is mine. Well, it is. Every word. The rest of the story too.”

  Mrs. Collins regarded her with disappointment but not the least bit of surprise. “It would be better if you told the truth.”

  “I am telling you the truth.” Her voice sounded very small and meek and not at all convincing.

  “Charlotte, that C was generous, an acknowledgment that most of the story is clearly your own writing. I could have given you an F and reported you to the principal.” Mrs. Collins sighed, frowning. “Perhaps I should invite your parents in and we can all discuss this together.”

  “No,” Charlotte blurted. The knowing look Mrs. Collins gave her in reply told her the teacher completely misunderstood her urgency. “Please don’t tell her. My mom is really stressed out and this will make everything worse.”

  Mrs. Collins folded her arms. “Then I understand why it would feel especially important to you to receive a good grade, and maybe even to win the contest, but plagiarism is never an acceptable means to that end.”

  “I didn’t steal someone else’s poem.” Suddenly inspired, she dug into her backpack, took out her English binder, and took out a handful of loose-leaf papers covered in cursive and cross-outs. “See? These are my rough drafts. You can see how I started and how I changed it and how it became better.”

  Mrs. Collins barely glanced and the pages. “Charlotte, we both know you could have written all that after your assignment was returned to you.”

  “How could I have done that?” Charlotte protested, forgetting herself. “When would I have had time? I was in class all day.”

  “At lunch. In the passing periods.”

  “That’s not what happened.” Charlotte felt tears gathering. “It’s my poem and my story, every word. I didn’t cheat. I swear I didn’t.”

  Mrs. Collins sighed and rose. “You should go now. If you want to discuss this matter further, we’ll invite your parents to join us.”

  Charlotte rose, her vision blurry with tears, and zipped her backpack shut with force. “My dad can’t come here all the way from Afghanistan to tell you I’m not a liar,” she snapped icily.

  “Charlotte—”

  But she had heard enough. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she stumbled from the classroom, nearly crashing into Emily, who put her arm around her shoulders. “You should tell your mom,” she said as they made their way outside to the curb.

  “I can’t. My mom has enough to worry about with my dad being gone and Alex—being Alex.”

  “Then tell another teacher. Every other teacher at this school who’s had you in class knows you’re smart and honest. They’ll stick up for you to Mrs. Collins. They’ll—”

  “We can’t tell any other teachers,” insisted Charlotte. “The first thing they’ll want to do is call my mom. You know that.”

  Emily clearly wanted to argue the point, but their arrival at the car brought their debate to an abrupt end. Emily’s mother took one look at Charlotte’s tear-streaked face and her daughter’s indignant scowl and agreed to drive Charlotte home, no questions asked.

  • • •

  Charlotte had been so proud of her story, especially the poem, but Mrs. Collins had ruined everything. There would be no wonderful honor to brighten her mother’s bleak season, no prize-winning story to read to her proud father over the Internet, no beautifully engraved plaque to present to her mother on Christmas morning. She was in disgrace, and there was no coming back from it.

  Charlotte had considered that the worst day of her life. She never thought she would ever feel as horrible as she had at that moment, trying to convince her teacher of her innocence and hearing only bland rejections in reply.

  Her mother’s lie—and the unknown cause of it—had proven that she could feel worse, so very much worse.

  She took a deep breath in the middle of the verse and tried her best to sing, but her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t bear to give voice to the sweet, poignant melody when she knew that eventually the secrets would come out, and as bad as she felt now, she would feel worse, infinitely worse, when her mother finally confessed the real reason why they had not heard from her dad in so long.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  August–December 1861

  Nahant. Aug 18. 1861.

  Mrs. Robert Mackintosh

  2 Hyde Park Terrace

  London

  Dearest Mary,

  I will try to write you a line to-day, if only to thank you for your affectionate letter, which touched and consoled me much.

  How I am alive after what my eyes have seen, I know not. I am at least patient, if not resigned; and thank God hourly—as I have from the beginning—for the beautiful life your beloved sister and I led together, and that I loved her more and more to the end.

  I feel that only you and I knew her thoroughly. You can understand what an inexpressible delight she was to me, always and in all things. I never looked at her without a thrill of pleasure;—she never came into a room where I was without my heart beating quicker, nor went out without my feeling that something of the light went with her. I loved her so entirely, and I know she was very happy.

  Truly do you say there was no one like her. And now that she is gone, I can only utter a cry “from the depth of a divine despair.” If I could be with you for a while, I should be greatly comforted; only to you can I speak out all that is in my heart about her.

  It is a sad thing for Robert to have been here through all this. But his fortitude and his quiet sympathy have given us all strength and support. How much you must have needed him! He goes back to you with our blessing, leaving regrets behind. We all love him very much.

  I am afraid I am very selfish in my sorrow; but not an hour passes without my thinking of you, and of how you will bear the double woe, of a father’s and a sister’s death at once. Dear, affectionate old man! The last day of his life, all day long, he sat holding a lily in his hand, a flower from Fanny’s funeral. I trust that the admirable fortitude and patience which thus far have supported you, will not fail. Nor must you think, that having preached resignation to others I am myself a cast-away. Infinite, tender memories of our darling fill me and surround me. Nothing but sweetness comes from her. That noble, loyal, spiritual nature always uplifted and illuminated mine, and always will, to the end.

  For the future I have no plans. I can not yet lift my eyes in that direction. I only look backward, not forward. The only question is, what will be best for the children? I shall think of that when I get back to Cambridge.

  Meanwhile think of me here, by this haunted sea-shore. So strong is the sense of her presence upon me, that I should hardly be surprised to meet her in our favorite walk, or, if I looked up now to see her in the room.

  My heart aches and bleeds sorely for the poor children. To lose such a mother, and all the divine influences of her character and care. They do not know how great their loss is, but I do. God will provide. His will be done!

  Full of affection, ever most truly,

  H. W. L.

  As mournful and bleak as it had been to spend the late summer at the cottage at Nahant, with its constant reminders of countless blissful, happy days lost forever to the past, Henry knew that returning home to Craigie House would be infinitely more painful.

  In the aftermath of his beloved Fanny’s death, Henry had plunged into a grief so deep and so complete that he had had no strength or presence of mind to demur when Charles Sumner and Tom Appleton and other friends had urged him to retire to the seashore. There, they had said, he could convalesce from his injuries and escape the distressing scenes of so much former happiness and present horror.

  He had acquiesced, believing desperate flight preferable to paraly
sis, hoping that a change of scenery would ease the children’s suffering, knowing that nothing could mitigate his own. For a time he had become so wildly melancholic that he had believed he was going insane, and he had feared that his friends would be obliged to commit him to an asylum. Only by sheer force of will had he stumbled back from the precipice of madness. He was greatly bereaved—entirely, wholly bereft—yet so were the children, and they needed him. They were Fanny’s greatest legacy. He could not forsake her by leaving them orphaned and alone in a world that had changed utterly in the matter of a few terrible hours.

  At Nahant the fog of shock and laudanum faded, his burned skin itched and ached and yet healed. The relentless stream of letters of condolences followed them to the cottage, but there were few callers. Charley and Ernest sailed and fished and fervently discussed the war. The girls brought Henry shells they had collected upon the shore, begged him for stories, and went on various excursions with Miss Davies. The cottage was too quiet with the children gone, and though he sat at his desk with paper and pen, and tried to write poetry or respond to letters, he found himself counting the silent minutes until they returned. Miss Davies and his friends thought peace and quiet would ease his recovery, but what he desperately craved was his children’s noise and activity, their liveliness and youth, the glimpses of their mother he perceived in a daughter’s smile, in a son’s clever witticism. He clung to such ephemera as if they would tether him to the Earth, restraining him from drifting away to join his beloved wife too soon, before his duty to his children was fulfilled.

  At last that bleak, empty August ground to a halt, and with a rising sense of sickening dread, Henry made arrangements for their return to Cambridge. Charley would resume his studies at Harvard when the new term commenced, albeit reluctantly, and the younger children too would return to school. And since Henry must provide for them, he would have to take up his pen, though it seemed impossible that he would ever again find it within himself to write. It seemed that all poetry had drained from the world, that life had lost its flavor and color and fragrance. What was there to write about but misery and loss?