Christmas Bells

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  The children delighted in their numerous presents, especially the sugarplums their aunt Anne sent from Portland with her love. Later, after a quieter but no less delicious feast than in years past, Henry called the children to join him by the fireside for their traditional story. Even Charley, restless as he was, listened, rapt, as Henry read aloud Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, a longtime family favorite. It brought Henry bittersweet comfort to think that benevolent spirits could visit the Earth at Christmastime.

  “How inexpressibly sad are all holidays!” he wrote in his journal later that night. The children had gone to bed hours before, but memories of Christmases past had kept him long awake. “But the dear little girls had their Christmas-tree last night; and an unseen presence blessed the scene.”

  As he waited for the ink to dry upon the page, in his imagination he lived again his last Christmas with Fanny, saw vividly her loving smile, felt her touch upon his arm, heard her gentle, merry laugh close to his ear, felt her soft, tender lips brush his cheek.

  A log crashed on the hearth, startling him from his reverie. He watched, grief seizing him anew, as it blazed before falling back into embers.

  “Happy Christmas, darling,” he murmured. He closed his journal and retired to his bed, relieved to have made it through the day, not daring to wonder what the lonely New Year would bring.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Mother’s Tale

  Her heart aching, Laurie sat motionless in the pew, transfixed by the choir’s impossibly lovely song, staring straight ahead so she would not weep.

  I heard the bells on Christmas Day

  Their old, familiar carols play,

  And wild and sweet

  The words repeat

  Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

  The children’s voices, sweet and pure, filled the church with enthralling, angelic harmony. The children weren’t angels, of course, but very much human—willful, mischievous, friendly, often kind, occasionally cruel, serious or cheerful, thoughtful or careless—with all the endearing and exasperating habits that made them unique, that made their parents marvel and wonder and adore. Laurie’s own children were certainly not angels—Charlotte with her moods and perfectionism, Alex who lived utterly in the present and gave no thought to consequences—and yet they were perfect, absolutely perfect, exactly as they were.

  Laurie was grateful that the children had inherited Jason’s perfect pitch and wonderful voice. She too had an excellent ear, enough to admire and appreciate their gifts, enough to lament her own mediocre instrument. Christmas, more than any other time of year, gave her abundant opportunity to enjoy their gifts, for she truly believed that the most profoundly glorious music ever composed had been created to celebrate that holy season. And at Christmas, children were encouraged as at no other time of year to raise their voices in harmonious song, to proclaim the good news of the savior’s birth, to reflect upon the wondrous mystery, to encourage their listeners to rejoice with family and friends near and far.

  She could not ruin Christmas for them. She could not let it become a season they would dread for the rest of their lives, a time of grief and mourning in a world that already provided too much of both.

  “Oh, my,” a merry voice chirped. “Are you preparing to do battle?”

  Startled, Laurie glanced away from the choir and discovered Sister Winifred standing in the aisle nearby, studying her over the rims of her glasses with her head tilted to one side, giving her the air of a plump, inquisitive little bird. “I’m sorry, Sister. Preparing to do what?”

  “To do battle—with the forces of darkness, perhaps.” The elderly nun’s arms were filled with hymnals, so she indicated Laurie’s lap with a nod.

  Laurie glanced down and discovered that her hands were balled into fists, tangled in her scarf as if she meant to wring the life out of it. Flustered, she immediately released the scarf and attempted to smooth out the evidence of her distress.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Sister Winifred inquired.

  “Yes, Sister, I just . . . have a lot on my mind. It’s a crazy time of year.”

  “It’s a season of miracles,” the nun replied, nodding agreement.

  That wasn’t quite what Laurie had meant. “Yes, that too.”

  Sister Winifred beamed as if Laurie had recited the Apostles’ Creed in perfect Latin, and resumed tidying up the pews, humming along with the choir, occasionally making brief, quiet remarks to no one in particular, in a tone that was both friendly and respectful. She was just thinking aloud, Laurie told herself uncertainly. Surely Sister Winifred wasn’t really carrying on a conversation with an invisible friend. Laurie did not want to believe that the warm, cheerful nun was declining, just as she wanted to deny the evidence that Charlotte was transforming into a sullen, withdrawn teenager ahead of schedule, or that Alex was a budding pyromaniac, or that Jason—

  Jason. For a moment she had to hold her breath so she did not cry out in anguish. It was torment, not knowing. She could almost wish to be told the worst, just to know, just to get this nightmare of waiting and not knowing over with—but no, she didn’t. She didn’t want to hasten terrible news even to relieve her worry. As long as she didn’t know for certain that her husband was dead, she could hope that he lived.

  She took a deep breath, clasped her hands together, and listened as the children sang.

  And in despair I bowed my head;

  “There is no peace on earth,” I said;

  “For hate is strong,

  And mocks the song

  Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

  “There is no peace on Earth,” Laurie whispered, her lips barely moving. That was why Jason had gone overseas, far from his family, from his home. And until she knew all hope was lost, until an officer showed up at her door with his terse, irrevocable announcement that she was a widow, she would protect the children from worry. They would not know he was missing—lost, captured, or killed. They would not spend that sacred holiday crushed by grief. She would let them enjoy one last, happy Christmas as innocent children before she revealed that their father was gone, their family forever shattered.

  To lose him at all would be devastating, but it would be especially heartbreaking to lose him at Christmas—not only because it was a season of peace, love, joy, and wonder but because Laurie and Jason had always considered Christmas their holiday, as essential to the story of their lives together as their wedding day.

  • • •

  It was in Advent that they had first met years before, as freshmen at the University of Notre Dame. Laurie’s family had moved often while she was young, as her father was transferred from one naval base to another, but for the previous eight years he had been stationed in San Diego. There Laurie had become thoroughly, happily Californian, but when it came time to apply to college, she had refused to limit herself to schools in temperate regions.

  When the first winter storm of her freshman year struck the Notre Dame campus, Laurie happily threw on her new blue-and-gold winter gear and raced outside for a snowball fight with her roommates, and soon she and the other residents of Breen-Phillips Hall paired up with the women from the dorm next door in a spirited battle against the residents of the two men’s dorms on the opposite side of North Quad.

  But by mid-December, winter had lost its allure, and so had letters from home. Her younger sister wrote cheerily of dressing in sandals and short skirts for bike rides along the beach, and from San Diego State University, her boyfriend described seminars held outside in the shade of palm trees and weekend surf parties.

  Late December brought a weeklong ordeal of final exams, fueled by stress, determination, and far too much caffeine and junk food. Up until her Spanish final on the very last slot on the schedule late Friday afternoon, Laurie practically lived in the library, abandoning sleep, exercise, and leisurely meals at North Dining Hall with her friend
s for fast food gobbled down at the LaFortune Student Center.

  When she submitted her Spanish final, she felt proud of herself, confident that she had done well, and relieved, exhausted, and happy. Only when she was nearly finished packing her suitcase for her flight home the next morning did she realize that she had completely neglected her Christmas shopping. She had no desire to spend her first days in the sunshine and warmth of San Diego battling the crowds at the mall, so she threw on her coat and boots and hurried to the campus bookstore to search for gifts before it closed for winter break.

  She found a few perfect things for her family and was heading for the checkout line when a guy approached her carrying a hanger in each hand. “Excuse me,” he said. His black pea coat was unbuttoned, offering a glimpse of a burgundy sweater. “Can I ask you a quick question?”

  He was tall, at least six feet, with dark green eyes, curly reddish-brown hair, and a build that suggested he ought to be in the Irish Guard. “Sure,” she replied, thinking that she wouldn’t mind a lengthy question if he were the one asking.

  “I’m trying to pick out a gift for my little sister, and she’s about your size. I don’t want to insult her by getting something too big, but I want to make sure it’s not too small and won’t fit.”

  Laurie smiled. “Because that would insult her too.”

  “Exactly.”

  Lowering her voice confidentially, Laurie said, “I wear a size medium.”

  “That’s what I was going to get. Do you have time for a second question?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Which would be a better Christmas present, this”—he presented one hanger, which held a sweatshirt with an embroidered university seal—“or this?” He held out the other, bearing a green cable-knit turtleneck sweater with the interlocking ND logo on the collar.

  “It depends. If she’s a student at USC, she’ll hate them both.”

  He grinned. “She’s a senior in high school, and she wants to go here next year.”

  “Then either one should be fine. Does she usually dress casual or more preppy?”

  “Sometimes one, sometimes the other.”

  Laurie studied the two garments. “I’d prefer the turtleneck, but that’s just me.” She paused, considering. “Do you want me to try them on so you can get a better idea of how they look?”

  “Would you really do that? Do you have time?”

  “Sure. I’m done with finals and my flight home doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”

  “Same with me. My roommate finished this morning and he’s long gone, but I just took my last exam an hour ago.”

  “My roommates finished yesterday.”

  “I wish I’d been that lucky.” He raised his eyebrows, hopeful. “You really don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Laurie took the hangers, disappeared into the dressing room, and emerged wearing first the sweatshirt, and then the turtleneck.

  “I prefer the sweater on you,” he said, appreciatively, “but I think I’d want my little sister to wear the sweatshirt.”

  Laurie laughed. “Of course you would. But the gift is supposed to be about her, not you.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He held up first one, and then the other. “I think I should go with the sweater.”

  “I think you’ve made the right choice.”

  “Me too. Thanks for your help.” He replaced the sweatshirt on its proper display rack and turned back to her, smiling. “Hey, after you’re finished shopping, do you want to go get a cup of coffee or something?”

  She almost said yes, but then she thought of her boyfriend back home. “I can’t.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, poorly concealing his disappointment. “You probably have to pack.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. Really.”

  “It’s okay.” Turning to go, he added, “Thanks again for your help. Have a great winter break.”

  “You too,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

  He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”

  As soon as she joined the line at the cashier, Laurie began to regret turning him down. So she had a boyfriend. So what? They still could have gone for coffee, just two fellow students relaxing after finals and killing time until they left for home. She craned her neck and searched the nearby aisles, but although his height should have made him easy to find, she saw no sign of him.

  Upon her return to campus after winter break, newly single—she and her boyfriend had parted amicably over the holidays—Laurie hoped to run into “the cute bookstore guy,” as she called him when describing the encounter to her roommates, but January passed, and then February, and their paths never crossed. By March she had stopped hoping to catch a glimpse of him while walking across campus or studying at the Hesburgh Library or jogging around the lakes. Soon after spring break she began dating Matthew, a sophomore pre-med student who lived in Keenan Hall, and her encounter with the cute bookstore guy faded into myth.

  One evening after supper in mid-December of her sophomore year, she was in her dorm loading her backpack for a long night of studying at the library when she heard men’s voices—hushed questions, muffled laughter—in the hall outside her room. A moment later, a pure, rich tenor sang the opening measures of “The Holly and the Ivy.” As two other tenors, a baritone, and a bass joined in, Laurie and her roommate Mary exchanged quizzical glances, then darted to the door, threw it open, and peered out into the hall. At the far end of the hallway, five young men in formal evening dress—the apparel of the Notre Dame Glee Club, the renowned men’s choir—were serenading a young woman, who stood framed in her doorway, enjoying the attention as much as the music. Up and down the hallway other doors opened and curious women looked out, and when the song finished, they all broke into applause.

  One of the baritones handed the young woman a flower, and as the singers bowed first to her and then to all their other admirers, Laurie gasped in astonishment. One of the singers, barely recognizable in white tie and severely close-cropped hair, was the cute bookstore guy.

  Laurie clutched Mary’s arm. “That’s him.”

  Mary studied the singers as they approached on their way to the stairwell. “Who?”

  “Him. The guy from the bookstore.”

  “Impossible. You invented him.”

  Laurie gave her a little shove. “I did not.”

  The singers passed just as Mary burst out laughing. The cute bookstore guy halted, his eyes widening as he recognized Laurie. “It’s you,” he said. “I thought you were a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation.”

  “I’m real,” said Laurie, smiling.

  “So I see.” The other four singers continued on without him, but the bookstore guy seemed not to notice. “Now I know why I’ve never run into you in the dining hall. I live in Dillon.”

  “Of course. South Quad, South Dining Hall.”

  “Exactly. And I figured out you’re not in the College of Engineering.”

  “No, Arts and Letters. Sociology. Which is why I’ve never seen you in class.” Laurie bit the inside of her lower lip, realizing too late that she had admitted looking for him.

  “I’m Mary,” her roommate broke in. “And you are?”

  “Jason.” He turned to Laurie. “And you’re?”

  “Laurie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Laurie. And Mary.”

  “You sing beautifully,” said Mary warmly, offering him her most disarming smile, the one that reduced cynical teaching assistants to tongue-tied boys willing to grant her extensions for late papers, penalty-free.

  “Thanks,” Jason replied. “We’re doing a fund-raiser for the South Bend Center for the Homeless. For a donation, four or five of us will sing the carol of your choice to anyone on campus. It usually ends up guys sending us to their girlfriends, altho
ugh we have sent three different quintets to a particular chemistry professor with requests for ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch.’”

  As Mary laughed, Laurie said, “Oh, that’s right. I read about that in the Observer. Not the Grinch part, the fund-raiser.”

  “Laurie writes for the Observer,” said Mary. “She’s a great writer.”

  Laurie felt her cheeks growing warm. “I wouldn’t say great.”

  “That’s why I say it for you.”

  “Jason, dude, come on,” called one of the baritones from down the hall. “Elevator’s here.”

  “Be right there.” Jason gave Laurie an apologetic shrug. “I’ve got to go. We have six more carols to perform before parietals.”

  “You’d better go a-wassailing, then.” Mary withdrew from the doorway, but with one lingering glance over her shoulder, she added, “Very nice to meet you, Jason from Dillon.”

  “Nice to meet you too.” Jason’s gaze quickly returned to Laurie. “My friends think you’re fictional, and they’ve been teasing me for almost a year. Will you help me prove to them that you exist?”

  “Jaaaaason,” one of the singers bellowed. “Elevator’s gone. Now we have to take the stairs.”

  “Sorry, Ryan,” Jason called back. In an undertone to Laurie, he confessed, “Not that sorry.”

  “It’s terrible you had to endure a year of teasing because of me,” Laurie said, with exaggerated regret, smiling. “I feel horribly guilty.”

  “You can make it up to me. There’s a party on our floor tomorrow night. Want to come?” When she hesitated, he added, “You can bring Mary.”

  “I’m sure she’d love to go, but—”

  “But what?” Then understanding dawned in his eyes. “You have a boyfriend.”