Christmas Bells

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Quickly Camille called her old friends, speaking with one and leaving urgent messages with the others. By the time the car pulled up to the Fairmont Copley Plaza, Camille was satisfied that some of the cleverest people she knew were on the case.

  Robert assisted her from the car, and the doorman swiftly welcomed her in from the cold. She was a few minutes late, but not unfashionably so; by the time she checked her coat and entered the ballroom, they were still serving cocktails and passing the hors d’oeuvres. Before she had a glass of white wine in her hand, she had been greeted warmly by several friends and twice as many acquaintances. Other people she had never met, but who had known or admired Paul, came forward to offer their condolences, which Camille accepted graciously. Although it pained her to be forcibly reminded of his absence—as if she could forget, as if she were not constantly aware of it—she was nevertheless moved to see how much Paul had meant to so many of his constituents and colleagues, and how they wanted to comfort her and honor him.

  Just as the master of ceremonies invited the guests to be seated for dinner, Camille spotted the governor in the crowd and gracefully maneuvered to his side. “Governor,” she greeted him, smiling, feigning pleasant surprise at a chance encounter. “How very nice to see you.”

  “Camille, hello.” He took her hand and kissed her cheek, smelling faintly of cigar smoke and gin. “You’re looking lovely, as always. It’s good to see you back in Boston.”

  “It’s good to be home,” she said, emphasizing the last word ever so slightly. The governor had once famously accused Paul of being a Washington insider, which was absolutely ridiculous. “I had hoped we’d be seated at the same table so we could chat. But alas—” She gestured to a table just ahead. “I’m there, and you’re much closer to the front.”

  His eyebrows rose, and there was a hint of wariness in his smile. “Something on your mind?”

  “Yes, actually, there is.” She slowed her pace to prolong the conversation, and he obligingly did the same. “I understand you haven’t made up your mind about whom you’ll appoint to finish out Paul’s term.”

  “No, not yet, although I have a short list.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Do you intend to lobby for someone in particular?”

  “Yes, Governor. Myself.”

  He stopped abruptly. “You?”

  “Why not? I know the job; I’ve been doing it for many months now, some might argue for several years. I know Paul’s constituents and I care deeply about the future of our state.” She touched him on the arm and leaned forward confidentially. “And I think we can agree that nothing will show your commitment to bipartisanship and transparent governance more than if you were to appoint someone who is not in your back pocket. Appointing your brother-in-law sends quite the opposite message.”

  “He’s not on the short list.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  She could see the wheels turning in his mind as he studied her appraisingly. Paul had always been more popular than the governor among Massachusetts voters, and Paul’s approval ratings with registered members of the governor’s party were remarkably high. The governor surely was aware of the long and honorable tradition of widows finishing out their late husbands’ terms; the practice had become less common in recent decades, as women had proven themselves able to campaign and be elected on their own merits, but for more than one hundred years, it had been the only way a woman could serve in Congress.

  “That is an inspired idea,” the governor told her. Almost everyone else had taken their seats, and their conversation was in danger of becoming conspicuous. He held out Camille’s chair, and as she smiled and seated herself, he bent low and said, “Let’s talk soon and work out the details. I’d like to make an announcement Monday morning.”

  “Certainly. Shall I call you tomorrow?”

  “Why not have dinner with me and Julia instead?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “I’ll have my assistant call yours.” He straightened and, ever the consummate politician, he addressed the others seated at her table, offering a few cordial remarks that left everyone feeling pleased and appreciated, as if he had come by especially to meet them. Then, with a last nod for Camille, he went off to find his own place.

  Elated, she took the first opportunity to slip away between courses, and from a secluded corner of the lobby, she phoned her assistant and told her of her impromptu meeting with the governor.

  Kendra was guardedly optimistic. “Are you sure you have the job?”

  “I’m sure. From his perspective he has as much to gain by appointing me as I do.”

  “He wants to bask in your popularity,” Kendra speculated, undoubtedly correct. “Are you sure you have the job?”

  “I’m so sure that I want you to phone everyone on Paul’s staff and tell them to report to work as usual on the first Monday morning after New Year’s Day.” With a gasp, she said, “Most of them have probably found new jobs already.”

  “I’ve kept track of those who haven’t, in case we heard of any openings. If we consolidate your staff and what remains of the senator’s, you’ll have everything covered, and I don’t think you could find a more qualified, more dedicated team anywhere.”

  “I like the sound of that. Thank you, Kendra.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she replied. “Well, Madame Senator, what will be your top priority once you take office?”

  “Funding for education,” Camille immediately replied. “It’s absolutely essential that we provide the children of Massachusetts with the best possible chance for success in life.”

  She knew it was what Paul would have wanted.

  • • •

  Charlotte watched the passing scenery as her mother drove her and Alex home from rehearsal. “Mom,” she eventually said, “I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?”

  “The bad news,” said Alex eagerly.

  “I asked Mom.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, honey.” Their mother sighed and glanced down the street to her left before making a right turn on red. “I could use some good news. Let’s start with that.”

  “Okay.” Charlotte steeled herself with the memory of Sister Winifred’s praise. “Remember that Christmas story I was working on?”

  “The one for the Alice Longfellow Creative Writing Competition? Of course I remember. It was excellent, and I say that as a professional.”

  “The thing is . . .” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Remember the poem I put in it, about the choir? The good news is that Sister Winifred wants to print it in the programs for the Christmas Eve concert.”

  “Charlotte, that’s wonderful! Congratulations.”

  “What’s the bad news?” Alex demanded.

  Charlotte prepared to speak—and discovered she couldn’t.

  “Honey?” Her mother threw her a wary glance before returning her gaze to the road. “There’s something else?”

  “The bad news is that Mrs. Collins thinks I plagiarized the poem.”

  “What? How could she think that?”

  Charlotte shrugged and knotted her fingers together in her lap, her eyes filling with tears.

  “That’s crazy,” said Alex. “You’d rather get run over by a car than cheat at school. You don’t even need to cheat.”

  “No one needs to cheat,” said their mother emphatically. “Charlotte, are you sure? Is it possible you misunderstood her?”

  “No. Definitely not. You can read what she wrote on my paper. It’s pretty clear.”

  “That’s preposterous.” Her mother gripped the steering wheel tightly and her voice carried an edge. “You’ve had straight A’s since the first grade and she can’t see fit to give you the benefit of the doubt?”

  “I guess not.” Disbelieving, Charlotte peeped at her mother from the corner of her eye. Wasn’t she going t
o ask if the poem was really hers? Without any evidence or cross-her-heart testimony, was her mother really going to side with Charlotte against a teacher? Grown-ups always believed one another before trusting a kid, or so she had always thought.

  “Her poem is so good that Mrs. Collins thinks a real poet wrote it,” Alex speculated. “I mean, obviously.”

  Their mother shook her head, her mouth tight, her expression indignant and angry. “It’s a sign of something very wrong in our schools that students are penalized for doing too well.”

  “Next time I’ll throw in a few spelling mistakes,” said Charlotte glumly, but before her mother could protest, she quickly added, “I was just kidding.”

  “Always do your very best work, both of you,” their mother emphasized. “Oh, sweetie, I can’t believe this. What grade did you get?”

  In a small voice, Charlotte said, “She gave me a C.”

  “What?” cried Alex. “You got a C? You?”

  “Alex,” their mother admonished, but she was too distracted to put much force behind it. “Charlotte, I’d like to read your teacher’s comments tonight. I’m curious to see her reasoning. Either way, as soon as we get home, I’m going to email her and schedule a conference. I might ask the principal to join us.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Actually, I think I do.” Their mother fell silent for a long moment. “Honey, I think it’s wonderful that your poem will be printed in the concert program, but I’m sure you must be disappointed about the contest.”

  Charlotte nodded, thinking of how much she had wanted to see her mother’s face shining with pride as Charlotte read aloud her story at the special lunch with the editors and judges, how she had wanted to give the plaque to her for Christmas and tell her she owed her everything, how she had looked forward to running out to the end of the driveway on Christmas morning to bring in the newspaper and show her mother and Alex her story, running in a neat, wide column beneath her name and her school photo.

  “I know it’s not the Boston Globe,” her mother continued, “but my editor wants some Christmas features for the next issue, and he might be interested in your story. Would you like me to submit it?”

  “Yes,” cried Charlotte. “Yes, please! Except—can I change a few things first? I thought of a better introduction and I don’t like the description of the choir director on the second page.”

  Her mother laughed. “Spoken like a true writer. Of course you can revise it first. I won’t need to show it to my editor until Monday morning, but that deadline is absolute.”

  “I’ll have it done,” Charlotte promised. Her heart sang; her head felt light and merry. She should have told her mother ages ago.

  “Mrs. Collins is so stupid,” said Alex scornfully. “She should’ve known Charlotte didn’t cheat.”

  “I think we can all agree on that,” said their mother.

  “All Mrs. Collins had to do was type part of the poem in Google and she would have known in five seconds that it hadn’t been published anywhere before.”

  “Oh my gosh.” Charlotte turned in her seat to stare at him, astounded. “You’re not only a witness, you know how to find the evidence.”

  “Your word is evidence enough for me,” their mother said.

  Gratified, Charlotte smiled at her. “But not for everyone.” Turning back to Alex, she shook her head in amazement. “You’re a genius, Alex, and not just at setting things on fire.”

  Alex grinned, pleased and proud. “But especially at setting things on fire.”

  • • •

  Ryan would have called his brother as soon as rehearsal ended, but he needed time to plan what to say. Sister Winifred’s wise words were a revelation that had rendered him stunned and enlightened. All those years, all those cutting remarks about the Church and the priesthood—Ryan had always assumed that Liam scorned his calling. It had never occurred to him that perhaps his brother envied it.

  Somehow that changed everything. Liam had always deserved his compassion and understanding, but it was a lot easier to be understanding when one actually understood.

  He braced himself with a strong cup of coffee before dialing his brother’s number. The conversation was stiff and awkward, so Ryan cut the small talk short and apologized for their argument over Thanksgiving dinner. Liam replied that it wasn’t Ryan’s fault and it wasn’t an argument, more like a heated discussion. “Whatever it was, I regret it,” said Ryan. “Especially since it upset Mom and Dad.”

  “Yeah,” said Liam, his pained tone perfectly conveying a wince. “That was unfortunate.”

  “Let me make it up to you,” said Ryan. “I know you love local historical architecture. Why don’t you come by St. Margaret’s and I’ll give you the grand tour?”

  “Isn’t this your busy season?” Liam said archly, but then his tone softened. “Actually, I’ve read about St. Margaret’s, and it’s intriguing from both historical and aesthetic perspectives.”

  “Two words, bro: grand tour.”

  “Well—”

  “Why don’t you come on Christmas Eve, you and Eileen and the kids? You could bring Mom and Dad too. We have a great children’s choir, and they’re putting on a concert before Mass. I could show you around afterward.”

  “I don’t know.” Liam hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ll need to check with Eileen. She might already have something else planned for our Christmas Eve.”

  “Oh. Well, it is kind of last-minute.”

  “I’ll let you know, okay?”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “Either way, thanks for asking.”

  Ryan assured him it was no problem, and if Christmas Eve didn’t work out he’d be happy to give Liam a tour another time. Heart heavy, he hung up the phone, stared into space for a long moment, then sighed, washed his coffee cup, and returned to the chapel to find solace in his evening prayers.

  As the weekend passed, Ryan hoped Liam would call to let him know his plans, but the busy days swiftly passed without a word from his brother. And then it was the morning of Christmas Eve, sunny and cold, crisp and blue-skied, although as she spread jam on her breakfast toast, Sister Winifred put her head to one side, listened intently, and declared that it would snow after nightfall. Somewhat unnerved, Ryan glanced at the table and was relieved to see the same prediction on the front page of the Globe.

  Ryan did not know whether his brother intended to accept his invitation until an hour before the Christmas concert, when Liam texted, “On our way.” Eagerly, nervously, Ryan waited in the vestibule, welcoming parishioners and stealing quick glances outside whenever someone opened the front doors. At last they arrived—Liam looking wary, his wife hopeful; their mother on Liam’s arm, beaming; their father stoop-shouldered and keen-eyed; Liam’s sons looking around with interest, nudging each other and whispering private jokes.

  Overwhelmed with joy and relief, Ryan hurried forward to greet them, but as soon as the others in the vestibule realized the newcomers were their priest’s family, so many came forward to be introduced that Ryan had no opportunity to speak with his brother before they were obliged to take their seats for the concert.

  Ryan was very happy that his family had chosen that day to come to St. Margaret’s. The children’s choir performed beautifully, their sweet voices the perfect joyful noise to celebrate the sacred anticipation that was Christmas Eve. Young Alex performed his solo with exceptional grace and richness, astonishing in a boy his age. Afterward, Ryan saw him glance over at his sister, grinning, and she returned a proud smile—a Christmas miracle in miniature. He hoped Laurie had seen it too, and he decided that if Charlotte and Alex could set aside their sibling rivalry in honor of Christmas, surely he and Liam could.

  After the concert, Ryan celebrated Mass with an abundance of reverence and joy. The children’s choir sang for the Mass, their pure, clear, youthful voices a touching re
minder of how Jesus had come into the world as a child, as a helpless infant, beloved of his parents, subjected to the persecutions and political turmoil of his day. As Christians professed to love the baby Jesus, so too should they love all children—their own, of course, but also their neighbor’s, and the stranger’s, and the children who would enter the world in generations to come, long after they themselves had moved on.

  After the service, Ryan returned to the vestibule to wish his departing parishioners a merry Christmas, and then, while a beaming Sister Winifred led the rest of the family to the parish house for coffee, apple cider, and gingerbread cookies, Ryan took Liam on the grand tour of St. Margaret’s. “I hope I didn’t oversell this,” he remarked as they put on their coats and headed outside.

  “You raised my expectations when you called it the ‘grand tour,’” Liam warned, smiling faintly as in unison the brothers tucked their hands into their pockets. “I feel like I already know quite a lot about St. Margaret’s from your pianist.”

  “Lucas?”

  Liam nodded. “He took my History and Theory of Historic Preservation class a few years ago. I assigned a paper on a local building of historical significance and its role in the community, and he wrote about St. Margaret’s.”

  “I remember. Lucas told us he picked St. Margaret’s from a list his professor made.” Ryan stopped short and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “This is amazing. You sent Lucas to us.”

  “Hardly. I gave the class a list. Lucas picked your church.”

  “You put St. Margaret’s on the list.” In spite of Liam’s envy or sense of rejection or whatever other emotions complicated his feelings, he had included Ryan’s parish on the list.

  “It’s architecturally and historically significant,” said Liam, somewhat defensively.

  “Yes, and we all know that places fitting that description are hard to come by in Boston and Cambridge.”