A Wish for Christmas

by Thomas Kinkade

  “If I can figure it out, anybody can,” he assured her.

  “See you,” she called out from the back door.

  “Right, see you.” He watched her go then stood staring at the closed door a moment.

  He would see her, too. Every day until Christmas.

  Think you can stand it? he asked himself, realizing that this situation was not quite the hardship he had thought it would be.

  Um . . . yeah, he answered his own question. I think so.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO STAY. THAT’S ALL RIGHT. I CAN MANAGE ON my own, Emily,” Lillian said.

  Meanwhile, she gripped Emily’s arm for dear life as they walked up the driveway heading for the side door.

  Right, Mother, Emily wanted to reply. You can’t even get into the house on your own. Do you really expect me to believe you can manage just fine once you’re in there?

  But she didn’t say that, of course. And it was slippery. Flurries during the night had left a few inches of fresh snow on the ground, and Emily had to make the choice this morning to either shovel a path from her mother’s side door to the car, or risk walking in late to the church service. Which her mother hated more than risking a fall. So now there was no path and they struggled to get inside, without Lillian ending up in the snow.

  Finally, they made it.

  “I’m going to shovel a bit and then I’ll make lunch,” Emily said as they entered the house.

  “I can make the lunch,” Lillian insisted. “Cold foods, nothing that requires turning on the stove,” she added with special emphasis.

  Of course her mother had started using the stove again. Just not when either of her daughters was around, Emily knew.

  “A sandwich would be fine. Anything you have on hand,” Emily said, holding on to her patience. She found an old wool scarf on a hook near the door and wrapped it around her neck before heading out again.

  Emily quickly shoveled a wide path from the side door to the driveway, then another path from the sidewalk up to the porch. The cold dry air had a bite today, though the sky was perfectly clear, a brilliant blue. She really didn’t mind shoveling; she needed the exercise. But she did have a lot at home to do.

  If only her mother would tolerate some help. Felicia had not lasted long. Her mother had fired her for some odd reason—mixing white clothes with colored items in the laundry?

  It seemed an unlikely error for a trained home-care worker to make, Emily thought. More likely, it was one of her mother’s tricks to create a valid cause for banishment.

  Like an unscrupulous detective, planting evidence.

  Emily had not bothered to confront her mother about it. Yet. But her mother had to realize she was playing a dangerous game. Three strikes and she was going to be out of this house, if Emily had any say about it.

  By the time Emily finished shoveling and came inside, the kitchen table was set for lunch. Her mother had made two sandwiches, each containing a single slice of yellow cheese and a wispy leaf of iceberg lettuce balanced within slices of toasted white bread.

  Emily wasn’t sure why she found the sandwiches so amusing. Maybe it was the combination of obvious, painstaking care in assembly with extremely meager ingredients.

  “You made lunch, how nice.” Emily said, sitting down.

  “And some tea. It’s cold out there,” Lillian noted. “That man who spoke up in church today . . . that Mr. Healy. Isn’t he fortunate that his family won’t be doing without heat tonight?”

  “Yes, he is, very fortunate. That was an amazingly generous gift someone gave him.”

  Once again during “Joys and Concerns,” a member of the congregation reported that his family had received an anonymous gift. This time, a new furnace.

  “He was so grateful,” Emily recalled, “he was practically in tears.”

  Along with his heartfelt thanks, Howard Healy reported that he had been injured at his job in a warehouse several months ago and was still unable to return to work. His family was struggling to live on his disability benefits and the small paycheck his wife brought home from her job at a food store. When the furnace went, they really had nowhere to turn.

  “I wonder who’s giving these amazing gifts to everyone.” Emily took a sip of her tea. It was weak as dishwater, just the way her mother liked it, but hot at least.

  “Yes, I wonder. It must be someone with money to spare,” Lillian speculated. “That leaves out most people in that church.”

  Emily glanced at her. “In that case, your name would be at the top of the list of possibilities.”

  The observation was simple fact. Her mother was among the wealth iest church members. And Emily was curious to see what her mother would say to that.

  Lillian sputtered a bit as she put her teacup down. She patted her mouth with a paper napkin. “Yes, I suppose some people might think I was the Yuletide Robin Hood. With some assistance, of course.”

  “You would need some help to carry it off. But it’s not really like Robin Hood, Mother. Robin Hood stole from the rich to give to the poor.”

  Lillian shrugged. “For all we know, the person giving these extravagant gifts might well be stealing the funds to do so. This situation seems so heartwarming from a distance, but we don’t really know what’s going on, do we? Who is doing this and why? And where are they getting the money? I will find it heartwarming when those questions are answered satisfactorily. It is most . . . peculiar. Most likely, the act of someone who is mentally unbalanced, I’d say.”

  Emily was shocked into laughter. “Mother, do you really think that? Do you really think it’s a sign of mental illness to be generous to strangers? What about donating to charities for different causes? You sometimes make those kinds of donations, and very large ones, too, I’ve noticed.”

  Her mother gave substantially to causes that moved her. A famine in Ethiopia. Or Hurricane Katrina relief. She was an avid news watcher, and these were often situations that came right into her living room.

  “That’s different,” Lillian argued. “This is so . . . personal. It must be someone in our church who knows all these families. It strikes me as very inappropriate somehow.”

  “I think it’s wonderful. It’s the real spirit of Christmas and a lesson for all of us,” Emily said quietly.

  “Oh, balderdash. Now you sound as if you’re reading out of a greeting card,” Lillian scoffed. “Speaking of the spirit of Christmas, don’t you think it’s time to bring down my boxes from the attic? I want to do a little decorating around here.”

  “I can bring them down for you,” Emily said. “But I need to go soon, and you can’t decorate by yourself. So what’s the sense? You’ll only be tempted.”

  Lillian made a face and crossed her arms over her chest. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “You could have had your decorating finished by now if you hadn’t fired Felicia,” Emily pointed out.

  “Felicia was not as capable as you think. I was the one who was here with her and subjected to her incompetence. If I had sent her up to the attic on Friday, she would still be up there, looking for the boxes.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see if the person coming tomorrow can manage to find your decorations and find their way downstairs again,” Emily said dryly.

  “The person coming tomorrow? Good grief—”

  “You didn’t think that was going to be the end of it, did you?” Emily asked. “Her name is Nancy. She’s very experienced, older than Felicia. She used to be a nurse, so you can’t claim she lacks training.”

  “Maybe so, but she must lack plain common sense if she gave up a good career like nursing for this sort of work.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to find fault before you’ve even met her. We’re giving you another chance. Don’t blow it,” Emily advised.

  “Thanks for the warning. Are you done with your lunch?” Lillian asked tartly.

  “Yes, I am. Thank you.” Emily picked up her empty plate, and her mother’s. The sandw
ich had been so flimsy, she would be hungry again by the time she got home.

  “Just put those dishes in the sink,” Lillian said. “I’ll take care of them later.”

  “Don’t bother, Mother. Nancy will do it for you tomorrow.”

  Her mother gave out a short, harsh laugh. “Yes, Nancy is coming. Be still, my beating heart. I can hardly wait.”

  Emily slipped on her coat and grabbed her purse. “Jessica said she’ll drop by later, on her way home from the mall. She wants to bring you some dinner.”

  “She needn’t bother. Cold cereal would be fine with me. I can wait for Nancy to fix me a real meal.”

  Emily had to laugh out loud. “Mother, you are sui generis.” She leaned over and quickly kissed her mother’s cheek.

  “My, my . . . I am impressed. If you think you can butter me up with a little high school Latin, think again, my dear. Sui generis, my foot,” Lillian grumbled as Emily headed for the back door. “Wait a minute. Does this Nancy know any Latin? That is one of my requirements, you know.”

  Emily glanced over her shoulder and waved good-bye. Then she slipped outside, into the bracing, head-clearing cold air.

  She didn’t dare reply.

  ON MONDAY MORNINGS REVEREND BEN USUALLY SET OUT EARLY TO visit members of the congregation who were sick in the hospital or confined to a nursing home. By lunch time, he had visited all four on his list and headed back to the village. But instead of going straight to the church, he parked near the Clam Box diner on Main Street.

  As Ben entered, the bell over the door rang, and Officer Tulley turned on his stool at the counter to see who had come in.

  Just the man I want to see, Ben thought, waving at his friend. He walked over and sat on the empty seat next to Tucker.

  “Hello, Reverend. How’s your Monday going?” Tucker asked.

  “Fine so far. It’s my Sunday that still has some wrinkles to iron out.”

  Tucker smiled. “You mean the Phantom Santa?”

  “Exactly. He—or she?—has struck again and made Howard Healy and his family very happy and grateful.”

  “And warm,” Tucker added.

  “And warm,” Ben agreed solemnly.

  It was hard to think of anyone doing without a properly heated house in this weather. But Ben knew that even families with perfectly good heating systems were turning their thermostats down low this year because they couldn’t afford the heating bills.

  Charlie Bates bustled out of the kitchen. He dropped a plate with a turkey sandwich in front of Tucker then turned to Ben. “What’ll you have today, Reverend?”

  Ben noticed that Charlie hadn’t bothered to give him a menu. Not that he needed one, but he did like the pretense of looking it over, as if he didn’t know it by heart.

  He glanced up at the blackboard over the counter where the specials were listed. “How about the corn chowder?”

  “How about it?” Charlie quipped, with a nasal laugh.

  “I’ll have a bowl, Charlie. Thank you,” Ben answered evenly.

  “Coming right up. Sorry if things are slow. We only have one waitress on today. That other one, the new one, she didn’t show up, didn’t even bother to call. You just can’t find good help these days. . . .” His grumbling voice disappeared into the kitchen.

  Tucker leaned close to Ben, his voice low. “The only waitress that ever stuck with this job was Lucy. Because she’s married to him. And even she found a way to escape,” he observed in an amused tone.

  Tucker had known Charlie since kindergarten and was his closest—and sometimes, his only—friend. So Ben figured he had the right to comment in this way. Besides, it was true.

  Lucy was Charlie’s wife. She had worked here day and night, waiting on tables while Charlie cooked and managed the kitchen. But a few years ago, Lucy decided to get out from under Charlie’s tyrannical thumb and return to school. It was no small struggle, but she finally managed the dual accomplishments of earning her nursing degree and staying married to Charlie.

  “That waitress covering the tables today?” Tucker said, glancing over at her. “Her name’s Trudy. She’s been here since the summer. That’s probably a new record for anyone other than Lucy.”

  “Probably,” Ben agreed. He hadn’t realized the woman had been working here that long.

  Charlie arrived with a bowl of soup and dropped it down in front of Ben along with a bag of oyster crackers. “Corn chowder, piping hot.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said.

  “More coffee?” Charlie held the pot over Tucker’s mug.

  “No thanks, Charlie. I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” Charlie sounded insulted, and left them again.

  “Tucker,” Ben said, his mind returning to their earlier topic. “You hear a lot around town and at church. Who do you think is giving out these extravagant gifts?”

  Besides being a police officer, Tucker also served as a deacon at church. Ben knew those two roles covered a lot of ground on the town grapevine.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Tucker replied. “But I think it must be someone in our congregation. How else would they find out that these families are in need?”

  “Good point. What I can’t figure out is how they knew about the Healys’ furnace. Did Howard Healy put a sign up on the bulletin board, too?”

  “I don’t think so.” Tucker rubbed his chin. “Howard is on a lot of committees and so is his wife. There’s a lot of personal chitchat at the meetings, you know how it is. One of them must have mentioned that the furnace was on the blink, and the right person must have heard them.”

  “Yes, it could have happened that way.”

  Tucker shrugged. “It’s not that hard to figure out. You know I could have made detective, Reverend. I just like being a uniform, on a beat.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Ben replied with a smile.

  Tucker would have been a good detective, too, he thought, the unobtrusive type that criminals underestimate.

  “I know our Secret Santa wants to be anonymous, but I’m really curious now about who it is,” Tucker admitted.

  “I’m curious, too. I think everybody at church must be. It’s amazing to me that this person—or persons—have managed to remain anonymous all this time. I mean, one gift. But now two? And such big gifts, too. How do you think they’ve managed it?”

  “I’m not sure. But it must be someone nobody would expect. And someone who’s able to keep a secret,” Tucker said. “The thing is, most people carrying on some covert activity—for better or worse—eventually slip up and give themselves away. It’s just human nature.” Tucker took a sip of coffee and looked over the check that had been slipped under his plate. He left a few bills on the counter and then put on his brimmed hat.

  “Human nature, yes.” Ben nodded. “And probability, too. I mean, the longer this goes on, the more likely it is that the Secret Santa will be discovered, don’t you think?”

  “I expect before Christmas is over, the Secret Santa will slip up or leave some telling clue. Don’t worry, Reverend, we’ll figure it out.” Tucker laughed and patted Ben’s shoulder as he walked past him and headed for the door.

  Ben sat alone, finishing his soup. He didn’t know why it suddenly felt important to him, but he did want to know the identity of this Secret Giver. It would probably turn out to be someone well-known to him, he realized. Would he see that person differently once he discovered that they were responsible for these grand gestures of generosity?

  The bell over the door sounded, and Ben turned to see Grace Hegman and her father, Digger, enter. Ben waved hello, and a wide grin spread over Digger’s wrinkled face. The old man looked as if he intended to walk over, but Grace quickly tugged at his sleeve and steered him in the opposite direction. She glanced back at Ben with a small, tight smile.

  Grace had her hands full now with her father, Ben thought as he turned back to his lunch. It was just as well they hadn’t joined him. Digger’s conversation would have been a rambling one, and Ben had to be
on his way. He couldn’t linger here all day, gossiping about the Secret Santa.

  ON MONDAY IT WAS HARD TO GET BACK INTO THE PT ROUTINE. OR maybe Gena the slave driver was just working him harder, David thought. He was doing a little better on the handrail lane and able to stand longer without the walker.

  Gena had let him try a cane, but he hadn’t been able to manage more than a few steps before his bad leg slipped out from under him. A discouraging debut. But she was trying to work with him to meet his goal to be walker-free by Christmas. “We’ll get there,” she told him, one of the few times she recognized his effort. He had not answered but hoped that was true.

  When they finally finished he practically crawled back to his table and lay back exhausted while she massaged his aching legs.

  “Been out last night, David? You were really dragging your butt out there.”

  David laughed harshly. “Yeah, it was a wild night. A real party night. I got trashed.”

  “Still having trouble sleeping? Bad dreams?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Nightmares about the war zone plagued him, keeping him up several nights a week.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if I was living alone. But I scream so loud, I wake the whole house,” he confessed. “My little stepsister wakes up and my stepmother has to go and take care of her. And my Dad comes down to wake me. . . . One night, I wouldn’t wake up that easily and I socked him the face.”

  “Really? What did your father think about that?”

  “He didn’t like walking around with a black eye. But he got over it. He says he’s going to put on boxing gloves now when he comes into my room.”

  Gena nodded. He noticed she didn’t laugh at his joke.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t that funny. He was just trying not to make such a big thing out of it.

  “Your night terrors are a symptom of traumatic stress, David. We’ve spoken about this before. Have you thought any more about seeing a counselor?”

  “No, not really,” he admitted. “I did a few sessions when I first got out. I don’t think it helped any. It made me keep remembering. I just want to forget.”