by Luanne Rice
“I will,” she said. “But not here.”
Christy was in a free fall. Tonight should be the happiest night of his life. Danny had survived catastrophe. His family was reunited, for the moment anyway. And Catherine was here beside him. Her nearness and warmth sent hot chills through him, made him want to hold her again.
But his pulse was racing, every heartbeat filling his body with fear. Christy was a simple farmer. He was motivated by old hunger, a childhood of “not enough,” and his drive was toward feeding his family, taking care of business, growing Christmas trees to put bread on the table. Catherine had such layers. She was a sophisticated Manhattanite with ways as mysterious to Christy as those of Byzantium. The fact that she could hold back information about things she knew about his son scared him.
“You’d better go now,” he said.
“Christy,” she said.
“You’ve done enough for us,” he said. “We’re grateful. Don’t think we’re not. But I can handle this now. I have to. They’re my children, and I have to fight for them.”
“I’ll stand alongside you.”
“But it’s not,” he said in a rough, husky voice, “your fight.”
She opened her mouth, as if to argue. But then she caught sight of something—the total panic and terror in his eyes, maybe. He saw her make peace with herself. He had the feeling maybe she knew it would upset him more if she stayed. Nodding reluctantly, she leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek. His whole side burned at the brush of her lips, her hand. He watched her go, more confused than he’d ever felt in his life.
Christy swallowed. He found one empty chair in the crowded room. People with cuts, bad coughs, wasted eyes, sick babies, bad limps, bandaged hands surrounded him. Some of them were homeless. Christy could tell by their holey shoes and filthy coats. How would they all pay for their medical care? How would Danny have paid, if he were alone?
Alone. The word had a terrifying ring to it. Alone, alone. It sounded like a funeral bell, like the bell buoy in Wolf Strait, marking treacherous shoal water. Christy gazed around the room, looking at all the people without anyone by their sides. An artificial tree stood in a corner, flashing with colored lights. Cardboard cutouts of snowmen and candy canes hung on the walls.
Christy stared at the tree. Everything about it bothered him. It was fake. It was crooked, from being in storage the year before. The branches were askew. There wasn’t any pine scent. The needles were too long and green. It was trying too hard to bring cheer, but it couldn’t deliver. It was a phony. Christy felt that way himself. He was the salesman with a golden tongue, trying to sell Christmas to all the rich New Yorkers.
While his own family was hanging in tatters.
Christy looked at the chair beside him. Catherine wasn’t in it. Christy didn’t know his own children. Alone, alone, he thought as the lights on the fake tree blinked and blinked.
Catherine caught a cab and went home. When she got there, she ran straight up to the attic room. It was empty. A cold draft blew through the small window. She looked around, but without any worry or anxiety. She and Brian had said good-bye. She knew that her husband had gone for good.
Brian had his journey to make, and Catherine had hers.
It had started tonight, on the perimeter of all those emergency workers at Belvedere Castle. She had burst through, needing to get to Christy. When she’d seen that snow pile, with its scattering of white feathers, she had known: others might think the down came from Danny’s jacket, but Catherine knew they’d come from Brian.
Brian’s wings.
Somehow Brian and his love—their love—had survived after all. And she knew now that it wouldn’t die. Their love would live on. They had flown through the night; he had brought her here, to this room on the very top floor of their townhouse, because this was where they had known such love. That was the only explanation for why she had chased the wind up here, followed the flash of white wings.
Catherine stood in the room, slowly turning. She suddenly knew that a person couldn’t be ready one minute before the time was right. She looked at every picture on the wall, taking each down, holding each in her hands. She and Brian at the beach, at Yankee Stadium, after their wedding … on the steps at St. Lucy’s.
Staring at the picture, something sparked. What was it? Everything in the photo was so familiar—Brian’s smile, his playful eyes, her own expression of joy, the church itself. She scanned the building: its rose sandstone facade, the stained glass windows, the square bell tower. It reminded her of some of the medieval churches they’d seen on their honeymoon.
The picture seemed to give off electricity. Catherine looked at the church, thinking of how she had gone inside tonight, for the first time in three years. She could almost see the candles flickering, the red votives, the thick incense. She had knelt at the small back altar, under the loving gaze of Saint Lucy herself. She had followed her husband’s voice into the fragrant drift of incense, up to the thurible suspended by the crèche, where the cloud was thickest.
What did it all mean? The veil seemed so thin, between people and angels, between the living and the dead. Why, after so many seasons of waiting for Brian right here, in this room, had she seen him at church instead? Was it something about St. Lucy’s? Or was it just that Catherine needed to leave her home, this wonderful place that had become her cave? She had imprisoned herself in grief here.
Examining the picture, she felt her heart pounding. It wasn’t every night that a miracle occurred—Brian’s visit, Danny’s saving. She closed her eyes and thought of Danny in the hospital, Bridget in the twin bed beside Lucy’s, Christy in the ER waiting room. She wondered whether any of them were getting sleep tonight. She knew that they were all worried about what tomorrow would bring.
“Let the right thing happen,” she prayed.
She kissed Brian’s face—her bridegroom. Then she replaced the picture on the wall and took a deep breath. She wasn’t sad; she had already said her good-byes. Walking over to the window, she peered down at the street. What would people think when they looked up in the future? Would they imagine that a happy family lived here? That this small room was the nursery?
Would they be right?
Catherine couldn’t know. A leap of faith wasn’t a reach from point A to point B: it was a leap into the dark, and the unknown. It was lighting a candle and summoning your husband’s ghost. It was being blown by an unexpected wind from a tall tree, sparking the desire in your son to become a weatherman. It was climbing the castle tower, falling into the arms of an angel. It was knowing that your family hung in the balance, waiting for others to decide its fate.
And now, for Catherine, it was waiting for what would happen next; that was the biggest leap of faith of all.
She took one last look around the room. She knew that this was the last time she would come up here. Breathing in, she waited to feel sad. But she didn’t, not at all. Instead she felt filled with exultant joy. There was hope, and Catherine felt it. She was ready. Her time had come.
Locking the door behind her, she walked down the stairs to wait.
Once again the newspapers carried the story of Christy Byrne and his family. All through New York City people read the tale of a boy who had survived a plunge from the tower of Belvedere Castle. The threads all came together: Daniel Byrne was the son of the tree salesman, Christopher Byrne, of Pleasant Bay, Nova Scotia, whose money had been stolen just the day before.
All the way from the northernmost reaches of Cape Breton, the Byrne family had traveled, year after year, to New York, to ply their trade and sell their trees. Although Daniel’s escape from death was nothing less than miraculous, the Byrne saga was in many ways tragic. Daniel was a runaway, one of the city’s desperate homeless. His sister Bridget had confessed to stealing her father’s cashbox and the thousands of dollars it contained.
Family services were investigating. Foster care was being considered. Criminal charges were pending—against Daniel Byrne, for a variety of offenses rangi
ng from trespassing to theft; against his father, for child neglect; possibly against Bridget, for theft.
Sitting in his office, Sylvester Rheinbeck Sr. adjusted his gold spectacles and read every word of every article about Daniel Byrne. He paid particular attention to the paragraph in the New York Times article that stated, “Lost in this story of holiday joy and sorrow is the mysterious picture of stone bells. Police are investigating the possibility that Daniel Byrne had at one time been employed by the Rheinbeck Group, as part of their philanthropic ‘Look-Up Project.’ A company spokesman denies any such connection.”
Sylvester Sr. shook his head. Only the venerable, stodgy Times would say the story of the bells had been “lost.” Quite the contrary: according to company gossip, which Sylvester trusted far more than the New York Times, the bells were becoming a citywide obsession. “The Miracle of the Bells,” some people were calling it. Where were the stone bells? Why had the boy had a picture of them? The bells had saved his life; the bells didn’t really exist; the bells, the bells. They were turning into an urban legend.
Urban legends were Manhattan standards. The circus horse that escaped from Madison Square Garden and swam out to sea with the boy on its back. The coyote that traveled down from the mountains, cutting through backyards in Westchester, to take up residence in Central Park. Alligators in the sewers, of course. Some were real, some too fantastic for words. Danny Byrne’s photo of the stone bells, and the miracle of how his life had been spared, fit right in.
The stone bells were about to become a cause célèbre. Sylvester Sr. intuited this and couldn’t have been more satisfied. But then his gaze fell again upon the news story, mentioning Daniel and the Rheinbeck Group: A company spokesman denies any such connection.
Sighing, the old man looked around his office, at his many diplomas and certificates, his testimonials and photographs. There he was, in black tie, shaking hands with everyone from Henry Kissinger to Hillary Rodham Clinton. Shoulder to shoulder with every New York City mayor—John Lindsay, Abe Beane, Ed Koch, David Dinkins, Rudy Giuliani, Mike Bloomberg.
An entire lifetime of making money and serving the public. Strange, Sylvester Sr. thought as he peered at his wall. There wasn’t even one picture of him alone with his son. In groups, yes—gatherings of clients, business associates, government officials. So many mayors.
A knock sounded at the door. Glancing up, Sylvester Sr. saw his son standing in the doorway.
“Good morning,” he said, gesturing for him to come in. “Have you seen the papers? Am I right to assume that you’re the unnamed ‘company spokesman’?”
“Yes,” Sylvester Jr. replied. “The Times called, and I spoke off the record.”
“You denied the boy’s involvement with our project,” the old man said. His heart constricted. “Even though you know it to be otherwise?”
“I did.”
The old man closed his eyes tight. Profit at all costs. Protect the company from scandal, even though the lives of a young man and his family hung in the balance.
“Where is Catherine this morning?” his son asked.
“She left a message on my voicemail. She won’t be coming in today.” He cleared his throat; somehow he was certain that her absence had to do with Danny Byrne and his family.
“The boy is in a lot of trouble,” Sylvester Jr. said. As he gazed across the park toward Belvedere Castle, he looked rather pensive. “Apparently he used a key to enter the castle at will. How he obtained it is unclear. The thinking is that a janitor may have let him use it once, forgotten to get it back. The boy was employed under false pretenses; he tricked the park conservancy into hiring him.”
“There are worse things,” Sylvester Sr. replied.
“He convinced Catherine to let him use our library. To do meteorological research.” He spat out the word as if it tasted bad.
“I sometimes think,” Sylvester Sr. said, “of how, if I had been a different kind of father, you might have been interested in the park as a place to enjoy. In clouds and the weather station at Belvedere Castle. In the hawks that fly over the city.”
“And build nests on balconies, and soil the masonry, and create a general nuisance for co-op boards,” Sylvester Jr. said. “Now, Father. Catherine used company funds to pay him for photographs, including the one found in the castle chamber. I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the fact that he knows nothing about photography.”
“How difficult is taking pictures?” Sylvester Sr. asked.
“Well, our shareholders will point out that there are professional photographers better suited.”
“Aim the camera, snap the photo. Done deal. These pictures were for archival purposes only,” the old man said. He felt defeated. He had prayed with his son yesterday. They had faced out the window, asking the Lord for mercy on Daniel Byrne. Yet here Junior was now, focused on the ways their money had been badly spent.
“Yes,” his son said. “That is true.”
Surprised to find his son in agreement on this point, Sylvester Sr. peered over the tops of his spectacles.
“No one must know that he did photographic work for us,” Sylvester Jr. said.
“But—”
“Certainly not the media. If they got hold of that detail, all would be in jeopardy.”
The old man lost his temper. He slammed his fist down on his desk, boiling with anger and with utter despair. How could he, a humanitarian, have raised such a greedy, selfish, captain of industry?
“All would be lost?” Sylvester Sr. raged. “In what way? Would our stocks lose a quarter point that couldn’t be regained in an hour? Would our shareholders be offended by the fact that we hired and attempted to help a young man with a dream?”
“Perhaps,” his son said. “But more to the point, they would accuse us of influence peddling.”
“Sylvester, have you gone mad? Have I Ebenezer Scrooge as my very own progeny?”
“Father,” Sylvester Jr. said quietly, “I’ve called the city office and made only the merest request. A suggestion, at best. The message will make its way down the channels. Although the investigation will be completed, for the sake of the two minor children, no arrests will be made.”
“But … what are you saying?”
“Father, our name is worth something in this city. I’ve called in some favors. This is why I think it’s best our involvement be kept quiet. The father will not be arrested. Neither of the children will be, either.”
“In the Byrne case?”
His son nodded.
“What made you do this?”
His son’s face contorted into a mask of grumpiness. Sylvester Sr. had seen that look on Sylvester Jr.‘s face when he was pondering firing someone, or when the stocks hit the skids, or when he didn’t like what was being served for lunch. But now, to Sylvester Sr.‘s surprise, tears popped into the corners of his son’s eyes. They had the effect of softening him, melting away his age. Suddenly the fierce executive standing before him looked like a boy of ten.
“I did it for you.”
“Me?” Sylvester Sr. asked.
His son nodded. “All of this started because the boy has a dream. I know how you feel about dreams, Father. And I knew that you would want the family to have a good Christmas.”
Sylvester Sr. felt his own heart expand, almost burst, with joy and gratitude. Staring, he couldn’t stop seeing his son as a little boy. They’d called him Chip back then. Chip off the old block.
“Oh, son,” he said, welling up.
Sylvester Jr. just stood there, a middle-aged man, starving for his father’s approval. Sylvester Sr. saw it in his eyes as he had so many times before—looking up beseechingly, wanting his father to go to a school baseball game, a camp get-together, the planetarium, the hot dog cart—and he felt plagued with ancient guilt.
“I kept thinking of the tree man,” Sylvester Jr. said, “wanting to keep his son with him so badly last Christmas. It blinded him to his son’s dream. And it made me think, I’ve been
blinded to your dream.”
“My dream?”
“Your Look-Up Project,” Sylvester Jr. said. “Look up at all the good things. The important things. People have to dream.”
“They do,” the old man said, his voice ragged. “I’ve been so worried I failed you. Taught you plenty about the Dow, but nothing about your own heart. Now I see I was wrong. You know.”
“It doesn’t come naturally,” his son said, more humbly than Sylvester Sr. had ever heard him say anything. “But what happened yesterday has got me thinking about it. Merry Christmas, Father.”
“Merry Christmas,” Sylvester Sr. said, trying to dissolve the lump he had in his throat as he stared at his son, “Chip.”
15
The days went by, and Christy sold his trees. People came from all five boroughs and even beyond. They came from New Jersey, Westchester, Long Island, and Connecticut. They paid him top dollar and gave him tips besides. People wanted to have their pictures taken with him. They wanted to ask about Danny. The strangest thing was, he’d lost his silver tongue. He had nothing to say. They’d buy a tree or not—he didn’t care. All this attention, wallets just waiting to be emptied, and Christy could only go through the motions.
He was like one of those monks at the abbey up in Cape Breton, people who had taken a vow of silence. As if they’d looked so deeply into their own souls and been struck dumb by the magnitude of what was there. That’s how Christy felt. What was there to say? His son’s life had been spared, Danny returned to him, if only temporarily. His daughter had stolen their money—rather than ask him to help her brother.
Christy knew that his children did not doubt his love. He didn’t doubt theirs. But somehow he had been so focused on his work, and perhaps he had given them the feeling that he had everything under control. Or, as Bridget had said, they just didn’t want to bother him. Maybe, just maybe, he’d given them the message that he didn’t want to be bothered. Selling his trees, he pondered these possibilities.
Catherine stayed away. Christy watched and waited. While all the rich suburbanites were tying his trees to the tops of their Range Rovers, he’d be looking south, in the direction of her house.