“Who is he speaking with?” Jillian whispered.
“Mary. He asked for a sign. See, John, he’s gettin’ tired, worn out with loneliness and the aches and pains which make life hard for the old ones, but his job ain’t over yet. He just needed some hope to keep on goin’. You gave it to him tonight.”
“How did we make a difference? Tell me.” She needed the old man’s story, needed to know how she had helped.
Melah smiled. “Mr. Griparis is eighty-six years old and one of the few in his neighborhood who still drives. He gets up every day, dresses in a suit, and calls on old people who need his help. He drives them to doctor appointments, to the barber shop, the bank, or shopping. Sometimes he just sits with them and visits, or plays a game of chess. In the summer, he still plants a big garden, tends to his fruit trees, and always shows up at their houses with vegetables and fruit, or a big bouquet of flowers. He does this out of the kindness of his great big heart, and he never accepts money, no, sir, not even for gas.”
Jillian glanced back at the man. “But I don’t even know the man. I know he’s a friend of Mrs. Daily, and now that you mention it, I have seen him drop off plastic bags on her porch in the summer months. How did I manage to help him?”
“He visits Mrs. Daily off and on ’cause she was a friend of his wife, but Loretta, she don’t need his help…yet.” Melah sat on the sofa across from Mr. Griparis’ recliner. “Tonight, John, he was as discouraged as I’ve ever seen him. He said his morning prayers and then talked straight to his wife. He asked her to send him a sign God heard his prayers. Now, mind you, God sends lots of signs, but sometimes people be so busy, they don’t see or hear Him. So he asked his wife for help to keep on goin’.” She glanced back at Jillian. “He wasn’t supposed to be by Loretta’s tonight. At the last minute, he decided to stop on by with a fruitcake, and Loretta asked if he’d like to join her friends.”
“What kind of sign did he ask for?”
“A song. Mary had a beautiful voice. She sang with the choir in the Greek church over on Third Street.”
Jillian thought back to the four songs she and her caroling party had sung at Mrs. Daily’s. “Which one,” she asked, as tears formed in her eyes.
“ ‘Silent Night.’ Her favorite. You see, Mr. G didn’t plan to go by Loretta’s tonight with the fruitcake. We had to prod him to be there in time to get his wife’s sign. Some people don’t listen to their hearts as well as Mr. Griparis does.”
At that moment, John Griparis kissed his wife’s picture in the photo album and set it aside on the end table where, Jillian suspected, he always kept it. Close at hand. He eased himself out of the recliner and hobbled to the staircase, hesitating for a moment before he attempted the steep stairs.
“Do you think his heart is lighter now?” Jillian asked, vowing to acknowledge those little promptings which always popped up from time to time.
“’Course. We know what we’re doing, Shug. There’s a reason for everything.”
So…you’re really an angel.”
“Nope. I done tol’ you, I was a cook in N’awlins.”
“But you do stuff—help, I mean, answer prayers.”
“Nope, I just a messenger. I ain’t got no powers.”
“You’ve got plenty, from where I sit.” Jillian hesitated, and then asked, “Do you think you can…maybe…watch over a soldier?”
Chapter Eleven
Jillian woke to a pinging noise against her windowpane. Unfortunately, she recognized it as rain, not snow. She snuggled back into her pillow while memories from the night before flitted around in her muddled brain. Did everything she remembered really happen, or did she indeed have a brain tumor? Some types of fungi could induce hallucinations, right? Maybe she had inhaled spores from moldy mushrooms. It could happen.
She sighed and rolled over to glance at her alarm clock. Seven o’clock and no messages on her cell phone. And one fat, lazy cat plopped at the end of the bed. Buster padded over the bedspread to nudge her shoulder with his wet nose.
“And where were you last night when I flew over the neighborhood with crazy lady? I could have been killed.” Buster simply licked her arm once and then nipped her.
“Ouch.” She batted him away, and sat up, stretching her arms over her head. Darned if she didn’t feel wonderful. How did Melah manage to keep her up half the night and then make her feel like she’d had a solid ten hours of sleep? If she could bottle it, she’d make a fortune.
Buster leaped to the floor and landed with a thud. When Jillian didn’t immediately jump up to go fill his dish, he voiced his displeasure all the way to the door. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she complained, as she pulled on her fuzzy Christmas robe. To fend against the chilly wooden floor, she stuffed her feet into matching red slippers and headed to the kitchen, making a mental list of errands for the day.
Finish Christmas shopping. She still needed small gifts for Mr. Clarke, her mailman, and Yolanda. Maybe a jar of the strawberry jam she’d canned at the end of summer. She had opened one last week—very tasty, if she did say so herself. She would add a pretty label and a festive bow to make them Christmasy.
Maybe she’d save a jar for Tristán and Sadie. Just a little something from her kitchen. Or maybe she’d better run the idea past Mel and Cleo first. She didn’t want to seem too forward. On the other hand, they were going on a date, and he’d kissed her on the cheek, and they had known each other for…well, forever. And if she didn’t stop obsessing, she’d drive herself more nuts than she already was.
She also had to hang one last ornament on the tree—a tiny red sled—the same as she’d crafted for each of her students, with their name and date on it. They’d begged to make ornaments as gifts to their parents, so Jillian had worked the project into a math lesson: a red-and-white candy-cane ornament out of crystal beads. Never let it be said she didn’t know how to exploit a math opportunity. Besides, on the last days of school before a long holiday, the kids went bonkers at the drop of a hat. Keeping interest up was key in the last days before a major holiday, the days when you couldn’t get their attention with a ten-foot pole.
At 12:10 on the dot, she put the last wrapped present in her spare room and emitted a sigh of relief. Done. Unless something unforeseen happened—like having a mental breakdown and missing Christmas altogether. When her stomach growled, she realized how hungry she was, so she put away her scissors and scotch tape.
On her days off, Buster always thought he should eat three times a day instead of two. He’d look for his noon meal soon. The fridge didn’t have much in it except leftover muffuletta sandwiches, of which she’d already had three—two last night at the party and one for breakfast, so a quick trip to the grocery store was in order. After she fed Buster the last of the cat food, she grabbed her jacket.
Garbano’s Grocery was one of those mom-and-pop deals the neighborhood was glad to support. Mr. and Mrs. Garbano and two of their oldest children ran the store, with Mr. G as resident butcher. Jillian liked to chitchat with her neighbors, and Mrs. G knew everything that went on in their little neck of the woods.
Melah decided to make an appearance while Jillian searched for a jar of marinated artichokes in Aisle Three.
“What you doin’ makin’ groceries, Jillie? You don’t need anything. You’re just passing time.”
Melah had on her Carhartt outfit again, except her hair was bundled up under a knitted woolen hat. Gloves with finger cutouts covered her hands. Each finger on the gloves was a different color. Some of the colors Jillian had never seen before.
“Wow, what’s the name of that color? Let me see—”
“Uh-oh.” The colors winked out. “Sorry, you ain’t supposed to see this.” Melah walked away and gestured over her shoulder for her to follow.
Jillian set the jar of artichokes in the cart, threw up her hands, and followed. “Where are we going? I don’t want to traipse after you in the cold. I have plans.”
“No, you don’t have any plans. You done e
verything for Christmas you need to do and now you’re just wastin’ time until your date with Tristán ’cause you so nervous.” She pursed her lips and shook her head as if to say, Silly, silly girl.
“Wrong,” Jillian said, and jabbed a finger at Melah before the woman could figure out a retort. Outside, the cold air swirled with bits of ice that stung the face. She pulled up the collar on her woolen pea coat and tightened the red caroling scarf around her neck. No one noticed them; no one even turned a head at Melah’s absurd outfit.
They passed a bell-ringing Salvation Army Santa outside the grocery store. Melah reached into her pocket and took out a generous handful of coins and dropped them ceremoniously into the bucket. When the clatter of coins dropped into his bucket, with no one in sight, the fake-bearded Santa jerked around, startled, and muttered to himself. It occurred to Jillian she could get used to invisibility. The Brown twins would be better behaved, and maybe even live to tell the tale. “Where are we going this time?” she asked.
“We have a way to go, so hold on, we gonna take a short cut.”
Melah grabbed her hand, and instantly Jillian felt herself lifted, the bitter wind against her face. She should have been freezing, but she felt warm and cozy instead. Her eyes slammed shut after the first few seconds, but soon she felt her feet touch down on the ground. Jillian blinked a few times and took in her surroundings—the Sacred Heart Church neighborhood.
“Hey, maybe you can help. You have”—Jillian waved her arms to emphasize her words—“contacts. Can you get my Christmas Jar back?”
“No need, Shug. The Boss had different plans for your Jar.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts about it. We follow the plan. Come see.” She pointed to a dilapidated warehouse set back from the street. The old, faded sign above the building read Silo Crate Company. Melah sailed toward it.
“Ah…wait a minute. We’re still invisible, right?”
“Yep. Why?”
“Well, this isn’t exactly a safe place to be, even at two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Yeah, and think of all the people who hafta live here for one reason or another.” Melah waved her on. “C’mon. We’re safe. Don’t worry.”
In the middle of the warehouse’s dirt floor, a fire burned in a metal trash can. Six young men huddled around the can to warm their hands. Jillian recognized the colors and hats of the neighborhood gang who ran this neighborhood—the Cobras.
Melah must have sensed her flight-or-fight reaction, because she put her hand on Jillian’s shoulder and whispered, “Don’t be scared; they can’t see us. Just listen.”
Jillian’s heart beat hard in her chest, and when the door behind them jerked open and the cold air whooshed in, Jillian jumped and whirled around. A young man about six feet tall and maybe sixteen or seventeen entered the warehouse and slammed the door behind him.
“Hey! Where you been, James? I told you two o’clock. I told him, Zippo, I did,” said one of the boys. He addressed another gang member, who stepped away from the fire.
Zippo, apparently the leader of the group, gave the latecomer a hand signal Jillian didn’t recognize, but the boy stopped in his tracks.
“I’m only five minutes late, Zippo.”
“Don’t you disrespect me. You know the price for disrespect. Get over here. I got a job for you.”
When Zippo held out Jillian’s Christmas Jar, she sucked in a breath. How did Melah think they could do something about it now, or get it to the rightful owner? Even if they weren’t visible, she couldn’t call the police in time to do any good. Besides, they’d never believe her.
“Take this to the bank. Get folding money for it, and bring it back to me. Now,” Zippo added when the latecomer didn’t answer.
“What is it?” The young man walked over and took the heavy jar in his hands. He ran a finger over the beautiful Christmas scene Jillian had paid an artist friend to create on the common canning jar to turn it into a beautiful keepsake.
“It’s nothing, stupid. Do like you’re told. Crank lifted it from the old man who lives across the street from your house. You should have seen it sitting right there in plain sight on his porch steps, begging for someone to come along and take it. But you didn’t lift it, did you? So you got the job of turning it into cash. Now, get out of my house until you got it done.” The boy called Zippo turned away and returned to the others around the fire. Crank glanced back at the latecomer and lowered his eyes.
“What the heck just happened?” Jillian whispered.
“Stop whispering. They can’t hear us. And quit saying that word! Now we follow them.” She gestured toward the young man who let himself out of the warehouse. “Quick. Keep up.”
“Why? If we get behind, you can always fly us there.”
“I only got so much in me, then I got to go back to fill up.”
“Fill up? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t you give it no mind. See, he’s not goin’ to the bank. Good for him. He’s been on the fence for days. This musta been the straw that broke the camel. The Boss Man, He don’t miss a trick.” Melah pointed to the boy who turned the corner and headed toward Sacred Heart’s rectory. He stopped one house short of the rectory, took the porch steps two at a time, and entered the house.
****
Melah and Jillian followed the boy into the house—Jillian a bit reluctantly. “Do we always have to break into people’s homes?”
“You know we ain’t breaking into nobody’s house. The boy’s name is James, and his kid brother is Isaiah. They live here with their mama. You need to see what’s goin’ by with this family and how you helped them. Now, shush.” Melah tapped a finger against her lips.
“I thought we didn’t need to be quiet,” Jillian muttered softly, but followed.
James strode to the kitchen, at the back of the house, where his mother stirred a large pot of soup on a battered old stove. “Where’s Isaiah?”
The woman at the stove put down her wooden spoon. “What’s that you got there? It looks like a jar of money.”
“It’s time, Ma. We need to hurry. You packed some stuff, right?”
“James? What happened? Tell me.”
Just when Jillian thought she would get the story, a younger boy entered the kitchen in his pajamas. “Hey, James. I thought you went to…you know…” His voice trailed off as his gaze skimmed his mother.
The woman reached over and set the back of her hand over Isaiah’s forehead, as mothers do when they check for a fever. Jillian thought how many times her own mother had done the same.
“What’s that?” the boy asked, pointing to the Christmas Jar.
“Nothing. Get changed and take whatever bag you packed. It’s time to go. Now,” James added when his brother didn’t move.
“No. I already told you. I’m not moving.” Isaiah ran from the room.
“I’ll take care of Isaiah. You get everything ready, Ma. Contact Father Stevens. Tell him we’re ready.” He squeezed his mother’s shoulder.
“Are you sure, James? How will we make ends meet in a new place?”
James ran his hand through his hair. “Isaiah will be recruited soon. You want that for him, Ma? I can only hold them off so long. They want new blood, and I’ll have to prove myself by bringing Isaiah in. We talked about this.”
His mother put down the spoon and walked into her son’s arms. “You’re a good boy, James. I know how hard this has been for you, with me working nights to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. I tried the best I could.”
James kissed the top of his mother’s head and hugged her close. “I know you did, Ma. You kept them away as long as you could. But they got me, and now they want Isaiah. I can’t let that happen. Get together whatever you put aside, and call Father Stevens while I talk to Isaiah.”
James took the stairs two at a time, and Melah and Jillian followed. “So…” Jillian began, “James is in a gang and doesn’t want—”
Melah shus
hed her again and pulled her to the side of the bedroom. “Remind me never to go by a movie with you. You probably ask questions through the whole thing. Now, listen.”
“I ain’t going anywhere,” Isaiah said from his prone position on the twin bed. “Why do you get to be in a gang, and I don’t? Why do we have to move? I got friends here.”
“No, you don’t. Crank isn’t your friend.” James yanked on his brother’s hair. “How many times do I have to tell you? Did you see the jar I had on the kitchen table?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Crank stole it from Mr. Williams.”
“I don’t believe you!” Isaiah swung his legs off the bed and jerked upright. “Mr. Williams is good to us. He fixed our broken window and Ma’s stove.”
“At least you got a good head on your shoulders.” He punched his brother in the arm affectionately. “Listen…Crank stole the jar after Father Stevens put it on Mr. Williams’s porch steps. I saw him do it. They want me to cash it in and give the money to Zippo. If I don’t, they’ll come for me. And they won’t stop until you’re one of us, too. We need to leave now. Ma and me, we planned for this. Father Stevens has a friend with two extra rooms and a job for me and one for Ma if we go there—a chance for a better life for all of us.”
Isaiah seemed to think it over. Jillian guessed Isaiah was about ten years old, like her fifth-grade students. At ten, she’d never had to worry about the roof over her head or where her next meal would come from. She’d had good friends and a family affluent enough to provide for a good education and a safe environment. James apparently was the male head of his family—a grave responsibility for a young man who should have had nothing to worry about except to grow up and decide what to do with his life.
“But first, we give the jar back to Mr. Williams,” Isaiah said.
“That’s my boy. C’mon, grab your stuff. Father Stevens will have the rest of our things packed up and stored until we get our own place. The gang will come looking for me in a few hours. It will take a few days for them to realize we’re gone for good. We can hope they won’t find out where we went.”
All Hearts Come Home for Christmas Page 9