I had always liked her until Matt seemed to, as well. She always got the good parts, working her way from a sheep with a solo, to head shepherd, to angel of the Lord, to the Virgin Mary herself. Now I almost hoped Matt would go back to liking her instead of some of the girls I had seen him hang out with after school. But then again, a girl like Christine might not like Matt.
Joseph was played by Tim Granger, a new kid at church who didn’t know what he was getting into. Melody Ludema was the innkeeper’s wife because there was no singing involved, though Mrs. Buttery claimed it was because Melody was from a farm and would know how to herd the stable animals, namely all the preschoolers from BS Pres. The first through third graders were angels with halos, and the fourth and fifth graders were shepherds.
I was in fourth grade, and so I was obviously going to be one of the shepherds, or I could be a reader. Like Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas, I could go to the pulpit mike and read from Luke, chapter 2, in front of the whole congregation. No costume, just the blue choir robe with the white collar. I could do that. When Mrs. Buttery heard my audition, she liked the way I pronounced “Gloria,” and the part was mine.
My scriptures were about the angels visiting the shepherds. But when I really studied my part, I noted the problems with Mrs. Buttery’s staging and let her know.
“Only one angel gave the message to the shepherds, Mrs. Buttery.”
“Yes, dear,” she said as she labeled the pews so the children would know where to sit.
I followed her down the aisle. I wasn’t through. “A heavenly host isn’t necessarily angels. Do you really think it’s all angels?”
“I’m not sure, dear.” She looked down the list of names on her cast list.
“Just how do you know what those heavenly host people looked like, anyway?”
“We’re just doing our best, Abby,” she said, as if patting my head.
I wondered what would happen if Mrs. Buttery didn’t actually have the first and second graders put on coat-hanger halos and white sheets. What would happen if we admitted we had no clue what an angel looked like except that they really frightened everybody and their every appearance was followed by “Fear not!”? What did the “glory of the Lord” look like, anyway? Did she have any special effects in mind to pull that off?
“And why are angels always children, anyway?” I asked. “Couldn’t angels have been grown-ups?”
Mrs. Buttery wasn’t in the mood for making any major changes to her annual script. “Just read it,” she said through clenched teeth as I climbed up into the pulpit for my first rehearsal.
The interim minister and the guest preachers had left a few old bulletins, a paper cup, and the mammoth Bible with print so large I could have read it from the front pew.
I opened its heavy front cover and landed in the Old Testament. Clutching another chunk of pages, I flipped to Matthew, Mark, and then Luke. The pages were thin and fragile and whispered like leaves falling from a tree.
That day I didn’t even get to use the microphone, which was a great disappointment. I could shout to the balcony, but I really wanted to hear how my voice sounded amplified. I quickly read through the shepherd verse, charging ahead with great drama, “The angel said to them, ‘Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all the people!’” But my favorite part was the ending when I got to all the glory stuff. I counted my verses from Luke 2:8–15. Eight of them. I had more than anyone.
On the night of the pageant, Dad was a no-show, Mom sat at the organ with the best seat in the house, and Matthew waited in the narthex for the finale. I hoped he wouldn’t be late—two years late.
The preschoolers began singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” A few lambs and donkeys were crying, and Mrs. Buttery’s assistants tried to calm them down while other parents scooped their animals out of the pew, thereby rescuing the pageant. I spotted Ricky Sanders and Julie Sullivan and Stephanie Lambert and Bradley Grady. Joel would have stood next to Bradley. “Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by …” Their preschool voices weren’t on pitch and half the words were muddled, but it still sounded sweet.
I remember my dad once preached that “O Little Town” was written by a discouraged minister trying to hold together a country divided by the Civil War. He took a sabbatical and spent Christmas Eve in Bethlehem and was never the same.
“The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight,” their childish voices sang, and I drew a quick breath. That was the first time I had heard it quite that way. Maybe that Civil War writer knew more than anyone else how hopes and fears can somehow coexist in the same holiday.
Then the animals sang and it was almost my turn to read. I looked back at my stained-glass Jesus sitting with His open hands reaching out to the children. It was backlit and each color was glorious. Maybe my Joel was up in heaven with all the hopes and none of the fears. Maybe my Joel was sitting on Jesus’ lap right this very minute and not even missing me one bit. Maybe it was just us missing him and the way our family used to be. I was glued to my seat.
“Abby?” Mrs. Buttery had made her way to the choir loft. “You’re next,” she whispered.
Mom was at her bench, accompanying Elizabeth Winkle’s perfect soprano rendition of “O Holy Night.” I closed my eyes and I was in Bethlehem until Mrs. Buttery tapped me on the shoulder and I stood as if I had just woken up.
I could see my mom motioning for me to rise. The lights hurt my eyes as I strained to see who was out there. Uncle Troy and Miss Mary Frances had their usual third-row pew. Miss Mary’s head was cocked and she frowned at me. Mom tapped the top of the organ three times for I love you.
The next reader pushed me along and I found my black patent leather shoes sliding between the choir pews toward the steps. The silence dragged on as the congregation waited for me to ascend. I tried to find the bookmarked section, but the words blurred on the page and all I could think was, The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight. Tonight. If I read everything perfectly, maybe everything would be better. Tonight.
When I thought perhaps I had found Luke 2:8, my hands were sweaty and my fingers stuck to the page. I began reading, “Now while he was serving as priest before God when his division was on duty …” The verse seemed strange and unfamiliar. I heard Mrs. Buttery cough. I looked at the organ and Mom shook her head. Something was very wrong. I blinked again and saw I had read Luke 1:8 instead. I traced my finger until I passed chapter 2 and began again. “And in that region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.” The microphone exposed how thin and weak my voice sounded, and Mrs. Buttery lifted her palm to get me to speak up. My heart beat wildly and I wondered if this was what it was like to have a heart attack like Grandpa. I stifled a sob in my throat. This was my big moment and I was falling apart. This was when I was supposed to be grand and wonderful and proclaim about the angel and the glory and everything, but I could only think about hopes and fears.
“And an angel of the Lord appeared to them.” My voice was now a whisper instead of my practiced projection. I’m not sure my mother at her organ could hear me. I wanted her to play something, anything. I put my finger over the text and ran it back and forth. The words were blurring and I blinked rapidly as they came in and out of focus. My throat hurt and my mouth had turned to cotton. Worse yet, I had that terrible feeling I got right before I was going to throw up. The room seemed to spin; I grabbed the podium, focusing on the Bible in front of me. Seven verses was way too much. Everything was wrong but somehow I had to get it right.
“And the glory of the Lord shone around them …”
“And the glory of the Lord shone around them …” I tried again. “And the GLORY of the Lord shone around them.” I paused and took a shaky breath. That horrible, shaky kind of breath that isn’t deep enough; it just makes you sound as if you are going to cry, which was exactly what I was going to do. I squinted and saw Matt craning his
head out of the back of the narthex, motioning for me to continue. Come on! he mouthed in exaggeration. I knew what he wanted; I just couldn’t do it.
“And they were filled with fear.” I choked and swallowed fast but not quickly enough. I tried to make it sound like a cough, and perhaps it passed, but I knew it was the beginning of a cry that might never stop, and I was about to do it in front of hundreds of people on Christmas Eve. Amplification was not working to my advantage. Each breath I took wasn’t deep enough and the room started to swim. I was dizzy and burning up, but I couldn’t even move to sit down or I’d faint. Rescue me, I thought.
And then I saw my favorite king make his way up the aisle, crown in hand. He marched right by the stable, stumbling slightly as he squeezed around Mary and Joseph, and then climbed Dad’s pulpit steps. I kept my finger pointed on Dad’s Bible. “2:10,” I whispered. Matt held on to the podium and it was then that I could smell that he had been drinking. I hated that smell. It represented everything bad. But what could I do? He was here with me.
“And the angel said to them, ‘Be not afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all the people.’” Matt’s voice filled the sanctuary with a kind of presence I didn’t know he had. “‘For to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.’”
Savior, my Savior. I kept my head down until I peeked out the corner of my eye to see Mom staring at Matt. She looked so proud. Her eyes sparkled with tears. Her mouth was open as she silently gasped air. Tears dripped off her face and most certainly onto her hands and the keys. I love you, Abby, she mouthed.
And, suddenly, Matt arrived at what used to be my favorite verse.
“‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men with whom he is pleased.’” And then we heard the angels perched in the balcony sing “Gloria,” their voices running up and down concluding in that funny “eggshells” ending. But I didn’t feel Gloria as Matt escorted me back to the pew. I just put my head in my lap and cried. Mom should have mouthed Thank you to the king. But while Mom was fumbling with the running Gloria eighth notes, Matt slipped out the side door. There would be only two kings tonight. Matt had already played his part.
For me, the pageant was over. I knew no one would miss me, so when the next carol began, I snuck out the side pocket door, threw my robe on the floor, grabbed my coat off the hook, and ran into the night.
Snow had begun to fall and I could see my breath. The snow from previous snowfalls, now dirty and gray, lined the sidewalk, funneling me home. My black patent leather shoes were hardly up for the journey, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to find Matt.
I paused and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I hoped I’d see the figure of my brother in the distance, but he was nowhere. The idea that it was foolish to walk in a snowstorm had not occurred to me until this moment. The idea that the house would be locked when I got there also had not crossed my mind. My feet were cold and wet and my toes felt numb and so I quickened my pace, running down the icy path trying to catch up to wherever he had gone.
“Matt!” I cried out. My echo hung unanswered in the still air. “Matt! Wait!” It was hard to run with my hands tucked under my arms, especially with the snow sticking on the sidewalk. The dream of Matt holding my hand and walking me home was just another illusion, and so I had but one realistic option: turn around and return to church to wait out the arrival of the two kings and the distribution of candy-filled stockings for all the good boys and girls of BS Pres.
That night in bed, I could see from my window the strings of lights on homes up and down the street. I held on to Joel’s monkey, wondering where Matt had gone and why he still wasn’t back. Christmas Eve, with its hopes and fears, was over, and that made me feel both sad and relieved.
FIFTEEN
Last year, when we said good-bye to 1969 and hello to 1970, Dad let us stay up until midnight and I saw how people in NYC rang in the New Year. We couldn’t know that when the ball dropped, it would herald a year that would change our lives. When Dad turned off our Zenith, the small dot in the middle of the screen slowly extinguished 1969. And that’s what I thought of this year, too; 1970 was faded and gone. Why celebrate?
Christmas Day thankfully had been uneventful, a relief after our tumultuous Thanksgiving and a reprieve from our bittersweet Christmas Eve. Now New Year’s loomed, taunting us with other people’s celebrations.
Our church always closed out the old year by praying in the new. But since most people couldn’t stay up until midnight, parishioners stopped by the sanctuary in the afternoon and early evening and knelt by a pew to reflect on the past and pray for the future.
We dropped by the church before dinner. All four of us. I leaned forward and folded my arms along the top of the pew in front of me and bowed my head as if in deep prayer but secretly peeked out from under my arm.
Matt had his eyes closed, but I didn’t think he was praying. My mother’s head was bowed, her hair hiding her face. Dad sat straight up with his eyes closed. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or in deep thought, or maybe he was praying. At least he was there; that in itself was sort of a surprise.
After prayer, we always picked up Chinese food and played games by the fireplace. Maybe that’s why Dad had come tonight: to make sure we ordered his kung pao chicken. China King was the only Chinese restaurant in our small town, and nobody there was even Chinese, but they did make great pot stickers and egg drop soup. Matt wouldn’t join us for Chinese food and games by the fire this year. Too determined not to be a preacher’s kid for New Year’s Eve, he had made other more exciting plans.
“Stay home with us,” I had begged as I saw him stuffing bills in his wallet. “Don’t do something that’ll get you in trouble.” I had no idea where Matt’s stash of money came from, and that worried me, too.
“Have fun, Abby,” he said and then drove off with a carload of guys I didn’t recognize.
That left three of us. The wrong number for the four-person board games we used to play after Dad had put Joel to bed.
Dad and Mom and I played Chinese checkers. Mom and Dad had opposite triangles and I felt like an oddball, my marbles trying to navigate between their intersecting paths. By 9:00 p.m., the fire was dying and my dad’s yawns signaled it was time for this year to end.
On the first day of January 1971, I awakened to see the same stuff of December: same clouds, same neighborhood Christmas lights, and same snow on the ground. Though we turned the calendar page, nothing really changed except the year. I slipped down the stairs in my nightgown, lured into the kitchen by the smell of bacon and coffee.
Dad’s newspaper was left out and open to the obituaries. Date of birth, date of death, lots of names, and what people said about the deceased. I had never before noticed how many people died. Now it seemed so possible. People died any day of the year—maybe even New Year’s Eve.
“Where’s Matt?” I asked.
“He got in late,” Mom said, scrambling the eggs. “And he doesn’t feel well.”
“Serves him right for skipping out on us.”
“You could show a little charity,” Mom said with an edge to her voice.
And then I remembered the pageant.
“I’ll take him his breakfast.”
When I set the tray on his bed, Matt looked like he was going to throw up, and I had to wonder about the wisdom of bacon and eggs.
“Yuck. Get that out of here.”
“It’s your favorite.”
“Not this morning.”
“The flu?” I asked.
“Something like that.”
“You should have stayed home with us.”
Matt grunted and rolled over. He was still wearing his clothes from last night.
“So you want me to take it away?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Can I stay?”
“No.”
“Do you need anything?”
Matt looked like he was trying to
think up something that would help. I knew the feeling.
“Stop asking so many questions, Abby. Just go away.”
But when I returned with the untouched plate of food, Mom immediately headed up the stairs and I followed in her wake, determined to learn what was going on. Mom knocked. That was odd.
“I said go away, Abby!” Matt yelled.
“It’s not Abby.” Mom let herself in. “We need to talk, Matt.”
“Not right now, Mom.” Matt groaned, holding his head. “I feel awful.”
“That’s exactly why we need to talk. You really need to remember why you feel awful so you won’t do this again.”
Mom never blamed me for getting the flu. But then I remembered another time Matt was sick, and I realized this might have something to do with the night Matt almost fell off the silo.
“It’s no big deal, Mom.”
“Maybe not to you right now, but it will be. And it is a big deal to our family.”
Matt turned toward the wall and Mom sat down on the edge of his bed.
“I love you, Matthew.” She stroked his head. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it scares me.”
“I’m okay, Mom.”
“No, you’re not. None of us are. And maybe it’s about time somebody admitted it.”
“Well, I’m not as bad off as Dad.”
Mom smoothed Matt’s hair, which had gone uncut for months and now covered his ears.
“We’re each different,” she said at last. “Dad handles it his own way.”
Matt groaned and then turned and squinted his eyes as if trying to focus on his surroundings.
“Man, my head hurts.”
“It will,” she answered.
“Like you would know.”
“I know more than you think I do,” Mom said, placing her hand on his forehead. She sighed. “What does drinking do for you?”
“I feel better,” he said. “Some of the time,” he added softly.
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