Christmas Jars Reunion

by Jason F. Wright

  Dale noticed most of the other diners around them had tuned in to hear the story. He amped up the details. “We didn’t have time to worry about why or what happened, we just had to get away. They opened the doors to get in the van and we started encouraging them, you know, rather loudly. Our oldest, Isaiah over there”—Dale pointed to one of his sons—“he got in the front seat and promptly slammed the door on Benjamin’s arm as he was climbing into the back seat.”

  Hope looked at the boys; they were sword fighting with rolled-up menus.

  “So now it wasn’t just crying in the middle of the street, it was screaming too. And it was contagious. The baby was scared to death, so naturally she joined in.”

  Hope and Clark were both trying not to laugh, but she was more successful than he was. His hearty laugh was a Maxwell family trademark.

  “Mary Ann jumped out to help corral everyone into our now very conspicuous van so we could complete our escape. I grabbed my son and laid down on the back seat with him on top of me, feeling sure someone was going to hear the screaming and call the police. I absolutely, positively, expected to get caught and was merely hoping the police wouldn’t arrive before we drove away.”

  “That would have been memorable,” Clark said.

  Dale nodded. “Isn’t that the truth. After a drive around the neighborhood had soothed our nerves and gave us time to check for broken bones—”

  “None, thankfully,” Mary Ann added.

  “We finally got the story of what actually happened out there. As the boys were making their escape through the backyard, they didn’t notice a rope tied low across the back lawn. They had both tripped and fallen and made who knows how much noise.”

  “That’s classic,” Clark said. He put his arm around Hope.

  “Classic is one word for it. It sure didn’t go smoothly, and couldn’t have gone much worse, but the night was a success, right, gang?”

  “Right!” they clamored.

  “We drove by the house later to make sure the jars were gone, and sure enough, all of the lights were on so we knew the jars were safely inside. Knowing the money was being counted and the Christmas Jar miracle had spread a little further was all we needed to know. Our boys were excited to know they had actually helped someone and we all had an experience we will never forget.”

  Dale’s wife reached up and took her husband’s hand. “I’m certain next year’s delivery will go better,” Dale finished, “because I think I’ll hire the neighbor kid to deliver the jar while I stay safely home in bed.”

  “Be nice,” Mary Ann teased, giving a tug to his arm hair.

  “That’s an awesome story, Dale,” Hope said. “Thanks for coming by and sharing.”

  They spoke another minute or two, hugged good-bye, and then Hope and Clark excused themselves to the kitchen.

  “Cool story, huh, Hope?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How do you know them?”

  Hope picked at her chicken.

  “Hope?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. . . . We went to high school together. I haven’t seen him since their first was a baby. They live on a farm somewhere, I think.”

  “Unusual story, right? I bet you don’t get many like that.”

  Hope was picking at her chicken again, trying to pull meat from a drumstick that was already bare.

  “What’s up over there?” Clark asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t look like nothing. You’re out of it.”

  Hope dropped the drumstick on her plate and wiped her hands on an apron that had been balled up on the nearby prep table. “Just worried.”

  “Bout what?”

  “That number on the Board.”

  “Number?”

  “A thousand and one. It’s a big number, you know?”

  “Yeah, but you’ll make it. We’ll make it.”

  “I don’t know,” Hope mumbled.

  Randall, the senior cook, passed between the couple on his way to the walk-in freezer.

  Clark tossed his head in the direction of the back door. “C’mon,” he said, and Hope followed him outside.

  “It’s gotten cold tonight,” Clark said.

  Hope exhaled and watched her breath dissipate into the thin night air.

  Clark unlocked his pickup truck—a vehicle on loan from Restored—and opened the passenger’s door. “Climb in.”

  Hope answered by gracefully easing up and into the seat.

  Clark shut the door behind her. As he crossed to his side of the truck, he saw Hope blow hard on the window and draw a smiley face in the wet circle.

  “Why do I get the feeling you don’t actually feel that way?” Clark said as he started the truck and turned on the heat.

  “Because you’re an unusually perceptive male?” she said, watching the face fade away on the glass.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Even though it was insulting to a couple billion other guys.”

  Hope blew on the glass again and wrote the number 1,001.

  “Alright Hope Jensen, what’s up?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Just stressed.”

  “Why? It’s Christmas. You’re happy, you’re healthy, you’re beautiful, you’re dating a great guy. What’s to be stressed about?”

  “I’m dating a great guy?”

  “Yes, you are.” He flicked her leg with his index finger. “Don’t you read the paper?”

  Hope sighed again.

  “You really are in a funk, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know that we’re going to make it.”

  “Make what?”

  “The number. The Christmas Jars goal.”

  “Oh. That.” He felt oddly relieved. “Would that be such a crime? You’re obviously working yourself to death and doing so much good with it, so who cares if you meet some arbitrary goal?”

  “Arbitrary?” Hope looked at him and wished she could see his eyes better. Only a single streetlight lit the back parking lot of Chuck’s and they weren’t near its glow. “Hardly, it’s a real number. We agreed on it. It’s never been done before.”

  “Fine, but Hope, it’s still just a number, right?”

  She turned to him.

  “A thousand jars. It’s a goal, sure, but it’s still just some number.”

  “A thousand and one,” she corrected and turned away from him.

  “Whatever. It’s just a number on a white board. If you only get to eight hundred, or nine hundred, or nine hundred and ninety-nine, it doesn’t matter in the end. As long as you’re helping people. As long as you’re putting jars in the hands of people who need the help, right?”

  Hope sighed and turned up the truck’s heater. “I know, I know. You’re right.”

  Clark reached over and took her hand.

  She interlocked her fingers with his.

  “But it’s important to me, Clark. It’s something I’ve worked toward for weeks, months really. It matters to me.”

  Clark leaned back against his headrest. Important to me. He repeated the words in his mind. “I can see what you mean.”

  Hope ambled on. “I guess it’s just that Al has so many good ideas, and we don’t have enough time to possibly do them all this year. But he’s right when he says this is just the beginning. . . . If we handle things right, this could become bigger than any of us. A true movement. A full-time organization. Seminars. Year-round fund-raising. TV. Maybe a documentary. Partnerships. Millions of jars.”

  “Whoa. Millions?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it seems—”

  “Daunting?” Hope squeezed his hand. “And that’s why I like you so much. I’ve never been around a guy who gets me as well as you seem to.” She inched closer to Clark and for the first time in weeks considered breaking Louise’s cardinal rule about first kisses.

  Clark also leaned in and admired the smooth lines of Hope’s cheeks and perfect chin. Even in the faded light her
face shone warmth he could see and feel from two feet away. He leaned in further . . .

  THUMP THUMP. A fist on the window.

  “Hope!” Gayle’s son Mike was rapping on the window. “You’ve got a phone call inside the diner from America Live.”

  Hope threw the door open and jumped down from the truck. “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope, some guy is on the phone. Something Kincaid.”

  “Yow yow yow!” she yelled and raced across the parking lot and through the back door of the kitchen.

  Mike poked his head into the truck’s cab. “Ouch, sorry about that, man. Bad timing, huh?”

  “Oh, no. You’re way off base, Mike. We were just talking. That’s it.” Clark grinned slyly, turned off the truck and thought, Her move.

  Inside the diner Hope picked up the cordless phone and in her best nonchalant tone oozed, “Hi, this is Hope Jensen. May I help you?”

  “Hope, it’s Burton Kincaid with America Live.”

  “Hello, Mr. Kincaid, what a surprise.”

  “Just Burton.”

  “Hello—” Hope started to rephrase her greeting, but Burton had already jumped forward.

  “Marsh, one of my network execs, grabbed me this morning after the show and told me your story. Said it was amazing. I agree. You and your mission are inspiring. Brilliant. The whole story is perfect for our show. It’s an ideal holiday package segment.”

  Nonchalant, Hope reminded herself. “What did you have in mind?”

  “We’ll send a crew to you in the next thirty-six hours. They’ll shoot background, interview a few folks, get plenty of tape of people and their jars, do their thing, then in a day or two, we’ll fly you to New York to appear live and on-set.”

  I can be packed in an hour, she thought. “I think I could arrange that.”

  “Run it by the place, the Chicken people, get permission, round up a few locals, one of my producers will call with details. And make sure Allred is around.”

  “I sure will,” Hope said.

  “This is the big time, kid, be ready. Talk soon.”

  “Uh-huh!”

  And just like that Burton Kincaid, senior producer of America’s number-one national morning show, delivered the break Hope had been waiting and praying for all year. And he’d hung up before Hope even had time to realize she’d said “uh-huh” and not “good-bye.”

  “Well?” Clark asked when she finally pried the phone from her ear and hung up.

  “I just got the biggest Christmas Jar ever.”

  ~~~

  After collecting all the money, we gave $1,750 to an orphanage in Tanzania that our school has worked with. Plus $572 each to three families.

  —Rachel

  Twenty

  ~~~

  Al had never been good at math. It didn’t help that he hated it, especially when, more than once, he had tried to run his own business. But he was smart enough to know the hotel bill was mounting, even after asking for and receiving a reduced extended-stay rate.

  He’d fished a few times for offers to stay with Tracy, but with no success. Tracy’s oldest was moving back home, his middle child was preparing to leave home, and his youngest was taking over the home. “I sure got a full house right now,” Tracy said.

  Plus, Al had to admit it was nice eating a free breakfast each morning and having someone wash his sheets and clean his room.

  While Chuck’s was buzzing about Hope’s phone call, Al was celebrating his success by lying low—literally—in bed, watching a Christmas movie marathon. He had the sniffles and a persistent headache, and besides, he thought, it might be strategic for Hope to bask in the attention at the diner for a while.

  Only Al knew just how much work he’d done to make the phone call happen. He’d schmoozed a receptionist, a production assistant, a booker, a producer, and finally a man so well-known in morning TV he only went by one name: Marsh.

  All of Al’s carefully placed phone calls and carefully written e-mails with photo attachments of cute kids and jars led to Marsh cornering Burton Kincaid and insisting he book Hope for the undisputed king of morning TV: America Live.

  Al’s day zipped by with movie after movie, most of which he hadn’t seen in so long the plots and feelings felt fresh again. It’s a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story, White Christmas, The Bishop’s Wife, The Shop Around the Corner. By the time the final credits rolled in the late hours of the evening, he realized he hadn’t spoken to Queen in two days, and the window to call and check on his ailing friend was closing fast.

  “Hello?” Laura answered.

  “Hi, it’s Al.”

  “I think I know your voice by now, Al.” It was tired banter, but she was genuinely glad to hear from him anyway.

  “It’s late, I’m sorry. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  “No, don’t hang up. Queen wants to talk to you.”

  “She does?”

  “Of course. It’s been a couple days.”

  “How is she?”

  But before Laura could answer, or even hear the question, she’d given the phone to Queen.

  “Ross residence, Queen speaking.” Her voice was dull and indifferent.

  “You’re a silly kid. You don’t have to say that when your mother hands you the phone.”

  “I know,” she said. “I was being funny.”

  Al turned off the television and laid back diagonally across his bed, his head on a pillow.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “OK. I’m tired.”

  “I know it’s late there. I’m sorry. I just wanted to check in on my mail.”

  Queen stayed silent. “You don’t have to say that anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” But Al knew exactly what she meant.

  “You can just say you wanted to check on me.”

  Al covered his eyes. “You’re right. May I try again?”

  “OK.”

  “How are you Queen Lara?”

  “Still tired.”

  Al laughed despite the odd lump in his throat.

  “You’re zonked,” he said. “I’m going to say good night and call another time.”

  “Please don’t hang up.”

  “Alright, Queen. Just a few minutes though. What should we talk about tonight?”

  “Twenty Questions.”

  “You want to play Twenty Questions?”

  “Mom and me play a lot. She says it’s good for me.”

  “Alright then. I’ll ask the questions. Is that good?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Number one. Did you go to the park today?”

  “No.” She added a dramatic sigh.

  “I’m sorry. Number two. Did you notice if the doctor called your mother today?”

  “I don’t think so. But Mom held the phone all day. And she cried buckets.”

  Al said “I’m sorry” again, but not loud enough for anyone but him to hear. “Number three. What’s your favorite brownie?”

  “All of them.”

  “Agreed,” Al said. “All your mother’s brownies are good, aren’t they?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Number four. What’s your favorite holiday?”

  “Christmas. And sometimes my birthday.” Queen’s voice was even quieter. “Mostly Christmas.”

  “Number five. What would you like for Christmas this year?”

  “A new heart.”

  Al couldn’t recall the last time three simple words had sucked the air from his chest.

  “I want that for you, too. Should we stop playing the game?”

  “No.” She answered so softly Al could barely hear her weary voice brush his ear.

  “Alright then. Number six. Let’s see . . . Who is your hero?”

  Al suspected the pause didn’t have a thing to do with trying to decide.

  “Mom,” she said resolutely.

  “I thought so. . . . Number seven. If you could do anything fun this weekend, anything special at all, what would it be?”

 
; “Go for a ride.”

  “A ride?”

  “In the Cluck Truck.”

  “Great answer!” Al chuckled both at the thought of Queen riding shotgun as they cruised the streets of Idaho Falls and that she’d even remembered the Cluck Truck.

  “Number eight. Now that we know how you’d get there, how about the one place you’d visit that you’ve never been before. Where would it be?”

  Finally a question Queen had to consider. Al stared at the ceiling silently trying to predict her response.

  “Can I pick two?” she finally answered.

  “Of course you can.”

  “Then New York City.” She took a long breath. “And the manger.”

  “The manger?”

  “Where Jesus was born.”

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly Al felt compelled to ask, “Number nine. Will you still give me your Christmas Jar when I get home?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Queen?”

  “Yes. I’ll give it to you.”

  Al sat up. “It’s late. You need to sleep.”

  “One more?”

  “Alright. Last question. Number ten—and let’s give you a stumper. . . . Hmmm. . . . Queen Lara Ross, who—and it can be anyone—would you most like to meet face-to-face?”

  There wasn’t a moment of hesitation.

  “God.”

  ~~~

  As she took the jar from my hands, we both wiped away tears. It was one of the best, most unforgettable moments of my life. I am committed to keeping the Christmas Jar going for as long as I live.

  —Georgina

  Twenty-One

  ~~~

  No one could remember this much excitement at Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits since Chuck had been named grand marshal of the county Christmas parade a decade earlier.

  Gayle was calmly straightening the Christmas decorations and strategically placing jars around the diner so there wouldn’t be a single camera shot without at least one glimmering jar in the background.

  Mike and Joel were sweeping the parking lot and washing the outside windows.

  Randall and another cook were spit-shining the kitchen and making sure the overhead fans were pumping the smell of hot, southern-fried chicken into the dining room. Randall also had added an extra ounce or two of cream into the pie filling.