Christmas Jars

by Jason F. Wright

  During the next two years they asked earlier than ever for their change to be made in coins. By then, even the two-year-old twins knew to remind their mother. “Get silver, Mommy, silver!” They knew the game. No matter what, all coins went into the jar at the end of every single day. And in the Maxwell tradition, there were no exceptions. Or so they thought.

  During their tenth year of marriage and after ten Maxwell Christmas Jars, the family of five set off to the bank on Christmas Eve afternoon with their most impressive collection of spare change ever. It was Hannah’s turn to bask in the privilege of carrying the jar, and the seven-year-old struggled to carry the jar from the family van.

  While Adam and Lauren wrestled the sleepy twins from their car seats and into a double-wide stroller, Hannah’s eyes spotted a heavy woman in a gray sweat suit sitting on the curb, crying into one hand and holding a thin slip of white paper in the other.

  Adam and Lauren made their way into the bank and settled in the teller line, still consoling the grouchy twins and unaware of Hannah’s whereabouts. Outside the heavily tinted windows, Hannah approached the disheveled woman.

  “What’s wrong?” Hannah asked bravely. “Are you sad?” To her parents’ consternation, she’d never been afraid of strangers. “Hello?” She sat down and placed the jar between them.

  The woman sat motionless, her hands on her stomach.

  “Hello?” Hannah repeated. She was too young to read the signs; any adult would have given up after the first hello.

  “Ma’am, would you like our Christmas Jar?”

  The question opened the woman’s eyes, and the shadow of a smile appeared.

  “Please. Please take our Christmas Jar.” With both hands the dogged little girl slid the jar a few inches until it rested against the woman’s left leg.

  Adam, at last aware that Hannah had never followed her family into the lobby, raced outside. “Hannah!” he yelled, spotting her engaged with the stranger on the curb. “Hannah, are you all right?”

  Meanwhile Lauren stood watching through the thick windows. One hand rocked the twins’ stroller back and forth, and the other rested on the cool glass. Peace filled her, and though it had been playing since October everywhere she went, she heard Christmas music for the first time playing in the background.

  Adam crouched at his daughter’s side. “What’s up, Hannah?”

  The woman suddenly spoke. “Nothing, sir, it’s nothing. Your sweet daughter offered me her jar.”

  “Hannah?”

  Hannah turned her curious gaze from the woman up to her father. “I think she needs it, Daddy.”

  Adam weighed the scene. Other customers passed by, entirely uninterested in the dramatic episode playing out. Now behind him stood Lauren, stroller in tow, salty tears gathering but not yet falling underneath her wide eyes. He shrugged his shoulders at her and silently asked, Well?

  She answered back with a shrug of her own. Her lips said nothing, but the now-dripping tears and melting mascara answered well enough.

  “Merry Christmas, ma’am,” he said, pulling Hannah to her feet.

  “Sir?” The confused woman asked.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said again, taking Hannah’s hand and leading his family back to their vehicle. Without speaking, they loaded back up.

  After hearing the final buckle from behind, Adam started the van and twisted his hands on the faded leather steering wheel cover. “What just happened?” Adam asked, more rhetorically than anything. “Did we just give away Christmas?”

  “Yes, dear,” Lauren answered. “We just gave away Christmas.”

  Adam backed the van out and they rode away in silence.

  The Maxwells continued on that afternoon to their traditional department store and agreed to a manageable ten-dollars-per-person budget. With just enough cash between them, Adam and Lauren divided the children and blended into the bustling crowd of last-minute shoppers. They met after just twenty-five minutes and rode home without any discussion of how Christmas morning would have a different—though remarkably familiar—theme.

  The next morning the children awoke to the aroma of cookies baking and hot chocolate. Over their once-a-year treat breakfast, Adam and Lauren explained that though they were very proud of Hannah’s noble act of charity, they could not afford to replace the Christmas funds. “This year,” they said, “will be different.” Then they opened a few gifts from both grandmas and grandpas, one each from Uncle Steven and Aunt Terri, and the humble gifts purchased for one another.

  After they finished opening the packages, Adam asked Lauren to share one thing she loved about Hannah and each of the twins. She did, and then added a tender note about her well-meaning husband. Adam returned the gesture, telling Hannah how proud he was of her bravery and sensitivity to others, and praising Lauren for her knack for maintaining such beauty—inside and out. Hannah caught the vision and wanted her own turn. She gushed genuine “I love yous” to everyone and thanked her dad for not being mad.

  “About what, princess?” He pulled her onto his lap.

  “About giving away Christmas.”

  After clearing the modest mess of paper and bows, the family spent some time playing games together, and Adam queued a family video of the twin’s second birthday. They later shared stories and jokes until the spirit of the day was unlike any the Maxwells had experienced since they began living as a family of two.

  That night was spent with most of the aunts and uncles in town, congregating at the home of the in-laws, Frank and Dora. Adam and Lauren swore Hannah to secrecy, bribed her with extra marshmallow fudge, and agreed—at least for the time being—to keep their Christmas Eve adventure private.

  In the car on the way home, with all three little girls in deep sleep behind them, their parents debated a new tradition. Neither needed convincing. A new jar reappeared on the twenty-sixth and slowly filled with change during the remaining winter months. No games and no gimmicks to fill it faster than through the normal accumulation of daily pocket change. By Memorial Day it was half full, already with a few bills mixed in to save space. By December it was loaded airtight.

  On Christmas Eve they secretly gave the jar to one of Hannah’s teachers who’d been laid off that summer in a budget consolidation and was struggling with her checkbook and self-confidence.

  The next year’s jar went to a wealthy furniture client who hardly needed the money but who they privately surmised might appreciate his own lesson in giving. They noticed the countenance of the longtime curmudgeon brighten in the coming visits. They suspected he had given the jar right back away to someone in more financial need.

  One night at a romantic restaurant, while the girls spent the evening being spoiled at Grandma’s, Lauren leaned across the table and asked, “Hon, how often do you think about the Christmas Jar?”

  “Every time I empty my pockets,” he answered, twirling his salad fork. “Every single time.”

  She kissed the back of his calloused hands.

  Eleven

  ~

  Adam took a long drink from the lemon ice water Lauren had prepared without anyone noticing. Hope sat on the floor, her legs pulled towards her, her chin resting on her blue-jean knees. This time it was Hannah’s turn to interrupt Adam’s long breath. “I love that story, Daddy,” she said, her head resting in her husband’s lap.

  “You always have,” he answered richly. “And why not? You’re the star.”

  “No, Dad, you’re the star.” She stood and walked to his chair. She bent forward and wedged her arms around him and between his broad back and his brown cloth recliner.

  “Kissing booth!” one of the twins called, and before Hope could blink twice, the entire Maxwell family was swarming Adam and kissing his cheeks and forehead.

  “Hope, save me!” he called in mock alarm. But the puckering only intensified, and the sight nearly paralyzed her. A melancholy cloud settled and Hope faded out and into her own living room. Instantly she was back on her flower-patterned couch on the n
ight she held her mother and kissed her good-bye for the very last time. After fifteen or twenty seconds of the joyous banter, the noise settled, and Hope’s thoughts collected back into her own jar.

  “This . . . is . . . amazing.” She looked to Adam. “Your story, and all those jars over the years. It’s inspiring. That’s what it is.” Hope considered that she might actually have more questions now than when she first knocked on their door.

  “Inspiring? That might be overreaching, but it’s been a blessing, to be certain.”

  “A blessing for the woman at the bank, for Hannah’s teacher, and all the others you’ve helped.”

  “Sure, but it’s also a blessing for Hannah, and for the rest of us. The jar isn’t about money.”

  “I’m still listening.” At this Hope was becoming an expert.

  “You’ve heard the saying ‘It’s the thought that counts’?”

  “Of course.”

  “It couldn’t be more true than in this case. The money has never been enough to save anyone. But every day we notice that jingling in our pockets and purses, and that saves us. I guess it’s a daily remembrance of sacrifice. Not a day passes when we don’t think of—”

  “The Christmas Jar,” his family answered in unison, like members of a well-trained choir. Laughter again filled the room, and while the others struck up conversations of their own, Hope sat still, first staring into space, then at her feet tucked beneath her. She reflected on the letters she’d found in the paper and then read a hundred times. She replayed the night her own jar arrived. She relived last year’s trip to Chuck’s for an excruciating solo Christmas Eve dinner.

  “Hope?” Lauren sat down next to her and placed an arm over her sagging shoulders. Hope wiped her eyes and nose and lifted her head. “Honey?”

  “Excuse me.” Hope cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I really did not see this coming.”

  “What’s the matter?” With Hope’s eyes closed, Lauren almost sounded like her own mother.

  Hope was awash with emotions she’d primarily held in storage since Louise’s initial diagnosis. For over two decades, Louise had epitomized to her daughter a strong-spined woman. And though generous and kind, Louise rarely let her emotions show. Only Hope had ever witnessed her mother shed her rugged blue collar, and even then it was only within the sacred walls of their home. Hope could count on one hand the number of times Louise had cried tears of her own.

  Hope felt conflicting pride for endearing herself to this family. Unbelievably, she’d arrived at the point where she might have turned to Lauren and called her “Mom” without the faintest hint of overstepping any bounds.

  “Hope?” Lauren called again, and her eyes ordered the others in the room to vanish.

  The two sat across from each other on a muted burgundy Persian rug. Hope began in slow and deliberate fashion, but with each chapter of her life her cadence quickened and her tongue loosened. She unfolded the story, beginning with her introduction to the world at Chuck’s Chicken ’n’ Biscuits on U.S. Highway 4. She ended with a tearful and painstakingly vivid account of a solemn night at home the previous winter when her mother quietly slipped away.

  Regretfully omitted was any mention of the Christmas Eve burglary and the appearance of her very own Christmas Jar, the nearly completed story scheduled soon for the Daily Recordfront page, and the unsettling concoction of guilt and acceptance settling in Hope’s stomach.

  Twelve

  ~

  Though Hope’s questions had been answered, and the origin of the Christmas Jar was now part of her own personal history, she continued stopping by the Maxwell home at least once a week for another month. Relieved, Hope no longer needed to invent thinly veiled excuses. She simply enjoyed being there, and that was enough for her second adoptive family.

  Late one Saturday afternoon, Hope announced that her senior project was nearing an end. “You won’t have me to kick around much longer, I’m sorry to say.” But even as she said it she knew the desire to be around Adam, Lauren, and their affable children would be impossible to ignore. In a peculiar way Hope never envisioned, thoughts of one day saying good-bye guaranteed a case of serious nausea.

  “I’d like to read it, provide some feedback,” Adam offered yet again as Hope donned her jacket and gathered her notes. He’d been offering for weeks to read her research paper and provide “constructive criticism.” “Construction, that’s what I do, you know.”

  “I know,” she answered again. “But I’m real self-conscious, you know that.” Hope winked good-bye, and he blew a dusty kiss in return. “Next time, my favorite carpenter.” Then she left, wishing as she had for months that she didn’t have to.

  Hope rose every morning at five to work on her magnum opus. Her feature had already grown into a two-part story, covering not only her own experiences but also those of four thankful writers whose letters had run in the paper. But the highlight, and the headline, belonged to a close-knit local family full of life, enamored with wood, and in love with Christmas. They were the genesis of the jars that redefined the meaning of the holidays. The headline was already chosen: “Christmas All Year Round.”

  Through the final weeks of her “investigation,” as she referred to it at the paper, Hope skillfully developed a theory that the Maxwells’ inevitable negative reaction to her article would be muted by the positive publicity. In a weekly meeting with Lyle and another senior editor she even uttered the phrase “win-win.”

  They might be reluctant heroes, she thought. But they’re still heroes . . . and the world loves heroes.

  One summer evening, with her husband, Dustin, and a brother-in-law off at a late movie, Hannah walked Hope through the steps of refinishing a seriously water-damaged German shrank. Hope sat on a tall swiveling stool, watching with genuine interest as Hannah, the future of the company, sat on a square, flat dolly alongside the now stunning piece of furniture. She gingerly screwed into place pieces of replica silver antique hardware.

  The two giggling women swapped embarrassing little-girl memories until the only light still on in the Maxwells’ quiet neighborhood was hanging above their heads, casting shadows across an unfinished restoration project.

  “If I could have chosen a big sister,” Hope said, “it would have been you.”

  “And, hey, I would trade those silly kid sisters of mine faster than you can sand a Popsicle stick.”

  “I’m serious. You—and your folks—even the twins—have been so good to me. I’d give about anything for a sister like you.”

  “You’re nuttier than Jimmy Carter’s pantry,” Hannah ribbed. “You have a sister like me.” She craned her head around to meet Hope’s eyes. “How is it possible,” she added, turning again to her work, “that a research paper for school could have delivered you so perfectly into our family?”

  “Fate,” Hope answered, wishing it were true.

  Hope drove away that night, as she had on so many others, imagining the day her story would put an end to her career as a small-town newspaper girl. But she knew that very same day’s schedule also called for a difficult conversation with the family that had opened their home, and their hearts, to a gregarious, aggressive, and increasingly flawed young woman and college student.

  Thirteen

  ~

  Congratulations, Hope,” Brandi the classifieds secretary called as Hope grabbed two messages from her box along the long wall separating her old department from a modestly sized break room.

  “Thanks?” Hope replied in the tone that meant she had no idea what she’d missed.

  “The profile. You didn’t know?”

  “Profile? It’s Monday, help me out, would you, Brandi?”

  “You are the Daily Record featured staffer of the month. Come on, now, you didn’t know?”

  Hope’s face turned ashen. “No, I . . . had no clue.”

  “Just between you and me, I think Mr. Butler might have kept it quiet, thinking you’d talk them out of it.”

  “You can say tha
t again.” Dizzy and fighting for at least one good breath, Hope bypassed her usual glory walk through the downstairs desks and fast-walked to the stairs and to her second-floor station with the leather desk pad.

  Already sitting there, cut from the paper and mounted on white foam board, was a copy of the 750-word profile of up-and-coming associate editor Hope Jensen. It chronicled her career at the paper from her days as a high school intern through three well-deserved promotions. It honored her ability to wear many hats at once. It touched on her unique upbringing, her three-year college career and early graduation, and her proven ability to overcome obstacles. It closed with a subtle mention of a “current investigation with career-defining promise.”

  Hope finished reading the article and rested her head on her desk. It was 8:45 a.m. There are options, she convinced herself. I could jet there, break every speed limit between here and the Maxwells’, and pull the paper from the front step before they see it. She looked again at the clock on the wall. Eight forty-six. At that hour, on a sun-drenched Monday, Hope knew there was no chance the paper hadn’t already been retrieved. But have they read it? She spun ideas, stretching and reaching in a thousand directions to find a story or clever explanation for why she’d deceived them.

  “How’s this for an angle?” she said with her head still flat on her desktop. “I am a fraud.” The day she had always planned to control, to spin in her favor, had come without warning.

  The next and obvious options were difficult to envision. She might sit them down and rationalize her motives; beg for forgiveness; offer to spike the unprinted story; but none of these was palatable. Instead, Hope judged, she would allow time to do the healing. It worked with Mom, so why not now?

  All morning Hope withstood a barrage of well-meaning pats on the back. “Way to go!” some said. “You’ve really arrived now!” She wanted desperately to enjoy the day—and the attention—but more than anything she wanted to climb down the fire escape outside her window, stop for tacos and chips, and go home to her mother.