by Joe Wheeler
It didn’t take long before Nathan and I—as self-absorbed as we were—noticed that the energy and enthusiasm Mama normally poured into the small and large things of life were missing. Tiny wrinkles of exhaustion had formed around her startlingly green eyes, and her long auburn hair had lost its bounce and luster. Nathan volunteered to quit the soccer team, but Mama refused to allow it. So, we muddled through the fall, not knowing how to help Mama until the day a wistful suggestion led to a dramatic change in her life and ours.
“Mothers,” she declared to my father one evening, “should be rewarded with an occasional vacation all to themselves. A sabbatical or a Jubilee, like they talk about in the Bible. A chance to get away from the urgencies and tedium of everyday life.” Her voice lapsed into a deep sigh.
Papa, a giant of a man with dark curly hair and boyish face, walked over to where Mama was folding laundry, sat down on the pile of unmatched socks, and pulled her into his arms.
“Would that help you shake off this confustulation, Beth?” he asked, using one of the conglomerate words from Nathan’s toddler days. “Then let’s consider this seriously! Take a Jubilee, honey! The children can take care of me for a week.” He winked at us behind Mama’s back.
Nathan and I knew life would be chaos by the end of one day without Mama. But not wanting to quench the flush of hope that brightened her cheeks, we nodded.
Unwittingly, we’d consented to the Jubilee Agreement. Every three years Mama was to take a week off. She could go wherever she wished, within a stated budget.
Papa encouraged Mama to take her first Jubilee immediately. Mama insisted she needed time to enjoy some anticipation. Besides, she hadn’t decided where she wanted to go.
The next month, Mama’s spirits soared on a flurry of trips to the library and travel agencies. Soon we were flooded with colorful brochures offering getaways across the country. Mama went into a frenzy of cleaning and cooking, stocking the freezer with a week of dinners. Our neighbor, Evie, agreed to baby-sit while Papa minded his pharmacy.
Papa, Nathan, and I became morose as the departure day drew near. Papa, between his continuing romancing of Mama and obligations at the store, never spent time alone with us. Now he was having second thoughts about the whole Jubilee concept. We older children felt that all of this preparation and fanfare meant that Mama was leaving us for good. Maybe, we plotted, if we were visibly miserable enough, we could get Mama to cancel her plans and stay home.
The scene at the train station on the first day of Jubilee One, as we came to call it, was hysterical. Nathan and I were hysterical with anxiety, Jordan and Ben were hysterical with excitement, and Papa was hysterically perturbed with all of us.
Mama kissed us good-bye with worried eyes.
“Will you really be able to manage?” she asked Papa fearfully. “I had no idea the children would be so upset.”
“Go!” our father commanded, pushing the suitcases into the luggage rack. “We are going to be fine. Come along, children!”
To forestall further protests, Papa insisted we play his favorite game: morgue. The rules were simple. Everyone played dead, and the last one to talk, move, or giggle won.
Jordan, the winner of all three rounds, got to open the package Mama left for us on the kitchen table.
Ecstatic “oohs” and “aahs” greeted the two-foot-tall teddy bear pulled from the wrapping. Mama had dressed his soft brown fur in swim trunks and tennis shoes, a reminder that her destination was a health spa just south of the Mexican border.
Tucked under the bear’s arm was a card adorned with a blue-gowned angel wearing a cockeyed halo and blowing a slender gold horn. Inside were two messages. On the left:
My Precious Children,
That I should leave you now, for this Jubilee, is hard, I know. But our separation is only for a short time. This teddy “bears” my promise that, unless an act of God intervenes, I shall come home to you. Talk to the teddy when you miss me and take care of Papa for me.
Love,
Mama
And on the right:
Darling John,
I’m hoping this will be a special time for you to get to know our children in a deeper way. Thank you for the gift of Jubilee. Be assured that neither time nor distance can keep me from loving you with all that I am.
Always,
Beth
Buoyed by the bear (immediately christened “Teddy Talkto” by Jordan) and Mama’s love, the week flew by.
The mother who ran from the train into our squealing midst a week later was slimmer, tanner, and more youthful than the one we’d seen off. Her long hair was cut to hang in soft waves around her face, and the smile that had seemed so mechanical when she left was now glorious.
“How I missed you!” she exclaimed repeatedly, hugging us each in turn. She threw herself at Papa, who picked her up and swung her round. While we looked away in embarrassment, they kissed just like in the movies. Yuch!
The pampering massages, sophisticated people, swimming, and horseback riding that Mama gushingly described to us as the highlights of her trip didn’t impress us nearly as much as the happiness that radiated from her. By the next week, Mama’s frantic schedule hadn’t changed, but her outlook had. She went about her daily tasks with a smile and a song.
When Mama returned from Mexico, Teddy Talkto disappeared. Nine months later, as Mama and Papa went to the hospital, he reappeared, dressed in diapers and a tiny T-shirt and snuggling a purple rattle.
Papa phoned us from the hospital that evening to announce Laurel Christina’s safe arrival. Ben and Jordan ran straight to Teddy Talkto with the good news. Nathan took the opportunity to explain how Papa, as a former dance class award winner, felt it his duty to claim the first dance of his children’s lives. As soon as we were big enough to hold our heads up, Papa ceremoniously waltzed around the house with each baby, humming a little tune and commenting on what fine dancers we were. Nathan demonstrated by picking up Teddy, holding him to his cheek, and dancing solemnly around the room. Entranced, we joined in.
When Mama came home, Teddy Talkto disappeared again, but not thoughts of the dance. Sure enough, the day Laurel began holding her head up steadily, Papa promenaded her through the house, humming softly in her ear. That his older offspring should collapse in a fit of giggles must have mystified him, but Papa continued the dance and didn’t probe our secret.
Having survived the first Jubilee, we looked forward to the second. Papa admitted relief that Nathan and I were older and able to help more. With a smile, he reassured Mama not to fear. The Jubilee Agreement did not include a baby within a year of each homecoming.
Mama reached up and patted Papa’s chin. “Oh John, what would we do without our Laurel? But don’t worry, going away alone makes coming home the best part of the trip. I just hope this trek won’t be as hard on me as it was on the early pioneers!”
For Jubilee Two, Mama joined a reenactment of a wagon train crossing the driest stretch of “The Western Trail,” forty miles of unrelenting desert in eastern Nevada. The trip was not strictly authentic, she assured us, as the wagons carried ice chests full of food and drink.
Before her car even pulled out of the driveway, we searched the house for Teddy Talkto. We found him mounted on Laurel’s rocking horse, dressed as a cowboy sporting a ridiculously huge hat and a red bandanna tied over his nose.
Our week went surprisingly smoothly. As for Mama’s week, well, she always described Jubilee Two as a definite “change of pace.” The weather was unusually hot and the fleas unusually bad. Bleeding lips and legs blotched with bites were her most visible souvenirs. She told of shivering in her sleeping bag as coyotes howled at the moon, and of striking at a rattlesnake with a shovel one morning as she stepped from the safety of the wagon.
Hardships aside, Jubilee Two had the same magical effect on Mama as Jubilee One. She was again refreshed and renewed in her role as wife and mother. Papa’s enthusiasm at her return assured us of their love for each other, and we basked in
that security. Could it be, we asked quietly, that while the Jubilee Agreement was meant for Mama, it was good for all of us?
The years passed. Our family took yearly vacations, but it was Mama’s Jubilees that defined our lives. During Jubilee we learned not to take her for granted, as well as how to run the washing machine, load the dishwasher, and light the incinerator. We participated vicariously in Mama’s travels, and her love of plotting adventure added spice to the daily routine.
Mama spent Jubilee Three at the Seattle World’s Fair. We found Teddy Talkto in the shower, hiding under an umbrella and dressed in galoshes and Laurel’s outgrown raincoat. We knew what Mama expected from the Pacific Northwest.
By subsisting on the continental breakfast included in the tour package and peanut butter crackers for lunch and dinner, Mama made it to Hawaii for Jubilee Four. Teddy Talkto greeted us on the back lawn, sprawled on a beach towel, wearing a grass skirt and lei.
Jubilee Five and Nathan’s freshman year at UCLA were Mama’s excuse to “do” Los Angeles. She spent Jubilee Six at a dude ranch in Wyoming and Jubilee Seven at the Grand Canyon.
Papa joined Mama for Jubilee Eight (right after Laurel married). They celebrated this, the end of the Jubilee Agreement, in Acapulco. With all of us wed, there was no one home to see if Mama had dressed Teddy Talkto in a sombrero or mariachi outfit.
Early the next year, Mama began to experience fatigue and stomach pains. Blood tests ordered by the doctor led to exploratory surgery. The final diagnosis of advanced cancer left us devastated. Papa was particularly crushed. He refused to talk about Mama’s condition with any of us, and his silence became Mama’s biggest concern.
For several months Mama functioned normally, though slowly, and went about putting her affairs in order. She arranged to spend time with each of her children. Laughing time. Crying time. Time to reminisce. Time to express our love.
Papa remained aloof from us all. He waited on Mama like a devoted servant but refused to accept the finality of her illness. Then she was gone, dying with the same dignity with which she had lived. Even throughout the funeral, with the rest of us weeping noisily around him, Papa was tearless and detached.
The months following Mama’s death passed in slow motion. Every joy, every victory seemed muffled without Mama to celebrate with us. Laurel broke through our grief with the birth of her first child, Bethany Jubilee, named for Mama and the agreement that had led to Laurel’s own conception. Nathan, Jordan, Ben, and I rejoiced deeply at the news of Bethany’s arrival. This new life sparked a joy in us that had been missing for months. Sadly, even holding this enchanting, curly-haired grandchild didn’t penetrate the wall of pain wrapping Papa’s heart.
Out of our need to heal and continue living, we found excuses to stay away from Papa. His pain was overwhelming, and he held our overtures of comfort and compassion at arm’s length. The mention of Mama’s name brought a grimace to his once laughing face. We began to fear that we had lost not only the mother we adored but also the father whose encouragement and understanding had girded us throughout our lives.
Hoping to lift Papa out of this depression, we agreed to congregate at the house for a traditional family Christmas that year. Nathan’s wife, Melissa, organized the oldest grandchildren into teams that took turns baking cookies, making fudge, and wrapping gifts. We decorated a magnificent tree with ornaments made through the years, went caroling in the old neighborhood, and attended worship services on Christmas Eve.
By the time Papa went to bed that evening, it was apparent our plan had failed. All of the traditions and treasured memories of Christmas left us aching for Mama. Too discouraged to rally our spirits, we quietly headed for bed.
We adults were in a subdued mood when we gathered the next morning for the grand present-opening. Thank goodness for the boundless enthusiasm of children! Jed, my oldest, played Santa Claus and passed out the gifts.
After the unwrapping and hoopla of the family gifts ended, a large box remained under the tree. There was no tag on it. We asked Papa to open it.
With trembling hands, Papa pulled out the treasured Teddy Talkto. He was dressed as an angel. His flowing blue robe, cockeyed halo, and golden horn matched the attire of the angel on the card he held in his hand. Instantly, Nathan and I recognized the angel. Papa covered his eyes with his hand. Jed opened the card and I nodded for him to read:
“My Precious Children,
“That I should leave you now, for this Jubilee, is hard, I know. But our separation is only for a short time. This teddy “bears” my promise that, unless an act of God intervenes, I shall come home to you. Talk to the teddy when you miss me and take care of Papa for me.
“Love,
“Mama”
Jed looked at me questioningly. He had grown up with tales of Teddy Talkto and the Jubilee Agreement, but did not understand the significance of the card. Brushing silent tears from my eyes, I motioned him to continue.
“Darling John,
“I’m hoping this will be a special time for you to get to know our children in a deeper way. Thank you for the gift of Jubilee. Be assured that neither time nor distance can keep me from loving you with all that I am.
“Always,
“Beth”
An agonized groan ripped loose from deep within Papa. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he hurried into the kitchen. We looked at each other in silence. Mama! Even in death she reached out to comfort us. It wasn’t until one of the small children asked a question about the first Jubilee that we were able to break away from our memories and begin retelling the stories of the Jubilee Agreement and our childhood.
When Papa returned, he carried the tray of cookies and fudge that traditionally followed the opening of presents. Smiling bravely, he faced us and cleared his throat.
“Forgive me,” he said with a trembling voice. “Forgive me for trying to deny your mama her final Jubilee.” Then, setting down the plate of goodies, he picked up baby Bethany. Humming a little tune, he gingerly waltzed her round the room.
Trouble at
the Inn
DINA DONOHUE
What could be new about a local nativity play? Children in bathrobes and sheets flubbing their lines.… Not always. Sometimes this very spontaneity results in the sudden need to wipe something out of one’s eyes.
Stories cannot be judged by length alone, for even though this story is extremely short, so many wrote in, begging that we include it, that we had little choice but to add it to this collection.
For years now whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling. Wally’s performance in one annual production of the Nativity play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what happened.
Wally was 9 that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty in keeping up. He was big and clumsy, slow in movement and mind. Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when the uncoordinated Wally would ask to play ball with them.
Most often they’d find a way to keep him off the field, but Wally would hang around anyway—not sulking, just hoping. He was always a helpful boy, a willing and smiling one, and the natural protector, paradoxically, of the underdog. Sometimes if the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would always be Wally who’d say, “Can’t they stay? They’re no bother.”
Wally fancied the idea of being a shepherd with a flute in the Christmas pageant that year, but the play’s director, Miss Lumbard, assigned him to a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the Innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally’s size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful.
And so it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gathered for the town’s Yuletide extravaganza of the crooks
and crèches, of beards, crowns, halos, and a whole stageful of squeaky voices. No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that from time to time Miss Lumbard had to make sure he didn’t wander onstage before his cue.
Then the time came when Joseph appeared, slowly, tenderly guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the Innkeeper was there, waiting.
“What do you want?” Wally said, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture.
“We seek lodging.”
“Seek it elsewhere.” Wally looked straight ahead but spoke vigorously. “The inn is filled.”
“Sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary.”
“There is no room in this inn for you.” Wally looked properly stern.
“Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired.”
Now for the first time, the Innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause, long enough to make the audience a bit tense with embarrassment.
“No! Begone!” the prompter whispered from the wings.
“No!” Wally repeated automatically. “Begone!”
Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary, and Mary laid her head upon her husband’s shoulder and the two of them started to move away. The Innkeeper did not return inside his inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway, watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears.