by Joe Wheeler
“We will put this on the clock,” she said, “where her eyes will rest on it the first thing in the morning.”
So they put it there, and it seemed as natural as life, so that Pussy-purr-up positively licked his chops and sat in front of the clock as if to keep his eye on the chocolate mouse. The small girl’s mother said, “She was lovely about giving up the doll, and she will love the tree.”
“We’ll have to get up very early,” said the small girl’s father.
“And you’ll have to run ahead to light the candle.”
Well, they got up before dawn the next morning, and so did the boy-next-door. He was there on the step, waiting, blowing on his hands and beating them quite like the poor little boys do in a Christmas story, who haven’t any mittens. But he wasn’t a poor little boy, and he had so many pairs of fur-trimmed gloves that he didn’t know what to do with them, but he had left the house in such a hurry that he had forgotten to put them on. So there he stood on the front step of the little house, blowing on his hands and beating them. And it was dark, with a sort of pale shine in the heavens, which didn’t seem to come from the stars or the herald of the dawn; it was just a mystical silver glow that set the boy’s heart to beating.
He had never been out alone like this. He had always stayed in his warm bed until somebody called him, and then he had waited until they had called again, and then he had dressed and gone to breakfast, where his father scolded because he was late, and his mother scolded because he ate too fast. But this day had begun with adventure, and for the first time, under that silvery sky, he felt the thrill of it.
Then suddenly someone came around the house—someone tall and thin, with a cap on his head and an empty basket in his hands.
“Hello,” he said. “A merry Christmas!”
It was the small girl’s father, and he put the key in the lock and went in, and turned on a light, and there was the table set for four.
And the small girl’s father said, “You see, we have set a place for you. We must eat something before we go out.”
And the boy said, “Are we going out? I came to see the tree.”
“We are going out to see the tree.”
Before the boy could ask any questions, the small girl’s mother appeared with fingers on her lips and said, “Sh-sh,” and then she began to recite in a hushed voice, “Hickory-Dickory-Dock—”
Then there was a little cry and the sound of dancing feet, and the small girl in a red dressing gown came flying in.
“Oh, Mother, Mother, the mouse is on the clock—the mouse is on the clock!”
Well, it seemed to the little boy that he had never seen anything so exciting as the things that followed. The chocolate mouse went up the clock and under the chair and would have had its tail cut off except that the small girl begged to save it.
“I want to keep it as it is, Mother.”
And playing this game as if it were the most important thing in the whole wide world were the small girl’s mother and the small girl’s father, all laughing and flushed, and chanting the quaint old words to the quaint old music. The boy-next-door held his breath for fear he would wake up from this entrancing dream and find himself in his own big house, alone in his puffy bed, or eating breakfast with his stodgy parents who had never played with him in his life. He found himself laughing too, and flushed and happy, and trying to sing in his funny boy’s voice.
The small girl absolutely refused to eat the mouse. “He’s my darling Christmas mouse, Mother.”
So her mother said, “Well, I’ll put him on the clock again, where Pussy-purr-up can’t get him while we are out.”
“Oh, are we going out?” said the small girl, round-eyed.
“Yes.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find Christmas.”
That was all the small girl’s mother would tell. So they had breakfast, and everything tasted perfectly delicious to the boy-next-door. But first they bowed their heads, and the small girl’s father said, “Dear Christ-Child, on this Christmas morning, bless these children, and keep our hearts young and full of love for Thee.”
The boy-next-door, when he lifted his head, had a funny feeling as if he wanted to cry, and yet it was a lovely feeling, all warm and comfortable inside.
For breakfast they each had a great baked apple, and great slices of sweet bread and butter, and great glasses of milk, and as soon as they had finished, away they went out of the door and down into the woods back of the house, and when they were deep into the woods, the small girl’s father took out of his pocket a little flute and began to play; he played thin piping tunes that went flitting around among the trees, and the small girl and her mother hummed the tunes until it sounded like singing bees, and their feet fairly danced and the boy found himself humming and dancing with them.
Then suddenly the piping ceased, and a hush fell over the wood. It was so still that they could almost hear each other breathe—so still that when a light flamed suddenly in that open space, it burned without a flicker.
The light came from a red candle that was set in the top of a small living tree. It was the only light on the tree, but it showed the snowy balls, and the small red fairies whose coats had silver buttons.
“It’s our tree, my darling,” he heard the small girl’s mother saying.
Suddenly it seemed to the boy that his heart would burst in his breast. He wanted someone to speak to him like that. The small girl sat high on her father’s shoulder, and her father held her mother’s hand. It was like a chain of gold, their holding hands like that, the loving each other.
The boy reached out and touched the woman’s hand. She looked down at him and drew him close. He felt warmed and comforted. Their candle burning there in the darkness was like some sacred fire of friendship. He wished that it would never go out, that he might stand there watching it, with his small cold hand in the clasp of the small girl’s mother’s hand.
It was late when the boy-next-door got back to his own big house. But he had not been missed. Everybody was up, and everything was upset. The daughter-in-law had declared the night before that she would not stay another day beneath that roof, and off she had gone with her young husband, and her little girl, who was to have had the pink doll on the tree.
“And good riddance,” said the next-door-neighbor. But she ate no breakfast, and she went to the kitchen and worked with her maids to get the dinner ready, and there were covers laid for nine instead of 12.
And the next-door-neighbor kept saying, “Good riddance—good riddance,” and not once did she say, “A merry Christmas.”
But the boy-next-door had something in his heart that was warm and glowing like the candle in the forest, and he came to his mother and said, “May I have the pink dolly?”
She spoke frowningly. “What does a boy want of a doll?”
“I’d like to give it to the little girl next door.”
“Do you think I can buy dolls to give away in charity?”
“Well, they gave me a Christmas present.”
“What did they give you?”
He opened his hand and showed a little flute tied with a gay red ribbon. He lifted it to his lips and blew on it, a thin piping tune.
“Oh, that,” said his mother scornfully. “Why, that’s nothing but a reed from the pond.”
But the boy knew it was more than that. It was a magic pipe that made you dance, and made your heart warm and happy.
So he said again, “I’d like to give her the doll.” And he reached out his little hand and touched his mother’s—and his eyes were wistful.
His mother’s own eyes softened—she had lost one son that day—and she said, “Oh, well, do as you please,” and went back to the kitchen.
The boy-next-door ran into the great room and took the doll from the tree, and wrapped her in paper, and flew out the door and down the brick walk and straight to the little house. When the door was opened, he saw that his friends were just sitting down to dinner—and t
here was the pie, all brown and piping hot, with a wreath of holly, and the small girl was saying, “And the onions were silver, and the carrots were gold—”
The boy-next-door went up to the small girl and said, “I’ve brought you a present.”
With his eyes all lighted up, he took off the paper in which it was wrapped, and there was the doll, in rosy frills, with eyes that opened and shut, and shoes and stockings, and curly hair that was bobbed and beautiful.
And the small girl, in a whirlwind of happiness, said, “Is it really my doll?” And the boy-next-door felt very shy and happy, and he said, “Yes.”
And the small girl’s mother said, “It was a beautiful thing to do,” and she bent and kissed him. Again that bursting feeling came into the boy’s heart and he lifted his face to hers and said, “May I come sometimes and be your boy?”
And she said, “Yes.”
And when at last he went away, she stood in the door and watched him, such a little lad, who knew so little of loving. And because she knew so much of love, her eyes filled to overflowing.
But presently she wiped the tears away and went back to the table; and she smiled at the small girl and at the small girl’s father.
“And the potatoes were ivory,” she said. “Oh, who would ask for turkey, when they can have pie like this?”
A Full House
MADELEINE L’ENGLE
It was Christmas … family time. And the Austin house was full: with a husband, a wife, four children, a grandfather, three dogs, and two cats. There was no more room—nevertheless, along came Evie, along came Eugenia, along came state troopers, along came Maria and Pepita.
Yet in spite of it … or because of it … it was a Christmas Eve to remember.
(Madeleine L’Engle [1918–] is recognized around the world as one of the finest writers of our time, having successfully published plays, poems, essays, autobiography, and fiction for both children and adults. Perhaps best known is her Time Fantasy Series of children’s books, A Wrinkle in Time, A Wind in the Door, A Swiftly Tilting Planet, and Many Waters, books that embody her unique blend of science fiction, family love, and moral responsibility. A Wrinkle in Time won the Newbery Medal in 1963, the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award in 1965, and was runner up for the Hans Christian Andersen Award in 1964. She also wrote a series of books based on her family, including The Twenty-four Days Before Christmas: An Austin Family Story. A practicing Christian, religion is crucial in all her writings.)
To anybody who lives in a city or even a sizable town, it may not sound like much to be the director of a volunteer choir in a postcard church in a postcard village, but I was the choir director and largely responsible for the Christmas Eve service, so it was very much of a much for me. I settled my four children and my father, who was with us for Christmas, in a front pew and went up to the stuffy choir-robing room. I was missing my best baritone, my husband, Wally, because he had been called to the hospital. He’s a country doctor, and I’m used to his pocket beeper going off during the church service. I missed him, of course, but I knew he’d been called to deliver a baby, and a Christmas baby is always a joy.
The service went beautifully. Nobody flatted, and Eugenia Underhill, my lead soprano, managed for once not to breathe in the middle of a word. The only near disaster came when she reached for the high C in “O Holy Night,” hit it brilliantly—and then down fell her upper plate. Eugenia took it in good stride, pushed her teeth back in place and finished her solo. When she sat down, she doubled over with mirth.
The church looked lovely, lighted entirely by candlelight, with pine boughs and holly banking the windows. The Christmas Eve service is almost entirely music, hence my concern; there is never a sermon, but our minister reads excerpts from the Christmas sermons of John Donne and Martin Luther.
When the dismissal and blessings were over, I heaved a sigh of relief. Now I could attend to our own Christmas at home. I collected my family, and we went out into the night. A soft, feathery snow was beginning to fall. People called out “Goodnight” and “Merry Christmas.” I was happily tired, and ready for some peace and quiet for the rest of the evening—our service is over by nine.
I hitched Rob, my sleeping youngest, from one hip to the other. The two girls, Vicky and Suzy, walked on either side of their grandfather; John, my eldest, was with me. They had all promised to go to bed without protest as soon as we had finished all our traditional Christmas rituals. We seem to add new ones each year so that Christmas Eve bedtime gets later and later.
I piled the kids into the station wagon, thrusting Rob into John’s arms. Father and I got in the front, and I drove off into the snow, which was falling more heavily. I hoped that it would not be a blizzard and that Wally would get home before the roads got too bad.
Our house is on the crest of a hill, a mile out of the village. As I looked uphill, I could see the lights of our outdoor Christmas tree twinkling warmly through the snow. I turned up our back road, feeling suddenly very tired. When I drove up to the garage and saw that Wally’s car was not there, I tried not to let Father or the children see my disappointment. I began ejecting the kids from the back. It was my father who first noticed what looked like a bundle of clothes by the storm door.
“Victoria,” he called to me. “What’s this?”
The bundle of clothes moved. A tear-stained face emerged, and I recognized Evie, who had moved from the village with her parents two years ago, when she was 16. She had been our favorite and most loyal babysitter, and we all missed her. I hadn’t seen her—or heard anything about her—in all this time.
“Evie!” I cried. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
She moved stiffly, as though she had been huddled there in the cold for a long time. Then she held her arms out to me in a childlike gesture. “Mrs. Austin—” She sighed as I bent down to kiss her. And then, “Mom threw me out. So I came here.” She dropped the words simply, as though she had no doubt that she would find a welcome in our home. She had on a shapeless, inadequate coat, and a bare toe stuck through a hole in one of her sneakers.
I put my arms around her and helped her up. “Come in. You must be frozen.”
The children were delighted to see Evie and crowded around, hugging her, so it was a few minutes before we got into the kitchen and past the dogs who were loudly welcoming us home. There were Mr. Rochester, our Great Dane; Colette, a silver-gray French poodle who bossed the big dog unmercifully; and, visiting us for the Christmas holidays while his owners were on vacation, a 10-month-old Manchester terrier named Guardian. Daffodil, our fluffy amber cat, jumped on top of the bridge to get out of the way, and Prune Whip, our black-and-white cat, skittered across the floor and into the living room.
The kids turned on lights all over downstairs, and John called, “Can I turn on the Christmas-tree lights?”
I turned again to Evie, who simply stood in the middle of the big kitchen-dining room, not moving. “Evie, welcome. I’m sorry it’s such chaos—let me take your coat.” At first she resisted and then let me slip the worn material off her shoulders. Under the coat she wore a sweater and a plaid skirt; the skirt did not button, but was fastened with a pin, and for an obvious reason: Evie was not about to produce another Christmas baby, but she was very definitely pregnant.
Her eyes followed mine. Rather defiantly, she said, “That’s why I’m here.”
I thought of Evie’s indifferent parents, and I thought about Christmas Eve. I put my arm around her for a gentle hug. “Tell me about it.”
“Do I have to?”
“I think it might help, Evie.”
Suzy, 8 years old and still young enough to pull at my skirt and be whiny when she was tired, now did just that to get my full attention. “Let’s put out the cookies and cocoa for Santa Claus now.”
Suddenly there was an anguished shout from the living room. “Come quick!” John yelled, and I went running.
Guardian was sitting under the tree, a long piece of green ribbon hanging from his mouth. Ar
ound him was a pile of Christmas wrappings, all nicely chewed. While we were in church, our visiting dog had unwrapped almost every single package under the tree.
Vicky said, “But we won’t know who anything came from …”
Suzy burst into tears. “That dog has ruined it all!”
Evie followed us in. She was carrying Rob, who was sleeping with his head down on her shoulder. Father looked at her with his special warm glance that took in and assessed any situation. “Sit down, Evie,” he ordered.
I took Rob from her, and when she had more or less collapsed in Wally’s special chair in front of the big fireplace, he asked, “When did you eat last?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday, I think.”
I dumped my sleeping child on the sofa and then headed for the kitchen, calling, “Vicky, Suzy, come help me make sandwiches. I’ll warm up some soup. John, make up the couch in Daddy’s office for Evie, please.”
Our house is a typical square New England farmhouse. Upstairs are four bedrooms. Downstairs we have a big, rambling kitchen-dining room, all unexpected angles and nooks; a large, L-shaped living room and my husband’s office, which he uses two nights a week for his patients in the nearby village. As I took a big jar of vegetable soup from the refrigerator and poured a good helping into a saucepan, I could hear my father’s and Evie’s voices, low, quiet, and I wondered if Evie was pouring out her story to him. I remembered hearing that her father seldom came home without stopping first at the tavern and that her mother had the reputation of being no better than she should be. And yet I knew that their response to Evie’s pregnancy would be one of righteous moral indignation. To my daughters I said, “There’s some egg salad in the fridge. Make a big sandwich for Evie.”