by Joe Wheeler
I lifted the curtains and looked out the window. The roads would soon be impassable. I wanted my husband to be with us, in the warmth and comfort of our home.
I went back to the stove and poured a bowl of soup for Evie. Vicky and Suzy had produced a messy but edible sandwich and then gone off. I called Evie, and she sat at the table and began to eat hungrily. I sat beside her. “How did it happen? Do I know him?”
She shook her head. “No. His name’s Billy. After we left here, I didn’t feel—I didn’t feel that anybody in the world loved me. I think that Mom and Pop are always happiest when I’m out of the house. When I was baby-sitting for you, I thought I saw what love was like. Mrs. Austin, I was lonely, I was so lonely it hurt. Then I met Billy, and I thought he loved me. So when he wanted to—I—but then I found out that it didn’t have anything to do with love, at least not for Billy. When I got pregnant, he said, well, how did I even know it was his? Mrs. Austin, I never, never was with anyone else. When he said that, I know it was his way of telling me to get out, just like Mom and Pop.”
The girls had wandered back into the kitchen while we were talking, and Suzy jogged at my elbow. “Why does Evie’s tummy look so big?”
The phone rang. I called, “John, get it please.”
In a moment he came into the kitchen, looking slightly baffled. “It was someone from the hospital saying Dad’s on his way home, and would we please make up the bed in the waiting room.”
Evie looked up from her soup. “Mrs. Austin—” she turned her frightened face toward me, fearful, no doubt, that we were going to put her out.
“It’s all right, Evie.” I was thinking quickly. “John, would you mind sleeping in the guest room with Grandfather?”
“If Grandfather doesn’t mind.”
My father called from the living room, “Grandfather would enjoy John’s company.”
“All right then, Evie.” I poured more soup into her bowl. “You can sleep in John’s bed. Rob will love sharing his room with you.”
“But who is Daddy bringing home?” John asked.
“What’s wrong with Evie’s tummy?” Suzy persisted.
“And why didn’t Daddy tell us?” Vicky asked.
“Tell us what?” Suzy demanded.
“Who he’s bringing home with him!” John said.
Evie continued to spoon the soup into her mouth, at the same time struggling not to cry. I put one hand on her shoulder, and she reached up for it, asking softly, as the girls and John went into the living room, “Mrs. Austin, I knew you wouldn’t turn me away on Christmas Eve, but what about … well, may I stay with you for a little while? I have some thinking to do.”
“Of course you can, and you do have a lot of thinking to do—the future of your baby, for instance.”
“I know. Now that it’s getting so close, I’m beginning to get really scared. At first I thought I wanted the baby, I thought it would make Billy and me closer, make us a family like you and Dr. Austin and your kids, but now I know that was just wishful thinking. Sometimes I wish I could go back, be your baby-sitter again … Mrs. Austin, I just don’t know what I’m going to do with a baby of my own.”
I pressed her hand. “Evie, I know how you feel, but things have a way of working out. Try to stop worrying, at least tonight—it’s Christmas Eve.”
“And I’m home,” Evie said. “I feel more at home in this house than anywhere else.”
I thought of my own children and hoped that they would never have cause to say that about someone else’s house. To Evie I said, “Relax then, and enjoy Christmas. The decisions don’t have to be made tonight.”
My father ambled into the kitchen, followed by the three dogs. “I think the dogs are telling me they need to go out,” he said. “I’ll just walk around the house with them and see what the night is doing.” He opened the kitchen door and let the dogs precede him.
I opened the curtains, not only to watch the progress of my father and the dogs, but to give myself a chance to think about Evie and how we could help her. More was needed, I knew, than just a few days’ shelter. She had no money, no home, and a baby was on the way.… No wonder she looked scared—and trapped. I watched the falling snow and longed to hear the sound of my husband’s can Like Vicky, I wondered who on earth he was bringing home with him. Then I saw headlights coming up the road and heard a car slowing down, but the sound was not the slightly bronchial purr of Wally’s car. Before I had a chance to wonder who it could be, the phone rang. “I’ll get it!” Suzy yelled, and ran, beating Vicky. “Mother, it’s Mrs. Underhill.”
I went to the phone. Eugenia’s voice came happily over the line. “Wasn’t the Christmas Eve service beautiful! And did you see my teeth?” She laughed.
“You sang superbly, anyhow.”
“Listen, why I called—and you have two ovens, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Something’s happened to mine. The burners work, but the oven is dead, and there’s no way I can get anyone to fix it now. So what I wondered is, can I cook my turkey in one of your ovens?”
“Sure,” I said, though I’d expected to use the second oven for the creamed-onion casserole and sweet potatoes—but how could I say no to Eugenia?
“Can I come over with my turkey now?” she asked. “I like to put it in a slow oven Christmas Eve, the way you taught me. Then I won’t have to bother you again tomorrow.”
“Sure, Eugenia, come on over, but drive carefully.”
“I will. Thanks,” she said.
John murmured, “Just a typical Christmas Eve at the Austins,” as the kitchen door opened, and my father and the dogs came bursting in, followed by a uniformed state trooper.
When Evie saw him, she looked scared.
My father introduced the trooper, who turned to me. “Mrs. Austin, I’ve been talking with your father here, and I think we’ve more or less sorted things out.” Then he looked at Evie. “Young lady, we’ve been looking for you. We want to talk to you about your friends.”
The color drained from her face.
“Don’t be afraid,” the trooper reassured her. “We just want to know where we can find you. I understand that you’ll be staying with the Austins for a while—for the next few weeks, at least.” He looked at my father, who nodded, and I wondered what the two had said to each other. Was Evie in more trouble than I thought?
She murmured something inaudible, keeping her eyes fastened to her soup.
“Well, now, it’s Christmas Eve,” the trooper said, “and I’d like to be getting on home. It’s bedtime for us all.”
“We’re waiting for Daddy,” Suzy said. “He’s on his way home.”
“And he’s bringing someone with him,” Vicky added.
“Looks like you’ve got a full house,” the trooper said. “Well, ’night, folks.”
My father showed him out, then shut the door behind him.
“What was that—” John started to ask.
I quickly said, “What I want all of you to do is to go upstairs, right now, and get ready for bed. That’s an order.”
“But what about Daddy—”
“And whoever he’s bringing—”
“And reading ‘The Night Before Christmas’ and Saint Luke—”
“And you haven’t sung to us—”
I spoke through the clamor. “Upstairs. Now. You can come back down as soon as you’re all ready for bed.”
Evie rose. “Shall I get Rob?” I had the feeling she wanted to get away, escape my questions.
“We might as well leave him. Vicky, get Evie some nightclothes from my closet, please.”
When they had all finally trooped upstairs, including Evie, I turned to my father who was perched on a stool by the kitchen counter. “All right, Dad, tell me about it,” I said. “What did the officer tell you?”
“That soup smells mighty good,” he said. I filled a bowl for him and waited.
Finally he said, “Evie was going with a bunch of kids who weren’t much good.
A couple of them were on drugs—not Evie, fortunately, or her boyfriend. And they stole some cars, just for kicks, and then abandoned them. The police are pretty sure that Evie wasn’t involved, but they want to talk to her and her friends, and they’ve been trying to round them up. They went to her parents’ house looking for her. Her mother and father made it seem as if she’d run away—they didn’t mention that they’d put her out. All they did was denounce her, but they did suggest she might have come here.”
“Poor Evie. There’s so much good in her, and sometimes I wonder how, with her background. What did you tell the trooper?”
“I told him Evie was going to stay with you and Wally for the time being, that you would take responsibility for her. They still want to talk to her, but I convinced him to wait until after Christmas. I guess the trooper figured that, as long as she’s with you, she would be looked after and out of harm’s way.”
“Thank goodness. All she needs is to be hauled into a station house on Christmas Eve—” Just then the heavy knocker on the kitchen door banged.
It was Eugenia, with a large turkey in a roasting pan in her arms. “I’ll just pop it in the oven,” she said. “If you think about basting it when you baste yours, OK, but it’ll do all right by itself. Hey, you don’t have yours in yet!”
What with one thing and another, I’d forgotten our turkey, but it was prepared and ready in the cold pantry. I whipped out and brought it in and put it in the other oven.
As Eugenia drove off, the dogs started with their welcoming bark, and I heard the sound of Wally’s engine.
The children heard, too, and came rushing downstairs. “Wait!” I ordered. “Don’t mob Daddy. And remember he has someone with him.”
Evie came slowly downstairs, wrapped in an old blue plaid robe of mine. John opened the kitchen door, and the dogs went galloping out.
“Whoa! Down!” I could hear my husband command. And then, to the children, “Make way!” The children scattered, and Wally came in, his arm around a young woman whom I had never seen before. She was holding a baby in her arms.
“This is Maria Heraldo,” Wally said. “Maria, my wife, Victoria. And—” He looked at the infant.
“Pepita,” she said, “after her father.”
Wally took the baby. “Take off your coat” he said to the mother. “Maria’s husband was killed in an accident at work two weeks ago. Her family are all in South America, and she was due to be released from the hospital today. Christmas Eve didn’t seem to me to be a very good time for her to be alone.”
I looked at the baby, who had an amazing head of dark hair. “She isn’t the baby—”
“That I delivered tonight? No, though that little boy was slow in coming—that’s why we’re so late.” He smiled down at the young woman. “Pepita was born a week ago.” He looked up and saw our children hovering in the doorway, Evie and my father behind them. When he saw Evie, he raised his eyebrows in a questioning gesture.
“Evie’s going to be staying with us for a while,” I told him. Explanations would come later. “Maria, would you like some soup?”
“I would,” my husband said, “and Maria will have some, too.” He glanced at the children. “Vicky and Suzy, will you go up to the attic, please, and bring down the cradle?”
They were off like a flash.
My husband questioned the young mother. “Tired?”
“No. I slept while the little boy was being delivered. So did Pepita.” And she looked with radiant pride at her daughter who was sleeping again.
“Then let’s all go into the living room and warm ourselves in front of the fire. We have some Christmas traditions you might like to share with us.”
The young woman gazed up at him, at me, “I’m so grateful to you—”
“Nonsense. Come along.”
Then Maria saw Evie, and I watched her eyes flick to Evie’s belly, then upward, and the two young women exchanged a long look. Evie’s glance shifted to the sleeping child, and then she held out her arms. Maria gently handed her the baby, and Evie took the child and cradled it in her arms. For the first time that evening a look of peace seemed to settle over her features.
It is not easy for a woman to raise a child alone, and Maria would probably go back to her family. In any case, her child had obviously been conceived in love, and even death could not take that away. Evie’s eyes were full of tears as she carried Pepita into the living room, but she no longer looked so lost and afraid, and I had the feeling that whatever happened, Evie would be able to handle it. She would have our help—Wally’s and mine—for as long as she needed it, but something told me that she wouldn’t need it for long.
In a short while, Maria was ensconced in one of the big chairs, a bowl of soup on the table beside her. Evie put the baby in the cradle, and knelt, rocking it gently. Wally sat on the small sofa with Rob in his lap, a mug of soup in one hand. The two girls were curled up on the big davenport, one on either side of their grandfather, who had his arms around them. I sat across from Maria, and Evie came and sat on the footstool by me. John was on the floor in front of the fire. The only light was from the Christmas tree and the flickering flames of the fire. On the mantel were a cup of cocoa and a plate of cookies.
“Now,” my husband said, “ ‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house …’ ”
When he had finished, with much applause from the children and Evie and Maria, he looked to me. “Your turn.”
John jumped up and handed me my guitar. I played and sang, “I Wonder as I Wander,” and then “In the Bleak Mid-winter,” and ended up with “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.” As I put the guitar away, I saw Maria reach out for Evie, and the two of them briefly clasped hands.
“And now,” Wally said, “your turn, please, Grandfather.”
My father opened his Bible and began to read. When he came to “And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn,” I looked at Maria, who was rocking the cradle with her foot while her baby murmured in her sleep. Evie, barely turning, keeping her eyes fastened on the sleeping infant, leaned her head against my knee, rubbing her cheek against the wool of my skirt.
Suzy was sleeping with her head down in her grandfather’s lap, while he continued to read: “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”
I remembered John saying, “Just a typical Christmas Eve at the Austins,” and I wondered if there ever could be such a thing as a typical Christmas. For me, each one is unique. This year our house was blessed by Evie and her unborn child, by Eugenia’s feeling free to come and put her turkey in our stove, and by Maria and Pepita turning our plain New England farmhouse into a stable.
My Christmas Miracle
TAYLOR CALDWELL
So famous and renowned is Taylor Caldwell to us today that it is difficult for us to conceptualize her as a wan, depressed, and frightened young mother; alone, nearly destitute, jobless, and having to face the bleakest Christmas of her life. She had almost lost faith in God Himself.
And then …
For many of us, one Christmas stands out from all the others, the one when the meaning of the day shone clearest.
Although I did not guess it, my own “truest” Christmas began on a rainy spring day in the bleakest year of my life. Recently divorced, I was in my 20s, had no job, and was on my way downtown to go the rounds of the employment offices. I had no umbrella, for my old one had fallen apart, and I could not afford another one. I sat down in the streetcar, and there against the seat was a beautiful silk umbrella with a silver handle inlaid with gold and flecks of bright enamel. I had never seen anything so lovely.
I examined the handle and saw a name engraved among the golden scrolls. The usual procedure would have been to turn in the umbrella to the conductor, but on impulse, I decided to take it with m
e and find the owner myself. I got off the streetcar in a downpour and thankfully opened the umbrella to protect myself. Then I searched a telephone book for the name on the umbrella and found it. I called, and a lady answered.
Yes, she said in surprise, that was her umbrella, which her parents, now dead, had given her for a birthday present. But, she added, it had been stolen from her locker at school (she was a teacher) more than a year before. She was so excited that I forgot I was looking for a job and went directly to her small house. She took the umbrella, and her eyes filled with tears.
The teacher wanted to give me a reward, but—though $20 was all I had in the world—her happiness at retrieving this special possession was such that to have accepted money would have spoiled something. We talked for a while, and I must have given her my address. I don’t remember.
The next six months were wretched. I was able to obtain only temporary employment here and there, for a small salary, though this was what they now call the Roaring Twenties. But I put aside 25 or 50 cents when I could afford it for my little girl’s Christmas presents. (It took me six months to save $8.) My last job ended the day before Christmas, my $30 rent was soon due, and I had $15 to my name—which Peggy and I would need for food. She was home from her convent boarding school and was excitedly looking forward to her gifts the next day, which I had already purchased. I had bought her a small tree, and we were going to decorate it that night.
The stormy air was full of the sound of Christmas merriment as I walked from the streetcar to my small apartment. Bells rang and children shouted in the bitter dusk of the evening, and windows were lighted and everyone was running and laughing. But there would be no Christmas for me, I knew, no gifts, no remembrance whatsoever. As I struggled through the snowdrifts, I just about reached the lowest point in my life. Unless a miracle happened I would be homeless in January, foodless, jobless. I had prayed steadily for weeks, and there had been no answer but this coldness and darkness, this harsh air, this abandonment. God and men had completely forgotten me. I felt old as death, and as lonely. What was to become of us?