Christmas in My Heart

by Joe Wheeler

  “I’ve always wanted a daughter,” Nancy had said through her tears.

  The door opened softly at this moment and David saw Susan standing there. She had come downstairs alone. It was the first act of her own volition. Until now she had stayed where she was put, followed where she was led. Here she stood, transfixed at the sight of the glittering tree. Nancy had bought her a red velvet dress with a wide white collar and had put it on her this morning. Above it her great eyes shone luminous and lit from within, and her straight blonde hair hung to her shoulders. She came nearer to the tree, softly on tiptoe, and then gazed at it, her finger on her lip.

  “Jolie,” she whispered. “Très, très jolie!”

  He watched her in fascination, surely the loveliest child ever born. He felt a foolish dart of jealousy that Richard was the father.

  “Pretty,” he said gently, “very, very pretty.”

  She turned her grave eyes to his face. “Pret-ty,” she echoed. She had not allowed him to take her hand or lift her to his knee, clinging always to Nancy, but now when he held her little left hand she did not withdraw it. They were standing thus, side by side, when Nancy came flying down the stairs.

  “Susan!” she called. “Oh, Susan!”

  “She is here with me,” he said.

  Nancy came in breathless. “She came downstairs alone, David! I was helping Ricky. They’re in such a hurry they can’t get their shoes tied. So she simply came down alone!”

  “I know,” he said. “She stood there in the doorway. Then she came in. Look—she lets me hold her hand.”

  “Oh, the darling!” Nancy cried softly, and sat down in a chair opposite the tree. “It’s more beautiful than ever, because it’s a special Christmas.”

  At this, Susan withdrew her hand gently and tiptoed to Nancy’s side. Then, pointing her forefinger at the tree, she whispered.

  “Jolie—pretty?”

  “Yes, dear.” She lifted the little girl to her lap. “Oh, David, what if they see and want her?”

  He shook his head, unbelieving, and then they heard the two boys thundering down the stairs to join them.

  They all joined hands then and stood around the tree. David led them in singing “Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,” and he saw Susan softly moving her lips but uttering not a sound. She’s doing her best, he thought, her very best to be one of us, bless her.

  After that the day burst into its usual happy turmoil, the boys shouting and exulting, asking questions, demanding help.

  “Dad, how does this work?”

  “Mom, show me how to do this puzzle, please.”

  And throughout, Susan sat on a small needlepoint stool, her gifts piled about her, opening them gravely one by one, examining each, and putting each in its place in a neat pile on the floor beside her. Ah, but the doll, of course! She had thought it part of the tree, it seemed, for last night they had set it on a branch near the top, securing it with a pink ribbon. Now Nancy cut the ribbon and lifted the doll down, a girl doll, small enough to hold comfortably. She put it in Susan’s arms and the child received the gift as a treasure not to be believed.

  “C’est pour moi?” she asked under her breath.

  “Yes, darling, for you,” Nancy said.

  Looking at Susan’s face, David smiled. “She has what she really wants,” he said.

  But Susan heard nothing. In the midst of the boys’ shouts and laughter, in the midst of the exchange of gifts between the two adults, she sat absorbed, undressing the doll, examining the rubber-skinned body carefully, then dressing it again.

  David and Nancy finished opening their gifts and were exchanging a kiss when a man’s voice interrupted them.

  “A merry Christmas, I’d say—if you can believe what you see!”

  They looked up. In the doorway stood Richard and Miranda: snowflakes dotted their shoulders and clung in Miranda’s red hair.

  “It’s snowing again,” Miranda said. “We’ll have to start home early. But merry Christmas, meanwhile!”

  David hurried to greet them and in the hall he helped Miranda with her coat while Richard hung his in the closet. David wanted to be in the room with Nancy when they saw Susan. There might be instant recognition! Nancy was standing in the doorway now. Don’t try to hide the child, he thought. It’s no use. We must be ready for whatever happens.

  “Come into the kitchen,” Nancy was saying. “I must put the turkey into the oven. It’s a monster—the biggest we’ve ever had … a sort of celebration for our little Susan. It’s a special Christmas in this house. I was just saying so.…”

  She was shepherding Richard and Miranda toward the kitchen, an arm about each, and making talk as she went. “Come on, David, you have to help. I can’t lift the bird.”

  So they were in the kitchen and there was a moment’s respite—no, only a delay, and that was no use. Richard and Miranda stood smiling, watching, and Nancy looked away. They were a beautiful pair, she thought, Richard so blond and Miranda a red-haired angel.

  They might make good parents for a child! Was David right in not telling them, in not leaving the decision to them? Has any person the right to make a decision for another, even his brother? In her place, were she Miranda, were she Richard, she would say no, let me decide for myself. But she was neither, and Richard was devoted to his career, a dedicated man, a single-minded man, who, if his ambitions were thwarted, would be destroyed. David had pointed that out to her again and again.

  “If it were I,” David had said, “I’d want to know. But then I’m not a single-minded man. Nor do I want a career in politics. There’s nothing I couldn’t leave, except my family. I’m a lawyer, yes, but a small-town lawyer. I can do a dozen other things—real estate, for example. Sure, I love my home, and it would hurt me to leave—but then I wouldn’t leave. I’d just say to the neighbors, yes, I was a kid in Vietnam once upon a time. Nancy’s my wife and she wants the child!”

  David had taken Nancy’s hand. “But Miranda wouldn’t want the child, Nancy—you know that. She’d care about what people said. She and Richard would both be broken up. I know my own brother, as fine a fellow as ever lived, but—well. I know him. He’s on his way up, and I can’t take the responsibility of blocking that upward way. People are sticky about a man’s past, if he’s dreaming of a Washington career. I know there’s no limit to Richard’s dreams, and I know he’s the caliber the nation needs.”

  Nancy had listened to this, had allowed herself to be convinced. Now she was unconvinced again. Oh, let the day take its course! If the child were recognized, then let it be so. If not—oh pray God, it’s not!

  “Come and see the children,” she said brightly when the turkey was in. She led the way bravely, and David stepped ahead to her side.

  “Susan is engrossed with her doll,” he said. “Don’t mind if she makes no response just now. She’s a single-minded little soul.”

  Susan did not look up when the two couples came in. She was undressing her doll again, folding each small garment carefully as she took it off. The boys jumped to their feet.

  “Uncle Richard—”

  “Aunt Miranda—”

  Miranda fended off Ricky, laughing. “Careful, Ricky, I’ve put on my best dress for you—”

  Richard said, “Hi there, Jimmy,” and sidestepped the violent embrace.

  “Susan,” Nancy called. “Come here, dear. This is Aunt Miranda.”

  Nancy went to the little girl, put the now naked doll into her arms, and led her forward.

  “Aunt Miranda,” she repeated distinctly. “And Uncle Richard.”

  Nancy glanced at David as she spoke and caught his solemn gaze. Now was the moment.

  “What a pretty child,” Miranda said. “How do you do, Susan?” She leaned and touched her lips to Susan’s cheek.

  Ricky interrupted. “Did you bring us presents, Aunt Miranda?”

  “Oh, Ricky,” Nancy said. “For shame!”

  “For shame,” Jimmy echoed. “But you always do, don’t you, Uncle Richard?
”

  “Of course,” the uncle said. “Only this time it’s a present so big I have to have help. It’s for both of you.”

  “I’ll help!” Jimmy shouted.

  “Me too,” Ricky cried.

  “Richard,” Miranda said. “You haven’t spoken to Susan!”

  He had turned to the door but now he looked over his shoulder, the boys clinging to his legs.

  “Hi there, Susan,” he said. “All right, fellows, come on and help.”

  He went out to the car, David and the boys following, and Miranda sat down and smoothed her short skirt.

  “We spent the night in Boston,” she told Nancy. “Richard wanted to push through in one day, but I can’t take such a long day, especially with the next day Christmas, which is always a little tiring with children, I find. You really must come to us next year, Nancy. You’d enjoy Washington.”

  “The children are used to being here at Christmas,” Nancy said gently. “But it’s sweet of you to think of us. And we’ll understand if it becomes too difficult for you to get away.”

  She was watching Miranda’s stone-gray eyes. No, Miranda never glanced at Susan. The little girl had gone back to her chair and was dressing the doll again. Her bright hair fell straightly on each side of her face, hiding it in shadow. But Miranda was looking out of the window. The snow was falling fast.

  Miranda stirred in her chair. “We must start back early,” she said. “Else we’ll never make Boston tonight. We reserved the hotel room.”

  “Vermont keeps her roads open very well,” Nancy said. Strange how quickly she and Miranda fell out of something to talk about! She was glad when the boys came back again, followed by the two men, carrying a huge box.

  “Look!” Ricky shouted. “A train!”

  “An electric train,” Jimmy corrected.

  “Wonderful!” Nancy breathed. “It’ll take the rest of the day to put it up.”

  “Where?” David asked, after a quick look at Nancy. Nothing had happened, he realized. So far so good!

  “How about the playroom downstairs?” Nancy suggested.

  “Oh, no,” Ricky protested. “We want it here by the tree.”

  “Just for today,” David said. “We’ll move it tomorrow.”

  “Not too difficult after we have the thing assembled,” Richard said.

  Richard never looked at Susan, now buttoning the doll’s dress. She has nimble fingers, Nancy thought; Susan did everything with a careful perfection. Oh, really, she could not spare this child!

  The snow fell softly through the long morning until noon, and then stopped. The sun slanted its way through the clouds and dispelled them. The scent of roasting turkey drifted through the house as the two women set the table with Nancy’s best silver and china, and decorated it with sprigs of holly.

  “Party favors, as usual, for the children,” Nancy said, “but when the crackers pop I hope Susan won’t be frightened.”

  “She hasn’t left off playing with that doll all morning,” Miranda said. “I wish I’d had time to get the child a present, Nancy, but we didn’t get your letter saying she was here until Christmas Eve and you know what it’s like to shop then.”

  “She doesn’t miss it,” Nancy said.

  “A queer-looking little thing, with that Asian face and that light hair.”

  “We think she’s beautiful,” Nancy said.

  “She doesn’t talk much, does she?”

  “Of course, she does—perfect French and already beginning in English.”

  “Was she homesick?”

  “No. She was told she was coming home—to us.”

  “What about her mother?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Are there a lot of these children?”

  “Many, we’re told.”

  “So that’s what our men are so busy about abroad!”

  “Not all of them, I’m sure.… Does Richard like his salad with the turkey?”

  “He doesn’t like salad, period. Remember?”

  “Ah, I’d forgotten.… Now everything is ready, I think. I love Christmas dinner.”

  “I’m sorry that you can’t have it at night—”

  “Oh, midafternoon is the only time if there’re children. They get too tired playing all day and then if they have a big dinner.…”

  Idle talk, she thought, but somehow there was never much else to talk about with Miranda. But perhaps she was to blame, for Miranda had been a writer for a woman’s page before she was married, and she, Nancy, had never been anything but David’s wife. Did she feel a slight inferiority to this smart woman from Washington? No, she did not!

  “Dinner!” she called into the living room. “The turkey can’t wait.”

  They all came out then to the dining room, the boys reluctant to leave their toys.

  “We have the track assembled and the engine working,” David reported. He lifted Susan into her chair. “And this afternoon we’ll get the train moving. You must have spent a pretty penny, Richard.”

  “It was fun,” Richard said briefly.

  “A beautiful set,” David said.

  He glanced at Nancy and shook his head slightly. Nothing, he conveyed to her inquiring eyes—nothing at all. He didn’t look at the child.

  “Everyone sit down,” David said. “And no one may talk while I carve the bird. It takes concentration and skill! And loving care.”

  “What’s loving care, Daddy?” Ricky inquired.

  “It means to go slow and take it as it comes,” David said. He sharpened the carving knife meticulously and then all eyes were on him as the first slice was carved, brown-skinned on top and white inside.

  All eyes, that is, except Miranda’s. She was gazing at Susan, who sat at Nancy’s side.

  “I declare,” Miranda said suddenly. “That child looks enough like the boys to be their sister—the same blond hair, the same color eyes!”

  Richard looked at Susan. “You’re right,” he said. He laughed. “And don’t look at me, please, Miranda! There were thousands of American boys over there and a lot of them had light hair and eyes.”

  Miranda laughed. “Thank God for that!”

  “Thank God, anyway,” David said, gravely. Again his eyes met Nancy’s at the end of the table. Steady, he was saying to her, steady now.

  “Here’s your plate, Miranda,” he said. “You’re the first to be served.”

  Miranda took her plate, forgetting the child, and neither she nor Richard saw what Susan did, nor heard what she said. Under Miranda’s half-idle stare Susan had put out her hand to Nancy.

  “Merci, Mama,” she whispered.

  “I’m here, Susan,” Nancy said. Putting out her own hand she clasped the small searching one. “Mama’s here.”

  The Bells of

  Christmas Eve

  JOE WHEELER

  Two women sat at the feet of Christ: Mary and Martha. There is something in most of us that identifies with the beautiful Mary—so effusive, appreciative, responsive, and filled with the joy of life!

  But there was the second sister, not nearly so flamboyant, whose love manifested itself not in mere rhetoric but in service. It is the Marthas among us who carry on their shoulders the burdens of the world. It is the Marthas who nurture and sustain the eagles who fly so perilously close to the sun.

  But Marthas have their dreams, too.

  “When will the bells ring?”

  “Midnight, Miss Louisa … midnight.”

  “Thank you, Jacques. I’ll … I’ll be waiting. Don’t forget the carriage.”

  “I won’t, Miss Louisa.”

  She turned and walked to the hotel window, leaned against the sill, and waited. Waited, as was her custom, for the dying of the day. She sighed with a faint feeling of loss, for the sudden disappearance of the silver path to the sun that had so recently spanned the deep blue Mediterranean sea and sky.

  Losing all track of time, her soul’s lens recorded on archival film every detail as the master scene painter of the
universe splashed all the colors and hues on His palette across the gilding sky. At the peak of intensity, she felt like a child again, watching that last heart-stopping explosion of fireworks that transforms mundane evening darkness into a twilight of the gods.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was over—and the curtain of night was drawn down to the darkening sea.

  It was only then that the icy blade of loneliness slashed across her heart … and time ceased to be.

  How much time passed before awareness returned, she never knew, for the breakers of awareness came in soft and slow, seemingly in unison with those breaking on the French Riviera shore outside the window.

  Fully awakened at last, she slipped into her heavy coat, stepped outside, and walked across lawn and sand to her favorite rocky shelf. After snuggling down into a natural hollow out of the path of the winter wind, she spread her coat over her legs and wrapped a small blanket around her shoulders.

  The tide was ebbing now, and with its departure she again realized how terribly lonely were the shores of her inner world … If only he were here to hold her, to commune with her, to fill that void in her life that only he could fill, achieve that sense of completeness that only he could induce.

  Scenes from the past summer flashed on the screens of her mind: his arrival in a huge carriage at the Pension Victoria; her almost instant recognition of his weakened health; his stories detailing his involvement in the ill-fated Polish revolt against Russian tyranny, his capture and incarceration in a damp airless dungeon, and his eventual release.

  Fresh from her service as a nurse in Washington during the recent American Civil War, she noted the same battle symptoms that marked tens of thousands of her own countrymen: the tell-tale signs of a weakened constitution, and the lingering evidence of recent illness and almost unendurable stress and pain. Instinctively, she steered the newcomer over to a table near the largest porcelain stove. That simple act of kindness supplied the spark that short-circuited the stuffy formalities of the day: one moment they were complete strangers; a moment later they were friends.