Angels in the Snow

by Rexanne Becnel

  She reached over and placed her hand upon his. “I know all this seems terrible. It’s not part of the future you’ve always envisioned for us. But you will survive this, Charles. You’ll see. We’ll both be better people for it. Better parents, too.”

  His hand turned over beneath hers and his fingers slipped between hers. Palm to palm, they held hands.

  “I’ll never survive,” he whispered. Tears glistened in his eyes. “I’ll never survive. I wouldn’t want to.”

  He gathered her into an awkward embrace, and for a long trembling moment they clung together.

  And there was comfort in his arms. The comfort of familiarity. The comfort of knowing you were loved. And there was the familiar response deep inside her, the part that had always loved his touch. His kiss.

  He was kissing her now—her hair, her ear, her cheek—and a small voice in her head told her to pull away. But she couldn’t. Charles needed her. And she needed him, too. At least right now, she did. As for tomorrow . . .

  She turned her face up to his, aware that her cheeks were wet with both his tears and her own.

  “Judith, Judith. You can’t leave me . . .” His embrace became desperate, and as they met in a shattering kiss, she feared he was right.

  They lay together a long while later, side by side in the big bed, warm from each other and the heavy down comforter. Charles’s arm supported her neck, and her right cheek lay near his heart. It was a position they’d lain in more times than she could ever count. And in the drowsy aftermath of their loving, Judith could almost believe everything was fine.

  Charles, however, had not lost sight of reality. He didn’t assume their lovemaking had solved their differences, as he normally had. She heard him sigh, and his arm tightened slightly around her shoulder.

  “Jude, tell me. If you could have one thing for Christmas—one wish—what would it be?”

  Judith stared into the dim shadows where the fading firelight didn’t reach. “That’s difficult to say.” She smiled sadly against his shoulder. “There’s not a lot I don’t have.”

  “I’m not talking about jewelry or cars. You know that. I’m talking about the things you want. The things that I don’t know about.”

  Judith lay there without speaking, searching her mind. When the words came, she was as startled by them as he was.

  “I want our old house. The first one—remember? Where we turned the garage into an office.”

  “On Cleveland Avenue? But it was tiny. And I think it’s been turned into a beauty parlor.”

  Judith shook her head. She didn’t want to own it again; she knew that would be pointless. But she wanted to feel like she had when they had lived there so long ago. “We were happy there.”

  “We outgrew it long before we moved out. And you hated that kitchen. It was so narrow, with no storage space and turquoise countertops.”

  “It wasn’t a beautiful little house,” Judith agreed. “But it’s come to symbolize—” She broke off as emotions flooded her heart. “We were happy there,” she repeated softly.

  Charles turned to her, clutching her close. “I’d move back there if I thought it would really make you happy,” he choked out.

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms. Or at least Charles did. Judith lay awake for a long time, listening to the faint crackling from the fire and the silence of the house. Even the wind had stopped. The house might have been floating somewhere in space, cushioned in the clouds.

  It was Christmas Eve, she thought fancifully. A time of rebirth and salvation. Of angels bending near the earth.

  Then her eyes flew open. There were still gifts to place under the tree!

  As carefully as she could, she crept out of the bed. The cold in the room was like a slap in the face, and she scrambled into her robe and slippers. Then she gathered up the gifts she’d sorted and made her way downstairs.

  She ducked under the curtain at the base of the stairwell, concentrating on the packages stacked precariously in her arms. When she saw Marilyn sitting near the hearth, they shared a smile. Then Judith made her way to the Christmas tree and laid the gaily wrapped presents around its base.

  “What are you doing still up?” she whispered, crossing to sit on the hearth next to Marilyn.

  The woman smiled. “I guess you could say I’m counting my blessings.”

  Judith looked over the sleeping group. Jennifer and Lucy were curled up on one couch. Joe was sprawled under several blankets on the other. Josie’s curly head was visible there, too. The two boys were bedded down in the corner.

  “They certainly are blessings,” she agreed with a smile.

  “You’re pretty blessed yourself,” Marilyn said softly.

  Judith sighed. “I am.” She stared at her hands, twisting her wedding band around and around. “I have so much. More than most women ever even hope to get. I suppose I should be more content.”

  “Do you really believe we’re meant to be perfectly content?” Marilyn murmured. “If you stop and think about all the people we most admire, I doubt you’d find a contented one in the lot. That’s what makes them so admirable. They struggled for change, or for knowledge, or acceptance. If any of the people in the history books had been content with their lot, where would mankind be?”

  “But I don’t want to be a leader.”

  “You want to change the status quo—your status quo.”

  Judith considered her words. “Yes, but only a little. Just so that I can finally be content.”

  Marilyn gave her an understanding smile. “Well, that’s commendable. But I’m not so sure you have to throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

  A part of Judith resented the personal nature of Marilyn’s comment. But then Jennifer turned over in her sleep, and as Judith stared at her daughter, she wondered if maybe Marilyn was right. “I suppose that’s how it appears.”

  “Tell me what would make you happy. With Charles,” Marilyn added.

  Judith shrugged. “That’s what’s so hard about this. I don’t know.”

  “Okay, let’s start with the basics. Do you like where you live?”

  “We have a beautiful house.”

  “But do you like living in it?”

  With a faint groan, Judith swept the hair back from her face. “It’s . . . well, it’s a boring place. Big pretentious houses on big manicured lots in an exclusive neighborhood.”

  Marilyn chuckled. “You’ve obviously had too much white bread. What you need is some dark pumpernickel. Some German rye. Or maybe cracked wheat or oatmeal raisin.”

  Judith laughed. “Oatmeal raisin? What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  “Have you considered moving into the center of town? Living in an old town house with a neighborhood grocery and restaurants? With old people and young people, and rich and poor all living side by side?” Her brows raised questioningly. “That would certainly not be white bread.”

  It was a novel idea, and Judith found it appealing. But as in everything, there was more to consider than just her own wishes. “Charles would never go for it. And the children are in terrific schools. I couldn’t take them out and put them with—”

  She broke off, embarrassed by what she’d almost said. But Marilyn knew.

  “Put them in a school with just anybody? With children less privileged than they are? With kids whose parents might be domestic workers, shopkeepers? Itinerant artists?” She smiled. “I don’t think you’re giving Alex and Jennifer enough credit. And maybe not Charles, either. I’m not saying that living in an urban environment is the best solution for you. It’s just an out-of-the-blue idea. But I do think you’re ignoring a lot of solutions just because they’re unconventional. Yet it sounds to me like it’s convention you’re really rebelling against.”

  Judith stared at Marilyn for a long moment. There was enormous insight in what she said. Enormous sense. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Have you ever fallen into that rut—of being conventional?”

  After a long pau
se of her own, Marilyn smiled. “I fear I was too unconventional. I took delight in breaking all the rules, doing nothing that was expected of me.”

  “Really? I know you said you were a gypsy at heart. But you seem so, well, so reliable. So strong and . . . and motherly.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. Before you came downstairs, I was thinking that on Christmas Eve, we should be celebrating motherhood. Giving birth and all the pain and joy that goes along with it. I hope I’m a good mother. I try to be, and my children have turned out in a way that makes me proud. But mothering takes flexibility more than strength. You’ve got to go with the flow, and the more kids you have, the more directions the flow goes. Being a gypsy isn’t inconsistent with being a good parent. Kids are adaptable little creatures.”

  “What about husbands?”

  “Husbands.” Marilyn chuckled. “Now there’s a funny creature. Wonderful. Exasperating. Tell me, does Charles love you?”

  Judith was momentarily taken aback by the directness of Marilyn’s question. But she knew the answer. Charles had shown her the raw truth of his feelings upstairs.

  “Yes, he loves me,” she admitted, not sure whether that should make her smile or cry.

  “Do you love him?”

  Judith didn’t have to ponder the answer to that question. It came automatically to her lips, but she knew it was more than merely a habitual response. “Yes. I do. But . . . well, that’s what makes things so confusing. I love him, but sometimes I just want to burst free of him. Of my family, too,” she added in a whisper.

  Marilyn didn’t respond to that, but Judith didn’t find the silence oppressive. Marilyn wasn’t the judgmental sort. It struck her with sudden clarity that she would love to have her as a neighbor—as a friend. It would be good to have her children as friends for Alex and Jennifer, too. They had only white-bread friends. Maybe Marilyn had something there.

  Judith took a long slow breath, aware of the scent of the fire and the Christmas tree. She looked over at it, towering in its corner, marked only faintly by the glint of the firelight on the many glass ornaments. Every Christmas tree she’d ever seen had been beautiful in its own right. But this one was even more so. Maybe it was the joy that had gone into decorating it. The children had been so happy and unrestrained, in a way they seldom were.

  It was that joy she wanted in her life once more, she realized. The joy of simply being alive and with the people she loved most. Was it possible for her to make it happen?

  As if she sensed Judith’s question, Marilyn spoke. “A woman’s lot is a difficult one. Our grandmothers had it hard in one respect; they had very few choices open to them. Most of them married and stayed home to raise kids. Our mothers fought for equal access in the workplace, and our generation has been raised to grasp at all the options they earned for us. And if we don’t live up to our potential as people with careers, we’re often seen as failures.”

  Judith nodded in understanding. “In my social circle, the women don’t work for money. They do it for prestige or power. Or they run charitable institutions that manage to provide social contacts important to their husbands’ careers.”

  “I think that whatever gives you a feeling of accomplishment and being needed, is what’s right for you. We all have to make some compromises; none of us get everything we want. But we don’t get anything if we don’t work hard in some way for it.”

  Judith nodded. “The difficult part is knowing what you want.”

  Marilyn smiled. “I think you know already what you want. You’re just not sure how to get it.”

  Judith thought again how much she’d love to have Marilyn as a neighbor, then turned abruptly to face her. “Whether I convince Charles to move to a real neighborhood or not, will you come to visit us?”

  Marilyn smiled, and Judith felt the warm, peaceful reassurance that emanated from her.

  “If you mean, will we stay friends after this Christmas is over, of course we will.” She reached over and took Judith’s hand. “We’ll always be friends.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charles was awakened by the flashing digital clock on the night table. Like a beacon, it imprinted itself on his eyelids until he reluctantly opened them. The electricity must have gone off briefly during the night, he thought blearily. They’d have to reset all the clocks now.

  Then he remembered where he was, and came fully awake. The electricity had come back on. They’d have heat again! The storm was over.

  Even as he lay there, he heard the soft whooshing noise of the central heating unit kicking back on. By morning the house would be warm again.

  He blinked and looked around. It was still dark, and still almost as cold inside as it was outside. Christmas was here, he realized. In the morning they would all get up and open gifts. Then they would fix a great Christmas dinner. It would be perfect. At least, he’d try his damnedest to make it perfect.

  He turned slightly to look at Judith, and the events of the evening came rushing back to him. They had made love with more emotion than he could ever recall. He’d thought she was going to leave him, but then she’d come to him with such urgency that he’d begun to hope again. She did love him, he told himself. She still loved him, and as long as she did, there was a chance for them. She might not believe it yet, but he would prove it to her. When she saw what was in the Tiffany box—

  Charles halted in the process of turning to curl around Judith. When she saw what was in the Tiffany box, she would be disappointed. Sapphires in a platinum setting were not what she wanted from him; he understood that now. But what could he do about it at this point?

  With a silent curse at his stupidity, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’d have to retrieve the gift from beneath the tree. He found his robe and slippers, then eased out of the room.

  In the living room, the children were still asleep. But Joe and Marilyn were not on the sofa-sleeper. Charles followed a narrow beam of light to the kitchen.

  “What are you two doing up?” he asked quietly as he closed the door behind him.

  “Good morning.” Marilyn smiled a greeting at him. She reached for a mug and immediately poured him a cup from the coffeemaker.

  “What time is it?” Charles inquired, taking the warm mug gratefully between his cold hands.

  “About five-thirty,” Joe answered. “The electricity came on around five, and I’ve been hearing what sounds like snowplows down the mountain. They should be clearing the highway pretty soon.”

  Charles took a slow sip of the steaming coffee. “I’m glad I don’t have their job. Especially on Christmas morning.”

  “Yeah. But they know how important their work is. There will be a lot of people grateful to them this Christmas.”

  Charles stared at Joe, trying to determine whether he was trying to make some point with his words. But to his surprise, Charles discovered that he didn’t really care. He was willing to concede that some bluecollar guy, who drove a snowplow for barely a living wage, was just as important in the scheme of things as anyone else. “Yeah, a lot of people will be grateful,” he agreed with a thoughtful nod.

  Marilyn moved toward Joe and he put his arm around her shoulder. “What are you doing up so early?” he asked Charles.

  For a moment Charles wasn’t sure how to answer. But Marilyn smiled at him so encouragingly, and even Joe’s interest no longer seemed antagonizing or condescending. With a sigh Charles perched on one of the chrome stools.

  “I woke up because of the digital clock. Then I got to thinking, and . . .” He trailed off, uneasy about admitting the truth to them. But for once he pushed himself to go on. “I, uh . . . I decided that the gift I bought Judith is, well . . . not appropriate. I mean—well, I don’t think she’ll like it.”

  In the brief uncomfortable silence, Charles had the oddest feeling that for once they both approved of him. Even more odd, he wasn’t infuriated by the thought of them passing such judgment one way or the other on him.

  “Do you have
something else in mind?” Marilyn asked.

  “Not really,” Charles confessed. “Maybe an IOU, promising her a trip somewhere. Just us two. She’d like something like that.”

  Joe nodded. “Yes, she probably would.”

  Marilyn took a long sip of coffee. “My favorite gift that Joe ever gave me was a painting he did of the first house we lived in, way back in college.”

  “It wasn’t much of a painting,” Joe demurred. “And not too accurate, either. I did it from memory.”

  Marilyn smiled. “Yes. We had rented the place although it was barely more than a shack. But then it was slated for demolition to build an apartment complex. We had to move, and I cried for days. So Joe did a painting for me.” She looked up at her husband with such undisguised love that Charles was almost embarrassed to witness it.

  But it was the sort of look he wanted to receive from Judith, so he pressed on. “It’s hard to know what someone else wants. Really wants.”

  “I guess you have to really listen,” Marilyn said. “I knew I couldn’t have our little house back. And Joe knew he couldn’t get it back for me. So he gave me the painting as a good memory of it. And by doing that, he showed me that he understood how I felt. That’s what meant the most to me.”

  Charles swallowed, remembering what Judith had said last night about the old house on Cleveland Avenue. “Why did that place mean so much to you?”

  Marilyn shrugged. “I came from a family that . . . well, let’s just say we weren’t the ideal family unit. That little house was the first place where I really felt surrounded by love—and able to love freely, as well. That’s so important. I guess that house symbolized happiness to me, and when it was demolished, I felt like my happiness was being demolished, too. Of course, I soon learned that wasn’t the case.” She leaned her head against Joe. “Love and happiness don’t require a place. They require people.”

  Then she grinned sheepishly. “How did we get on this subject, anyway? Come on, Joe. We need to get breakfast going and wake up the children.”

  Charles’s head was spinning with too many confusing thoughts to understand what they were up to. All he could think was that he had to show Judith that he understood—that he wanted more than anything in the world to shower her with love and happiness. What could he give her that could make that clear?