He saw them approaching in the terminal and thought of himself as an actor for whom a curtain was going up. “The problem is,” he thought, “that this is a show that should have closed, or at least been re-written, long ago.”
When all the usual airport rituals had been completed, and the drive home had begun, the first act proper began with the usual litanies.
“How have you been, dear? Are you a little thinner since September?”
“That leg giving you much trouble, son?”
“Well, Brian, tell us what you’ve been doing.”
He answered politely, “I’m well. Things are fine. Why don’t we talk about you two? How have you been?”
“Oh, well, you know none of us is getting any younger.”
“What’s this I hear about you having tests, Dad?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. Little tired, you know how your mother worries. Little hypertension. They’re planning some tests for after the holidays if they still think it necessary.”
“What sort of tests?”
“Oh, just the standard stuff. It’s no big deal.”
Brian knew that he would get nowhere pressing either one of his parents for details. His mother was a lot better at ferreting out information than she was at giving it up. As if she read his thoughts and wanted to prove them true, she began her routine.
“We were disappointed that Emily decided not to come.”
“Yes, so was I,” he replied.
“Is everything all right with you two?”
“Louise, that’s none of our business,” the elder Dr. McClellan interjected.
“That’s all right, Dad. Things are fine between us. Christmas just isn’t a good time for Emily; it brings back a lot of unpleasant memories for her.”
“Well, you know I wouldn’t dream of prying, dear. It’s just so sad to think of someone having unpleasant memories at Christmas.”
Brian felt the only fitting response to that particular cast of the fishing pole was to say, “I’m glad you wouldn’t dream of prying, Mom.”
The performance of the McClellan family Christmas was played every year with the same backdrop: the house that hadn’t seemed to change by so much as a shingle since the world was new, the beautiful white snow, the Christmas tree in the window. It was a calendar with carbon paper for every December since he could remember. “Perhaps I’m struck by the sameness of everything because I’ve changed so much myself in the last year,” Brian thought. The one change that the years had brought was that he no longer slept in his boyhood room. There was never any comment made, his mother just directed him upon entering the house to put his things in the guest room across the hall from his parents’ own room. In order to revisit the room where he had taken refuge as a youth, Brian would have had to climb a flight of stairs.
A nice dinner, a nice after-dinner conversation, everything quiet, everyone being nice. Brian had been home for three hours and he was already dying of boredom.
He had promised Emily a call, and couldn’t wait any longer.
“So, you arrived there safely, that’s good. Are you having a nice time?”
Brian smiled. “That would be a good description of it. I miss you already.”
“I can’t imagine why. I haven’t been very good company lately.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“That’s because you’re too polite. I’ve been a colossal drip.”
“How are you feeling about things now?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m praying over it.”
“Put in a good word for me, will you, sweetheart?”
“I always do, Brian. Will you call me everyday while you’re gone, or is that too much nuisance?”
“Are you kidding? I’m delighted you asked, and I’ll be only too happy to comply. I love you, Emily.”
“I love you, too, Brian. Tell your folks I sent my regards.”
It was a short conversation, which Brian knew suited Emily. Like all people who are overly sensitive to what other people think, she disliked the telephone because it was so difficult to tell how your words were being taken. But Brian had become an expert on recognizing subtle tones of voice, small vocal cues as to how she was feeling, and even from that short exchange he knew that she was struggling with something, that she was not happy. He would never have described her as a moody person—that would seem to him unfairly negative—but he did observe that she had good days and difficult days. If asked to characterize the difference, he would have said that on her good days Emily was cheerful, kind, and loquacious, and on her bad days she was less cheerful, more kind, and quiet. He often mistook her quietness for unspoken anger, but was slowly learning that just because he himself got quieter when he was angry, that didn’t necessarily mean that the same was true for her.
Christmas Eve dawned a winter sunglasses day, a blue sky, brilliant sunshine, and a crust of snow over the landscape that was just asking to be crunched across. Over breakfast, Dr. McClellan announced his intention to spend the morning clearing snow off the drive and walk. The pinched look that flitted across his mother’s face prompted Brian to wonder if his father’s health was in a worse state than they were admitting.
“Why not let me do that, Dad? I haven’t had the chance to deal with snow much, and I sort of miss it.”
This solution didn’t sit well with Mrs. McClellan either, and it was eventually decided that the two men would work on the job together. Brian kept his father in the corner of his eye as he worked and saw no sign of flagging—as a matter of fact, the thought that occurred to Brian repeatedly was that the elder man was in better physical condition than the younger. Brian resolved to get back into the exercise program that had been part of his physical therapy when he was recovering from his injuries. Brian had always enjoyed physical exertion. It invigorated him and belied the notion that sometimes crept into his mind that he was destined to a life of physical weakness.
When the job was half done, Dr. McClellan stopped to sit on the cleared porch steps and invited Brian to do the same.
“How are you making out, son? Don’t do much snow shoveling down your way, do you?”
“No, Dad, not too much. I guess I’ve gotten a little out of shape. I’m not working at the same pace as you are.” After a pause, he continued, “I think Mom’s worried about you. Are you really all right?”
“My blood pressure is not as low as I would like. I’m going to be seventy-three next month, Brian. Even stubborn men get old.”
Brian smiled at that. “Yes, I’ve experienced that same phenomenon myself.”
His father took his eyes away from the horizon he had been scanning and looked Brian squarely in the face. “How about you, son, are you really all right?”
Perhaps it was the study in the nuances in Emily’s voice that gave Brian the ear to hear the rustle of an olive branch wreathing the question. Perhaps it was the kindness he had learned from her, the lessons she had given on the joys of forgiveness that prompted him to answer as he did.
“Dad, I’m better than I’ve been in twenty years. I have important work to do and I’m good at it. I have a pleasant home where I can be comfortable. I have friends. And I have Emily. I never thought I could feel this kind of passion for anyone, and I certainly never thought anyone could love me the way she does. I guess I’ve learned a lot from her, too. She says you have to turn loose of the things you don’t want in your life in order to grab hold of the things that you do want. I suppose that’s one definition of forgiveness. I’ve been angry at you for a long time, and in holding on to that anger, I’ve shut out a lot of the joy I could have in life. I think it’s time for the war to be over for me, Dad, and for us.”
It was so unexpected, this grasping of the tentative olive branch that he had held out, that Stuart McClellan couldn’t have stopped the tears from coming to his eyes if he’d wanted to. He got up to give himself a moment for composure, and to find the right words. It wasn’t an easy search. “You know, Brian, it’s a h
ard thing for a man to go through life knowing that the worst thing he ever did, he did to his own son, and knowing too that there’s nothing he can do to make it right. Every time I’ve looked at you for the last twenty years, I’ve been reminded of that. I can’t make it right.”
Brian noticed that his father seemed to have a bit of a hunch to his back. It’s almost as if he’s been carrying his guilt around on his shoulders all these years, he thought, and it’s deformed him physically. “That’s true, you can’t make it right any more than I can make right the things that I’ve done. But you can stop looking at me through eyes of regret, and just see me as I am now. I’d like to think it’s still possible for you to look at me and be at least a little proud.”
His father looked at him as if he hadn’t really seen him for years, and realized he liked what he saw. “You’re a respected physician, you’ve worked hard despite the obstacles you’ve met, you’re an honest, caring gentleman. I am very proud of you, son.”
Brian decided that evening to go to the Christmas Eve service at the Episcopal church. In some measure, his decision was prompted by the feeling that God had been good to him and he ought to find a way to be thankful. He also wanted to tell Emily that he had gone to church, he thought it might please her. He invited his parents to go with him out of politeness, and was a little surprised when they accepted.
The small stone church had stood on the main corner of the town all of Brian’s life. When he was a child his parents had attended with some frequency. As he grew into his teen years, they went less often. Brian never figured out the pattern of their attendance. In his own mind, he framed the question, “How do they determine when they running short on religion and need to stock up?” Their attendance over the last twenty years had been limited to Easters, funerals, and very rare Sundays.
The inside of the church was beautifully decorated and illuminated. In the front of the sanctuary stood a magnificent evergreen covered in white and gold ornaments in many different shapes. There were pearly white fish, sea shells, and lambs. There were golden letters of the Greek alphabet, crosses, and butterflies. Brian occupied the time before the service started trying to figure out what each symbol was meant to represent. The fish was easy, it had been a symbol of the church for a long time. The lamb of God was easy too, and the crosses were self-explanatory. The sea shell stumped him until he noticed that the same symbol was carved on the front of the baptismal font, so the shell was representative of the water of baptism. The Greek letters he knew were alpha and omega, the beginning and the end. The butterfly he never did decipher, and he resolved to ask Emily.
The service began with singing, and all of the tunes were familiar to anyone who has ridden in an elevator, waited in a doctor’s outer office, or shopped in a department store any time in the month of December. They were all lovely melodies, but Brian was especially struck by certain phrases in the lyrics: “God and sinners reconciled,” “Good will henceforth from Heaven to men begin and never cease,” “Rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.” As he had done with the Christian symbols on the tree, he tried to decipher the meaning of the words. The themes of peace and reconciliation were very much on his mind on this particular Christmas Eve. “I’ve never,” he thought, “really understood what it means.”
The service continued with the reading of the most familiar of all Scriptures. “And it came to pass in those days....And there were in the same country shepherds....We have seen his star....” Brian found himself listening intently and thinking, “What if Emily is right? What if it’s all true? What if God is not the master watchmaker? What if the Almighty still takes an active interest?”
A soprano rose to sing an old spiritual, “Sweet Little Jesus Boy,” and the plaintive lament gave Brian something of a chill. “The world treat you mean, Lord, treat me mean, too; but that’s how it is down here.” Brian had seen people do things to one another in war that seemed beyond the pale of any possible redemption. For so long a guilty, angry son, he had thought himself beyond the pale. And Emily’s father, how cruel he must have been to berate a dear soul like that. That’s how it is down here. “Our eyes was blind, we couldn’t see, we didn’t know ‘twas you.” The world seems so lost, Brian thought, but it’s easy to get lost when you can’t see.
The minister’s message posed another question that gave Brian pause to think: “What are you going to do with that baby in the manger?” He explained that it was easy to hear the Christmas story and be moved by the majesty of God and the glory of the incarnation. It’s all so lovely. It means very little, however, if we chose in our minds to leave the baby in the manger. That’s not the way it was. He grew up, and then the story is not so pretty. You have to watch the baby climb up out of the manger and all the way up the hill to the cross. “The joy of Christmas is that it begins the story that continues on Easter Sunday. The baby that was born to die, was also born to rise above death, and now He claims us as His children. As we entreat Him in our hymn, may it truly be our prayer, ‘Bless all the dear children in thy tender care and fit us for Heaven to live with thee there.’”
And then the congregation sang, and it was over, and if you asked Brian to point to the exact moment at which he changed, he could not have told you, but the heart which life had broken, and which another wounded heart had cradled, was somehow warmed, somehow healed.
Chapter 7
It had been a wonderful trip, but when the appointed time came, Brian was ready to go home. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, shower in his own shower, and eat his own cooking. Of course, the people he was coming home to were the best part of all. There was so much he wanted to talk to Emily and Paul about, he could hardly contain himself. Emily was at work, so Paul had volunteered to get Brian at the airport. They would spend the afternoon catching up before Emily joined them for dinner when she got off work.
Brian asked after Paul’s mother and sister, and heard all the news from Memphis. Paul was going to be an uncle again. His sister Ruth was a housewife and the mother of two and counting. Her husband was an electrician with his own thriving business. They had their share of problems—any married couple does—but for now it seemed that their biggest problems were those of seeing a 41-year-old woman through pregnancy, and reconverting the guest room into a nursery. Paul’s mother was getting old, but was still clear in her mind. With no more than a seventh-grade education, Naomi Lawrence had managed to survive the Depression, a husband dying young of colon cancer, and the terrors of segregation, and still raise up two perfect children. Or so she thought. Her fellow nursing home residents were accustomed to sentences which began “My son the doctor.” She was at least as happy about the prospect of another grandchild as Ruth was, maybe more so.
“So, Brian, how are your folks?”
“They’re doing well. It was a great visit. My father and I had the good talk you've been prescribing for so long. I feel a lot better about him, and about myself too. I’ll tell you all about it later. But how are things here? Have you talked to Emily?”
Paul hesitated slightly before answering, “I’ve spoken to her on the phone a couple times.”
“Well? Is she all right? When I called her, she seemed a little blue.”
“Yes, she sounded kind of down to me, too. I’ve gotten the impression that things have been kind of rough for her the last few weeks. I had coffee with her right after Thanksgiving, and she was having a spell of insecurity. I haven’t really seen her much since then, but when I spoke to her yesterday afternoon on the phone, I would have sworn that she had been drinking.”
Brian’s astonishment could not have been more profound. “Emily? That’s bizarre. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her have so much as a glass of wine. I don’t like the idea of her taking up drinking in her solitary moments. I’d give a lot to know what’s really going on with her.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but you’ve got to get her to talk to you, Brian.”
They spent the remaind
er of the afternoon talking about Brian’s reconciliation with his father, and about his experience in the Christmas Eve church service. Paul asked lots of questions, and seemed to genuinely rejoice with his friend in the changes that he had undergone. Brian was reminded for the umpteenth time how wonderful it is to have a friend who cares so much, and understands so well the things closest to the heart. Before either of them realized it, the afternoon was gone, it was the dinner hour, and the sound of Emily’s car driving up came into the room.
It seemed impossible to Brian when he saw her pale and drawn face that he had been away from her for only a week. Her embrace was a little stiff, and her smile a little forced, and he knew that she was struggling with something painful. He remembered the times when he was a child and his mother knew he was hurt. She would always say, “I’ll kiss it and make it better.” If only he could kiss Emily and make everything better.
“Darling, how have you been?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve been fine. I want to hear all about your trip. You sounded on the phone like you were having a wonderful time. Did you get along with your folks all right?”
“Yes, I had a very constructive visit. I had a good talk with my father, and I think things are going to be much better between him and me now. There are a lot of things I want to tell you about, but why don’t we get some dinner going first?”
As the three of them fell into the old routine of cooking the meal, Brian found himself stealing glances at Emily, and then looking at Paul as if to say, “What do you suppose is bothering her?” While the meal was cooking, the two men talked about their families and the compared the traditions of Christmas celebrated in their respective homes. When the food was ready, they sat down and ate. It seemed to Brian that every bite Emily took required an effort on her part. “Emily, don’t you feel well? You’re not eating much.”
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