On Christmas Eve

by Ann M. Martin

  When Sarah and Evvie and I step off the bus that afternoon, Mom is waiting for us with Sadie, who is wearing a giant red bow around her neck. Evvie and I laugh when we see her, but Sarah bursts into tears.

  “Come on, honey,” says Mom, and she takes Sarah’s suitcase from her, then holds her hand while we walk to the house.

  Evvie and I do everything we can think of to cheer up Sarah. Finally Evvie invites Maggie over, and they put on their costumes and give us a secret performance of their roles in the pageant.

  “Ooh, your wings look real!” Sarah exclaims when she sees the Gabriel costume.

  “And you look so … so mothery,” I tell Maggie.

  “Do I look holy?” she asks.

  “Oh, yes,” Sarah and I assure her.

  By Saturday Sarah seems more cheerful.

  “Are you ready for our program?” she asks me.

  “All ready,” I reply.

  “Could I be part of it?” asks Evvie, and I feel bad that we didn’t think to ask her to join us.

  Sarah and I look at each other. “You could be our backup singer,” Sarah says.

  “Okay,” replies Evvie.

  When we arrive at the hospital, Mom parks the car, then runs inside with the program for Mr. Benjamin. “I’ll call down to you in a few minutes, girls,” she says.

  Sarah and Evvie and I climb out of the car and look at the hospital.

  “Do you know which window is your dad’s?” Evvie asks Sarah.

  “Yup.” She points it out. “Okay, now we have to get ready. Evvie, you stand behind Tess and me. I’m going to announce each song before we sing it. That way, you’ll know what’s coming up, okay?”

  “Okay,” says Evvie. She’ll do anything Sarah says.

  We are gazing at the window Sarah has pointed out, blowing on our hands, when suddenly the window opens and I can see Sarah’s father in it. He’s wearing a bathrobe, and even from our distance, even standing down here in the parking lot, I can see that his face is gaunt, almost like a skeleton’s, and that his hands are shaking.

  “Dad! Hi, Dad!” cries Sarah, and it is as if a light has been turned on somewhere and is shining only on Sarah’s face.

  “Hi, Mr. Benjamin,” Evvie and I say. “Merry Christmas!”

  Mr. Benjamin gives us a wave. “Hi, girls,” he says. “Merry Christmas.” He speaks so softly that it’s hard to hear him. But then he holds up the program, and I see the grin on his face.

  Sarah looks at Evvie and me. “Hit it,” she exclaims. And we begin the show with “Away in a Manger.”

  Mr. Benjamin’s smile grows bigger. By the time we have sung the last verse of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” which is the end of our show, Mr. Benjamin is holding a handkerchief to his eyes, but he is still smiling. “That,” he says, “was the most wonderful Christmas present I could imagine. Thank you.”

  Later, when Mom is driving Sarah and Evvie and me home, the countryside flying by outside the windows of the car, I turn to look at Sarah. I see a small smile on her lips, and I know she is thinking of her father and our Christmas show.

  The days after Saturday are slow but delicious, like chocolate melting on my tongue. Our mailman arrives with packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS! is written on them. One from Nana Florence and Papa Jim in Winter Park, Florida; one from Aunt Adele and Uncle Paul in Louisville, Kentucky; one from Dad’s cousins in Fort Smith, Arkansas. A small box arrives that says OPEN RIGHT NOW! That is the fruitcake Aunt Martha makes every year. It weighs a ton. I am the only person in our family who likes it.

  On Monday night, which is the night before our last day of school, Evvie and I are putting the finishing touches on Christmas cards for our classmates when we hear sweet clear voices singing “Angels We Have Heard on High.” I am so startled, and so certain of the magic I will soon see, that at first I think angels really are outside our house, that if Evvie and I run to the windows, we will see angels adrift in the clouds and snow in the inky sky, singing ancient words. But then, “Christmas carolers!” cries Evvie.

  Where have they come from? We live so far out in the country. Evvie is right, though. She flings open our front door, and we find nine people gathered outside, bundled into their warmest clothes, their breath frosty, and their voices raised as they sing another carol. They are from our church, I realize, and when they finish singing, Mom invites them inside for hot chocolate and our homemade cookies.

  Tuesday is the last day of school before vacation. My classmates and I do not get much work done. Miss Sullivan is patient with us. She reads a Christmas story called The Tailor of Gloucester, reads it to us from behind her desk, which is piled with the tins of cookies and small wrapped packages we have brought her. Then we hand around the cards and things we have been making for each other.

  At the end of the day I call good-bye to Sarah. Mr. Benjamin’s doctor has decided that Sarah’s father is to be allowed home until December 26th, and Sarah is trembling with excitement as she waits for her bus.

  “Good-bye, good-bye! Merry Christmas!” Sarah calls back.

  Later Evvie and I jump off the school bus. As we run along our lane, Sadie comes flying through the snow to greet us, as if she knows it is a special day. The three of us burst through our front door and into the house, which smells of gingerbread and feels like secrets.

  I awaken the next morning with butterflies dancing in my stomach and lie in the gray glow of another snowy morning. Tonight the magic will be revealed to me. I wonder how it will begin, what the first sign will be.

  And I wonder this all day, which makes the twenty-fourth of December seem even longer than usual. But that’s okay because this is one of the last chances for looking at the wrapped gifts under the tree, for waiting for friends to drop by for a Christmas visit, for dreaming of the magic.

  Late in the afternoon, as darkness is falling, I notice that the snow has stopped. The sky has cleared and the stars are out.

  “Time to get ready for church, Tess,” calls Mom, and I run to my room to change into a dress. Evvie is already in her room. She is putting on the clothes she will wear under her angel costume, and assembling her wings and things in two brown paper bags.

  Quietly I close the door to my room. Then I turn off the light, stand at my window, and look outside into the dusk. I am standing there, my eyes fixed on the sky above the Andersons’ barn, when I feel something — a shift in the atmosphere, barely noticeable. But I draw in my breath, and the air around me seems to crinkle and the stars to shine brighter. I get the same shivery feeling I have when the lights dim at the movie theater. Something is happening.

  “Tess?” Dad calls.

  “Coming!” I call back.

  I wriggle into the black velvet dress that Nana Florence made for me, pull on white tights and red shoes, and run downstairs.

  Mom and Dad and Evvie and I pile into the car, and Dad drives us through the countryside and into town. We sing “Winter Wonderland” and I try to recite “The Night Before Christmas,” but I get stuck at the part about the luster of midday and the objects below.

  By the time we are parking behind the church, Evvie’s teeth are chattering, and she says she’s not cold, she’s nervous.

  “But Evvie,” I say, “you are the most realistic angel I have ever seen. Your halo really looks like it’s floating over your head. And everyone will be able to imagine that you’re standing in a cloud.”

  “Thank you,” says Evvie. Chatter, chatter, chatter. She is always nervous just before the pageant begins.

  Inside, the church is warm and smells of evergreens. The Advent candles flicker and glow. Everyone is dressed up, and the little children are going to real church instead of Sunday school, so they are hushed and excited, standing in the pews until their parents tell them to sit down.

  “I’ll see you later,” whispers Evvie as she rushes off with her costume.

  Mom and Dad and I walk along the stone floor of the church, down the aisl
e, and find seats in the fourth row of pews. I look at the place where our minister usually stands and talks. The pulpit is gone, and the front of the church is so dark that I can’t even read the words about Our Savior that I know are written there. I am peaceful, then excited as that shivery feeling comes over me again.

  In the balcony behind us the organ starts to play. I hear the first notes of “Silent Night.” Everyone quiets down, even the smallest children, and when the music stops, a soft light is shone on the front of the church. Suddenly in all that quiet we hear a great clatter from behind the closed door near where the pulpit should be. Then we hear, “Oof.” A moment later the door is flung open and through it walk Maggie in her Mary costume, Walter Shaw in his Joseph costume, and a bumbling donkey, played by two kids in one costume. They are having a lot of trouble moving together all bent over inside the fake gray fur, and they trip going through the door. They trip again as they stumble along behind Maggie, so that she bumps into Walter, and for just a second the holy look leaves her face and is replaced by a crabby look. I glance at Dad sitting next to me and see that he is trying not to laugh.

  After that, though, Maggie’s holy look returns, and the narrator, Lydia Bloom, begins to read the passages from the Bible that tell the story of the first Christmas. Everything goes smoothly as the innkeeper shows Mary and Joseph and their donkey to the stable. The light dims then, and when it is turned up again, Mary and Joseph and the stable animals have been replaced by shepherds and their sheep.

  This is when Evvie will appear. I know she wishes she could make her entrance by flying over the heads of the shepherds, but that is not possible. She must content herself with standing quietly in the darkness apart from the shepherds, then having a light suddenly illuminate her, catching the sparkles on her wings and making her glow like the Advent candles. It is a startling appearance if you didn’t know it was going to happen, and I think it is almost as good as flying down from the ceiling.

  The rest of the pageant goes fine except for the fight that breaks out between two of the shepherds, and except for the fact that the Jesus doll looks like a girl.

  When the pageant is over, the organ starts to play again and we sing three carols, including “O Holy Night,” which is Dad’s favorite. Then we walk slowly out of the church, greeting people as we go. We wait for Evvie by the stone steps and soon here she comes, running to us, wearing her regular clothes, but with the halo still bobbing on her head because she can’t bear to take it off yet.

  “You were wonderful,” we tell Evvie, and she grins.

  Then Mom says, “Who’s ready for dinner?”

  “We are!” cry Evvie and I, and we drive through the dark streets of Hopewell to the Coach Room, where we meet Uncle Rick and Aunt Merlena and our cousins Carolyn and Peter. They live not far away, in Falls Village, and every year we have Christmas Eve dinner together in the Coach Room.

  “We’re eating in town!” crows Evvie, halo jiggling.

  “Mom, can we have Coke?” I ask.

  “If you promise it won’t keep you awake tonight.”

  “No, no, it won’t,” I say, hoping it will, and deciding to order a large one.

  Dad parks the car in Palmer Square, and soon we are hurrying into the restaurant, greeting our cousins.

  “Merry Christmas!” everyone calls.

  “I’m going to have french fries!” says Evvie, which is an eating-in-town treat.

  “I’m going to have a cheeseburger,” I say.

  “No clam chowder?” asks Dad.

  Evvie and Carolyn and Peter and I hold our noses and shake our heads, which reminds Evvie to remove her halo.

  Later, when our town dinner is over and we are all full and happy, but too excited to be sleepy, we say good-bye to our cousins and wish them merry Christmas again, and soon Mom and Dad and Evvie and I are driving home.

  We know just what to do when we get there. Evvie and I run to our rooms and change into our nightgowns while Dad makes a fire in the fireplace, and Mom turns on the tree lights and finds our old copy of “The Night Before Christmas.” The four of us sit in front of the fire, Sadie dozing with her head in my lap. We take turns reading the story of Santa’s visit, and then we hang our stockings.

  “Cookies for Santa?” says Mom then, and Evvie rolls her eyes, but I fix a plate for him, thinking instead of the present I have bought, the one I can give him myself later tonight.

  At last Evvie and I climb the stairs to our rooms, leaving Sadie asleep before the fire. I slip under my covers and lie in bed. I have pulled the window shade up so I can see outside. The moon is full, the stars are still shining, and I think I hear a low hum. It is all around me. My heart pounds as the magic unfolds.

  In two and a half hours I will meet Santa Claus.

  I know I will not have any trouble staying awake until midnight. Large Coke or no large Coke, I will not fall asleep tonight before I meet Santa. The magic is building all around me, building toward midnight. The hum is growing louder, and sounds seem to be sharpened and softened at the same time. I hear chirps and clucks and wings fluttering. I can even hear the horses stomping their feet in the Andersons’ barn. But I hear all these things in a muted way that makes me think the world is wrapped in gauze. Outside my window I see millions and millions of pinprick stars, and birds roosting on every branch of every tree. I have never felt the magic so strongly before, and I do not want to miss a moment of it.

  I lie on my bed again, rest my hands under my head, and feel my flannel nightgown against my legs. I listen to the sounds from downstairs. I am pretty sure I know what Mom and Dad are doing. Now that Evvie and I are in bed, they are putting the presents under the tree — all those presents that have been arriving in the mail, and others our parents have bought and hidden in the house. I know where their hiding place is. Evvie discovered it three years ago. It’s very clever — a box way back in a corner of our attic. The box is huge. It’s a cardboard wardrobe, and it’s labeled WINTER COATS, which sounds pretty boring. I think it actually does hold our winter coats in the summer, but it’s empty in the winter — except when Mom and Dad hide things in it that they don’t want Evvie and me to see.

  Sure enough, just after the clock in the living room chimes once for ten-thirty, I hear footsteps climbing upstairs, walking along the hallway, then, after the door to the attic opens, climbing another flight. A few minutes later, the footsteps return to the living room, then make a second trip to the attic. I picture Dad with his arms piled with wrapped gifts. Some of those gifts bear tags that read “To Evvie from Mom” or “For Tess from Mom and Dad,” but other tags, I am quite sure, say “For Tess from Santa Claus” or “To Evvie from Santa” — in Mom’s handwriting.

  I slip out of bed and tiptoe across the chilly room to the door, where I put my ear to the crack and listen. I can hear Christmas carols on the radio. I imagine Mom and Dad taking a break, sitting in front of the fire, maybe sipping tea. Soon, I know, they will fill the stockings. Later, Santa will add a few things of his own to the stockings, of course. And I suppose he will add a present or two to the pile under the tree, although in the excitement tomorrow, Mom and Dad and Evvie probably won’t realize that they actually are from Santa.

  But I will know.

  I dash across my room again, my feet beginning to feel like ice cubes. For the next half hour I simply lie in bed and listen, or sit up and look out the window. It seems to me that each time I gaze across the snow to the Andersons’ barn, the sky above it is a bit brighter.

  I’m kneeling on my bed looking out the window again, when our house grows quieter. Mom and Dad have turned off the radio. There are no more sounds coming from the living room. But suddenly there are footsteps in the hallway.

  In a flash I scurry under the covers, turn onto my stomach, face the wall, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. When the door to my room opens, I am as still as the moon. Light from the hallway falls across my face as someone peeps in at me, then closes the door quietly. I do not move again u
ntil I am certain Mom and Dad are in bed and sound asleep.

  The clock chimes eleven-thirty.

  I throw the covers back and kneel once more at the window. I open it slightly, even though the air is absolutely freezing. I tiptoe to my closet, put on my bathrobe, then return to the window. The most powerful magic is almost here, and now I must pay close attention to everything.

  I breathe in the winter air, breathe in deeply, then let my breath out in cloudy puffs. The air is crisp; it is clean and sharp. I let my eyes travel across the snow, across the road, and again to the sky above the Andersons’ barn. And my eyes light on an enormous star. I have never seen it before. It is rising and rising, and as I watch, it finally settles so that it appears to hover just a few feet above the barn, making the barn seem to glow as if it were lit from inside instead of outside.

  I turn back to my room and hear the hum, louder now, then face the window again. In the distance I hear bells. Sleigh bells, I think, and then I realize I hear church bells too, chiming out carols and hymns and ancient tunes. The birds begin to leave the trees, and a dove flies by my window, a white dove from a fairy tale or a picture book. It moves lazily, turning to look at me for a moment, then continues its slow flight — around our house twice, then gently, as if it’s floating, across our yard, and across the road to the barn, where it perches on the roof.

  Ting, ting, ting, ring the sleigh bells.

  Gloria in excelsis Deo, chime the church bells.

  Go tell it on the mountain. A voice whispers this near my ear, and I jump, startled. I turn around, but no one is in my room. The hum is fading, though, I notice, and in its place, all around me, just in the air, are little murmurings and mutterings and snippets of songs.

  Love came down at Christmas …