A Christmas Visitor

by Thomas Kinkade

  Carl had never really thanked Ben for the sexton job. Still, Ben knew the job meant the world to him. Carl worked hard at it. He hadn’t walked out or messed it up, as he had with so many other opportunities.

  Working together they managed to clear the space in a short time.

  “That should be enough space for the plumber, don’t you think?” Ben brushed the dust off his hands with a rag.

  “I think so. I just want to get this last box out of the way.” Carl was leaning forward, trying to slide a large wooden crate across the floor. He stopped and stood up. “What do you think this is, Reverend? It’s sort of heavy.”

  Ben walked closer and looked the crate over. It was old, made of wooden slats nailed together, not the type of storage or shipping container used anymore. Bits of yellowed newspaper and straw poked through the spaces between the planks. He noticed stamp marks on the top and sides, the ink and printing so faded he couldn’t read them. There was no label, like the ones on most of the other boxes, describing the contents.

  “I don’t know what it is,” Ben admitted. “I never noticed it down here before.”

  “Can I open it? Maybe if I take a few things out, we can move it easier.”

  “Go ahead, good idea.”

  Carl began to pry the lid off the crate with a screwdriver. It took a few minutes for him to loosen the old nails and lift off the wooden lid. Ben moved closer and they both started pushing aside the straw and newspaper that filled the crate.

  Ben withdrew a piece of yellow newspaper, noticing the masthead. The London Times, April 21, 1951. It practically crumbled in his hand.

  Carl pulled out more of the old packing material then gave a low whistle of surprise. “Look at this.”

  Ben peered down into the crate where Carl had cleared a large space. Buried in the pile of stiff yellow straw, he saw a face—feminine and round, yet not distinctly female. Fine-featured, it looked like carved wood that had been painted in rich flesh tones. But he couldn’t be sure what it was made of in the dim light.

  “It looks like a statue of some kind.…Let’s lift it out.” Ben reached into the crate on one side and Carl took the other. “Carefully now. We don’t want to break it.”

  “Whatever it is.” Carl grunted. He had to use both hands, Ben noticed, gingerly managing with just the fingertips of his injured hand.

  Finally, the statue was lifted up and out of the crate. “Let’s set it down over there where we can get a better look.” Ben nodded toward a table on the dry side of the basement.

  It was an angel. Carved in wood, it had been painted and varnished, though the sheen was worn away in most places and the paint was faded and cracked. It was clearly very old, but amazing to look at, Ben thought. Remarkably beautiful.

  The face uplifted, gently smiling, seemed to radiate light from within. A royal blue cape, and beneath it, a long scarlet tunic trimmed with gold that flowed across the graceful body. Large golden wings sprouted from its shoulders. The angel appeared to be stepping forward and carried a banner between its hands. But the message it had come to proclaim was now faded beyond recognition.

  “Wow…Isn’t that something?” Carl looked at Ben, then back at the statue. “Not like the plaster statues they make nowadays. That looks like the kind of thing you’d see in a museum.”

  Ben guessed the statue had been made in Europe. He didn’t know much about religious art, but there was something about it that didn’t seem American.

  “I wonder why we never noticed it. Did you ever see that crate before, Carl? You must have.”

  Carl shrugged and shook his head. He picked a bit of straw from his sweatshirt. “No, sir. I don’t recall. It must have been down here, though. Didn’t appear out of thin air this morning.”

  “Yes, of course not.” Ben said slowly. He looked at the statue and walked around the table, to view it from all sides. “Do you think we could carry it up to the sanctuary?”

  “The crate weighs half a ton, but the statue isn’t so heavy.”

  “What about your hand?” Ben asked.

  Carl held out his injured hand and flexed his fingers. “It doesn’t feel so bad now. Maybe it was just stiff.”

  Carl took the top of the statue and Ben took the bottom. They carried it through the basement and up the stairs, then down the hallway to the sanctuary.

  “Where do you want it, Reverend?”

  “Up at the front. Opposite the pulpit, I think.” Ben directed him to the corner opposite the pulpit and they set the statue down. “I think there’s a pedestal back in the sacristy. It would look better displayed up higher.”

  “I’ll get it. Here, I brought a rag to clean it off.” Carl handed Ben a dusting rag and headed off in search of the pedestal.

  Ben gently started wiping off the dust and bits of straw. The varnished finish looked a bit brighter, though the colors were still mellow with age.

  Where had it come from? Perhaps some family had donated it. Ben didn’t remember anyone ever mentioning such a piece. There was a record book someplace in the church office where gifts and donations were recorded; maybe he would find it listed there. If it had been a gift to the church, it must have been given years ago. It seemed odd that someone might have donated such an extraordinary statue, and yet no one had ever asked why it wasn’t displayed.

  The church was very simple in design, inside and out. There was little decoration, no statues. Just the stained-glass windows and two tapestry banners that hung up front, behind the altar.

  During Advent, the sanctuary was decorated for Christmas with a tree, a nativity scene, and the traditional Advent candles on the altar. Ben thought that the angel statue could be trimmed with some boughs of holly and pine at the base for the holiday. He wondered if anyone would protest its appearance. Some of the congregants had strict ideas about what was appropriate in their church and didn’t mind saying so.

  Carl brought out the wooden pedestal, and they lifted the angel up and balanced it on top.

  “Perfect,” Ben said, stepping back.

  “Yeah, it does look good up there. Looks like she’s smiling right down at you, don’t it?” Carl stared up at the angel, his expression almost mesmerized.

  It did have a powerful effect, Ben thought. He was almost unable to take his eyes off it.

  Shafts of sunlight filtered through the long windows, bathing the angel in colored light. The touches of gold on the wings and robe were fairly glowing. The painted eyes and expressive face seemed animated, as if about to speak.

  “Carl? Hey, fella. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  A tall man in coveralls stood at the back of the sanctuary. He carried a bucket in one hand and a toolbox in the other. Ben guessed it was the plumber.

  “Hey, Milt.” Carl raised his bandaged hand in greeting. “I didn’t hear the truck. We cleared away those boxes under the pipe. You can start anytime you like.”

  The two men walked out of the sanctuary, and Ben heard their voices fade down the hallway. He stood a moment longer with the statue. An interesting way to start the day, that was for sure. As he turned to leave the sanctuary, he felt himself smiling. Finding the crate had been like opening an unexpected gift. The statue was surely a forgotten treasure.

  Mysterious and beautiful.

  He hoped the congregation would approve.

  BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE THE NEXT MORNING, Miranda peeked into the parlor to check on their overnight guest. He was asleep on the couch in the sitting room, his feet poking out from under the quilt.

  “Let him sleep,” Sophie whispered, closing the door again. “He must be exhausted. It’s not as if he has anywhere to go.”

  True enough. Though Miranda wondered if somehow in the middle of the night, he had magically regained his memory.

  “Aren’t you tired, too, Grandma?”

  “Me? I’m fine. I’m going to make some pancakes and bacon. I promised him a good breakfast.”

  Sophie tied an apron around her ample middle and then
cracked several eggs into a yellow bowl. Miranda watched her grandmother, marveling at her energy. Not only had Sophie been up late the night before, but she was the one who had woken up every hour to check the stranger’s eyes with a flashlight.

  “It’s easier for me. My bedroom’s on the first floor,” Sophie had said when Miranda argued she should be the one to care for him. “Besides, you have work to do tomorrow. I can nap.”

  Miranda had a funny feeling about this—that Sophie was being protective, not wanting her granddaughter to nurse the stranger. Did Sophie sense she found him attractive? Miranda guessed that she did. But what of it? It wasn’t as if he would be around here long enough for that to matter.

  Miranda filled a big mug of coffee, then headed outside with Dixie. The morning air was chilly and damp. She lifted the collar of her tan barn jacket and closed the button at her neck. Under the jacket she wore an old yellow sweater, paint-splattered jeans, and work boots. Her long thick red-gold hair was tied back in a ponytail.

  She stopped as she reached the big shed where they sorted, packed, and stored the apples during the picking season. A few of the outbuildings needed fresh coats of paint before the winter set in, and she had started on the shed earlier that week. She knew that if the temperature dropped any lower, the paint wouldn’t stick. She was trying to finish all the painting before the first week of December, but that looked like an impossible deadline now.

  She set up her ladder and popped open the paint can. She stirred it, then poured some into the roller pan. She had been painting so much this week, her arm was sore. But she started in quickly, determined to get most of the big wall done before she went back inside for breakfast.

  Miranda had been running the orchard with her grandmother for the last three years, ever since her grandfather Gus had died. Miranda had come for a visit, to help her grandparents get through the final days of Gus’s life. She had ended up staying on, giving up her life in New York City, leaving behind a faltering acting career and a failed relationship.

  Everyone in her family believed Miranda was making a huge sacrifice, offering to run the orchard and live alone with her grandmother in such a remote place. Miranda knew she had gotten the better part of the deal. It had been the perfect place to regroup and renew, to regain a sense of balance and even self-worth that city life and career struggles had stolen from her.

  Now, though, she felt restless, at a crossroads. She couldn’t help feeling that her retreat had come to a close and it was time to come out of hiding and get on with her life. Her grandmother would be all right. Miranda would make sure of that. She would find enough hired help and negotiate with her family to keep Sophie’s place secure.

  But where would she go? What would she do?

  Returning to New York didn’t seem a good idea, and setting up in Boston wasn’t that enticing either. She hadn’t totally abandoned acting. She had taken classes in Boston and still showed up, head shot in hand, for select auditions. There had been a call just two weeks ago for a part in a very experimental production of King Lear. Miranda had auditioned for the part of Cordelia and had been called back for a second reading.

  It wasn’t a huge role but a very good one. If she got it, it would put her back on the acting track and would be a big commitment. The play would run a few weeks in the summer on Cape Cod, then travel around the country for almost a year. Her grandmother knew about the auditions—and the consequences of Miranda winning the role—but she hadn’t said a word for or against it. Only that she would miss her company. It would mean leaving the orchard…and leaving Greg Cassidy, the man Miranda had been seeing since September. She had mentioned the callback to Greg, though they hadn’t really discussed it. But they would—soon, she promised herself. It was just that, at present, they were in a sort of holding pattern. They enjoyed spending time together and got along well, but neither had mentioned the word commitment yet.

  Christmas was coming, a difficult time to decide anything important. The holidays were a time to put real life on hold. Miranda decided to give herself the New Year to sort things out, about Greg, about acting, about everything.

  She had worked her way halfway across the wall when her rumbling stomach told her it was time for breakfast. She put the roller and pan away and started back toward the house. She could smell the pancakes and bacon as she drew closer.

  Miranda walked into the kitchen and saw their houseguest seated at the table with her grandmother. He smiled at her. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” She quickly looked away and poured herself a mug of coffee.

  Despite his disheveled appearance—the growth of beard on his cheeks, his uncombed hair and bandaged forehead—she couldn’t help noticing his good looks.

  Or maybe it wasn’t his looks exactly. She had been around plenty of handsome men. It was something more, some special light in his eyes, in his smile. Some energy that connected with her, big-time.

  It was probably just some “rescuer infatuation” syndrome, she decided. There must be a word for it. Maybe if you save someone’s life, you automatically get a crush on them? The daytime talk shows must have covered it. She would have to check for a rerun.

  She added some milk to her coffee and sat down at the table.

  He met her glance and smiled. “Don’t tell me…painting something red?”

  She laughed, looking down at her hands and clothes. “How did you guess?”

  “The whack on my head made me psychic. Did you get any paint on the barn?”

  “It’s not a barn. It’s a shed,” she told him. “And yes, there’s plenty on the building. It’s been breezy this morning.”

  “It’s almost too late to paint anything out there. It’s getting too cold,” Sophie said. “You ought to just leave it, Miranda. Leave it for the spring.”

  “It’s not that cold today. I’ll see how far I get. I’m sure I can at least finish the shed.”

  Sophie stirred her coffee and turned to their guest. “She’s stubborn. Hard worker, but once she gets her teeth into something…” She shook her head.

  Miranda felt a flush of embarrassment; she wished her grandmother wouldn’t talk about her as if she weren’t in the room. Their guest, however, seemed to be enjoying Sophie’s revelation. He smiled at Miranda and said, “Stubbornness can be a good thing at times. It keeps people from giving up.”

  “Exactly,” Miranda agreed. “Edison tried ten thousand different materials before he perfected the lightbulb. Nobody called him stubborn.”

  “Maybe not to his face they didn’t. After all, he was Edison.” Sophie passed her the platter of pancakes and Miranda put a few on her plate.

  She poured on some syrup and started eating. How had they gotten onto this odd subject?

  “Do you remember Edison?” Sophie asked quietly.

  The stranger forced a smile. “Actually, I do. Thomas Alva. Though I still don’t remember my own name.”

  Miranda could see her grandmother felt bad now for asking. “At the hospital they called you John Doe. Should we call you that?”

  “To be perfectly honest…I don’t like the name John. But there didn’t seem much point to telling the doctors that last night.”

  “How about Jack?” Sophie asked.

  “It doesn’t really matter. Anything will do. John. Jack. Whatever,” he said. But Miranda could tell he didn’t care to be called by either name.

  “Look,” she said, wanting to make him feel better, “you have a unique opportunity here. How many people get to choose their own names? Besides celebrities, I mean.”

  “That’s true,” he said, looking intrigued.

  “We can start at the beginning of the alphabet.…How about Adam?” Sophie offered. “I think a guy named Adam met up with a gal under an apple tree once. Remember that story?”

  Miranda thought her grandmother was being silly. If he was Adam…did that make her Eve? The image made her cheeks redden, though their visitor didn’t seem to notice.

  “Ada
m’s not bad. The first man, a blank slate. He had to head out into the world empty-handed, too. A lot like my situation.”

  An interesting analogy. He had a way with words. Miranda was impressed.

  The phone rang and Miranda rose to answer it.

  Tucker barely bothered to say hello. He sounded upset. “I called the hospital last night to follow up on that John Doe. They said you took him back to the orchard. I thought you were going to call with an update.”

  “Sorry, Tucker. It got very late. I guess we just forgot.”

  “Do you think that was wise, Miranda? Taking in a complete stranger? He could be a con man. He could be dangerous. Excuse me for being so blunt, but I worry about you and Sophie being all alone out there.”

  “Thank you, Tucker. We appreciate that, but everything is fine here, really. I don’t believe the man poses any danger.” Miranda worded her reply diplomatically. She knew Tucker was just doing his job. “Did you find his car?” she asked.

  “We didn’t find any abandoned vehicles near the orchard—or anywhere around town, for that matter. I still can’t figure out how he ended up in the middle of your place.” Tucker sounded exhausted and frustrated. “How about his memory loss?” he asked. “Any progress?”

  “He seems to recall information most people know. But nothing about himself. Not yet anyway.”

  “He can come down to the station, and I’ll fingerprint him then run a computer check. We have access to a few different data banks. They cover the whole country. Anyone who’s ever worked for the government, or even been a consultant, has their prints on file. We might find his identity that way. I’ve called a detective from the county who knows more about these things. We have a few avenues to try…if he’s willing.”

  “That’s great,” Miranda said. “I’m sure he wants to do everything he can to find out who he is and where he belongs.”