Remembering Christmas

by Dan Walsh

  Start Reading

  © 2011 by Dan Walsh

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3415-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  To Chuck and Phyllis Hamlin, my in-laws. For almost three-and-a-half decades now you have supplied me with a wealth of family memories. Thanks for your love and care through all these years.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  The Present

  It wasn’t there anymore. But he knew that coming here.

  He’d driven by this intersection hundreds of times over the years, never paying much attention. But he had to now; it was about to be replaced. He wished he’d taken pictures of it, back in the day. Of course, back then there wasn’t any reason to. It would always be there.

  He sat on a bench across the street, finishing his fries, eyeing the empty corner lot where it used to be. The Bahia grass was knee deep, a smattering of wildflowers sticking out here and there. No trees—those were long gone. But in his mind, it wasn’t hard to imagine St. Luke’s still standing there. For over fifty years, its majestic spire was the highest point downtown. He looked up at the empty spot in the sky it used to own, shielded his eyes from the sun. He looked down the street two blocks north. That honor now belonged to a most unworthy successor: a cell tower.

  A blinking gray stick.

  Every day this week he’d come to this same bench on his lunch hour, to sit and remember. Last Saturday, he’d read that the lot had just been sold. A few months from now he’d be looking at a CVS drugstore. In one sense, it was a good thing. One more sign the downtown area was making a comeback.

  The church had been gone for over two decades. The whole building had burned to the ground. A senseless accident. Something about a day laborer storing a pile of rags on some cans of linseed oil. A church committee had voted, and a plan to give the pews a new shine had led to the destruction of this beautiful landmark.

  The memories he’d been digging for had all happened ten years before that, in the fall of 1980. A simpler time. Not nearly as hectic and nowhere near the level of distraction. You could count on having whole conversations with people. No cell phones, laptops, netbooks, or iPads. No internet. Just a handful of channels on TV. Only the folks in Arkansas had ever heard of Walmart. And only one cast of Star Trek to keep track of.

  He looked across the street again, at the space that would have been the rear corner of the church building. The picture in his mind was so strong. He could still see the leaky roof. The old sofa in the back. Hear the cash register bell clanging. And then, of course, the peculiar cast of characters coming in and out.

  He looked at his watch. Time to head back to the office. But he wanted to get closer, to strengthen the feeling. He stood, waited for the traffic to clear, and walked across the street. The old sidewalk was still there. And for some reason, they had left the little stairwell all these years. Six uneven steps that led down to the door.

  If he closed his eyes, he could see it all so clearly.

  The Book Nook.

  The place where his life had changed forever.

  2

  November 1980

  JD was getting nervous. It was past Egg McMuffin time. Way past. One thing JD could always count on: Art was never late. A dense fog hovered about the downtown area. A fairly rare occurrence, which only deepened the sense of mystery.

  JD was hungry, but, even more than that, he knew soon as he woke up he was going to need the heat from Art’s coffee to take the chill out of his bones. He looked over his shoulder to the spot he called home, shrouded in mist. It was right behind the old church, under a fiberglass awning put up last year to keep the rain from pouring into the trash cans. It did that all right but did nothing to ward off the cold night air. He rubbed his lower back, but the pain returned soon as he stopped rubbing. After breakfast, he’d have to make his way over to McAlister’s, the last appliance store downtown, see about getting a new carton, some fresh packing material.

  JD peeked out from behind the corner of the church, eyeing the stairwell leading down to the Book Nook. The little store occupied the southeast corner of the building, in something like a basement. Folks in Florida didn’t have basements, of course. Pick any spot, dig a few feet, and you hit water. The church had been built up on stone pilings back in the early 1900s, allowing for a ground floor underneath.

  That’s where Art and Leanne had opened up the Book Nook some twelve years ago. But the stairwell was the only thing that mattered to JD, because that was the deal. He’d stopped sleeping in the stairwell and Art brought him an Egg McMuffin every morning. Except Sunday. The Book Nook was closed on Sunday. JD got scrambled eggs and home fries on Sundays at an outreach ministry over on Walker, three blocks away.

  Well, come to think of it, he didn’t get his Egg McMuffin yesterday, either, but that was to be expected. Thanksgiving Day. All the downtown stores were closed. But you could always count on one or two churches sending folks downtown to serve turkey suppers.

  Yesterday JD ate pretty well. Two turkey suppers with all the fixings in the span of four hours. Started to sleep it off just after sundown. Got up just that once before 2:00 a.m. to get a bottle of Jack Daniel’s before the liquor store closed.

  That’s how JD knew something was off, looking at the Book Nook now. The lights were on inside. He could see that plainly through the curtains. And somebody had turned on that garland of Christmas lights around the doorway. They weren’t on last night. He’d have seen them when he’d walked right by here after getting that whiskey bottle. The Book Nook had been bla
ck as night, the stairwell hidden in shadows.

  Why he used to like it so much.

  He rummaged through his raincoat pocket, past some rubber bands and paper clips till he felt his new watch. Second hand didn’t work, but who counted seconds? And the leather wristband didn’t latch, but it worked just fine in his pocket.

  8:50 it said, or thereabouts.

  He peeked around the corner again. Where was Art with his breakfast? Store opened at 9:00. This was their routine, going back almost a year now. Art would greet JD with that nice smile he always wore, unlock the front door, and hand him a white paper bag with that delicious sandwich inside. You’d think JD would be sick of eating the same thing every day. But the stupid thing was just that good. Then Art would go inside to make a fresh pot of coffee. JD would wait right here at this same corner till Art came out with a fresh hot cup.

  That was also part of the deal. JD never went inside.

  Both of them knew JD didn’t buy any books. Art said that the way JD looked and some of the things he did scared people away, ones that did buy books. Art said it real nice, with that pleasant face he had, and JD didn’t feel bad about it. Art had this way about him; whether saying something negative or positive, it always came out positive. Some of the downtown store owners would just yell at JD if he hung around too long, or threaten to call the cops.

  This arrangement wasn’t bad at all.

  He looked around the corner again. Nothing.

  “I think you should go inside,” said a deep voice behind him. JD didn’t even turn around. He recognized the voice instantly: his friend Taylor.

  “I’m not supposed to,” JD said. “You know that.”

  “But something is wrong,” said Taylor. “Clearly.”

  “What if I go in there and he comes in and finds me, and that’s it? No more Egg McMuffins.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Taylor. “You know he’s not like that.”

  Taylor was right. Art wasn’t like that. JD turned and looked up at his friend, who was over six feet tall. “Anyone ever tell you, you look just like that new president? You know, the actor.”

  “Ronald Reagan,” Taylor said.

  “That’s him,” said JD. “’Course, you’re way younger.”

  “You’re just changing the subject.”

  JD turned around and peeked at the stairwell again. He looked up. Beyond the corner, it was like the whole world disappeared. He hated fog. “I just want to give it another minute. He doesn’t come then, I’ll go check the door.”

  “Fine,” Taylor said. “But I think you’re making a mistake.” A few seconds later, “You can call me Ronald if you’d like.”

  JD ignored him. Usually if he did that long enough, Taylor would disappear. Art could never see Taylor, and JD found that strange. But then so many people couldn’t see Taylor. Once, when he first started coming around, Taylor was standing right next to him when Art gave him his Egg McMuffin. JD felt bad that Taylor didn’t have one, had asked Art for a dollar to go buy him one. Art had just smiled, looked right through Taylor, and said, “Now, JD, you and I both know you’re not asking for a dollar to buy another egg sandwich.” Strange.

  Well, it was time. JD looked at his watch again. Just a few minutes before 9:00. Something had to be wrong. He turned, but Taylor was already gone.

  Fog or no fog, JD stepped out from behind the corner and walked along the sidewalk, looking every which way to see if anyone saw him. He was used to the stares. Everyone did the same thing: stared, looked away, stared some more, looked away. Through the mist he saw a few people across the street and the bottom half of a few more down at the intersection, but no one seemed to be heading this way or paying any attention. He headed down the six uneven stairs. Looked through the sheers covering the glass part of the door but couldn’t see anything. He wanted to knock but was afraid it would draw attention.

  Just turn the knob.

  It wasn’t Taylor’s voice, but it might as well have been. He listened, turned the knob, and the door opened right up. He slipped inside. The store was all lit like it should be, but he saw no one inside. There was the cash register on the short counter off to the left. Even had a miniature Christmas tree on the end. All sparkly. To his right, the four rows of books. In the far right corner was the little paneled office, where Art did his paperwork.

  Right beside it, where he made that wonderful coffee.

  JD walked down the last two steps, just inside the door. “Hello?” he called. “Anybody here? Art?”

  He stepped farther inside. He noticed a black picture frame on the wall hanging to his left, about head high. It was that article Art had showed him a few months ago, the one the newspaper did about the Book Nook. Art said it was in the religion section. He’d clipped it out and his wife Leanne had framed it. There was a picture of the two of them, Art and Leanne, standing behind the counter, smiling.

  JD started to read:

  To churchgoers all over town and from every evangelical stream, the Book Nook seems more like an enchanted cottage than a bookstore. A harbor from the cares of life. Some call it a little slice of heaven. It is run from the basement of St. Luke’s Church downtown. “No matter what condition you may be in,” says patron Dorothy Parker, “when you walk down those uneven steps, and duck to avoid the low-hanging doorway, and spend whatever amount of time you need, you’ll walk out overwhelmed with a sense that you’ve encountered the presence of God.”

  Most, if asked, could not tell you exactly why this is so. But if pressed, they will say it has everything to do with the owners, Art and Leanne Bell. This sweet couple, in equal parts and in their own way, seem to radiate the love of God. It’s on their face, in their eyes; it flows from their words. Some say you can even feel it in their touch. To be around them is to experience God’s grace.

  JD stopped, suddenly aware of where he was and what he was doing. It was now after 9:00. A customer could walk in at any moment. “Hello, Art? You in here?”

  No answer.

  He looked to the front door, thinking perhaps he should run right out, when he smelled the most wonderful smell. Coffee brewing from the back. Art had to be here. JD walked carefully down the first aisle. Noticed a red and silver garland of tinsel, in loops across the top shelf. Up ahead he saw a light on in the office. He was about to look inside but stopped. He didn’t hear anyone, not a sound. He looked down.

  Oh no.

  There on the floor, sticking out through the doorway, a pair of legs. He recognized the pants and the shoes. “Art?”

  No answer. He looked inside.

  It was Art, unconscious on the floor.

  3

  He turned the car on. Instantly, the radio began blaring Johnny Mathis’s rendition of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

  Rick Denton quickly pushed a cassette in to stop the madness. He liked Christmas music as much as the next guy, but, please, did they have to start so early in the year? It was just Thanksgiving yesterday. Now he remembered hearing something on Wednesday, a DJ saying something about playing Christmas music the entire four-day weekend.

  A moment later, the soothing music, then the voice of Christopher Cross, filled the car. The song was “Sailing,” and Rick was quickly taken away to a much better place.

  He started singing along. Had the road to himself, why not? After the tense meeting he’d just had with a client, he needed Christopher Cross way more than Johnny Mathis. He was supposed to be skiing right now, but his client had insisted they meet this morning, get things wrapped up so he could fly home to Pittsburgh. Rick was driving back to the CPA firm in Charlotte where he parked his desk every day. A simple plan from here. File a few things, write down a few notes while his thoughts were fresh. Then hit the slopes at Sugar Mountain, just a few hours northwest of town. His friends had been there since yesterday afternoon.

  The chorus to “Sailing” came back around again.

  For the most part, Rick mangled the lyrics but sang like he knew t
hem all, got close here and there. Felt he could just as easily trade out “sailing” for “skiing” and the song would work just as well. He loved doing both.

  And he loved the fact that he had plenty of money to do both. He surveyed the insides of his Toyota Celica: leather interior, wood-grained dash, speakers in the front and back. Still had traces of the new car smell. He sat in that leather seat wearing a three-piece suit and the tie he’d taken fifteen minutes this morning to pick out.

  How much he’d changed from a decade ago, when he’d fled home for college. Drove a VW van back then, hair halfway down his back, stoned almost every day before noon. He would have despised the man he’d become now. He was officially a sellout, part of the establishment.

  Once more, the chorus of “Sailing” returned. He hummed along a few measures, tapped the dashboard, then belted out the end.

  He would soon be free. Life was better now. Much better.

  He turned right, left, stopped at traffic lights, threaded the mindless maze back to the office. Traffic was light the whole way, because everyone else was off. The parking garage formed the first three floors of the high-rise where he worked. It, too, was nearly empty.

  He took the elevator to the tenth floor by himself. Then again, he wasn’t totally alone. He was joined by the Lennon Sisters singing a spirited rendition of “Winter Wonderland.” He stepped out and walked through the lonely halls until he reached the entrance to the firm. In the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is Parson Brown. How was he going to get this song out of his head?

  There wasn’t even a receptionist at the front desk. He made his way past the open center section, a vast array of cubicles he’d been delivered from last year. But you can do the job when you’re in town. He heard a few typewriters clicking away somewhere near the middle, a welcome sound. As he turned the corner toward his office, he was surprised to see another human. A young clerk hired to assist a more senior accountant three doors down. She wasn’t unattractive, but not his type.