Catee's Grace

by Keith Holmes

  The young mother looked through the kitchen window as ice pellets tinkled against it. It wasn't unusual for Ethan to be late since he became site foreman but it didn't keep her from worrying especially when the weather was bad. Of course, most of the time he was grabbing a beer or two before heading home. She decided that if that was the case this time, he'd hear about it.

  She'd just closed the oven door when he finally made it home. She turned to him, her hands on her hips when she saw the frustration on his face. "What is it?" she asked.

  "Where's Catee?" he growled. He didn't wait for an answer. His lunchbox clutched in his fist, he marched to the little girl's room, Tara following behind. He found his daughter atop her bed looking through one of her favorite books.

  "Hi Daddy!" she chirped before the smile left her face. Ethan stepped to her, set her book aside and lifted his lunchbox.

  "Did you do this?" he asked, knowing the answer. He pointed to the Icthys - a symbol she'd seen in one of her favorite books. Admonished, Catee lowered her head and put her hands in her lap as she frowned. Ethan's anger deepened at her lack of answer. "I told you to stop this, didn't I?" he asked, his tone deep and angry. Catee didn't answer. She just sat quietly.

  "ANSWER ME!" Ethan demanded, shaking his lunchbox, more force to his voice than he'd intended. Catee jumped and began to cry.

  "Ethan!" Tara protested, stepping between them, ready for a fight.

  He glanced away, knowing he was handling this poorly. It was the way he was raised - he who shouted loudest won - and though he'd never lift a finger to his daughter, his anger was more than enough to intimidate her. He shook his head and took a deep breath to calm down, then he stomped out of the room.

  Tara watched him go and then spent a moment consoling her daughter. Satisfied that Catee was calm, she headed for the kitchen where she found him at the table, staring at the artwork, stewing.

  "Hey," Tara cooed before taking a seat at his side. She reached out and put her hand atop his. "She just wanted to draw something for you with her new art set."

  "I know," Ethan said, defeat in his voice. "I shouldn't have yelled at her but..." he added, turning the lunchbox until Tara could see the Icthys. She didn't know what it was.

  "Why are you pissed off about a fish?" she asked. Ethan rolled his eyes.

  "It's a Jesus Fish," he explained, waiting for her to get it. She didn't.

  "So? Why do you worry about that stuff?"

  "You work with the guys I work with and see if you worry about that stuff," he explained. "You break out your pink glitter Jesus-fish lunchbox on the jobsite and see what everyone thinks of you. They already call me Father Ethan thanks to all the other crazy shit she's drawn."

  "So?" Tara repeated. "Their little girls don't draw things for them?"

  "Big friggin' surprise... you don't get it," Ethan grumbled, shaking his head as he pushed from the table. But Tara wouldn't let this set the tone for the evening. She squeezed his hand and looked into his deep set eyes.

  "Hey, I don't have to get it. You say it causes you trouble at work so I'll make sure she doesn't do it anymore." She waited until his muscles released and the tension left his brow. Softly he nodded.

  "I just don't get it, that's all. We go to Christmas Mass and Easter Services to keep peace with Ma', and that's it. Why's it have to be the Bible? Why can't she love ponies or dolls or... anything else? Why dragons and swords and Jesus fish and...," he paused and sighed.

  "Why can't she just be a normal little girl?"

  "Mimi gave her that Bible. That's all. It's the last thing she's got to remember her by," Tara figured.

  Ethan chewed his lip for a moment before shaking his head.

  "Hey. This is supposed to be a secret but... she wants to have her picture made with Santa for you," she said, trying to cheer him up.

  Ethan's face brightened a bit. His daughter had never allowed such a picture since before she could speak. Initially her method was thrashing and crying but later, once she could speak, she let everyone know that the jolly old elf wasn't real.

  "You're making her," he doubted.

  Tara shook her head. "Nope. Her idea. For you."

  Ethan grinned as he looked around the kitchen, finally lifting his nose to the aromas. "What're we eating?"

  "I'm trying to make Nana's pasties again."

  Ethan tried not to chuckle but he couldn't help himself. "Should I order pizza now or...."

  "Let me at least get'em to the plate?" she laughed. He nodded and pushed himself from the table.

  "I'm gonna get a shower," he said, moving toward the bathroom. Tara's eyes followed him, shaking her head as she watched him go.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tara lay cuddling in bed with Catee as she fell asleep. It was a part of their nightly ritual, sometimes reciting the alphabet or counting. But tonight Catee had other things on her mind and to her mother's chagrin, needed to talk more than she wanted to sleep.

  "Mommy, does Daddy hate God?" she asked quietly.

  "No," Tara explained. "Daddy and God just... aren't good friends."

  "Why not?"

  Tara sighed softly as she sought the answer. Ethan had never been much for religion. His father taught him that a man made his own way in the world and that Jesus was for shysters and lazy people.

  "You know when you see a new word you can't pronounce and I try to help you?" She could feel Catee's head nodding against her chin. "You don't always want my help right? That's kind of how Daddy sees God. Daddy wants to do it himself."

  Catee grew still for a moment before finally turning to her mother, glancing over her shoulder. "But.... what if him not know how?"

  Tara glanced at the clock. "Shh... time for sleep little one," she instructed.

  Begrudgingly, Catee nuzzled into her mother's chest.

  Tara opened her eyes and lifted her head to check the clock. Satisfied that the little one was asleep, she quietly and carefully pushed herself from the bed and then made her way to the living room.

  Ethan was stewing, angry at himself for losing his temper with his daughter. Two empty beer bottles sat on the end table at his side, another - half-full - between his legs. A football game was on the tube but he wasn't really watching. She dressed the doorway and shook her head. Nobody beat up Ethan like Ethan. Stepping to the side of his chair, Tara slowly lowered herself to his lap and, using his half bent knees as a prop for her back, looked into his face. Her lips were drawn in empathetically. She opened her mouth to speak.

  “Don’t,” he demanded, his voice hard and low as he tossed a hand up before her.

  “Don’t what?” she asked, knowing full well what it was he didn’t want for her to do.

  “You know what," he replied softly.

  Tara held her tongue for the moment, considering what to say."Baby, I don't know why this stuff is her 'thing'. I just know that it is, and that it's harmless."

  Ethan shot her a glance.

  "Except for the lunchbox art," she added quickly, "but she's your girl and she worries about... weird things. Accept it. Let her be herself?"

  Ethan rolled his eyes.

  "You're right, she is my girl. She's yours too and I thought we were supposed to teach her about the important stuff in life so that she can grow up and be normal."

  "Like beer and football?" Tara asked. "You know every stat from every Bear's player for the past fifteen years. How's that different from dragon teeth or Excalibur or Bible verses?"

  "Oh my god," he chuckled. "You know stats are real, right?"

  Tara sighed and lowered her chin as she leaned forward and pressed her fingertips into his chest. "To her they're all real. She's little Ethan. Give her some room to be silly for awhile. I know you never got to be but don't you want that for her?"

  Ethan wriggled a bit and placed his hands atop her thighs as he considered. It was true. His oldest memories were from the kitchen and back alley of his father's sports bar and grill. His gifts were ball gloves and pads and cleats -
never the superheroes he asked for. Softly he nodded and then looked up into her eyes.

  "Okay," he said, the tension finally leaving his brow, "but not on my lunchbox."

  "I'll make sure," she smiled, leaning in to claim a kiss.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tara loved the mall. She loved everything about it, the sights and the smells, the shiny, new things displayed in shop windows. She didn't have to buy a thing - she grew up poor and never had two dimes to her name - but it never discouraged her love for shopping.

  Catee's hand was in hers as they approached Tara's Nirvana. The smile on the young mother's face was extra wide, fortified by the fact that Ethan's bonus was in her purse. The walk from the bus stop was short but cold. A throng in the parking lot filtered toward the festive entranceway as the distant sound of Christmas music burgeoned. But with each step little Catee's grip on her mother's fingers tightened. Tara pretended not to notice, hoping that there wouldn't be a problem this time. Finally, near the poster-covered glass doors she took pause and bent down to check on her daughter.

  “You okay baby?” Catee nodded softly but her eyes belayed the tension in her body. Tara spoke in her softest coo as she tried to encourage her daughter. “We have to get Daddy a present baby. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

  Again Catee nodded and touched her mother’s cheek. Since she was a baby she bemoaned a trip to the mall. She'd cry and cry until she felt outside air enter her lungs. Things hadn't changed a great deal as she grew - she still hated the crowds - but she would endure for her mother's sake.

  "You've got this," Tara assured, gently pinching Catee's chin.

  Inside Tara inhaled a breath of the sweet air, laced with the smell of roasted almonds and cinnamon. But Catee’s head began bobbling to and fro, taking in this massive place and particularly the people that whisked by. She was searching faces looking for smiles and when she found one, she’d let her eyes follow them until they were gone or until her mother straightened her faced-backward steps. So few people smiled anymore and hardly any made eye contact.

  As they meandered forward on their shopping trip, crowd noise mixed with soft Christmas Carols made any distinct sound all but unperceivable but something caught Tara’s ear. It was a rare sound, one she cherished. Glancing in the little one’s direction, Tara strained to lend an ear to the song softly spilling from jabbering lips. Catee was still firmly entrenched in her search for smiles but as a way to distract herself from the anxiety in the pit of her belly, she was singing.

  “God rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay…”

  In an instant the plastic euphoria that just 'being there' had given to Tara was melted away as a real, sweet smile spread across her face. For a moment she considered singing along but she didn’t want to do anything that might cause Catee to stop. Her little girl very nearly finished the song by the time they reached the gathering in the center of the mall, cut short by the bellowing “Ho-Ho-Ho” of a jolly, obese man dressed all in red.

  Catee’s eyes leapt to the fat man and she re-cinched the grip she had on Tara’s fingers. Tara squeezed back as she looked to the line that formed before Santa's throne. It was long, at least a half-hour’s wait. Tara lowered to one knee, ready to deliver another pep talk, but Catee's full attention was glued to Santa.

  "Baby?" Tara questioned, following Catee's glare.

  "Him not feels good."

  Something did seem amiss. Santa's face was flushed behind that furry, white beard and he was sweating. A mall administrator was checking on him but Santa shook his head and dismissed him. As he took his seat he leaned forward and seemed to struggle for breath for a moment. Then he straightened, looked to his teenaged elf-companions and waved the first child in line ahead.

  Tara watched the child come and go before she decided everything was all right. Then she returned her attention to Catee. “Baby, it’ll be okay, okay?”

  Catee shrugged softly as she looked to her mother. “It make Daddy happy?”

  Tara nodded softly as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind the little one's ear.

  “Okay Mommy,” came a reluctant reply.

  Tara smiled and the two found the end of the line. They’d been waiting for fifteen minutes or so, switching between holding and being held to circling Mommy’s legs nervously as they inched forward one Christmas wish at a time.

  It was nearly their turn when, a child ushered from his lap, Santa's face froze. His glued-on, bushy, white eyebrows pulled inward. His left arm went limp. His right clutched across his chest, bunching the fur-lined, red parka that he wore into a ball just above his heart. A guttural sound from his obfuscated mouth went for the most part unheard - most had set their eyes on any point of interest to help pass the time in the long line - but when the fat man came crashing down from his throne, tumbling down the red carpet steps before him the crowd gasped.

  He landed with his back upon the cold floor, his limbs laid out, spread-eagle. Empty eyes stared into the high ceiling and perhaps beyond. His faux-beard had twisted in the fall so that it rested atop his painted rosy cheek, an elastic string stretched tight across his gaping lips. A few feet from the top of a muss of sweat soaked, thinning red hair lay his elf’s hat; mottled, silver strands in a pile just beneath it finalized the revelation of the ruse. This man was not Santa; that much was all too apparent but this deception registered in nary a mind as the frightened gasps of mothers fueled the rapidly growing fears of their children.

  Tara was among the gasps, her hand tossed to her lips as she looked on at the surreal scene: the businessman tripping over himself to come to the aid of the fallen false-elf, the confused lunges of the teenaged assistants that knew they were powerless to help. The uniformity of the line to Santa's Throne was slowly falling apart as Mother’s swooped stunned children into their arms, trying to decide to stay or go, remaining out of morbid curiosity.

  "Is there a doctor here?" the mall administrator shouted as he huddled over Santa.

  Tara locked onto the man's desperate face, unable to look away. She wanted so badly to help him but she didn't know how. Blindly she reached down and took her daughter's hand and then slowly backed away from the railing, letting the crowd fill in around her in hopes that it would block her Catee's view.

  A flash of light drew her eyes. A cameraman - originally there to film some holiday b-roll - had pushed through the burgeoning crowd and begun to film.

  The mall administrator flung his walkie talkie toward the teens.

  "CALL FOR HELP!" he barked, desperate. And then he began performing CPR as best he could remember. He was about to begin chest compressions when a pair of pink Ked's standing at Santa's head, caught his attention.

  “Somebody get this kid!” he growled.

  At once he stopped, when Catee smiled at him. There was a glow around the girl, a presence of peace that calmed him to his soul. As she lowered to her knees, he sat up and watched as she pressed her little hand to his forehead.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Why is he stopping?”

  “Somebody get that little girl away from him!”

  A pop resounded, a sound that Tara hadn't heard in many years and her stomach sank. A unified gasp seemed to draw the air from the room as the mob froze in disbelief. From her mostly blocked vantage, Tara could see only a white-blue light. Instantly she knew. Her brow drew down as she jerked her head to the side to see that it wasn't Catee's hand she was holding.

  "Catee!" she gasped, releasing the girl's hand and pushing through the crowd. Catee was whispering to Santa as her hands began to burn with a white-blue shine. Tara froze in disbelief and fear. She scanned the huge crowd that had gathered, each face awe-struck... except one. An unassuming man looked on with his hand over his mouth, his hazel eyes filled with worry. His gaze found Tara's and he nodded toward Catee, urgency in the silent communication.

  Tara understood. She slipped under the railing and dashed to her daughter's side, dropping to her knees and skidding to a
halt. She wrapped her arms around her daughter just as the lifeless body before them jerked, gasped, and shot upright. Bewildered, Santa turned to the little girl in her mother's arms and reached for her.

  "Thank you! Thank you!" he spat. It frightened Tara and she spun, rising to her feet.

  "Oh my god! She healed him!" someone screamed. Tara wheeled around to the shout. And then she felt Catee's body convulse in her arms. The little girl was clutching her chest with her right hand, her left arm limp and dangling. "Oh no!" Tara lamented. She'd seen this before. "No baby... oh no!" she said, shaking her head as she watched her daughter have a heart attack in her arms. Suddenly voices rang out, calls of miracles and of the promises of healing. Tara's head bolted upright. They were staring at her and Catee, moving slowly toward them, driven by the promise of their own personal miracles. Tara began backpedaling, feeling slowly compressed.

  "Get away from us!" she demanded, trying to intimidate them. But for her attempts, the circle kept constricting, as though the people had become a mindless horde.

  "Please... I have to have a surgery soon," came one faceless plea. "My mom, she's so sick!" went another. Soon a dozen soft pleas melded into a burgeoning, incomprehensible noise as each began trying to shout over the other. Tara's eyes were as wide as saucers and as wild as a lioness trying to protect her cub. But as the circle tightened, she found that even a tiny step sent her bumping into someone as unwelcome hands reached out for Catee. She was about to scream, to fight her way free when suddenly the piercing howl of a fire alarm burst through the mall. The mob paused to look around. Tara felt a hand upon her forearm.

  ***

  Asa had no idea what was happening when he saw the gathering. He'd come to the mall for a treat, a hot pretzel and cheese. Ordinarily he'd have avoided the place, a dislike for the materialism that had been attached to one of his Order's most Holy observances and he was ready to pass the mob by. Then he saw that light.