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Holy Night by Zara Wilder A luminous energy courses through
the Tunnels at Christmastime. It is a time of endings, and of beginnings too.
The world Above becomes colder still. The quiet earth freezes, deepening the
reach of the year's longest nights. We who live Below draw together for warmth,
for cheer. And within the light we create for one another, a lightness of heart
grows bright and shines. Some of us love Christmas for the
good memories it brings. Others love this time for the new memories we gain
during each successive winter together Below. Many customs from every walk of
life mingle freely in our community. We all celebrate our respective holidays
throughout the season, honoring as we choose those traditions from the world
beyond these tunnels and chambers. In the world Below, our tradition
is to give December to the children. I've heard 'Randa refer to their
activities as the work of Santa's elves. If elves they be, the little ones are
assuredly dedicated to the role. Each year, I receive a fortnight's worth of
trinkets well before the twenty-fifth of December, and I am not alone in this.
All Tunnels adults, and many Topside Helpers, are recipients of this deluge.
The generosity of children is beautiful. William is preparing for that
gathering now, diverting most of his attention toward organizing his kitchen
for the creative frenzy to come later in the week. Breakfast this morning is a
simple affair. Oat porridge, boiled eggs, canned fruit. But it is also nearly
Christmas; so William has made coffee too. Hot chocolate for the children. The treats
are welcomed with great appreciation. Our energy is building. The Dining Hall
hums with good intentions. I have flavored a cup of almond
milk with honey and “a thimbleful of coffee,” as Winslow puts it. Truly, it was
more than a thimbleful; though certainly far less than Winslow's large mug of
the morning brew. “To each his own,” I replied. I find coffee too strongly
burnt for my taste. A little goes a long way. Nor does an ordinary quantity sit
well once drunk. A full cup of coffee strikes at my nerves, sets my hands to
shaking. But my thimbleful does not offend, so I sip my drink and smile because
despite his teasing, Winslow is in a merry mood and that's all to the good. My
friend is in charge of set construction for the pageant this year. I sense that
he's proud of his work. Winslow turns away from me now,
nudging the man who sits beside him with one elbow. He has taken his companion
by surprise; Cullen was preoccupied with his own thoughts. Our newest friend
looks up at one of my oldest friends. “Did you get that rocking chair
fixed up for the stage?” Winslow asks. Cullen has to think for a moment,
pulling his attention away from private musings. “Oh. Yeah, I did. The paint's
still drying. It should be ready for you this afternoon for sure.” “Great. I'll send Jamie over for it.” Cullen nods and goes back to
moving the last few bites of his oatmeal from one side of his bowl to the
other. I attend more closely to the emotional impressions he is projecting.
Sorrow like icicles; regrets as bitter as the fierce north wind. I think I understand the source
of his feelings. This is Cullen's first Christmas Below. This is Cullen's first
Christmas without his wife. I look away from Cullen's face, look into my
half-emptied cup, feel my own sorrow surge forward in response to Cullen's
pain. I have been bereaved. I have lost friends, a brother, a beloved teacher,
Helpers to the world beyond the Tunnels, hopes, dreams, plans for my future. But a wife? A woman to whom I've
bound my life, a bride who has pledged her heart to mine? No. How Cullen has borne such a loss
I do not know. I finish my variation on a cup of
Christmas coffee. I watch Cullen leave the Dining Hall, taking his sadness with
him like a snow cloud sifting icy flakes down upon our carpenter alone. What
can I do to ease his burden? What can any of us do? I am sitting in a room surrounded
by my family and yet my aloneness is hovering at the forefront of my mind.
Cullen's loneliness has summoned it. I turn my thoughts toward the December
sky, far Above. Where is she this morning? I listen now for her. I don't
need to be nearby in order to feel the currents flowing through Catherine's
heart. I don't know how or why our connection has not faded with physical
distance. I know only what I feel—and what she feels. Today, she is happy. My sorrow
lifts a little. She is traveling through the streets of Catherine, enjoy the brightness.
Stay happy, today and always. May blessings of the season go with you. ******* The elevator stops and the doors
open. I exit the elevator cab, stepping out quickly to make way for the others
joining me on this, the conclusion of our vertical voyage. It's a Monday
morning, but for the first time in a long time—maybe the first time ever—since
I started working here, I am actually caught up on the paperwork. Today, Cathy
Chandler starts with a fresh slate, sailing toward Christmas on the happy
knowledge that I've done my job well— But my triumph is short-lived. I walk into the Investigations
Bureau, cross the bustling room to my desk, and find at least six new file
folders and a sheaf of loose papers waiting for me. From the other side of the
room, where he has been talking with Scott Haywood, the man with wavy black
hair and an imp's quirking smile sees me deposit my purse into the bottom right
drawer of my desk. He ends his conversation with Scott and saunters over to me.
He's wearing a red and green striped tie around the collar of his starched but
already wilting blue shirt. He holds up three more file folders. “Joe,” I tell him. “It's
Christmas.” “Tell that to the criminal
element,” he returns. Joe Maxwell, Deputy DA, places the new files squarely
upon the center of my desktop and grins. “Season's greetings.” There are some days when I
believe that my de facto supervisor could drive me to join the
criminal element, except for the fact that I know it would only create more
paperwork. I sit down. Joe wends his way to
somewhere else, no doubt to torment some other poor sap who is also chained to
their desk in the DA's office. I take a pen out of my top drawer. But as I
reach for the first file folder, I am stopped by the slow sense of unreality
that slides over me, touching lightly here and there with clammy fingers. I'm
facing what is practically a snowstorm of paper, but I'm not afraid of it. I'm
not sitting here trying to think of some way to get out of doing my work. There's my hand, poised to begin.
There's the job, awaiting completion. Here's me, capable of completing it. I tell myself that of course
I am capable. The chilly feeling begins to slip away. I welcome its departure.
The strangest things still take me by surprise now and then. I think my memory
was trying to compare today with last year's twenty-second of December. Last year, I would not have been
at the office so early in the morning, settling in at my desk a few minutes
before eight. Last year my desk would have been located in my father's law
firm, and I would be spending more time at that desk poring over my social
calendar than I would ever willingly spend tackling, say, Wight and Mackson,
Inc.'s material breach of contract claim. Or any other case assigned to me, for
that matter. I used to do everything in my power to spend as little time at
that desk as possible. I glance at my current desk
calendar. The notations I've written there are not social occasions, but
necessary appointments for my work. My morning is blissfully clear. Then I have
the Corwick deposition at one, and an interview with Lacy Dunland at three-thirty,
to review her testimony and prepare her for participation in the trial of the
man who assaulted her sister. I'm told that trials taking place around the
holidays are always particularly rough on everyone. It will be important to
apply my full concentration to Lacy's prep session. On my calendar, Thursday,
Christmas, is the only day with no work appointments scheduled. It occurs to me
that it's going to be the first Christmas of my new life. This is the first
Christmas since the night I experienced my own aggravated assault, eight months
ago. Firsts continually sneak up on
me. I hope very much that if I can just get past the twelfth of April next
spring, these jarring little moments will stop. I'm doing better now than I
was. These days, it's not the fear that strikes me as much as the
discontinuity. I have been teaching myself not to give in to my fear, slowly
stitching the pieces of my life back into a coherent whole—the way surgeons
stitched my face back together after criminals tried to destroy it. But, Cathy, that's enough of that
for today. I take a deep breath, let it out. Think of Christmas. Think of the
glittering tree at My trip to and from the office
coffee decanter keeps me thinking about Christmas. Potted poinsettias and
bedraggled lengths of silver tinsel decorate the desks of many co-workers. I
think these people are very brave in their attempts to infuse the atmosphere
with a little holiday spirit. This office is a crazy place to work sometimes,
but we try to stay human. We try to take care of each
other. And we try to live as well as we can. These remembered words cut
through the office chatter. I sit down at my desk again, wondering about the
person who once spoke those words to me. This is another memory from April, and
it is a secret memory, for Vincent's world is a secret place. Do they celebrate Christmas in
the world Below the city streets? I try to imagine what kinds of gifts a band
of outcasts might give to one another, and find that I cannot. Or maybe I
simply don't want to imagine the Tunnel People—and especially
Vincent—rooting through dumpsters and scouring the rubble of demolished or
derelict buildings, searching for potentially useful objects to salvage and
repair. Rejecting that image, all I can see is Vincent's room, a candlelit cave
full of his comfortable assortment of New York's cast-offs and antiques. I sip my steaming coffee without
really tasting it. Apart from dreams, I haven't seen him since April. I hope
Vincent is well. I hope my unique, most special friend is warm and safe. Last
night's snowfall is a frigid reminder that more snow showers are expected this
week, perhaps fresh snow for Christmas morning. Oh, yes, and there's Christmas
again, looming large in my mind with all its trappings of peace and good
wishes. I wish I knew what kind of present Vincent might like, not to mention
how on earth I would ever deliver it to him. My heart sends a Merry
Christmas in absentia! toward the city drainage tunnels. I take the top file folder out of
my basket. Reading through the report it contains, I mark those pages that
require further follow up. This folder is going to generate about five phone
calls. I should say, at least five phone calls. “Season's greetings,” I
mutter, and reach for the handset of my phone. ******* Cullen is sitting on the seat of
the freshly painted rocking chair, his head in his hands. He rocks slowly. The
runners of the chair bear down in rolling arcs upon the old newsprint he has
layered across the stone floor to protect the gray rock from splatters of brown
paint. He does not notice my arrival. I call softly to him, “Cullen.” He looks up. His eyes are red. He
is not weeping now, but he must have been earlier. “Vincent,” he says his voice
a little hoarse. He motions for me to come inside. I do so, choosing a clear place
on Cullen's workbench to set down the crate of books I'm transporting from the
Upper Storage Chamber to the Nursery. Cullen stands up from the chair. “Just...testing the paint job,”
he tells me. He tries to smile. “Our players will be very pleased
with your work.” He sniffs, sighs. “Yeah. I did
pretty good with it.” He does not want to talk. He
isn't ready. I reach out to him, resting one hand on his shoulder. I want him
to know that he is not alone. We are here for him, whenever he needs us. He may
not be ready to hear that either. So I say nothing. “We do. The day after Halloween,
the children always elect a new director for the project. They write an
original pageant each year.” “That's really great, Vincent.
These kids down here...all of you...” Cullen shakes his head. I correct him as gently as I can.
“All of us, Cullen.” I sense his questioning, and his lonesome doubt.
“You're part of us now too,” I say. This time he does manage to
smile. “Okay, so when do the rest of us get to see this pageant?” “Christmas Day. The performance
begins after dinner, and we have desserts during intermission.” “Oh. Not Christmas Eve, then.” “No.” We talk of other projects. Cullen
and Winslow are trying to discover some way to repair a failing water pump on
an important main line. Mouse is helping with this project too, although
Winslow always finds Mouse's plans ill-suited for a stolid mechanic's
forthright methods. Cullen and I agree that Winslow and Mouse have trouble
listening to each other. When Jamie arrives to take the
rocking chair over to the stage being prepared at the south end of the Dining
Hall, I take my leave as well. Cullen has found points of connection between
himself and his new family. This is good. I'm glad to have provided some
comfort in that regard. As I leave with my load of books, Cullen begins
scraping his plane over a warped length of wood scavenged from a broken fence
Above. Our carpenter's hurts are slow to heal, but they are healing. I will
continue to look in on him during the days to come. Reaching the Nursery, I find I am
forbidden entrance into the children's domain. Samantha stands guard at the
entryway. She directs five of her friends to come out and unload the crate. “Thank you!” she chirps to me.
The girl's brown eyes sparkle with Christmas secrets. “We can take it from
here.” Thus am I dismissed. I bring the emptied crate with me
to Father's chamber. Father and Mary are there, heads bowed over one of
Father's supply ledgers. They are reviewing our inventory of medical supplies.
Mary is taking down notes on a slip of notepaper. “More suture,” Father says.
“Calamine lotion. Iodine.” “Witch hazel and ibuprofen,” Mary
murmurs. “We're running low.” “Add them too.” Father glances up
at me as I descend the steps into his study. “Ah, Vincent.” I nod my greeting. “Is that everything?” Mary asks
Father. She smiles at me. I set my crate on the floor
beside one of Father's many towers of books. “Yes. Thank you, Mary,” Father
tells her. Mary drops her pencil into a
pocket of her apron and folds the supply list in half. She eyes the empty
crate. “Did they let you in?” she asks. “No. Our elves have only a short
time left to them now. Grown people can only slow their labors.” Mary huffs. “Far be it from me to
interrupt them. But do they still know I'm happy to help?” I give her my gravest nod. “They
know.” Sighing, Mary moves toward the
study's rear entry. “I'll get this list to Andrew.” “Very good,” Father replies. He
closes the ledger book and returns it to a drawer of his desk. “We'll see you
tonight at the Solstice celebration?” “Of course, Father,” Mary replies
over her shoulder. Then she is gone. I sit down in the tapestry
armchair beside Father's table, stretching my legs out, waiting for Father to
join me there. I notice that he is using a walking stick this afternoon instead
of his crutch. This is a good sign. My adoptive father's old injury gives him
little pain today. His relative comfort will be a boon to him when he attends
the Solstice gathering out at the Mirror Pool tonight. This year, Rebecca is
presiding. I expect the ceremony she has prepared will have much to do with
candles. Father crosses the room and sits
opposite me. There is a chessboard on the tabletop between us, the black and
white pieces assembled on their squares in anticipation of battle. The rest of
the table is suspiciously clear of books, which means that Father may have been
studying the strategies of chess masters again and doesn't want me to know what
he's been reading. I'm aware that this practice does tend to improve his
game—though whenever he takes his place across the board from his best student,
I cannot begrudge Father any least advantage he can rally to his cause. “Now then,” Father says. “To
business.” He plays white, as usual. A
King's Pawn opening. Aggressive, for Father. I make the classic response,
mirroring the move. Father's answer: Pawn to King's Bishop 4. He has opened
with the King's Gambit. I look at him. Father seems quite
pleased with himself. I fold my hands beneath the table and consider. Do I
accept, decline, or counter? I decide to decline. Since we are
making a very old-school beginning, I offer the Classical Defense. And the
battle unfolds in earnest. “You were very quiet at table
today,” Father comments after a few minutes have passed. “For both meals.” I make my next move and reply, “I
was distracted.” “May I ask by whom?” “You assume my distraction was a
person?” “When you spend the lunch hour
glancing at the entrance to the Dining Hall without seeing the person you're
expecting to see; yes, I assume you're waiting for someone.” I laugh quietly. Father knows me
very well. I say, “I was watching for Cullen, but he never joined us for lunch
today.” Father ponders a moment longer,
then captures one of my pawns. “Cullen.” “Yes.” I look up from the board.
“His sorrow weighs heavy. He's in great pain.” Father looks up too. I feel the
flicker of shadows as his own griefs rise to the surface of his thoughts and
then submerge themselves again. Father has never spoken to me of his deepest
sorrows. Yet I know they are there, a part of his past and his reasons for
living where and as he does. It is a subject I do not ask him about, a boundary
I will never cross without invitation. His immediate sympathy, however, is
commendable. He understands many of Cullen's needs. “The world is a wholly different
place during the first year after a loss, when every square on the calendar
grid seems like a gaping wound,” Father murmurs. I say nothing. I know this is
true. Father knows that I know. He sighs. “Have you spoken with
him?” “I have begun to speak with him,”
I reply. “He's afraid of Christmas Eve.” “Hmm. See what you can do for
him, Vincent. I know the two of you are becoming good friends. And tell me if I
can help in any way.” “I will.” We return to the game. Father observes my next move and
remarks, “You realize I could easily outflank you there.” I smile. At that, Father grumbles and
leans over the board, studying the chessmen with undisguised mistrust. Fondly,
I watch him work through his tactical deliberations. For all his bluster, I'm
sure he'll take the bait. I know Father very well too. ******* “It means that the counsel for
the defense petitioned Judge Hawthorne to postpone Jackson's trial. Judge Hawthorne
granted that request just this morning. They haven't set a new date yet.” “And...Jackson's bail is still
good?” “Yes, Lacy. I'm sorry.” We are sitting at a table in Jen
Li's Fine Tea House on Baxter Street, less than half a block from a long line of
small bail bonds agencies. I asked to meet Lacy here rather than have her join
me in my office as we had originally planned. It seemed like a more neutral
place to deliver this news. Her hands are shaking a little as she lifts her
glazed jade-green teacup to her lips and sips the steaming white tea. She seems
tired, frazzled, her curly blonde hair brushed back into an impatient ponytail
and her many sleepless nights shadowing Lacy's otherwise beautiful blue-gray
eyes. Lacy has been taking care of her older sister Ruth ever since the morning
Ruth's former boyfriend, Jackson, beat the woman unconscious with a tire iron.
Ruth's cognitive abilities have been reduced to those of a five-year-old child. Why Jackson Bordeaux was granted
bail at all is an utter mystery to me. “So...what can I expect? After
Christmas? After New Year's?” Lacy asks. “Definitely after Christmas,” I
answer. “Beyond that, I couldn't say. But Lacy, the moment I know anything at
all, I will call you.” She nods, very pale and looking
years older than twenty-eight. “Sure. Look, I really want to thank you
for...just...walking me through this the way you're doing. I know you don't
have to. I mean, you've gotta be terribly busy. Work, life, everything. Plenty
of crime in this city. Not a lot of official people would go out of their way
like this to help Ruth and me. Not a lot of people have.” I think: We try to live as
well as we can. “I'm not a lot of people,” I tell her. “But I am someone
you can count on. Me, the DA's office, the police officers who responded to
your call—we do care.” Lacy nods again. I feel like my
words are only cold comfort at best. We drink tea. “Miss Chandler—” “Cathy. Please.” “Cathy, then. Can you tell it to
me straight...how good are our chances in court? Jackson's dad got him David
Phelps, and he's supposed to be this hot shot lawyer, and at the
arraignment...you wouldn't believe the look Jackson gave me. God, I was scared.
But I'm even more scared that if I don't go to these things, no one's gonna
tell me anything.” I set my cup on the table and
look steadily into Lacy's exhausted eyes. “Okay. Straight up. Joe Maxwell is
prosecuting this case.” “Yes. He seems nice.” I hope my smile comes across as
reassuring. “Well, he may be nice, but Joe is also very smart and he's very
good. He hates what happened to Ruth, and he wants to see that justice is
served for both of you. Joe is not a hot shot. He's in this for the long haul,
and he's here to see that Jackson's crime is prosecuted to the fullest extent
of the law. He'll do his best. I can't
predict what the jury will decide, but they're going to hear the whole truth
from our end.” Lacy bites her lip. I reach
across the table, grasping her hand. The heat she's received from the teacup
has warmed her cold skin. She grips my fingers and tries very hard not to cry. “I promise, you're not going to
be left out of the loop. Okay, Lacy? I know you've been working with Andrea
Parker. She's a great ADA, but she's also wrangling a dozen other cases right
now. So before you go, I'm going to give you my card. I'll write my home number
on the back. I will call you with any and all news, and I want you to promise
to call me, anytime, if you have any questions. Any problems at
all. Or even if you just need someone to talk to. Will you promise me you'll do
that?” “Sure.” She utters a shaky laugh.
“How can I say no to that offer?” We smile sadly at each other, two
women brought together by the worst of circumstances. Lacy lets go of my hand
to rub one knuckle at the corners of her eyes, then she wraps her fingers
around her teacup again. I ask her how her sister is doing and learn that
Ruth's therapist at Wedgefield Community Center is optimistic about Ruth's
progress. Ruth can speak in complete sentences now. This has generated a vast
improvement in Lacy's ability to communicate with her. “Stay strong,” I tell Lacy a few
minutes later, as she's gathering her things to leave. “You're doing an amazing
job.” Lacy whispers, “Thanks,” and goes
out the door. I pick up the tab, then step out into the cold myself to walk
back to my office. I head down the block, past little oriental restaurants,
past the bond agents, past (of all things) a flower shop. I cross the street,
thinking about Lacy and Ruth. I find that I'm also thinking about me. I was lucky. Oh, God, I was
lucky. Back in the office, the
temperature feels tropical after the brisk gusts of wind on the street. I work
on tying up loose ends, choosing which files to take home with me and which to
leave at my desk. I have vowed that I will leave on time today. I want to stop
at my favorite stationary store on the way home, to select the things I'd like
to put inside Dad's new-old writing case. I should be able to pick up a few
other last-minute gifts for those friends attending Dad's Christmas Eve dinner
party. I also want to find something nice for Dad's closest friend these days,
Kim Baskerville, and something fun for my new friend, Edie. I really think my
favorite part of getting ready for Christmas is choosing presents for everyone
I care about. I think I'd like to get something
for Ruth and Lacy too. I'm not sure what might be appropriate. Something
special. Something to help them feel that the world hasn't turned its back on
them. I'll have to give it some thought. I manage to have everything
packed up at five-thirty. Scott, walking by my desk, sees me putting on my coat
and makes a big show of checking his watch to see if it's stopped. “So, Cathy.
Who said you get to go home early tonight?” I laugh. “See you tomorrow,
Scott.” He waves, and I'm free. Outside
the building, lights are blazing everywhere. I see sidewalks teeming with
people bundled against the cold. The people are carrying bags and boxes,
stepping into and out of idling taxis, talking on street corners, arguing into
payphones, striding down the street holding briefcases, or cartons of Chinese
food, or throbbing boom boxes, or gift baskets, and even, in one case, a large,
pink, plush poodle with plastic cartoon eyes. The poodle is wearing a
rhinestone collar that could serve as a belt for a stocky child. This uncanny
toy is tucked beneath the arm of a brawny black man in a leather coat who is in
one hell of a hurry to get wherever he's going. It's Christmas in New York. I
join the throng, doing my part as a conscientious consumer to bolster the
American economy. Today hasn't been half bad, for a Monday. “Good King
Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen, “Hither,
page, and stand by me, if thou know'st it, telling, The girls reply:
“You know, it's funny,” Cullen
says to me. “They've been going over the same set of songs all month, but I
haven't gotten tired of hearing them yet.” Smiling a little, I reply, “Nor
I. Sometimes I think the sound of pipe code on the pipes is the heartbeat of
our world, and then the music we share becomes our very breath. I can't help
regretting that Father is leading their final rehearsal today. Hm. But we'll
hear them sing some of their carols tomorrow night, while they are delivering
their gifts, and we'll hear the rest of their Yuletide music at the feast.” Cullen nods thoughtfully. He
looks at the tunnel floor between us for a moment. Then he says, “I hope I
didn't scare you off yesterday. I know I wasn't in a very good mood.” I listen for the cadence of
Cullen's emotions. If yesterday's encounter comprised a sad mood for him, our
carpenter is in a more optimistic frame of mind today. “You're entitled to all
the things that you feel, Cullen: the joy and the pain, and everything in
between.” “Down here maybe.” His gaze
becomes curious as he studies my face. “Do you spend much time up Above?” An interesting question. Not one
I expected. “I go Above on many nights,” I tell him. “I walk the streets and
visit friends and Helpers. I listen. I watch, and breathe.” He thinks about this. “Some
people down here never go Up at all.” “Many of us find neither safety
nor solace in the world Above.” I try to understand the path Cullen's heart is
taking. I sense a pang of longing swell within him. “You've stayed in Tunnels
for several months now,” I say. “Yeah. New York City...it hasn't
been good for me. Any city, actually.” “You've traveled.” Cullen laughs softly, a weary
bitterness hardening his voice. “I followed the jobs. I don't think that
counts as 'traveling.' When Betty and I ended up here, we thought we could make
a fresh start.” Now his bitterness recedes and the weariness of his soul takes
its place. “No one plans for cancer, Vincent.” I whisper, “No.” He takes something from his
pocket. It looks like a small wooden carving, but Cullen is idly fingering the
lines of the crafted shape and I cannot tell what it might be. “When we first
moved to New York, we didn't have very much. We never had very much. We
saved nickles and dimes for birthdays and Christmas. Betty had this big china
vase from her grandmother, where she stashed her savings. I just used an old
pickle jar. I remember how one year, we decided to pool everything together. We
bought two pairs of used ice skates and went to Wollman Rink, over in Central
Park. That was Christmas Eve, about two in the afternoon.” Cullen is gazing into the past
now, his eyes seeing beyond me, beyond these tunnels, piercing even the veils
of death and mourning. “The weather, hell New York, had been crazy all
year, but the holiday decided to be civil to us. We put on our Christmas skates
and stayed out on the ice until it started to get dark. We were like two kids
again. Betty was wearing this bright blue and lavender hat, and she'd done up
her hair in braids. She had this absolutely infectious smile, Vincent. When
Betty laughed, you wanted the whole world to laugh with her, because it was
like she could open up the sky and call out the sun. “At sunset, we stopped to rest.
She was calling me Rudolph, because my nose had turned red, and her cheeks were
like cherries. We bought hot chocolate at the little cafeteria, and shared the
sandwiches and shortbread we brought with us. The sky was full of colors. We
watched the sun go down behind the towers. All the lights from the buildings
showed up bright and the stars came out. We counted the ones we could see
through breaks in the clouds. We were both tired by then, but it was Christmas
Eve, and people were laughing and singing carols. “‘One more time,’ Betty said.
‘Just one more time around.’ So we skated about three dozen
one-more-times-around.” Cullen's love fills him, spills
over. He begins to smile. “We didn't say much to each other, walking home from
the park. We were tired and it felt good to be tired. Betty just held my hand
and looked at me, and her eyes were shining. I think it was our best day since
the wedding.” Cullen falls silent. The children are now singing “The
First Noel.” Their voices ring in the air, accompanying this memory of husband
and wife strolling beneath a winter sky. Cullen holds his carving still in his
hands. I see that it's a miniature reindeer. “We talked about doing that
again,” Cullen says. “Maybe making it a tradition. But the Christmas after
that, Betty's mom got sick. It was all we could scrape together to get Betty to
Minneapolis. The year after that I had to work late on the twenty-fourth. I
told her I was too tired for skating. The year after that, they had
closed the rink. ‘For 'renovations.’” Cullen rolls his eyes. “You know what it
means when this town decides to renovate something?” I do. My nod is rueful. “I guess we could have gone
skating somewhere else, but I was the one who didn't want anything less than
Central Park. I said it wouldn't be the same. That—” He stops. He caresses the
reindeer carving. “That good things come to those who wait,” he says at last. The children's Noel has ended. I
hear Father's voice delivering praise and what must be a humorous suggestion.
Young voices laugh and someone plays a note on the clunky upright piano in the
gallery encircling Father's study. They launch into “Deck the Halls.” Cullen listens with only half an
ear. He shakes his head. “Betty wasn't strong enough last year to even make a
trip out to the park in her wheelchair. All Christmas Eve, she sat at the
window, watching the world go by without her. It made me cold, just to look at
her doing that. I think maybe...Vincent; I think that was when she gave up.” He looks down at the reindeer.
“Do you know that they finally reopened the Wollman Rink last month?” “Yes.” “The day I heard about it...I've
never been so angry in my whole life.” There is the music, and messages
pinging along the pipes, and a moment of quiet between the two of us. The choir
completes another chorus of fa-la-las. I cross the space between myself and my
friend to stand beside him. Cullen holds up his carving. “Can you tell me which one of the
kids might like this?” he asks. I consider. “I shall apprise you
of a great secret. Geoffrey is playing the heroic red-nosed reindeer in the
pageant. Perhaps he would like a souvenir of his role.” Cullen smiles at my words. “These
kids sure like to keep things under wraps.” “Half their fun comes from
creating good surprises for friends,” I say to him. “Yeah.” He returns the carving to his
pocket. I touch his shoulder. When he looks at me, I say, “You don't want to be
alone tomorrow. Is that what's troubling you?” Cullen is on the verge of saying
something, of making an effort to put what he feels into words. I believe this
struggle is too much for him; he only nods his head. “Come find me after breakfast. We
can help William bring the last of his supplies down from Long's Grocery.
Afterward, I've promised to help Father and Mary complete their inventory of
the Hospital Chamber. I'm sure they won't mind an extra helping hand. But once
we are finished there...Cullen, do you like chess?” The woodcarver laughs. “The way I
hear it, not as much as you do. But I have been told I can hold my own in that
game.” “Good. Join me. We'll spend a day
together.” “Okay. Yeah. That would be
great.” I take my hand from his shoulder.
We lean against the wall, enjoying the final strains of the children's music.
While we listen, the rehearsal ends. There is a sound of many conversations,
the bumps and thumps of furniture being moved. Then it is Father's time for the
telling of winter tales. The children clamor for a ghost story. “Can you hear what they're saying
in there?” Cullen asks. “Father is going to perform 'A
Christmas Carol' for them. That's a story he tells very well.” Cullen stands up from his slouch
on the wall. “Father tells a lot of stories really well. I'm gonna go try to
find some ribbon for the reindeer. What's a present without a bow, right?” I smile. “What, indeed?” My friend gives me his wry,
crooked grin and walks away. I too step from the wall and continue onward to my
chamber. I have many books and papers to sort before the children's lessons
resume next week. Tomorrow will not be the right day to do this work. ******* My new CD of A Charlie Brown
Christmas is playing on the stereo, warming the apartment with my best
memories of home and family. Every time I turn my head, I see cheerful nodes of
blue, pink, gold, green, and violet reflected in the glass surfaces of my
furnishings. I've settled for decorating doorways and the mantelpiece with
colored mini-lights this year. Between the juggling act at work, my
self-defense classes, and squeezing in a few of the worthier social galas here
and there, I just wasn't up to installing a tree. Dad will have a tree at his
house, though. Long cords of Christmas lights will already be twinkling through
the greenery, along with plain glass ball ornaments—but he'll have held off on
tinsel and star, and our favorite decorative mementos. If I arrive early enough
tomorrow evening, I'll be able to help Dad and Kim place the finishing touches. There. This was the last gift
that needed wrapping. I slide Dad's case carefully into the box of packages I'm
taking with me to dinner tomorrow. I look around my living room. Edie's present
is sitting beside my purse and legal satchel on the table by the front door.
All other presents were shipped to friends weeks ago. I smile. New Cathy puts
in a full day at work, and she still manages to have all her gifts ready for
the twenty-fourth with a good twelve hours to spare. Children's voices stop singing
“Christmas Time is Here,” and the “Skating” instrumental begins. I sit down on
a couch and reach into my mail basket for today's round of greeting cards.
Opening plain or foil-lined envelopes, I skim each card's printed lines of
tepid verse to get to handwritten notes and flourished signatures. Lorraine
Brayburn has moved again. I set aside her envelope so I can update my records
with the return address. Susan Alcott sent me a blank card with her own message
written inside, which is lovely and just like her. Kevin and Darcy Foxcomb are
expecting their second child, due in February. I make a mental note to add a
reminder to my calendar, so I'll be ready to send a gift when the birth
announcement arrives. End-of-the-year news received, I
lean against the sofa cushions and let my mind wander. Give it a week and a
day, and I'll have survived—quite literally—1986. I look at the string of
lights framing the French doors between my dining room and my terrace. The multicolored
light and music, the fragrance of spiced potpourri on my coffee table, the open
bin of ribbons and gift wrap on my dining table: it all adds up to a strange
sense of melancholy joy. My biggest regret as of this moment is that I know no
way to share any part of this holiday with the friend, who above all others,
has ensured my survival. I remember how he spoke to me.
“You said you went to Radcliffe for college,” he had prompted, hoping in his
sincere way to distract me from my fear, and from my battered body's terrible
pain. “What was it like?” Vincent's unforgettable voice
guided me through the long, dark days and nights I spent beneath the city: Listen,
I'll read the next chapter of the story now. I'll read you this poem. I've
brought more broth for you to drink. You've been to Rome in the springtime;
what did you see there? Here is more medicine, can you hold the cup of water
today? Tell me about Paris. Tell me about Cancún. Don't be afraid, Catherine. You're growing
stronger every day. I have to wonder, during those
ten days, when did he sleep? I do recall others caring for me,
a woman with efficient hands—I think her name was Mary—and an older man Vincent
called Father. But most of the time, and most of all, there was that quiet,
patient Voice. It was luxurious black velvet muffling distant thunder—honest,
strong, compassionate. He was so careful not to touch me, to frighten me with
his huge clawed hands while those bandages hid the sight of him from my eyes.
Instead, he spoke into my darkness, and his voice led me slowly but surely
toward a hopeful light. My strange and gentle friend: I
wish I had not recoiled from my first chance encounter with your generous hand.
In the months since I came home, I've caught myself again and again, longing for
that touch, that security. I know how to give someone a present enfolded in
paper and a bow. I'm learning how to give my skills and my support to those who
need them most. Yet how can I ever give a gift that matches the depth of hope
Vincent has given me? Tonight there is no answer to this question. Sighing, I get up and make the
rounds. I set the Brayburn envelope next to my address book. The Foxcomb card
gets moved to my desk, where I tuck the card inside a 1987 appointment book
that is resting there. Gift wrap supplies go back to the top shelf of my
bedroom closet. Then out come the legal files from my satchel. I take these to
my dining table, where I can spread out and dig in. On the CD, “The Christmas
Song” piano solo tinkles to a close and the music ends. I switch off my stereo
system. “You are the last batch of
homework I'm going to look at this week,” I tell the papers waiting for me on
the table. “No more files get to come through my door until Monday.” These are such pleasant thoughts,
I feel ready to sit down at the table. We'll just see how much I can get
through before the need for sleep overtakes me. And that's another thing I'm
intending to enjoy for Christmas this year. Sleeping in. … I open my journal. I set pen nib
to page. I write: 24 December
1986, Early Morning— Last night I dreamt of Catherine. I stood in an open place. The air was cold, the ground beneath my feet dark yet gleaming with points of reflected light, like a sheet of obsidian glass. From a great distance away a woman was gliding toward me. As she came closer, I saw that she wore a blue gown. The train of her long cloak swept across the glassy floor behind her, an outer garment of no discernible color, perhaps gray or brown, trimmed with white fur and silver ribbons. The woman smiled. I knew her. Father's black sutures were gone from her face. Her wounds had become smooth white lines across her skin. Catherine was— She was beautiful. In my dream, Catherine held out her hand to me. I tried to step across the space between us and nearly fell. The glass was slippery. “You'll need these,” Catherine told me. I saw that her hand held a pair of skates by their laces. I took the skates from her. My hand met hers. Her touch was warm, bright. Her radiance grew and the black glass beneath us became as a silver mirror. “You'll know it has begun when music touches the stars,” she said. I asked her, “What music, Catherine?” “The music that completes the dream.” She glided even nearer. She was already wearing her own skates. “Even the memory of love is worth its loss,” she said. “But is love ever truly lost?” Catherine rested her hand over my heart. She drew close, embraced me, fearlessly. I received—her trust. And in my heart, I felt— There are no words for what I felt. When I awoke I was in my chamber, surrounded by stone and books and pipe song. For a moment I was afraid that I might succumb to sadness, that I might regret leaving the dream, returning to a reality in which Catherine has not remained beside me. But her touch—her light—it stays with me, even now. I am warmed. I find that I am—happy. She was very beautiful. I stop writing and wait for other
thoughts that bear recording. Nothing further comes to mind. I twist the cap
onto my fountain pen and sit back in my chair. Is love ever truly lost? No. It is not. All at once, I believe I know
what I can do for my friend Cullen. I listen to the rhythmic rumble
of a subway train passing by overhead. It is a sound I usually do not notice,
for I've been hearing it constantly all my life. But my awakened self hears it
today, and hears in these train sounds the swish and scuff of ice skates on
frozen water. I will need to speak very gently,
to convince Cullen to come. I think I will wait to tell Father about my idea
until after the thing is done. There are times when it is wisest to address
Father's fears after the fact, rather than allow him to stew in his well-intentioned
anxiety before a risk can even be attempted. The memory of love survives each
loss. And I know even the greatest griefs can build the strongest foundation
for new memories. ******* I woke up early enough to indulge
in a cup of French press coffee at my dining table. That pleasure made up for
the final hour of expected sleep that I lost. I put Costa Rican beans into my
coffee grinder this morning. San Marcos de Tarrazú seemed like the perfect
choice today. I definitely needed the sensual
boost. Joe's got me trying to track down a witness gone AWOL, and Sadie over in
Special Narcotics needs me to cross-reference a suspect's criminal record in
New York with background information from Florida and Louisiana. ASAP. I'm running on autopilot right
now. In a few more minutes I'll have to make a mad dash over to Edie's station
in the NYPD Data Center and pray that Christmas has put my new friend in a good
mood. If it hasn't, I'm hoping my little gift will cheer her up enough to
overlook my inconsiderate rush job on the interstate background check. In the
meantime, I write down two more possible contact numbers I can try, in my
attempt to figure out whether it's merely the holiday that has swallowed Joe's
witness—or whether the criminal element is working to silence him. However: the frenzy isn't
completely reaching me where I rest within my internal oasis of baffled calm.
It might shear through eventually, but my heart is mulling things over on a
separate plane from the waking world around me. I am still dazed by my dream. Last night, I dreamed that I was
walking through the snow. I felt that I had wandered into the Christmas carol
that gives us the phrase, “All is calm, all is bright.” The world was silent
and soft, with white flakes descending around me like tiny stars. The peace of
starlight on fresh snowfall lingers in my spirit. I remember coming to the gradual
realization that I was not walking alone. A tall shadow wearing a hooded cloak
matched me, pace for pace, along my journey. When I stopped to look up at his
face, he stopped too. “How did you find me?” I asked,
for through the foggy logic of dreams, I understood that it was natural for the
snowfall to hide me from everyone who might come looking for me. He spoke my name and his blue
eyes smiled. “Catherine. I have never left you.” Vincent by moonlight
was—breathtaking. I know that his features, human and inhuman in the same first
glance, can give him an aura of severity. His mouth is not shaped for an
ordinary man's smile. His long nose and deep-set eyes are as imposing as those
of any monument sculpted to honor a great king. But in the face of what king
has the feral power of the animal world and the compassion of the noblest human
heart ever met and mingled so completely? “Come,” Vincent said. He held out
his hand to me. I put my hand into his and was strengthened by his touch. We
continued walking and the footing became treacherous, but the large,
long-fingered paw I held kept me steady at every turn. We eventually stopped at the
shore of a silver lake. The surface of the water had frozen into a sheet of
ice. “Will you dance with me out there, Catherine?” he asked. Dance? On the ice? For a moment I
was afraid. I believed the lake was very deep, very cold. What if the ice
cracked beneath us? But Vincent stepped out onto the
frosted silver surface and stood still, waiting for me to decide. I chose to
join him. We walked far out onto the frozen plain. Then, there, by moonlight
and starlight, to the sound of hidden chimes and the low, strangely musical
creaking of the ice beneath us—we danced together. I don't know what the steps were
or how we performed them. Sometimes we seemed to be skimming swiftly over the
lake, like figure skaters in the spotlight of an arena. Other times, the music
changed and we were waltzing or simply standing close, swaying in tandem
beneath the open sky. I was never cold. Vincent's warmth so close beside me
kept me from ever feeling cold. “The simplest pleasures give us
the most hope,” he whispered to me, when we glided to a stop at the center of
the ice. “Our small moments of beauty are the ones we are best able to carry
with us...always.” “This doesn't feel like a small
moment,” I replied. “It will. Later. But that will
only make the memory all the more precious to you.” Truer words were never spoken. Slowly, we began to walk back to
shore. I didn't want to reach the edge of the lake. I didn't want to part with
him. But when we stepped off the ice, Vincent was resolute about the
separation. “You have gifts to deliver,” he said. Then he smiled again. “But take this gift for yourself before you go.” When he stepped back again, I saw
that Vincent had placed something in my hand. It was a gilded angel with a
glass star for a halo, the kind of figurine people put at the top of their
Christmas trees. “Love endures,” Vincent told me. “It is never lost. But sometimes
love must change, so it can grow.” I looked more closely at the
angel. She had curling yellow hair, plaited into two braids and tied with satin
ivory ribbons. Her smooth white hands held a cracked golden heart that had been
smelted back together after being broken. Her painted eyes were a shade
somewhere between gray and blue, and the little angel was wearing (of all
things) miniature ice skates on her porcelain angel feet. I smiled at this
memento of our dance upon the ice. When I woke up, I was still
smiling. I realize that I've stopped
writing phone numbers onto my tablet. I shake my head, try to get my thoughts
back on track. I look at my desk calendar. My gaze falls upon Monday's
appointment schedule, and Lacy Dunland's name. There is a timeless pause, the
space of a heartbeat, as everything clicks in my mind. Warmth, peace, skates,
and a Christmas angel. I know the gift I should give to
Lacy and Ruth. I glance at my watch. Four
minutes past ten o' clock. Lacy will be at work right now. I find the Dunland
file and look up the number for the downtown bakery where she is an assistant
pastry chef. I don't know what the sisters may
have already planned for Christmas Eve, or if my suggestion will come to
nothing beyond a misguided intrusion into their time together. Yet this is a
suggestion I must offer. It feels right to try. … I answer Cullen with, “I know.” My friend is radiating fear in
the same way William's oven is currently radiating heat and the fragrance of
gingerbread. I can almost smell Cullen's uncertainty. The sensation is in my
own mind, of course, and not in my nose. Scenting conditions in the park
tonight are good, but I am walking into the gentle wind and Cullen is behind
me. The world Above is cold, the night damp with impending snow. It is early,
just after full dark. I sense many people are out in the park with us,
indulging in the romances of the season. I must not allow any of them to
notice me. The danger for me is greater than
Cullen knows. He does not need to know. He is justly concerned with the dangers
to his own heart. “It feels weird to be up here.
The last time I saw the sky, the cherry trees were blooming.” “Do you want to go back?” Cullen stops beside me in the
shadow of a pin oak. Bronze-colored leaves cling to the tree's branches,
rustling in the faint movement of the air above us. Cullen looks up at the
lonely sound, then back down at his feet. “No. I let you talk me into this and
I think I'd better see it through. Get the new rink in my mind so it can't take
me by surprise later on. It's a good idea.” He sighs, his breath emerging as a
cloud of vapor in the frosty night air. “Sorry, Vincent. I just didn't figure
on this being so hard.” “It's all right,” I assure him.
“Tell me more about Betty. That might help.” We begin to walk again, skirting
Inscope Arch and swiftly crossing a patch of open ground toward the trees
lining the pathways beside the Pond. Cullen speaks of his wife's liveliness,
her energy and frugality. He tells me Betty had a knack for organizing coupons.
Maybe two or three times a year, she could come home from the grocery store
with a triumphant receipt showing how her clippings had paid for all of her
purchases. She grew geraniums in their window boxes and worked as a cashier at
the consignment shop four blocks from their apartment building. I am listening to Cullen and I am
also listening to the sounds of traffic around us—motorized and pedestrian,
near to us and farther away. The defoliated groves readily reveal our
silhouettes as we travel. I am trying to keep us out of sight as much as
possible. I feel exposed. I am giddy with our risk-taking. We reach a new
congregation of sheltering trees and I survey the tangle of public
thoroughfares beyond. Cullen gives me a shrewd look.
“You don't usually get this close to people Up Top, do you?” From behind the limited cover of
a fat tree trunk, I watch a man travel down a path several yards away from us.
He is holding the hands of two young boys, who are walking to either side of
him. They are all talking and laughing together. One of the children, the
youngest I think, projects his delight most strongly. I catch wisps of the
boy's pleasure with the dark and the trees and his family. They move northwest
along the path without stopping. I release a held breath. “I prefer to keep my distance,” I
tell Cullen. “That is safer for everyone.” Watching, listening, we wait
until the way is open to us. I lead Cullen onto paved paths and off the paths,
taking us in the same direction that the passerby and his children have gone.
Approaching the skating rink, I look forward to finding an evergreen I know, a
squat and unlikely white pine which has always struck me as possessing a
stubborn survivor's spirit. Now we reach the tree, and the
visual cover it offers. This is as close as I can come to the bright lights
illuminating the skaters' wonderland. Cullen stands beside me. I notice that
the faint wind has died away. All the trees are now completely still. We look
out at the shining rink. People are skating a good distance away from us. They
are dark figures upon a field of ice. Recorded Christmas music pours forth from
the rink's speaker system. “It looks better than I thought
it would,” Cullen comments. We watch the holiday celebrants for a moment. Then
Cullen adds, “The skates, Vincent? Hers and mine? I had to pawn them after
things got tight for us. Trying to keep one step ahead of the debt collectors.” His statement requires no answer,
so I make none. I do not understand a world that is willing to impoverish
vulnerable people during the most difficult trials of their lives. I cannot
fathom how any institution could value money over a woman's health—or limit her
hopes for a dignified death. And yet Cullen has told us that Betty's hospital
did just that. Others Below have endured similar situations, in their old lives
Above. I share Father's anger about this. “Do you think all those people
over there have any idea how fortunate they are?” Cullen asks. “Some people understand the
nature of their fortunes in life. Others do not.” Cullen looks at me, then back to
the skaters. “And the rest of us only get clued in when the good times die.” Was I wrong to bring my friend to
this place? I open my mind fully to his emotions. A few seconds pass and I
decide that Cullen is watching the world go by without him—his old world, his
old home. His previous life. He is angry, and he is also tired of his anger. He
is feeling cheated. “Why couldn't this town give her
one last good thing, Vincent?” Cullen mutters. “Why couldn't I?” He is feeling unforgiven. He thinks this over. “She'd
probably tell me something gracious. Something like: 'The best good things
aren't the things you wait for. They're the things you give to other people.
The days you share with the ones you love.'” “Betty was wise.” “Betty is gone.” We stop speaking. Silence grows
between us. We watch the skaters. Cullen's wounds have reopened. His grief is
like a gravestone strapped to his chest. Mourn, I think to him. It is
necessary. Then, suddenly, I sense more than
Cullen's dark shroud of misery. A brightness from beyond him, from beyond us
and the shadows where we stand, begins to grow and glimmer in my mind. The
light comes closer, localizing below us, at the skating rink. I realize that
the light has been coming nearer for some time, but I have been distracted from
feeling its advance. Yet now—now, I cannot help knowing a glorious
truth. Catherine is here. I search the crowd of people, but
cannot see her. Would I recognize her shape if my gaze did happen upon her
distant form? I feel sure that I would know her anywhere, at any distance, but
my feelings are not infallible. It is my hope which fills me now with such
confidence in my powers of perception. It is my desire. I remember standing upon an icy
mirror, holding Catherine in my arms, and being held. I recognize the
prescience of my dream. Catherine, I believed the sorrow of a friend drew me
here. Can it be that I was mistaken? Might it be that the prospect of your
presence called me Above tonight? Catherine, I feel your joy. ******* “I like that lady's scarf,” says
Ruth. A woman wearing a knitted rainbow around her neck scrapes by on wobbly
legs. The rainbowed woman is holding tightly to the hand of a young man who
looks at her, adoringly, as he offers advice on her new-to-the-ice skating
technique. The couple slides farther away, merging with the throng of people
circling the rink in a collective whirlpool. Lacy says, “You have a nice scarf
too, Ruthie. Here. Keep it tight like this, or you'll get cold.” Lacy adjusts
her sister's winter-wear and smiles at Ruth's delighted grin. “Your skates feel
okay?” “Yuh.” Ruth nods and turns her
slate gray eyes to mine. “Cathy! I'm going on skates now!” “Yes, you are. Have fun, Ruth.” I
smile at them both. At this moment, the red ridge of
scarring on Ruth's pale forehead means nothing to either sister. Ruth is
wearing her favorite green knit hat and scarf, and there are rented ice skates
on her feet. This is a woman ready for adventure. Lacy takes a moment longer to
tease stray locks of Ruth's chestnut hair out from under the scarf. Then she
gets up off their bench and takes Ruth by her right hand. The look she gives me
is one of pure gratitude. “You're sure you don't want to
come too?” Lacy asks. I shake my head. “This is your
time. I'll watch from the railing over there.” “Thank you,” says Lacy. “Just…thank
you.” Ruth puts in loudly, “Thanks,
Cathy! Lacy, come on!” The sisters make their way out
onto the ice. Once Ruth gets a feel for the rhythm of their stride, the movements of the two women even out. Ruth is
a little stiff, but her legs and ankles are strong. They make the first turn
without falling and Lacy laughs. My heart is nearly bursting with happiness for
them. I slowly walk from the bench over to the observers' railing. I lean my
arms on the top rail, witnessing the Christmas miracle I have contrived. Lacy practically jumped at the
chance to get Ruth out of their apartment for a Christmas Eve surprise. Over
the phone she confessed to me that skating—or much of anything else—was outside
the realm of possibility for their budget this year. The Dunland sisters were
roommates in the first place because Lacy was still gathering momentum in her
career as a promising chef, and Ruth had been working on her master's degree in
art history at City College. Ruth had been hoping to open her
own interpretive gallery after graduation. Once, in the days before Jackson
Bordeaux, Ruth dreamed that she was going to partner with three exuberant
modern artists who wanted to start a youth education program in the Bronx: a
sculptor, a painter, an artisan bookbinder, and a passionate art historian. It
was a match made in heaven for disadvantaged kids—but now it is a dream that
excludes Ruth from its development. Sometimes love must change, so
it can grow. Wasn't that the message of my own nighttime dance on the ice?
Ruth has changed now. Her choices are different. Lacy's responsibilities are
different. Even the way the two of them are relearning to love each other is a
strange new process for both. The sisters complete their first lap, laughing, curly hair flying, eyes bright with the cold and the simple gift that I'm so happy I was able to give. I watch my skaters for a good
half hour. My heart is light. I feel at peace with myself and with my city. I am relishing the moment,
following their progress as the two women start to make their next circuit
around the rink, when I notice a wave of disruption developing on the ice. A
man is clearing a space in the middle of the white expanse, directing skater
traffic away from the wide circle he's establishing. Soon, he seems satisfied
that he's imparted his designs to the revelers. He gestures across the way at
someone. A woman leaves the outskirts and
skates swiftly to the space the man has cleared, evidently, for her personal
use. There is something about the way she moves that tells me she's not like
the other skaters out there, even the good ones. She isn't merely confident on
the ice; she is poised for action, completely in her element. The man slips
away from her. The woman makes a few experimental turns, getting acquainted
with her environment. Then she slides to the very center of the rink and stands
still. People are beginning to watch her
now. They move away from her, some skaters gathering at the edges of their icy
playground, others continuing to circle the woman slowly. She is a lone figure
in a white space. She is wearing blue and lavender: pale purple leg warmers
over what are probably black stirrup pants, a white tunic blouse with a fluted
hemline that flutters beneath the blue fabric of her coat, lavender gloves,
powder blue cap, and spotless white ice skates on her feet. Her long black hair
is tied into two braids. She assumes a pose that has her reaching her arms up
to the cloudy night sky. The music over the loudspeakers
has been a standard mix of Christmas fare. Now “Jingle Bell Rock” undergoes a
swift decrescendo and the speakers fall silent. More and more people stop
skating. Lacy and Ruth make their way to the side of the rink across from where
I am standing. They turn to watch whatever is going to happen next. Then new music springs to life,
surrounding and surprising all of us. The skating woman moves as gracefully as
a ballerina. She sways, bends, and turns a tiny circle. And when an
unforgettable recorded male voice begins to sing, the woman spreads her arms
like wings and becomes a winter bird in flight. The singer is Luciano Pavarotti.
The woman channels the musicality of his voice through the athletic skill of
her body. She's a figure skater, and she's a very good one. O holy
night! The stars are brightly shining, I am entranced. I think, This is nothing less
than Christmas magic! In the song, Pavarotti now
switches to French. Minuit,
Chrétien, c'est l'heure solennelle, I glance across the rink at Lacy
and Ruth. They are looking from the figure skater, to the sky, to each other.
Ruth opens her mouth to catch descending snowflakes on her tongue. Lacy is
holding her older sister by the hand. Her face turns toward me. Perhaps she
feels me watching. People can do that, I know, they can sense when they are
being observed—if they are paying attention. Lacy Dunland smiles. Peuple à
genoux, attends ta délivrance. This moment of perfect beauty is
almost heartbreaking in its intensity. My mind reaches out, through the light
and the dark, through the snow, through the soft scraping of skate blades and
the glory of our century's finest tenor. I am on a frozen lake. I am in my
healer's powerful arms. The colors flitting in front of me are lavender shadows
in the depths of Vincent's stunningly blue eyes. I wish—oh, how I wish—if
only dreams could be lived, visions released from the boundaries of
perspective. I wish I could share all of this with him in person, and in truth.
This is the gift I would give to the one who has saved my life, the one who has
made it possible for me to be standing here, now, tonight, in awe.
I see her. Catherine is the woman in the
long gold coat. She is wearing black gloves and black earmuffs and slender
black boots with tall heels. Her back is toward me. I cannot see her face. She
stands at the railing, watching the talented performer, listening to the
sublime music. Her joy suffuses her whole being. My soul aches with her
transport, and with my yearning. Beauty, I think. And, Beautiful.
These words are too little, too limited in meaning. Pieces of white
crystalline lace are shining in Catherine's honey-brown hair. Cullen has stopped beside a
leafless tree, setting one hand against the trunk to steady himself. He is now
too far away for me to directly sense his feelings, but I can read his posture.
He has forgotten his anger. The woman displaying Betty's winter colors and
Betty's plaited black hair dances Cullen's fears away. Catherine's fears have departed
too. She has grown hale over these past months. Strong and lovely. Determined.
Tonight she is wistful. She stands so near, so close, and I cannot help but wonder— I cannot help but wonder. I imagine myself walking to stand
beside her. I imagine joining the world of this woman who once visited my life
so briefly, and whose heart has—I still cannot say how or why—remained
open to mine. My dreaming unfurls within my breast like wings or like roses. I
dream that I am part of her. I dream that my connection to her can be
more than a distant echo of empathy. And this is such a beautiful dream. The music ends. The skater glides
to a stop. She is demure, a quiet queen in her icy realm. The falling snow
alights on her hat and coat. People applaud, and this releases
her from the persona she has assumed. She skates in a wide circle, waving,
smiling to everyone. Then she moves to the periphery of the rink and is gently
swallowed by the crowd. The white space fills up again, the circle reforms.
Some skaters try their own spins and twirls. At the railing, Catherine stands
up straight. She has seen someone she knows. She walks along the rail, away
from me, to meet two women who skate across the ice to reach her position. The
rink's cheery Christmas tunes begin again, but after the majesty of the man
whose masterful voice sang out only moments ago, the new song sounds less like
music to my ear than like absent-minded noise. Cullen is coming back to me. I
glance around, returning to myself. I have been lucky that no one has
approached while my mind was—elsewhere. I can ask no more of Luck tonight. She
has already honored me with riches beyond anything I've ever dared to wish for.
It's time to go home. Cullen rejoins me at the pine tree. We look at each other, two friends amazed. His eyes are bright with tears. I believe his heart has been broken tonight—and also cleansed. “Vincent...” he whispers. Slowly, we turn our backs to the
rink and begin to walk home. We walk for many minutes, hidden
by curtains of snowflakes, leaving a trail of shallow footprints across the
ground, which quickly fill and vanish. The park is a muffled mystery. The
world; a wonder. Before we reach the Park Entrance
tunnel, Cullen murmurs to me, “Do you believe in ghosts, Vincent?” I answer his question with a
question. “Do you believe in angels?” His smile is still wry, but his
heart is soaring within him. “I'm not sure. But you know something?” I wait, listening to the city,
and to the stillness within the snow, and to my friend. “I think I believe in Christmas
again.” I smile at him. “I'm glad,
Cullen.” We make our way into the Tunnels.
We are blessed. I am grateful for the gifts of this night, and pleased with my
success. I was not seen. I helped my friend. And I was a part of dreams come
true. The music that completes the
dream, I muse privately, as we duck into the dark mouth of the culvert. Behind us, it is still snowing. ******* Lacy grins. “No, we should get
home. Nothing's gonna top that last song.” Ruth mumbles half a sentence I
don't quite understand, but ends with: “...was so pretty!” The skates returned, the two sisters
begin walking beside me, out past the crowd toward Fifth Avenue and the stream
of traffic that hopefully includes a vacant taxi. The snowfall is heavy and
silent. The night is pillowed upon the park's rapidly growing blue-white
drifts. As we leave the rink behind, Lacy
asks softly, “Cathy? The music? That skater? Did you do that...for Ruth
and me?” I shake my head, still captivated
by these magical events. “No,” I tell her. “New York did that. For all of us.” To myself I add, For everyone
at the rink...and for everyone who might have been nearby, watching from a
distance. I am remembering something I saw after the Dunland sisters came
off the ice. I am pondering the glimpse I caught of two shadows standing
together at the distant edge of the light. It might only have been wishful
thinking playing tricks on me—but then again, it might be something more. Dimly, through the fall of snow
and the shifty play of light and shade, I thought I saw the reflective glint of
night-sighted eyes, and the tall, broad-shouldered shadow of a figure wearing a
dark hooded mantle. I thought the shadow paused for a long moment, then turned
toward the shape of the second figure to fade away into the night. My heart wants so much to believe
that Vincent was here. Surely the scope of tonight's Christmas Spirit is wide
enough to include that possibility. The magic has already been generous enough
to encompass everything else. “Want to make a snowman, Lacy?”
Ruth is asking. “Like...when you are little?” Lacy takes her sister's arm,
steering her gently along the path. “Not tonight. We have a big day tomorrow.
Do you remember?” Ruth thinks about Lacy's
question, then she nods her head. “Christmas! Ashton is coming.” “That's right. And you're going...where?” “Your gallery, yes,” Lacy says,
smiling back. “Good job remembering, Ruthie.” Surprised, I ask, “The gallery?
The one in the Bronx?” “Yuh!” says Ruth. “All my friends
and me too...we make a place for people to learn. I'm helping.” Lacy turns to look at me.
“Yesterday, Ruth was feeling well enough to help out remodeling the storefront.
Ashton and the others hit that getting-their-act-together stage of things.
They're a little behind, what with Ruth's trouble and the holidays. But they're
thinking in February—” “We're working so kids will come
make art!” Ruth says. “That's right,” Lacy replies. “And that's wonderful,” I
tell them both. It is wonderful. I feel a little chagrined for assuming
that Ruth's friends and colleagues would fail to make room for the new
circumstances of her life. I look inside myself and decide
that I've based my assumption upon the reactions most of my own friends and
colleagues made to the changes taking place in my life. My social circle
seems to have shrunk drastically over the past several months. But then, my
priorities have changed—and are still changing. My closest friends have
drawn even closer to me, while my newest friends have become far more important
than the broad network of acquaintances I used to cultivate. “Sometimes love must change, so
it can grow,” I say softly. By the gauzy light of a street
lamp above us, Lacy looks more closely at my face. Then she nods her agreement.
“So...are you doing anything special for Christmas?” she asks, smiles again,
and amends, “Besides what you already did for us tonight?” I answer, “Celebrations with my
father and some of our friends. I'm hoping for a quiet holiday this year.” “I hear you!” Lacy avers. “I hear you too!” Ruth puts in. We laugh together. It's a good beginning, for all
three of us, and it's a perfect Christmas Eve. ******* I stand between Rebecca and Mouse
at the rear of the audience. The rest of the gathered adults sit on benches arranged
in rows across the room, or else stand in twos and threes throughout the Dining
Hall. I see Mary and Sara talking together by the north wall. Pascal, Michael,
and Laura sit in the second row, sharing an animated conversation in sign
language. Goblets clink together for dozens of Christmas salutes. The room is
filled with festive candles tonight. We are finishing the dessert to our
holiday feast. I sip from my goblet of mulled wine, smiling as Mouse devours
his second sugar cookie. Everyone was allotted one gingerbread man and one
soft, sugar-dusted treat cut into the shape of a star. Mouse traded his
gingerbread for my star and feels he's made a good bargain. I must admit I'm
pleased with the exchange as well; I prefer William's ginger confections. “So, what do you think, Mouse?”
Rebecca asks, gesturing at the curtained stage with one hand. “Will Rudolf
arrive in time to rescue the elves from the storm?” Mouse shrugs, busily appreciating
the last bite of his sugar cookie. “It's only paper snow. Not really cold.” He
licks powdered sugar from his fingers. “Have to go now. Have to help Winslow.”
With a happy grin, Mouse hurries to his backstage station behind the children's
patchwork curtain. Intermission is nearly finished. Rebecca smiles, amusement shining
in her pale gray eyes. “Oh, to see the world with Mouse's accuracy,” she says
to me. “Or his innocence,” I reply. She raises her cup in silent
approval of my words, and we toast the winsome good nature of our younger
friend. Then Rebecca takes from her pocket one of the paper snowflakes the
children have distributed to their audience. We are their snowstorm. Whenever
the Snow Fairy (performed by Holly) gives us her cue to do so, we wave our
snowflakes in the air. This creates an ominous windy rustle and casts stormy
shadows across the floor. I take out my snowflake too. It is as large as my
hand and has been cut from light blue paper, the folds pressed flat by the
weight of old books. “Is real snow still as cold as I
remember it?” Rebecca murmurs, fingering the paper fringe at one corner of the
scissored shape. I follow the direction of her
keen glance across the room to the place where Cullen is standing with Father
and William. Cullen is laughing merrily at something Father has just said to
him. My new friend's laughter is a welcome sound. I tell Rebecca, “The snow was
cold last night...but Cullen and I never felt it.” “I believe our carpenter is a new
man today.” I nod. “Cullen has found
something he was missing.” Rebecca tilts her head back, asking
a question with her face. “He found his hope,” I answer. Now two solemn elves appear to
either side of the stage. They ring heavy metal dinner bells to call their
audience back to our seats. I move to my place in the last row. Rebecca sits
beside me. “And what did you find
Above on Christmas Eve?” she asks me in a whisper. I look at her. Rebecca's smile is
knowing. She is sure something important happened to me. She turns to view the
stage. There is no need for me to reply. An answer forms in my mind, just
the same. I remember the light and the snow, the music, and the lone woman who
stands now at the heart of it all, and of myself. Last night I found something
wholly new, a thing strange and wonderful, fearsome in its sudden power,
glorious in its raw possibility. I found a dream worth dreaming. Mostly hidden stagehands pull the
curtain aside. The Snow Fairy enters and lifts her arms in invocation.
Responding to her summons, we dutifully hold up our snowflakes. The winter
storm resumes its collective intensity. On stage, six elves sit in a dismal
circle around a dark lantern. Out of the silence, they begin to sing, to keep
up their spirits. Alas, the song they have chosen is “Let It Snow!” which only
emphasizes their helpless plight. And yet: help is coming. We know it. We feel
it. Their Christmas hero is bound to arrive at any moment, bringing light to
the lost ones in their hour of need. As I watch the performance, I
understand the children's message to everyone Below. Theirs is the story of our
world, retold to remind children of all ages how to draw strength from one
another. It is the story of the life we've built together. Fed, warmed, and
entertained, we are sharing the brilliant light of our love tonight. I bask in
the presence of my gathered family. I accept the warmth which has flowed into
my soul from Catherine's happiness during these past few days. My heart offers
a silent blessing. May our love guide us all as we
venture into the new year: toward hope, toward dreams, toward fullest life,
whether we find ourselves Above, or Below— Or some magical place in between. ******* “I think the star's a little
crooked.” I lean closer to my father to
kiss his cheek. “The crooked star is beautiful too.” Dad smiles at me, settling one
arm around my shoulders. His good-humored pink face creases into familiar
lines. The glow from many strings of electric lights softly illuminates his
silver hair. We both look up at the Christmas tree from our vantage point on
Dad's sitting room couch. We each hold a cup of eggnog, the scents of cinnamon
and nutmeg blending pleasantly with the fragrance of white pine. “It's been good to have you here
today, Cathy. Now my holiday is complete. I've missed seeing you.” “I guess I've been pretty busy
lately, huh?” “You've always been a busy
person.” “Not like this.” Dad sighs. “Yes, all work and no
play these days. Or so I hear.” “Oh, I'm not that bad off.
I do admit it's a struggle to find my balance sometimes, but I'm here now, aren't
I?” “Yes, you are,” Dad says. “So
does this visit count as work or play?” I snuggle against his side,
grinning. “This counts as Christmas, Daddy.” “Well, I'm glad we got that
cleared up,” he teases. I laugh a little and finger one
of my new earrings: a polished square-cut emerald in a gold filigree setting.
The earrings are one of Dad's Christmas gifts to me this year, to complement my
green eyes. He's always had good taste in elegant jewelry. I'm thankful for the
gift, and for knowing that he would have taken his time, finding it for me. Around us, the house is quiet,
sleepy and full of warming memories. Christmas is one of those occasions that
allows me to feel the lingering vestiges of my mother's love without feeling
sad. Mom was always happiest at this time of year. She loved Christmas trees.
The star at the top of our tree tonight is the one Dad and I selected together,
the year after Mom died. Ever since then, we've crowned each of our trees in
remembrance of her. Dad saved the star for me last night. If the ornament is
crooked on its pine-needled perch, it's because I was excitedly telling
everyone what had happened in the park while standing on tip-toe at the top of
a stepladder. “I'm glad you and Kim had a good
time decorating yesterday,” I say. My father is studying the glass
star. He says thoughtfully, “Yes...yes, that was a good time.” “You really don't mind that I
wasn't here?” I ask. Smiling again, Dad replies, “Oh,
I think you were right where you needed to be.” I smile too. Charles Chandler is
a man who possesses a generous holiday spirit. I should really try to spend
more time with him. He's right about me always being busy. Too busy, too often,
for too long. Well, the upcoming year stands completely open for new chances
for connection, new occasions for love. I resolve here and now to make the most
of every opportunity in 1987. We sit together, relaxed, sipping
our drinks. I think about snow, angels, stars, and shadows. I think about
mysterious friends and unexpected gifts. Were you there, Vincent? In the
park? Was that you? Someday, somehow, I am going to find a way to ask him these
questions. Tonight, this chance for my future, and for his, feels perfectly
feasible. Tonight, anything seems possible.
Any wish. Any dream. ~~~ If you would like to leave some feedback, you may email me at zarachnia.wilder-at-gmail-dot-com |
