“This is just the type of story to read during the holidays. Dennis has a lovely way with words and crafting the story to keep the twist hidden just around the corner, but when it happens, it’s a warm and satisfying revelation. Grab a mug of coffee or cocoa, sit in a favorite chair, and enjoy this heartwarming story.” –Amazon Review
“A perfect feel-good–story for the Christmas season! And that twist at the ending, how you add some Christmas lore. Love it!”
“I just love your writing. Thanks for the great read, Dennis.” Amy Dionne
“Loved the story.” –Rosa Cloyd
“I’m hooked and love the story, Dennis!” –Nina Anthonijsz
Olivia works for a misogynistic slimeball whose father made a fortune in New York City real estate. Her life has not turned out as she expected or wanted. Henry had lost his wife and children in a tragic accident. It’s been years and he doesn’t know if he can keep going… nowhere. And was it wrong to want the pain to go away?
Both are haunted by the past. Alone, caught within circumstances. Caged.
But then… this holiday season something magical happens…
“When you understand that what you’re telling is just a story. It isn’t happening anymore. When you can just crumble up and throw your past in the trashcan, then you’ll figure out who you’re going to be.”—Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
It had been a golden city for nearly two centuries. A town of prominence longer still that had welcomed newcomers escaping monarchs and despots… those seeking liberty and the tired, the poor… all looking for a second chance or a new beginning.
But as with anything or anyone over time, erosion and weathering have an effect. There is a cycle of fall and rise to all things. In this city, the
Olivia swallowed the last of her coffee with a grimace. Not because of its taste, it was delicious and perfect for the caffeine-addicted, which she was. Her conscience—and maybe it was why she kept failing—was riding her. Hard. She looked around. The thin old man with the threadbare, red turtleneck sweater was in his usual place. The corner table closest to the alley door. It was December 14th and brutishly freezing outside, yet he was still coatless. Despite the bloom of color on his cheeks and the red of his nose, he never seemed cold. At least not in the fourteen mornings she had seen him in that same spot. Passing from him, scanning the old but glistening diner with its walls lined with dust-free framed photos of people and eras gone by, her eyes stopped at the front, where behind the cash register was a man about her age she knew to be the owner, Henry. Fourteen mornings straight led to first names and knowing a bit about each other. And he more than any of the others on the block was vital for her to talk to. But with this man, she could not tell him the real reason she was there. There was something behind his eyes that shadowed his smile. Now there were only 17 days left, and if she didn’t get him signed and delivered, she would likely be fired. Her inner laugh—not the good kind—changed that thought. She would undoubtedly be fired.
Henry, now coming around the counter and toward her, was why she frowned. He had her check in one large hand, and though they were unseen, she knew what was held in the other. She glanced away and back at the old man. One long gnarled finger now stroked the side of his nose. Though facing her direction, his eyes looked somewhere else. She shook her head. All types lived in the city, and the old areas were often home to the oddest of all. She watched as Henry set the check and the two thick foil-wrapped squares on the table. The third morning she asked him, “Why two?” He had smiled at her and replied, “It’s not right to eat just one—I mean,” and his grin widened showing slightly crooked but strong-looking teeth, “it’s chocolate, right?”
Placing cash for her bill and a good tip on the table, she stood and didn’t notice her phone had slipped from the pocket of the jacket she had set on the seat beside her. “Next time only one chocolate okay?” Olivia self-consciously put both hands on hips that had widened considerably once she turned 40 years old. “Do I look like I need two?”
Henry’s grin grew. “I think you look fine.”
She felt her cheeks warm and couldn’t believe she blushed or at least it felt like it. Since her messy divorce, compliments had been far, and few between and then often proved an insincere prelude to the asking of a favor. A half-smile and awkward nod of thanks were all she could manage for Henry. Why was it so hard for her to talk with him, she cursed herself as she pulled her jacket on and walked to the door. About to open it and step out, behind her she heard the distinct opening of the song she had set as her ringtone, “White bird in a golden cage…,” it sang. She turned, and Henry held her phone about to hand to her. It warbled again, and his eyes went to the caller ID.
She felt the wind rattle the closed door behind her and from the corner of her eye, saw on the window the splatter of sleet now slanting down from the leaden sky.
“Olivia?” The edge to it—not the soft voice she had become used to from Henry—made her blink and meet his eyes. “I know what they’ve done—they’re doing—in the city’s older neighborhoods.” His eyes had narrowed, and face tightened, pulling taut the lines on his face. “Are you working for them?”
“They’re putting money in people’s pockets, money most of them need.”
He shook his head, two sharp back-and-forth movements that showed the tendons not noticed before in his neck. “They make lowball offers that the owners accept only because of pressure and Daniel Trumaga’s scare tactics.”
“I’m not their employee.” Even she felt how lame that sounded. The corners of his mouth turned down—she’d only seen that when it seemed, he thought no one was watching him—with a sour look. “I’m not…” she said again.
“But you work for them.” He wasn’t questioning her any longer.
“Henry let me talk–”
“No,” he turned and walked away not looking back.
Her phone sang again. Pressing the red DECLINE icon then pulling her jacket tighter around her, she slipped it into her pocket and stepped out into the wind-driven icy slush.
Even in good weather, it was hard to get a taxi in the older parts of the city. Ten blocks later, sleet firming into ice on her shoulders, her hand shook as she took three tries to unlock the door to her office. The faded lettering on the glass on the door still read Olivia Buonanotta | Divorce and Family Law. After her own divorce—it’s ugliness—and the disintegration of her former practice and finances, she had tried on her own. That had not worked out. The clients, frequently bitter and angry husbands and wives with children often torn and tossed about between, were too much. It had become too personal, and she had no stomach for it. She had gone back to something abandoned nearly two decades before. Real estate. Only to feel trapped in it, too.
The buzzing phone had remained in her pocket as she walked and shivered. Hanging her dripping jacket on a coat hook, Olivia took it out. Tapping the log for recent calls, she touched again to dial the last number. The only one that had called her in a month. The person picked up on the first ring.
“Has he signed yet?” Daniel Trumaga demanded.
“Listen, I hired you because we go way back.”
He didn’t say it, but she knew he had strewn them about, his words—like glittery sharp broken mirror shards—cutting her down in conversations with others. She owed him, he told them all. He felt he had helped an old friend. Old yes… friends maybe not so much. Not anymore. She had needed a job. It was incredible how openings and offers had dried up with her added pounds and extra years.
“You got the people over on Lenix to sign. You can do this… the old Olivia would have by now.”
She thought, you mean the young Olivia. But this Olivia is tired and doesn’t want to manipulate people anymore to serve someone’s selfish agenda. “I’m working on it.”
“Time’s running out. Get it done.”
She was old enough to remember having a phone call that ended when someone slammed it down. Now, with cell phones, it wasn’t as harsh, but the silence was as final. There was no more time. Henry’s location was the last prime corner spot. She could—would—walk away after this deal. Yet something about that
The phone pinged, a calendar reminder she had twelve hours until the Trumaga Christmas Ball. Since Daniel had invited her, she would have to make an appearance.
By 6:30 PM, Olivia was showered, powdered, made-up and Spanx’d into a long-sleeved evening gown she hoped made her seem slimmer but probably didn’t. I’m at that point I no longer care, she thought with a shallow sigh. The Spanx really held her in. Thirty minutes later, her taxi arrived. Ten minutes after, she saw they were coming up on Essex and leaned forward, “Driver turn right here and take me to the corner at Washburn.” She saw his eyes look up at her in the rearview mirror as he nodded.
A minute later, “Right here, lady?” he pulled over to the sidewalk opposite the diner and turned to look at her. The sun had set and the gray early evening clouds poured a light rain that would likely turn to snow.
“Yes, give me a minute.” The lights were on in the diner, and she saw movement behind the fogged glass; a smear of red at a table on the right side. Without thinking it through, she asked the driver, “How much?”
She opened her purse. “Yes.” He told her, she paid and stepped out onto the slippery sidewalk with its thin layer of ice already forming. Not a car in sight, she jaywalked across Essex. The small bell above the door jangled as she went inside. The red she’d seen behind the
Henry was behind the counter arranging a pyramid of heavy white porcelain coffee mugs. He looked up and the smile that always played on his lips when he faced people, straightened. “This is different… and a surprise.” But as he would for any customer, he came around the counter with a menu and order pad in hand to meet her at the table she sat at each morning. “Kind of dressed up to be eating at a diner like mine.” He set the menu on the table in front of her. “Coffee, tea… lemonade or a soft drink?”
On his way to the urn, he snagged the top mug from the stack. Filling a carafe, he brought it and the cup to her. Knowing she took it black, he poured, left the carafe and turned to go.
He paused but didn’t turn back to her.
She continued, “Will you sit for a minute and let me explain?”
He walked on to the counter without speaking, hesitated a moment grabbed another mug and came back to Olivia. He slid into the seat opposite her, reached for the carafe and filled his cup. Silently, he studied her face.
She nodded at the old man across the diner. “Does he sleep here too?”
Some of the smile—a rueful one—came back, “Mr. Kerstman’s interesting.” Henry set his mug down and scratched his right eyebrow. “Last year ago, around the first week of December, he came in one morning. Said nothing and waited for a couple to get up from that table.” He cocked his thumb in its direction. “And sat down. My grandfather and father had both died not long before, and I had kept this place open until I decided what to do.” He swept his left hand, covering from the front door to the kitchen. “I didn’t know anyone that might be the regular customers, but he seemed like one. When I went to take his order, he asked me, ‘Where is Hank… or Thomas?’ My grandfather and father. I told him they had passed away, and he bowed his head for a moment then looked up at me. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. But I hope you know folks like them, their spirit goes on. It lives in the places they loved and in the hearts of those that loved them in return.’”
“So, he knew your father and grandfather?”
“Apparently. And every day that December for three weeks, he would come in and sit at that table. The only thing he ordered was hot tea and chicken and dumplings, my grandfather’s recipe. From morning until evening, he would sit and watch people. Then on Christmas—my grandpa and dad always opened on Christmas day for those who didn’t have a family to share it with, I kept that going—I realized that Mr. Kerstman hadn’t come in and had left early the evening before. I didn’t see him again until a couple of weeks ago. He came in and gave me a dozen bags of those chocolates; the ones I’ve been handing out.”
“He sits there all day?”
“I don’t think he has anywhere to go or anyplace to be,” Henry said. “He’s watching us now.”
Turning her head slightly, Olivia peeked and saw he was, his dark eyes twinkling with the different colored Christmas lights Henry had decorated the inside of the diner with. “Where does he go at night?”
“I don’t know. But not long after sundown, he’ll–” Henry paused. “There he goes.” They watched as the old man walked to the door, stopped, turned to them with a nod and wink, and then went out into the night. After draining his cup, Henry set it on the table with a clink. “What are you doing here Olivia?” He shook his head, “I mean not right now but coming in here every morning. Why?”
She tried to take a deep breath—damn the Spanx—and managed most of one. “The Trumaga Organization is my client.”
“You’re a broker… a lawyer… or what?”
“Attorney. I’m working with them on their plan to buy and redevelop older properties in the city, their gentrification project. That means–”
He cut her off. “I know what it means. But I’ve heard they manipulate conditions, so they don’t pay fair market value. You’re,” he stopped, then continued. “They’re screwing people.” He paused at her expression. “Don’t seem so surprised that I’m smarter than I look,” his smile came back in full. “That’s why I’m not interested in what you—they—offer.” He looked around him. “You know since that day last December when Mr. Kerstman told me about loved ones and places and people they loved, I’ve had a lot to think about. This diner dates back to my great-grandfather, it’s been in my family for a long time. My grandpa and dad loved this place, and I believe it loved them back. At first, I didn’t sense it… but now… I can almost feel it every day. And,” he leaned across the table toward Olivia. “I think it cares for me too. If I can only give it a chance.” He sat back, and even only half a true smile lit his face like that moment when they flick the switch on the tree at Rockefeller Center. “I could never sell it.” His smile flickered and faded.
She saw the change in him, a cloud that scudded across his expression and darkened his bright eyes. An inward turning away when the veil comes down and hides what no one wants to reveal. Their pain. Every lousy sensation Olivia had felt since starting with Daniel Trumaga, spasms of distaste at an ego-driven client’s shallow perception and selfish actions, flooded her. She realized that her professional life was all about moving money—during people’s most difficult circumstances—from someone’s pocket to another’s with a piece for herself. She felt soiled and sold out.
Henry had watched the play of emotions on her face and nodded. “I’ve learned you have to accept when your heart tells you where you shouldn’t be. But must act to find where you should be. It takes time to figure out.” He paused for a moment, “And it’s hard to do… to move forward.”
This time the breath came and went in full—no restraint—and she knew he had shared something personal. She understood what he meant.
“So, are you headed somewhere,” he hesitated, “or can I take your coat?”
Startled from her thoughts, she looked up at Henry. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I mean you look nice,” he bobbed his head as if embarrassed and met her gaze, “you’re so beautiful. You have somewhere to be tonight?”
“Oh.” Backtracking to consider his compliment made her hesitate. “Yes.” Then she thought about spending an evening with stuffed shirts and empty suits, listening to all their self-important gossip and talk without substance or meaning. She couldn’t face it. “No,” she decided and smiled, “Now I think about it… I have nowhere to go.
Henry was quiet for a moment then stood, went to the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. “Can you wait here… give me about 10 or 15 minutes?”
She nodded, wondering what he meant. “Okay but–”
“Please wait.” He turned and hurried to the back of the diner and into the kitchen.
Ten minutes by yourself—even when you’re used to being alone—shouldn’t feel so long. But then Olivia knew time and events that played out in her head were magnified; the highs higher and lows lower. Heightened by the surrounding stillness, she heard the muffled steps above. Coming downstairs, becoming more distinct as they crossed the tiled kitchen. The diner’s lights dimmed and a song she recognized—the instrumental part—played. She looked at the old jukebox in the corner thinking it had somehow come to life, but it remained dark. She recalled Henry mentioning he hoped to have it repaired one day. With the lights down, she could see through the diner’s large window. The falling, snow came down in clusters accompanied by solo flakes that glistened as they floated through the arc of light from the lampposts. Patches of color danced on the glass as she shifted her view and the angle caught the inside reflection of the reds, blues, and greens of the lights on the Christmas tree to her right.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“Not as lovely as you.”
Olivia turned and almost didn’t recognize him. The black suit complemented his middle-aged Sean Connery look; the white shirt with French cuffs just the right length from the ends of the sleeves with a twinkle of silver there. The knotted black tie must have been silk with its sheen that caught darts of color from the lights. He said nothing as he moved four of the middle tables to create an open area in the diner’s center. His eyes never left hers as he approached and held out his hand. She accepted it, and he led her to the center. He took his cell phone out and pressed a button. The song started over, and the phone slid back into his pocket.
“What Child Is This is my favorite Christmas song.” She smiled and though surprised didn’t flinch as his arm went around her waist.
Henry grinned as he moved them into the first steps. “This is Greensleeves and has its origins in the late 16th century. What Child Is This uses that as its melody but wasn’t written until 1865.”
It was as if seeing him for the first time. “How…”
“Does a simple diner owner know that?” He turned her and then brought her smoothly back to him. “You told me once you had planned to major in art in college, but hadn’t.” He held her for a second, smiling at her. “Do you ever wish you had?” The light caught her expression that came and went. Regret, he thought. “I wanted to major in history in college… or music.” He sighed, “But I went into accounting… and now I run a diner.” The song seemed to last much longer than any version she had ever heard. She had not danced—not like this—in ages. His touch was light but in control, guiding her without seeming to. “I looked up that song.” He whispered in her ear as he again pulled her close and held her there for a breath.
“What song?” She asked him in the next turn.
“The one on your phone…,” he paused for a moment as if chagrined. “I had never heard it before.”
“White Bird?” she asked as he rolled her along the uncurling of his arm to extended fingertips and back in.
“It was my mother’s favorite.”
He shook his head “I’m sorry to hear that.”
That jarred her, she missed a beat and a step. “Why do you say that?”
“I searched YouTube, listened to it again and read the lyrics. She must’ve been sad, your mother I mean.”
She stopped. “You know nothing about her.”
“I know the story that the song tells. It’s about longing to be free and wanting a better life.”
She dropped his hand. Feeling the hurt, she thought long buried at watching her mother grow old before her time. A life wasted. Stung by the memory, she replied “You mean something better… like owning a diner?”
His look now matched hers. “You say that as if it’s a lesser thing to avoid.”
“That’s not what–” she stopped, even though it was what she meant but regretted saying.
“I guess you think it’s better to be a lawyer?”
Heaven knows she didn’t mean that, “No. Let me-”
The lines deepened on his face. “Or the owner of a company that preys on people who’ve not had much in life. Nothing but the ground under them. And when they find that now it has value.” He stepped back from her. “They send people like you to convince them to part with it for less than it’s worth.”
“Henry…” Facing each other in the diner’s center, his arms were now at his side. She already missed the feel of them; one around her waist, the other gently holding her hand with fingers twined. His face was resolute, and though she met his look, Olivia couldn’t tell him what she had started to, so she told him the truth. “The first morning I came here to talk about what my clients wanted to offer you. But then I watched you… how you talk to people, how you carry yourself without pretension, your enjoyment of seeing your customers and them you. Every morning I watched and listened. You…” she gestured around the diner, “this place it’s different it’s-”
“What are we doing Olivia? Why did you come here tonight? I will not sell to your client.”
“Henry, he’s just a businessman.”
“With a rich daddy who built their fortune on payoffs, legal
“I didn’t come here tonight for him… I…,” she hesitated, and the silence grew thick.
She felt it then, the weight of wrong choices, of wrong people, wrong decisions made… in her life. Was this another one? She didn’t think so. “I came for me. Why did you ask me to wait, why the dance?” He stepped toward her as she turned away, unable to stay, afraid to hear any reply he might offer. She opened the door not looking back at him. A gust caught and pulled it from her hand. Leaving it open, and without a glance in the
Inside, watching her until she was out of sight, Henry spoke as if she was still there to hear him. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, and I asked you to stay… for me.” The last two words hung in the air as he closed the door locked it and switched off all the lights.
It was the lull when the last of the late-breakfast dawdlers had gone, and the early lunchers had not arrived.
“You worry about her.”
The matter-of-fact statement didn’t startle him with its truth. Who said it did. “Mr. Kerstman,” Henry turned toward him, “did you say something?”
“I’m not a Sphinx you know,” he chuckled.
“Almost.” Henry thought him as enigmatic as that object in the Egyptian desert. The
“There are moments when that bell rings,” Mr. Kerstman cocked his left-hand thumb at the front door, “I love that sound. And you look up, and then your eyes go over there.” His hand turned sideways, the thumb now pointed across the diner. “When you see it’s not her, she’s not there, and your eyes fall.”
“I hardly know her,” which was true, “and don’t think about her,” which was not.
“Knowing about people is an important part of my business. What they long for or desire… their wishes and wants.” Kerstman rubbed his face where gray bristles, though still short, shaped the form of what could become a full beard. “Your father told me a few years ago of the accident, about your loss. He wondered if you’d ever recover and worried you’d never be happy again.”
Henry gave him a hard look. “I’m surprised he told that to a–”
“Stranger?” Mr. Kerstman interrupted him and chuckled again. Its depth odd coming from such a skinny man. “Well, I have known your father for a long time and your grandfather even longer. And this place,” he tapped the table’s top with the knuckles of his right hand, “it seems I’ve always known it.” He now had a distant look in his eyes.
“You mean you knew them.” Henry thought not for the first time that Kerstman was not always quite in the present. “They’re gone.”
“Oh, I still know them… especially this time of year.” His sigh was of a content man confident in the truth of what he’d said. “And they’re still here.” The lights now shone more brightly with dusk coming on darkening the diner’s interior. He looked up, and they glimmered in his eyes as his gaze shifted back to Henry. “They’re also with your wife, son, and daughter. Love binds them, your family is still together… just not in this place.”
Henry knew Kerstman was talking about something more—somewhere other—than just the diner. “I can still hear them, and sometimes a song or sound triggers a memory, and I feel them close. Then as that fades, it’s like I lost them all over again.”
“But you fight to hold on to that even though it hurts. Anything that might fill the void feels like you’re cheating on them. You fight that too.”
“Yes.” Henry’s head snapped up, “I can never replace them.”
A knotted hand reached out, and Mr. Kerstman’s firm grip clasped his arm. “No, you won’t do that… and no one expects you to.” With a last more powerful squeeze the hand withdrew. “Mostly you seem happy—those that don’t know better believe you are—but you’re still missing your family. And it worries you you’re attracted to someone for the first time since your wife died.”
“I hardly know her.”
“But there’s something about Olivia, isn’t there?”
“I tried to show her the other night… I thought she felt it too. But I was mistaken. It’s wrong of me to feel the way I do, and she works for a man I can’t stomach.”
“Henry, I can tell good from bad, and she’s not like him, her employer. She’s just not found the right person, the right circumstances to make her happy.” Kerstman paused, “And you lost yours… but ten years is enough to mourn.” He put his long-fingered hands flat on the table. “You both need to shake free from what’s making your life less than what it could be.”
“I have to get back to work.” Henry rose but didn’t move from the table and shook his head. “She’s not coming back, it’s been a week.”
Mr. Kerstman looked up, the index finger of his right hand stroked the side of his nose as he studied him. “Then maybe you should find her. Don’t come up with reasons not to. All you should focus on is how you feel when you see her. That’ll guide you.”
Henry looked outside as the lamppost lights came on. Dark had fallen fast as it always did with the winter solstice. He turned toward the kitchen and had gotten nearly there when Mr. Kerstman’s voice—pitched sharp and penetrating—stopped him.
“Happiness isn’t a one-shot deal, Henry. We all have multiple opportunities to determine—find—what or who makes us happy. This is the season to give and receive. Maybe you should give yourself—and her—a chance; maybe she’s the right one for you and you for her.”
Henry heard the jingle of the front doorbell, and then all was quiet. Everywhere, but inside his head.
CHRISTMAS EVE (DAY)
The weather had worsened, and the temperature had dropped to levels not felt in nearly a century. With the storms rise, power faltered, and outages spread.
“Try not to step on these,” Henry warned Mr. Kerstman. The thick orange electrical lines ran through the alley door left cracked to the generator outside. They led to a rectangular box with a dozen outlets inside the door near the table where he customarily sat. Several filled with plugs, their smaller cords snaking off to a large electric heater and into the kitchen where a table-top electric grill, griddle, and microwave were powered.
“That’s some rig you got set up there,” Kerstman said. “How long will it run?”
“The generator’s got enough fuel for two days. Hope they have power back on by then,” Henry replied. “The news people are calling this The Dark Christmas.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” For the first time, Henry heard something like anger in Mr. Kerstman’s voice.
“Me neither.” Henry looked around. Several people in the diner huddled around the heater. As soon as the shelter opened with its more powerful generator and better facilities, they would move there until the power came back on.
“Your grandfather ever tell you much about this place?”
Henry shifted in his chair to face him. This talkative Mr. Kerstman was a new experience. “Not really, just that his father opened it in 1917.”
“That’s true, but he took over in 1917 from his cousins who had owned and operated it as a coffeehouse for nearly a century. Henry Livingston—your cousin way back on your great-grandmother’s side and his financial backer, Clement Moore opened it in 1822. Henry, your cousin—which down the years is where your name came from—and Clement had a falling out about a year later over something that Henry had written based on Dutch folklore and his chance meeting with a mysterious old man.” Kerstman chuckled then continued. “He had published it anonymously as a Christmas story for children but somehow and for some reason Clement then took credit.” Kerstman scratched his red nose. “Anyway, that’s another story.” He thumped the table with his right hand. “Henry Livingston wrote that little story right here on this spot.”
“Okay,” Henry wondered what that had to do with anything, “that’s interesting but….”
“You want to know what that means and why I’m telling you?”
Henry rose, “Thanks, Mr. Kerstman that’s nice to know, but I need to…”
“What Henry… to do what?”
Henry looked down at him, then toward the door as a van from the shelter pulled up outside. With a wave and a chorus of “Merry Christmases,” those who had been waiting stepped outside to board it.
“Henry, did you try to find that woman… Olivia?”
He shook his head, “I found an office number, called and left her a message.” He picked up the apron he had draped across a nearby chair. “I’ll never see her again.”
The old man, his eyes bright, watched Henry as he walked away.
It was a dark cold—the worst kind—and he was alone. Henry had expected to see Mr. Kerstman, to wish him a Merry Christmas, but the old man had left before sundown and not come back. Henry had turned out all the generator-powered lights except for one. The heater struggled to provide
He stood and moved around the diner among the shadows from that single light on the counter. Stopping at the window, he looked out on what he would typically see was the street. The night was a swirl of ink lightened by dark gray when the weak moon broke through the low clouds. About to turn away, he spotted a sweep of rose-colored light that caught white bands of wind-driven snow streaming at an angle from the sky. The beam danced, buffeted or carried by the wind pushing it down Essex toward him. In minutes the light—now a brighter ruby more penetrating than a white glare—stopped at what he knew was the corner he couldn’t see. Cast in the backlight was a bulky shadow. It took a step then faltered as the wind shifted and strengthened. Shards of ice glinted as a gust shoved the shape, sending it skittering on ice-coated concrete. It went down hard, and the light stuttered then blinked out.
Without thinking, Henry shoved the door—putting his weight behind it—open against the wind. On the sidewalk he slid backward and felt the palm of a great hand—the wind—on his chest, pressing him against glass and stone. A flash and the glistening scarlet reflection on the street guided him as he leaned into the wind and made it to the middle of the road. The puddle of red light showed a huddled form in a heavy hooded coat with its knees pulled into its chest. God, it’s cold, he thought, his hands, arms, and legs already numbed. He knelt and gripped the form, feeling the crunch of a thin scrim of ice as he got his arms under to pull them to their feet. The wind’s shriek overrode any words as he half-carried, half-walked them back to the diner. After prying the door open with a gasp, he got them inside.
The figure staggered toward the heater in the room’s center. Despite the dimness, he could see it carried in one hand a large–the biggest he’d ever seen–flashlight with a thick lens the size of a butter dish. Setting it on the table, a gloved hand swept back the hood revealing a face mostly covered by a red scarf with white tassels. The hand unwound it.
She, with some difficulty, stripped the gloves from her hands and rubbed her face. “I… I…” she stuttered, “have never been so cold.” Shivers racked her.
Henry went to the counter, lifted the pot of coffee from the warmer, poured two cups and brought them to the table. “What the hell…,” he sat them next to her. “Why in the world would you go out in that?” His hand gestured at the blizzard blasting outside the window rattling and shaking it in its frame. “Are you crazy?” He rose, went to the counter and returned with the Coleman lantern. In its bright arc, he saw her chin tremble.
“I had a visitor this afternoon.” She gulped a swallow of coffee. “I don’t know how he found me. I asked him, and he said he knows things like that. No idea what he meant, but it seemed more than what he said…” She shook her head, and he saw that the raw ivory look of her cheeks was fading as warmth crept in. Her eyes still had not met
“Who… Olivia, who was it?” Henry drank from his mug.
“There was a ring… then a loud knocking. I opened the door, and there he stood, only 5° outside, wearing his red turtleneck and a scarf flapping in the wind.”
She nodded and looked up at him. “Yes.” she blinked. “He asked me, ‘May I come in?’ I stepped back, and he followed me inside. Then I noticed in one hand he carried a red bag trimmed in gold. He told me, ‘I can’t stay… it is Christmas Eve.’ And reached into his bag and took this out.” She touched the flashlight on the table, and it rolled in a half-arc toward Henry. “I looked at him and started to ask, what? He cut me off. ‘It’s a gift,’ he said. For what? I asked. He laughed—and I don’t know how such a sound came from that skinny old man—and said, ‘It will help you find your way.’” Olivia reached to roll the flashlight back to her. “He handed it to me, unwrapped his scarf and laid it over my arm, then with a ‘Merry Christmas,’ he left.”
Olivia emptied her cup and Henry rose to fill it. “Thanks,” she nodded, and her smile warmed him more than the heater and coffee. “I set both on the entryway table, chalking it up to some old man’s eccentricity. A couple of hours later it was dark—I just had a Coleman lantern in the back room, my private office—and came out and saw them and went to put them away. I…” She stopped, stretched her hand out to rest on his just a moment then pulled away. “I’ve thought about you a lot, and when I picked up that flashlight, it came on and spotlighted the door. I was flooded with feeling your hand in mine—from when we danced—and when I touched the scarf, I heard
This time his hand reached for hers. A line from The Winter Song came to him as he enjoyed the depth of color in her eyes. He sang partly to himself but mostly for her, “My voice a beacon in the night. My words will be your light to carry you to me. Is love alive?” As he looked at Olivia, he answered the question the song asked. “Yes… it’s alive.”
The wind had dropped, and lighter snow drifted down. They—the man and woman—had not heard him come in, few ever did, to sit at the table. He watched them as they grew closer. Now touching… then a kiss. “It’s always—always—the best gift to give and receive.” They didn’t hear him. He smiled as he stood and slipped outside through the barely open alley door stepping around the dark mass of the shadowed generator. A fresh flurry of snow blown from the roof above showered him and carried with it the sound of bells. Nine sets. Each with a different pitch, but one was most distinctive. It pierced the night. Mr. Kerstman chortled, “After all, he’s the lead.”
He raised his hand to the fire escape that started about twelve feet above him and rose to the top of the building. At his gesture, it dropped. As he climbed, he filled out both beard and girth, and the added weight did not slow him down. He reached a roof now lighted with a red glow, to the sound of stamping hooves. A minute later he was gone, but the sound of bells and his voice and laughter rang through the night. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!”
Below him, the city lights came on.
NOVEMBER 30 (A YEAR LATER)
I see at interval s th e glance of a curious sort of bird throug h the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive i s there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.”
It was still a diner but had expanded into spac
NOTE FROM DENNIS
I’ve used some things fictitiously for this story, but the following are facts. The Dutch West India Company established the colony of New Netherland in America in 1624, and it grew to encompass all of present-day New York City and parts of Long Island, Connecticut, and New Jersey. The thriving Dutch settlement on the southern tip of Manhattan Island was christened New Amsterdam (which became New York City). The Dutch brought with them the presence of Saint Nicholas who has been in the Hudson River country of America ever since the beginning.
Clement Clarke Moore is widely believed to be the author of ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas.’ Written in 1822, once it had become popular, it was known as ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.’ But there is