Caroling
What follows is a short story I wrote for my family and friends this holiday. I know it's a longer post than usual, but I wanted to share it with you here. Happy Holidays!
Caroling
A chatter of icy snow whipped against the plastic covered windows, driven by a wind that sought the seemingly insignificant cracks as invitations to Charlie’s home. The invading chill battled the meager heat produced by the trailer’s little furnace, but the result was always the same. Charlie knew he was in no danger of freezing to death, but neither was he likely to be comfortable without the help of thick socks and warm sweaters. Winter wasn’t too bad in the old mobile home except when the bitter wind was blowing like it did tonight. He set aside the paper he had been grading and pulled his chilly hands under the blanket to warm them a while.
Christmas break, he thought as he looked around his darkened living room, and here I sit alone in the quiet, working. The light of one table lamp glinted on the garland he had strung near the ceiling and picked out the shiny bits of ornaments on the small fake tree in the corner. The papers could wait, he supposed. They wouldn’t be handed back until the new year, so there was plenty of time. Still, he liked to read the students’ compositions for his annual holiday memories assignment. They were always so honestly cheerful. Charlie rubbed his freshly warmed hands together and brought them out again to hold the latest example of 6th grade creativity. He was a few lines into reading the paper again when he suddenly remembered the time.
“Shoot,” he said, fumbling for the remote control in the blanket at the end of the couch, “I probably missed the first ghost already.”
The TV flared awake and began its frantic flip through the channels. Scrooge in his nightcap watched his younger self at school. Charlie sighed and tossed the control back to the end of the couch. He had loved the story of A Christmas Carol since he first saw the movie as a child, and still took every opportunity to watch it during the Christmas season. Of course, he read the original Dickens tale every year, but he also enjoyed taking in each new film version he encountered. They were abundant in the days running up to the holiday. Charlie had seen dozens of portrayals from faithful retellings like this one to modern twists on the classic fable. There were musicals, cartoons, and even puppets, but they all told the same tale, and it was fun to recognize it under the flourishes of individual inspiration. It always felt more like Christmas when he was watching some Scrooge redeemed.
Charlie set his student’s paper aside again and settled in to watch the movie. Here in the comfort of the familiar story, he could forget the creeping cold of the trailer and ignore the howl of winter outside his window. The holiday mood glowed in each classic image and reverberated in lines he could recite along with the well-known characters.
At the first commercial, he briefly ventured out of his cocoon to start the kettle boiling for cocoa. While he filled the pot from the tap, he thought he heard distant singing and wondered at the spirit of carolers out on a night like this. When he had set the kettle on the fire, he moved the kitchen curtain aside and tried to catch sight of the singers through the hazy plastic sheeting. Charlie concluded that they must have been several houses away because he saw no movement in the blur of darkened view, only a few colored lights that looked like bright smudges against the black. As an afterthought, he turned the faucet on to a trickle to keep the pipes from freezing, then returned to the sofa just in time for the movie to resume.
The story moved through the scenes, gradually warming Scrooge’s heart while Charlie watched. The holiday mood enveloped him again as the flickers of movie glow lit the room like a cozy fire.
A rap on the metal door startled him out of the tale and back into the world. It took him a moment to realize it was probably the carolers finally reaching his trailer, but once the idea dawned, he sprang up to answer. He hoped his hesitation wouldn’t cost him the performance. Carolers were a rare thing these days, and he couldn’t remember being visited by any since he moved to the trailer park. Charlie was trying to remember where he had stashed the box of candy canes he had purchased a few weeks ago when he yanked open the front door.
Beyond the storm door, all was quiet except for the skirl of wind. Charlie’s hopes sank as he realized the singers must have moved on. Out in the darkness, lights adorning his neighbors’ homes blinked merrily as the decorations against the glittering blanket of snow had transformed the park into something clean and magical. Charlie smiled and pushed against the glass door. If he was quick, he might call them back before they reached the next house. The door resisted his nudge and Charlie looked down to see the snow had drifted against it and glazed with ice. The surface of the snow was smooth and unmarked with any prints out to the edge of the porch and down the stairs.
“That’s strange,” he said aloud. He was certain the knock had been at this door. The alternative was at the far end of the trailer, and he could easily recognize the direction of the sound. What’s more, he couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to walk around the little trailer in this storm to go to the farthest door. The only explanation was that something had been blown against the door and tumbled away before he could open it. While he peered through the frosty glass to try to find the object, the teakettle started to scream behind him.
Charlie closed the door and turned back toward the kitchen. There, standing next to the old white stove, was a large man in a worn leather jacket and blue jeans. His salt and pepper beard was full and his head was covered with a red and white Santa-style hat that had long ago given up its holiday cheer.
“Evening, Charlie,” the big man said casually as he turned the dial and relieved the kettle from its stress. Charlie was stunned. The man could not have entered so silently and quickly while Charlie was answering the door, yet here he was, and this stealthy stranger knew Charlie by name.
“Do I know you?” Charlie asked, temporarily setting aside the mystery of his appearance in the kitchen. The big man raised his eyebrows so they lost themselves in the scruff of mangy fur at the edge of his hat.
“Oh, c’mon Charlie,” he said in a voice that was gruff and tired, “You gonna make me say it?”
Charlie shook his head, confused. However this guy had come to be in his house, he was obviously mixed up, melancholy, and in need of a friend. Charlie decided it was probably best to play along, offer him some comfort and conversation until he could find the stranger more qualified help.
“Please,” Charlie requested with a smile and quick gesture, “remind me how we know each other. I’m not good with names.”
The stranger sighed, then straightened his posture so that he seemed even bigger than he had before. The man continued to expand until he was a veritable giant in the tiny room. The light took on a golden quality in his vicinity and a wave of warmth, smelling of roast turkey and gingerbread spilled past the dumbfounded teacher.
“Come in, and know me better, man,” the voice rang out, hearty, booming and rich with fellowship and mirth. In that instant, the giant beamed comfort and good cheer, and then it was all gone. The stranger slouched his relatively ordinary height in the cold light of an incandescent bulb, looking more like a road-weary truck driver than a Spirit of Christmas.
“Oh,” Charlie said when he had regained his senses, “a figment of my imagination, then.” To be hospitable, he added, “Would you like some cocoa?”
The spirit shrugged and stepped aside to let Charlie into the room. Charlie went about the business of taking two mugs from the cup tree, blowing the dust off of one, and searching the cabinet for the box of instant cocoa. He did this all without a word, his mind floating through the possibilities of what this hallucination could mean. Tearing the ends off the packets, he dumped the powder into each cup before he paused.
“Why me? I’m no Scrooge. I might be sitting here in my cold dark rooms by myself, but I’d like to think I’ve been pretty good at keeping the spirit of Christmas. Overall, I’m a pretty jolly guy; so what’s up here?” Charlie had started his interrogation honestly confused, but as he went on, he had trouble keeping the edge of indignation out of his voice. He turned to the spirit for an answer and noticed the man had moved silently to the couch and was digging in the blanket for the remote. He found it, flopped onto the seat and started to flip through the channels while he answered the question.
“Ah, Charlie, of course you’re jolly. You’re lousy with jolly. I’m not here for your benefit.” He stopped on an ad for the amazing lint remover, the perfect holiday gift, and watched perplexed as the spokesmodel excitedly pointed out its amazing features.
“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” Charlie asked, temporarily forgetting the cocoa project.
The spirit on his couch shook his head slowly, “I don’t know. I guess your Christmas sweaters need a shave?”
“Not the commercial. Who are you here for? Who’s the Scrooge?”
His visitor grunted. He hit the mute button and looked away from the TV to stare at the little Christmas tree. After a long uncomfortable pause, he started to speak.
“Do you remember that Christmas when you were six years old and your dad had lost his job at the factory...” His voice was low and hung in the air near Charlie’s ear though he could see the man sitting on the sofa still. Charlie spun toward the voice in time to see his kitchen melt into the kitchen of his childhood. The familiar yellow walls and speckled linoleum were fresh as today. Charlie couldn’t believe the clarity of the vision. The door of the harvest gold refrigerator was papered with drawings of kindergarten scribble, and Mom stood at the sink washing dishes in that old brown dress she liked to wear. At the blue formica table, an industrious six year old Charlie had spread his crayons out around his current masterpiece and was focused on making green triangles on the notebook paper sheet. He hummed softly as he worked.
A slow smile spread across adult Charlie’s face. He couldn’t take his eyes from the scene.
“Remember?” he said, “Well, when you put it this way...”
Young Charlie finished coloring the triangles and chose the yellow one from the assortment of stubby crayons on the table. He picked the ragged edge of its wrapper and peeled it away from the dulled point.
“Jingle bells, jingle all the way,” he sang quietly as he tried to make lines of garland across his triangle trees. After a couple of tries, he switched to making streaky yellow dots on the tree tops- dots because he wasn’t so good at stars, streaky because his yellow crayon was now infected with pine.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells!” His brother Tommy, a year younger, marched into the kitchen offering his own rendition of the tune. He pranced around the room, singing to outdo his older brother, battling him with the music. Their voices rose, each on a different line of the song, each at their own pace until Mom finally dropped the pot she was washing into the empty sink.
“Can’t you sing together?” she asked, exhausted. There was a knock on the kitchen door, and she went to answer it while the boys glared at each other, enjoying the challenge and already plotting the next carol.
Adult Charlie, with the silent Christmas spirit at his side, was watching his mother now. A man and woman at the door, two strangers he would never see again, spoke quietly with his mother, the words “food drive” and “less fortunate” floating to the surface of the conversation. Mom nodded and moved aside to let them in with their paper bags full of groceries. They deposited these on the table next to Charlie’s crayons while the boys watched with wide eyes. The strangers made several trips, bringing bags and boxes to cover the little table. His mother just stood by the open door, offering tiny, almost embarrassed “thank you”s each time they passed. The cold seeped in with the strangers’ mission, and they left icy puddles in their tracks, but it took only a few minutes to load the table with more food than the boys had seen at one time since Dad had lost his job.
“Merry Christmas,” the strangers said gently as they left, and Mom answered them with another subdued “thank you.” As she closed the door, she looked like she might cry. The boys, Tommy and both young and old Charlie, held their breath, trying to decide from her reaction if this was a good or a bad thing. Then Mom turned toward them with tears successfully locked away.
“Who wants to help me put all this in the cabinet?”
Adult Charlie turned to the ghost while the boys started eagerly unpacking the bags.
“That bit of charity helped us through a rough time,” he commented.
“It was a lean Christmas, wasn’t it,” the spirit asked unnecessarily. Charlie nodded. The spirit continued, “The drawing. Do you remember why it was so important to you?” Charlie looked back at the forest of Christmas
“Every drawing is important when you’re six,” he explained, but added, “It was wrapping paper. Mom and Dad said times were tough for everyone that year. I figured Santa might have trouble, too. Maybe he couldn’t bring much, so I was helping.”
“And you gave your blue truck to Tommy,” the spirit finished.
“He always liked it.” Charlie said, now completely returned to his trailer. The spirit shook his head and started to walk back to the sofa.
“You got that cocoa ready?” he asked.
Charlie, his mind still on that long ago holiday, was slow to finish making the drinks. He poured the hot water into each mug, remembering the cocoa packets that had come with the unexpected larder that year and what a treat they had been for boys who had become accustomed to doing without. He stirred the lumps of powder into the liquid, hoping they would melt in better than they usually did, finally giving up when it appeared he would make no more progress. There were still some sticky lumps of mix at the edges of the cup, but it would have to do. Charlie brought the mugs into the living room and gave one to his guest. Together, they sipped the sweetness while flickers of TV light pulsed in the darkness. Finally, Charlie broke the silence with his question.
“So, is there something wrong with Tommy? What’s the reason for this visit?”
The spirit lowered his mug, revealing a fringe of hot chocolate dew in his mustache that he quickly licked clean.
“Tommy’s fine,” he said, setting his cup on the coffee table and looking to the collection of greeting cards arranged there. He lifted the one from Tommy and his family and contemplated the snow covered cottage on the front. “You’re a long way from home, Charlie. You miss your family?”
Charlie had made the difficult decision not to fly home this year. There just wasn’t enough money. He looked down at the cheerful pictures on the cards and knew that each one was like a paper shadow of a loved one he would not see this Christmas.
“Of course I miss them,” he answered, wondering why the spirit would choose to poke that sore spot, “but I know they’re safe, happy and healthy. There are people I love enough to miss, and not everybody is fortunate enough to say that. The distance doesn’t seem like such a big thing when you think about it that way.”
“And how are you spending your lonely holiday?” asked the spirit as he gulped from his mug again.
Before Charlie could answer, he was out in the brilliant sunlight, watching himself unload shopping bags from his car and carry them up the steps to Mrs. Adams’ trailer. The old woman stood in the doorway in her lavender fleece robe and watched the delivery as she usually did. His neighbor had depended on him to do her shopping every two weeks since he had offered two years ago. She had no car of her own, and what started as a lift to the store now and then had developed into this service as her health deteriorated. Yesterday, he had made this delivery, and now he watched it replayed with the ghost at his side. Together they followed yesterday’s Charlie into his neighbor’s home.
“My, Charlie! You sure are good at bargain hunting,” Mrs. Adams marveled as he set the full bags on her kitchen counter, “You got all this for the money I gave you?”
Charlie produced a few bills from his pocket and put them in her ancient hand. “Your change,” he explained, “Lots of deals today. Holiday sales and all.”
She looked up at him as if he must be joking, but he only shrugged.
“There’s one more bag in the car,” he excused himself to avoid her scrutiny and went back outside. While he was gone, the ghost looked at the observing Charlie and raised an eyebrow.
“What?” Charlie protested.
Yesterday’s Charlie returned with another bag of groceries in one hand and a potted poinsettia in the crook of his other arm. He placed them both on the kitchen table.
“The flower is from me. Merry Christmas!” He said cheerily.
Looking slightly more fragile than usual, Mrs. Adams stared at the plant.
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said quietly, “but I don’t...” she paused and trembled a smile. “Thank you. Are you visiting your family on Christmas, then?”
Charlie shook his head. “All alone this year, I’m afraid.”
“Me, too.” She said. “Well, I know I’m just an old woman, but if you wouldn’t mind the company, you’re welcome to come for Christmas dinner. I wouldn’t bother if I was here alone, but if there’s two of us, I’m sure we can do something special with some of these bargain groceries.”
Charlie nodded agreement. “I’d be delighted. I can come over early and help you prepare it. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about our favorite holiday memories.”
In an instant, Charlie and the Christmas spirit were back on his living room couch, listening to the wind whistling outside.
“All right. Past, present, I suppose you have a ‘Christmas yet to come’ to show me.” Charlie had given up digging for a point to the visitation and resigned himself to letting it unfold as it went.
“Yep,” the ghost affirmed, picking up his mug, “but first, I finish my chocolate.” He sipped it while watching the silent scenes display on the TV screen. Charlie sat by awkwardly.
“You couldn’t do that warm glow thing again, could you?” he inquired, and receiving no reply, he pulled the blanket over himself while he waited.
The program switched to another commercial break loaded with images of zany elves, busy shoppers and packages torn open under the tree. The series of ads seemed to equate happiness with the size of the big red bow and ended with a woman sure of her family’s love because they presented her with a sufficiently luxurious new car. The spirit of Christmas made a sour face.
“Really? Is this what it’s all about now? Why do I even try?” The statement was more tired than angry. Charlie thought he detected real pain in his chestnut brown eyes.
“Relax.” He laid an encouraging hand on the spirit’s great shoulder and waved his other hand at the television dismissively. “That’s not all there is. Sure, there’s some materialism going on, but there’s still plenty of pure Christmas spirit out there. You spend your time watching commercials, of course you’re gonna see the commercialism. You’ve got to get out and see people being with people to find the good stuff.”
The big man set his empty mug on the table soundly. There was a bit of chocolate silt stuck in the bottom, but he had drained the rest of the beverage.
“You’re right, Charlie,” he said suddenly and the two were instantly transported to the downward side of an escalator in a bright and bustling shopping mall.
Charlie scanned his surroundings while they descended and found them somewhat familiar in the way that every mall was familiar. However, there were no features that marked this one as a particular mall from his memory. Huge red and green banners hung from the second floor balcony wishing shoppers a happy holiday, and signs in every shop entrance proclaimed the best deals on gifts. A steady buzz of voices rose from the river of shoppers moving from store to store. Despite the way they were pressed together, each little group seemed disconnected from the others, focused solely on their own missions.
“Well, I guess I should be glad you didn’t take me to a graveyard.” Charlie commented, referring to Scrooge’s future in the story.
“Oh, you’re dead, Charlie,” the spirit said bluntly, “This ‘Christmas yet to come’ is post-Charlie.” They reached the bottom of the escalator and stepped off, moving with the crowd as they hurried toward their tasks.
Charlie took a moment to let the spirit’s words soak in and accepted them with little trouble. “I guess when you look at the whole big future, there a re a lot of Charlie-free Christmases yet to come.”
“Mmm. I didn’t say it was Charlie-free, just post-Charlie,” the spirit clarified without making anything more clear. They rounded a corner and entered the main hall of the shopping mall where a stage had been set up to host holiday performances. Youngsters were fidgeting in their dress clothes, packed together on three levels of risers while parents and onlookers clustered around expectantly. The music teacher raised his hands, mouthed something to the assembled students that made them giggle, then signaled the start of a jolly version of Jingle Bells.
As the children sang, Charlie watched their faces. They started out unsure, nervous, but as they went, they seemed to find strength in the familiar tune. The comfort of their classmates’ voices and the leadership of their smiling music teacher banished any fears they had about the performance. Before long, their voices had swelled to envelop the crowd in a festive mood. Charlie couldn’t help thinking of the wave of Christmas cheer the spirit had unleashed in his kitchen earlier.
From one carol to the next, the teacher led them through the program, guiding the students with good humor. It was clear they were having fun. They enjoyed the familiar holiday music as much as their audience, and Charlie noted that audience was growing. Drawn by the joyous voices, strangers were stopping to listen. No longer isolated in their holiday errands, for a moment, distance between the shoppers melted away and they were united in goodwill and cheer. Charlie watched tensions drain from mall goers’ faces as childhood memories tugged them from their busy preparations. In the warmth of the music, the coldness that separated them could no longer stand.
At the conclusion of a series of songs and the applause that followed, the music teacher turned to address the crowd. He was an older gentleman, nearing his retirement age, but his face was creased with years of smiles.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “you’ve been listening to the Wilkins Grade School Choir.” Another round of applause washed through the crowd. “Now, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to tell you a little bit about myself. When I was a boy, my Grandfather passed away just before Christmas one year. I loved him very much, and I was devastated. I was bitter, hardly in a mood for celebrating the season, but my sixth grade teacher assigned a paper about holiday memories. Well, I didn’t want to do it. Every time I sat down to write about those memories, Grandpa was there. Grandpa was always there at the holidays, playing piano and singing Christmas carols. It might have been the toughest assignment I ever did, but, you know, as I wrote, I found that part of Grandpa would always be alive in those memories. I would miss him, but in the holiday season, we would always be close. He gave me that love of music and that love of Christmas that make this, this concert we offer you tonight, my favorite place in the world to be. And for making me realize that, I have to thank the teacher who made me see the treasure beneath my grief. So, this next song is for the two of them, Grandpa and Mr. Charlie Richardson, wherever they may be. And I invite you all to think of the ones who made your Christmas memories and sing along.” With that, he turned back to the choir and waved a hand. The children broke into song, wishing a Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year.
Charlie was speechless as the crowd, coaxed into joining the carol, started to dissolve into his living room again. Distant strains of music lingered long after the vision had dissipated, and Charlie thought he could still feel the notes even after he ceased to hear them. In silence, he sat on the sofa with the spirit of Christmas at his side, his eyes on the stack of papers he had been grading. After a time, he cleared his throat and spoke.
It was Tim, then. My student, Tim, was in danger of being the Scrooge in this story,” he said quietly. He looked squarely at the spirit and saw his eyes were glowing like hearth fires.
“Ho,” the spirit laughed in a voice as deep and round as the soul of mankind’s goodness, “Not Tim, you fool. Tim had the love of his Grandfather and you to remind him of it. He, in turn, will keep that Christmas spirit alive for others.” The spirit smiled and clapped Charlie on the shoulder with his beefy hand. It radiated unnatural warmth that wrapped him with a cozy feeling like a toasty biscuit on a cold morning.
He continued to explain, “We all have to cope with bah humbug moments. Even I need reminders that the real spirit of Christmas comes from people reaching out to each other, and that it does still happen...daily...in little ways that may be overlooked, but, bless you, Charlie, You’ve done it. Merry Christmas, man!” The wave of golden, turkey-scented benevolence filled the little trailer again, and Charlie had to squint in the brightness of it. When the jolly peals of laughter faded, he opened his eyes to a room that seemed not so dark and cold as before. The great jovial ghost was gone, but Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the mug he had left on the coffee table. It had filled again with cocoa, rich and steaming in the chilly air.
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