A Merry Little Christmas (25 page)

On an impulse, Charlie grabbed hold of the windmill’s ladder and climbed the metal rungs to the top. He got a little shaky on the last step, but the view was amazing, as from an eagle’s nest. He could see more clearly up there, breathe more easily, even though his legs quivered. There on top, looking out over the farm world and beyond, Charlie made a pledge to his brother—that he would work harder to protect him from their father. And he knew no career dream or hope for love would ever make him break this familial vow.

But could God provide a way out of such a moral dilemma? Was there a way to sidestep such a tragic plan? What if he hired his own attorney to fight his father? What about giving the news to a hungry journalist who might want to make the most of it? The story was sensationalistic to say the least. Once everyone knew about the threats, his brother would surely be free.

But if it exploded into an epic family battle and was accompanied with scandalous publicity, what kind of toll would that take on Willie? Would it be even more painful in the long run than the alternative? He had no idea, and the not knowing was maddening.

There, under the bright stars and the heavens he’d just railed against, Charlie wept—not for his loss, but for the sadness Franny would feel when nothing changed. When he didn’t follow through with the purchase of the music store, and when his promise of love never progressed into marriage. She would wonder what had happened to change his mind. How could he tell her the truth?

Sickened with heartache and cold to the bone, Charlie slowly made his way back toward the house.

Franny looked at the kitchen clock and then at Noma. “I wonder why Charlie hasn’t come back.” Maybe the conversation between the two men had taken a darker turn.
Please, God, don’t allow this conflict to close the door on their relationship. No matter how difficult things are, Charlie needs a father.

“Maybe Charlie wanted some time alone to recover. His father leaves a mighty deep wake behind him.” Noma handed her the last washed plate.

“So true. Never met anybody like him.” Franny contemplated Mr. Landau’s daunting nature. The man didn’t seem to live in a world of reason but of might, like a bull in a lamb’s pen. Not the best atmosphere for raising secure and happy kids.
Must have been really hard on Charlie and his brother, growing up that way.
Franny finished drying the plate and set it down on the stack. “Excuse me for a minute. I’m going to have a quick look.” She went out onto the enclosed porch and gazed through the long row of windows. Nothing. She went into her bedroom and pulled back the curtains, hoping to see Charlie.

Instead of seeing her beloved, she saw a shadow move across the field and then disappear behind the brooder house. What was that? It appeared too far away to get a good look, especially since the yard light didn’t illuminate that area very well. She thought of going outside to investigate, but moments later she heard the porch door open and close. It must have been Charlie. Holding her breath, she went back to the kitchen and waited for him, deciding to forget the shadowy figure.

Charlie looked at her when he came inside. His eyes were rimmed in red, and he looked as weary as a man who’d been on a long journey but had never made it home. She searched his face, trying to find the Charlie she’d fallen in love with. Where had he gone? He appeared so lost that her spirit ached for him. She wanted to throw her arms around him, pull him close, and tell him all would be well, but could she make such a guarantee? For a moment she too felt misplaced. Or maybe it was Charlie’s sudden distant air that kept her at bay.

“I’m going upstairs for a bit,” Noma said before disappearing up the back steps.

Charlie sat down at the kitchen table and placed his hands in his lap.

Franny draped the tea towel over her shoulder and stood by his side. “Would you like to talk about it?”

He sighed. “I don’t know.”

Franny sat down next to him. “Your father said something else to you, didn’t he? Something that changes everything.”

“How could you know that?” Charlie’s eyes held such sadness.

“I can see it written all over your face.” Franny fidgeted with the frayed end of the tea towel, picking at it until the loose threads fell on the floor. After another round of quiet she said, “I remember one time, growing up, when there was this stray dog that wandered onto our farm. Daddy always tried to run him off, but he refused to go. We got very attached to each other, and after a lot of begging, Daddy said we could keep him. He was a good dog, but one time I made the mistake of cornering him. And to my surprise, he bit me.”

Charlie shrugged. “So? What does that story mean? Are you trying to say that my father is a good man and I made the mistake of cornering him?” His expression held a glint of irritation.

“I don’t think you’re at fault, but I do think your father may feel trapped and scared.” Franny wasn’t sure if she should finish her story, but something compelled her to continue even though the sensation was like a ball of string unrolling willy-nilly down the stairs. “Years later that same dog, Ed, had pups. So I renamed her Edwina.” She offered him a shaky grin. “Anyway, we had the mother and her babies in the house during a thunderstorm, and she got so frightened that Edwina injured her babies while trying to shield them. They survived, but it was a struggle for them.”

Charlie crossed his arms. “So, you’re saying that some fear inside my father—perhaps something from his past—must be triggering these reactions?” He rose from the table. “I’m sorry, Franny. I know you’re trying to help here, but I just can’t see it. Even if my father is tormented in some way, he’ll still need to make some serious adjustments in the way he fathers, or he’ll have two sons stomped to death in the name of love.”

“Charlie, I’m—”

“Maybe my father is just a terrible sinner with a hard heart. Has anyone ever thought of that?”

“Maybe you could show him what real love looks like, Charlie.”

“That’s a sweet sentiment, but it never works that way in the Landau house.”

Henry came lumbering in from the bedroom, his nails tapping on the linoleum floor. He looked at both of them earnestly and then settled himself on the floor between them.

“Good boy, Henry.” Charlie gave him a pat and then looked up at Franny. “For now, you’ll just have to understand that you don’t know the whole story. This kind of family landscape is unfamiliar territory to you. Be thankful for this, Franny.”

“I am. But whatever it is, we can work it out.” Franny didn’t mean to let her voice get so loud and feisty. Was he slipping away from her? Did he regret his words of love? She reached out to him, but instead of touching him, she let her hand fall to her side.

Charlie must have sensed her distress and disappointment and felt moved toward compassion, since his expression softened into a half smile. She could even see a glimpse of the old Charlie. “You are a woman of words so earnest and warm they could thaw an icy lake. But this isn’t anything that can be fixed with rhetoric. I’m sorry, Franny. I am.” He backed away. “I think for now, I’d better say good night.”

Franny rose from the chair. “Please tell me…” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to keep her lips from trembling. “Please tell me that nothing has changed between us.”

Charlie glanced upward, his shoulders slumping. “God, how can I do this?”

Franny, confused and bewildered, searched his face for answers. “I don’t know what you mean.” Charlie’s troubled look made her want to cry. He had to be carrying a burden she knew nothing about, and one he seemed determined to carry alone.

Then, as if some stronghold broke loose in Charlie—as if he were now making up for what he’d been denied—he rushed over to her and scooped her into his arms. They held each other for a long time, close and safe and full of tender affection. Franny rested her head on his shoulder, wanting to dissolve into tears, but she held them back. She would save them for later in the quiet of her room.

After a few more moments, Charlie eased her away just enough to catch her gaze. “My darling, Franny, please know this…no matter what happens, nothing on earth could make me stop loving you. It is the way I’ll feel until the day I die.”

Sunday arrived with the promise of a new and glorious morning, but Charlie felt little of it in his heart. He moved around the farmyard without his usual energy. All the goodness of the previous weeks, working side by side with Franny along with the hope of spending the rest of his life with her, vanished like smoke. Giving up the idea of owning the music store seemed trivial now, compared to losing Franny. His love for her had become both his treasure and his torment.

He looked upward and squinted into the sun. The glittering blue sky seemed like a painful backdrop against the night’s travails. Joylessly, he’d finished most of the morning chores. Franny and Noma had gone on to Sunday morning services without him, which was best considering his mood. But being with Franny had become more and more complicated, since she knew something was wrong. She’d known from the first moment.

He remembered Franny talking about the ridge. She’d said that everything important happened on the ridge. On impulse, he set down the bucket and walked along the cow path, past the mulberry tree, and up the hill. At last, when he was just shy of the cliff, he stopped and looked out over the vista. The creek ran in quiet ripples in the canyon, lulling all of nature to sleep like a lullaby. The pale, promising colors of spring wouldn’t come for months, yet he longed for them. Something, anything, to lighten his spirit.

His thoughts continued to spiral downward, becoming as dreary as the landscape. He could sense the unsettledness of time—the way life brought good gifts and great sorrows and everything in between. His previous life had known some of life’s untamed rhythms, but not as keenly as he felt them now. But then, he’d never loved before. And he’d never had to walk away from it.

With every passing day he felt his life changing, taking this course and then that course as if he were being swept away on a swollen river without any way to steer or stop. But wasn’t the whole world changing with him? It felt as though they were all moving along on that same river, being pitched around in an era of turmoil and vision, of marvel and miracle. It was a time when people went to bed with an image of the world and every morning it vanished like the morning mist, replaced by something they no longer recognized. His small boat floated among millions.

And yet…even in the loss of control and the unsure waters, he felt the sense of being watched over by something—Someone greater than himself.

Realizing why he’d really come, Charlie dropped to his knees. He’d come to the ridge to reaffirm where he stood with His master. God was not asleep. He was there in a world of turbulent waters, and He saw even the smallest boats thrashing about.

Charlie wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, kneeling and then sitting on the boulder, looking out over the countryside, but he needed the time. To pray. To pause. And just to be. He hadn’t known that state of being for most of his adult life—just to be. It was hard to know stillness amidst the bustle of the city. But here, in the quiet places, where the only clamor was the running of the deer or the rustling of cedars in the wind, here he’d found a sanctuary for his soul, and with God’s help, he’d found his peace.

Charlie breathed deeply and took in the smell of the rich earth. He picked up a clod of dirt and let it mold to his palm. Just like Franny had said, it was getting to him—the land—growing on him just as surely as the grass that took root in the pasture.

Amazingly, he’d even managed to reconcile with the squirrel living in his apartment attic. And
that
detail was a marvel in and of itself.

Maybe it was a good time to brush up on his whistling skills. Charlie cleared his throat, and without censoring himself he gave it a try. The action felt breathy at first, but when his lips finally found their shape, he whistled “Silent Night.” Why had he ever stopped such a wonderful pastime simply because Sylvie and her friends had called it gauche? Guess he’d needed to figure out who he was and stick to it.