A Treasury of Christmas Stories (4 page)

After a jillion songs, someone saved us by saying it was time to open gifts. Some of the adults held gifts on their knees waiting for who knows what. All the kids ripped open their presents fast and showed them off to one another.

Grandpa, his hair as white as Cynthia's sought-after snow, sat in his chair and watched Grandma. Her apron was still tied around her plump middle as she passed out money envelopes to all their grown children, just like she does every single year. Regardless, they all acted real surprised at getting their twenty-five dollars. Mom and Dad were no different, except they looked at each other with what seemed like relief when they opened theirs.

When Grandma was down to the last packet of money, Grandpa jumped to his feet so fast it looked like a spider had bit him. His cheeks were rosy red and his blue eyes were cheerful, just as I imagined Santa's would be. If there was a Santa, that is.

Grandpa looked especially jolly as he watched several uncles bring in a box big enough for two people to fit in. The present was covered in at least three different wrapping paper designs and looked like the work of a toddler, but Grandpa stood proudly next to the package, like he was showing off the Vatican.

“Here, Minnie,” Grandpa said. “Merry Christmas.”

Grandma giggled and pressed her lips to Grandpa's cheek. He gave her a grin and then with a few fingertip brush strokes, he dusted off her kiss. He always did that. I told Mom once that Grandpa didn't like kisses, but she said he most certainly did too.

After Grandma tore the paper, someone handed her scissors and she sliced through the tape on the box and yanked the lid open. With both arms she reached in and pulled out shredded paper until it became a huge mound on the floor. We
oohed
and
aahed
. Grandpa had never done anything like this before, and we were curious as all get out.

Grandma just about disappeared into the box and looked like she'd fall in if she dug any deeper. Then she whooped like she'd hit gold and rose up with two envelopes, which she held high in the air. We clapped and cheered. Her hands trembled as she slowly opened them. When she looked up at Grandpa, tears poured from her eyes.

“What is it?” we wanted to know.

Grandma lifted the corner of her flowered apron and dried the tears on her face. “It's been over thirty years since I've seen my sister. Grandpa has given me the airplane tickets and the money to go home to Czechoslovakia.” The waterworks in her green eyes started up again.

The family was almost as excited as Grandma, and we showered her with hugs and congratulations. Her face glowed with happiness, and she kept looking back at Grandpa like he was an angel. He'd be busy wiping kisses aplenty off his face that night.

Soon it was time to leave and we said our good-byes. Cynthia, Derris, and I made our mad dash to the car for the sweet seats. It turned out the race wasn't necessary, because Mom declared that Cynthia and I got to sit by the windows on the way home.

Gari was sound asleep in Dad's arms. He positioned her in the middle, next to me. Her head slumped on my arm and I let it stay there. When her eyelids twitched and her lips curled in a little smile, I wondered what she was dreaming about. A few minutes later it got real quiet and I peered around her to see what Cynthia and Derris were doing. They were already in their own dreamland.

Poor Grandma
, I thought. Even though my brother and sisters drove me crazy sometimes, I couldn't imagine going thirty days without seeing them, much less thirty years.

Except for soft snores and Dad's whispers to Mom, our ride home was silent. I watched as Mom scooted over next to Dad and he pulled her close. She pressed her lips to his cheek and then snuggled into his neck.

I curled up in the seat and rested my head on Gari's. Then I closed my eyes and hummed, “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

Christy Lanier-Attwood
resides in Austin, Texas, with her husband, Randy. Together, they have four wonderful children and a precious granddaughter. Christy is a realtor, but her lifelong passion is writing. She graduated with a degree in journalism from St. Edward's University and recently completed her first mystery novel.

A Joyful Noise

By Sarah Thomas Fazeli

I
WAS NOT THRILLED
about playing holiday music at some nursing home. At fifteen years old, there were ten thousand things I would rather be doing on my first day of Christmas break. None of them included dragging my trumpet and music stand to the Wesley Glen Home for the Elderly to entertain. I had committed to do it as part of my required sophomore service project hours, and my mother insisted I go.

Mom dropped me off in the family station wagon, assuring me that she'd run to the drugstore to fill a prescription and return soon, in about thirty minutes. I turned to her with pleading eyes.

“Go,” she said. “You'll make people happy.”

I rolled my eyes and slid out of the car. As I walked through the thick, revolving doors into the drab building with fluorescent lights and about ten shades of ivory, white, and taupe, I started to panic.
Had Mom left yet? Maybe there was still time to back out. I don't want to do this.

It wasn't really that I wanted to be off sledding with my friends, or at the mall or movies. Nursing homes made me uncomfortable. My only experience with them had been annual visits to see Grandpa Grzegorczyk at the Midland Home for the Elderly. Visits with him usually included brief reintroductions by my mother.

“Dad, you remember Sarah? Sarah is the middle child. And this one is Bridget, she is nine and getting so tall.” My sisters and I would line up to give an unacknowledged kiss on the cheek or to bestow a skittish hug. After the reintroductions and mandatory embrace, my father would whisk us kids off to the House of Flavors to give my mother time alone with her ailing father. That was my full experience with nursing homes and the people who lived in them.

Lost in the momentary flashback, my cheek held briefly against my grandfather's cool, gaunt face, I jumped when a nurse in white scrubs shouted to me.

“Good, you're here!” she called, ducking into a storage bin for something.

“Uh, have you seen a saxophone or a trombone?” I asked timidly. (My fellow band members and I referred to each other by our instruments.) I may not have wanted to be there, but at least I wouldn't be alone. I scanned the foyer for signs of the rest of the brass trio.

But the nurse was doing a million things at once and didn't hear my question. Instead, she rushed past me, arms full of linens. Turning around halfway down the hall, she called out, “Cafeteria's down the hall, to the right!”

I wandered, uncertain, through the corridors. I tried to resist looking in the individual rooms, but most doors were open and I caught glimpses of still bodies and slack-jawed faces. Some of the residents slept, some stared at the television screen, and some gazed out toward the hall. I was catching too many glances by looking into the rooms, so I glued my eyes to the floor and continued the search.

I found the cafeteria, led there by the unsavory aroma of reconstituted mashed potatoes, defrosted turkey slices, and some kind of Veg-All dish. As I turned into the room, a sagging candy cane garland bopped me in the face. An artificial Christmas tree with paper ornaments stood against the backdrop of institutional furniture. Attendants in white emerged from the kitchen, balancing stacks of trays and distributing them to the people quietly waiting at the tables or in wheelchairs.

Where was the rest of my trio? Did I get the time wrong? Had the concert been canceled?
I couldn't very well play a brass version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” without the harmony line. I would sound stupid. I'd just have to explain that I couldn't play without the other two musicians.

But before I could excuse myself, a voice rang out, “Ladies and gentleman, we have a special guest today from Bishop Watterson High School. She has come to play the Christmas music for our holiday party!”

I froze. In that moment of confusion, I glanced around and spotted an old upright piano sitting off to the side of the room.

I went to the piano and sat down. The white keys were discolored and some of the black ones were chipped. When I played a few scales, I was surprised to find the instrument was mostly in tune.

But I had no sheet music and hadn't played the piano in ages. I would just have to wing it and rely on musician's memory.

“Joy to the World” came to me first, and then “O Christmas Tree.” I played basic versions and had to improvise in places, but it sounded all right.

I had just launched into the second verse of “Silent Night” when I felt a warm presence beside me on the piano bench. A blue-sleeved arm belonging to a very old man rested next to mine. What does he want? I wondered. Does he think I'm someone he knows? Not knowing what to do, I continued playing until I saw his large, gnarled hands extend toward the keys.

He turned his head and looked into my eyes.

“Um, hello,” I stammered. “Do you, uh, play the piano?”

Slowly, he looked down, staring hard at the keys.

I tried again, “I'm not very good. I just play the trumpet now, in the school band.”

His silence made me feel even more awkward. The only way to relieve my discomfort was to start playing again. I raised my hands but hesitated when I saw his hands tremble.

Silence.

Then music. Beautiful music.

Grand, sweeping melodies filled the hall. His hands crossed over each other, stretching to reach the lower notes. Chopin? Grieg? Liszt? A familiar classical piece, rich with crescendo and pianissimo, alive with passionate glissandos. He barely looked at his hands as they floated over the ivories, up and down the keyboard. I couldn't take my eyes off of them.

The nurses, who a few moments earlier had been rushing around, had stopped all activity. In fact, the whole room was at a standstill. Forks were put down, and even the kitchen workers had stopped to watch and listen.

He went on for almost ten minutes and finally, delicately revealed the ending of the piece. He humbly rested his hands in his lap, looking down. The room was charged, the notes still reverberating in the air.

I whispered, “That was beautiful. They must love having you around here.”

A nurse appeared next to us, her face electric. “Oh, John!” She beamed. “We didn't know you could do that!”

I turned to the woman, confused.

“Are you new here?” I asked.

“No, I'm not new.” She smiled.

“Oh. Is John new here then?”

The woman leaned closer to me and, our faces nearly touching, said pointedly, “I have been here for fourteen years. John has been here eleven. Never has he so much as touched that piano. We had no idea he could play at all, let alone like that.”

Another staff member approached me, her hand on my arm. “What did you do? What did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just sat here and played.”

“You must have done something!” they both pressed.

“I've got to get Kathy!” one of them said, running toward the reception desk.

Then, John drew my hands together and held them in his. I wasn't afraid; I felt profoundly connected to him. In that moment, I felt the presence of the grandfather I had embraced but never known, and I realized the reason for my being there that day.

Gently, John squeezed my hands and let them go. He set his wrists above the keys and began to play again. I slid off the bench to give him room. I watched for a while as the whole room lit up with the joy of music. Gathering my things, I reluctantly made my way out to my mom, waiting in the parking lot for me.

“How did it go?” Mom asked.

“Fine,” I said, too embarrassed and emotional to tell her what had happened.

But I will never forget how a Christmas chore became a Christmas miracle when two strangers, one in the blush of life and one nearing the end, joined hands and hearts to make a joyful noise that still echoes in my soul.

Sarah Thomas Fazeli
makes her home in Southern California with her husband, Alex. She is an aspiring fiction and screenwriter, and holds an M.F.A. from the California Institute of the Arts. She is passionate about practicing and teaching yoga, meditation, and other mind-body techniques. She dedicates this story to her mother.

The Best Worst Christmas

By Doris Olson

P
APA WAS GOING
to town — all by himself! In those days, when you lived twenty miles from town and the top speed of your car was forty miles per hour, a trip to town was a major event and usually involved the whole family.

Each of us had important reasons to participate. Papa was the driver. Mama was in charge of the cream can and the egg crate, bartering cream and eggs for groceries. My brother, Bert, and I had to go because the barter agreement with the creamery included two Dixie cups, a small paper container of vanilla ice cream with a tiny wooden paddle for scooping. It was a wondrous treat, well worth the long ride to town and the hours waiting for the eggs and cream to be traded and the groceries to be purchased.

But on that December morning, Papa came up to the house right after milking, took a bath and shaved, and put on his best bib overalls, still stiff with starch. Then he went out to the Model A and drove away.

Bursting with indignation, Bert and I turned to Mama for an explanation. Mama was turning the handle of the cream separator and appeared not to notice that anything unusual had occurred. If she knew the reason for Papa's behavior, she wasn't telling.

Papa got back about four hours later. Apparently, the urgency of Mama's queries made them a little less discreet than usual. We overheard small scraps of conversation that we assembled later in our attic playroom: “something growing on the bone” … “can't fix it here” … “hospital in Minneapolis” … “don't cry” …