Chistmas Ever After (7 page)

Just then, Mrs. Stanton’s left foot found an unfortunate old patch of ice beneath the newly fallen snow. She felt it give way, and her cane, which should have been a support, slipped from her hand and sailed away into a snowdrift. Jennifer watched in horror as Mrs. Stanton’s body lifted from the earth and rose like a great bird above the spread of undulating snow. She seemed suspended in time. For a brief hopeful moment, Jennifer had the irrational belief that she could somehow scramble from her car and rescue Mrs. Stanton, as one would rescue a priceless fragile vase falling from a great height.

But there was no rescue. There was no one to catch Mrs. Stanton and there was no one to stop Jennifer’s car from its collision course with the garbage cans in the alleyway, and the inevitable impact into the side of the building.

Mrs. Stanton’s body finally hit the snow, like a massive meteorite striking the earth. The impact threw up a plume of whiteness. The crater was deep and impressive. Mrs. Stanton let out an almighty howl that scattered chirping sparrows into the trees. Her yell was eclipsed by Jennifer’s car slamming into the garbage cans, and colliding into the side wall of Cards N’ Stuff.

Then there was silence. But only a brief one.

From somewhere, close by, came a low rumble. It was a foreboding sound, like the low moan of fate in the apprehension of an imminent catastrophe.

Cards N’ Stuff began to shimmy and quake. Icicles snapped and fell. Fractures formed on the roof. Sliding snow whooshed down in avalanches, crashing to the ground.

Mrs. Stanton was frozen in fear, looking bug-eyed, hearing a roar, like the sea.

Jennifer managed to shove open the jammed car door and roll out, falling into a mound of snow. She heard the frightening sound, struggled to her feet and staggered away from the building, running, stumbling and gasping.

There was a terrible, miserable groan as the roof buckled and plunged down into the shop in a storm of wood, roof-tiles, dirt and snow. In violent hammer-like blows, it shattered snow globes, jewelry boxes and porcelain figurines. It smashed glass displays and chopped through shelves, burying Christmas angels, Santa Clauses, Christmas cards and delicate earrings. The window Christmas displays were blown into oblivion; the Victorian town demolished; the electric train flicked away and buried by a powerful cascading shaft of dirt and ice. The family around the piano was pummeled and destroyed.

In a final act of destruction, sprinkler pipes ruptured, shooting streams of water into the air like geysers, flooding the place. Books, CDs and DVDs floated by, little boats navigating a chaotic space.

When it was finally over, an uneasy silence settled in, like a warning.

Jennifer lifted unsteadily to her feet, her mouth open in shock, her eyes wide and burning. She saw Mrs. Stanton. She was nearly buried in snow. Jennifer frantically rushed over, dropped to her knees beside the woman and began brushing snow off her coat, face and hair.

“Mrs. Stanton! Mrs. Stanton! Are you all right!?”

Mrs. Stanton was spitting snow from her mouth. Her arms were outstretched and waving; her face red, white and splotchy.

“Call an ambulance! Call the police! Call the fire department! And get the hell away from me! Just get the hell away from me! I’m going to prosecute you!”

Jennifer looked around, disoriented and blunted. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move or think. She reached for her cell phone and called an ambulance.

She walked toward the firehouse, aimlessly, only vaguely aware of the approaching sirens, which, like distant memories, seemed to be coming from a long way off. There was a strange cast to the world, of watercolor grays, salmons and blues and, suddenly, a limpid sky. The snow stopped.

She saw the faces of concerned paramedics and volunteer firemen as they rushed to the scene, helping Mrs. Stanton to a stretcher, darting about Cards N’ Stuff, assessing the damage. Cars driving by stopped and people emerged, shocked, anxious to help.

Jennifer saw them, but somehow felt removed from the whole scene and, as she stood there watching, she saw shadowy images and indefinite shapes. Gradually, even they seemed to melt away—leaving a canvas of pure white, like a flat piece of blank white paper, where there was no particular definition or point of reference. If her heart was beating, she wasn’t aware of it.
 
She felt like a tree in winter. No obvious pulse, just bare, skinny limbs—dead-like—left to rattle in the cold wind.

She could have been standing there, in the street, for minutes or for hours, before the black Mercedes drew up to the curb and J. D. Hartman bounded out, quickly taking in the surroundings with a dramatic shake of his head. He started toward her in a rush of concern.

“Jennifer…!”

Jennifer kept staring at the collapsed building and hectic scene before her, lost in her nightmare. She watched as the ambulance carrying Mrs. Stanton drove away, siren screaming, red dome light sweeping the area.

“Jennifer! Jennifer, it’s J. D. Hartman.”

Jennifer became aware of a voice. She turned slowly toward it, allowing her eyes to finally focus on the Mayor’s pinched face.

“Jennifer… are you all right?”

Jennifer nodded, dully.

In the next hour, Jennifer spoke with the police and then with Richard Steady, who was somber and apologetic, struggling for his usual optimism. There would be papers to fill out, forms to study, options to consider, but Jennifer couldn’t deal with any right then. Finally, Mayor Hartman turned to her as they watched her car being towed to the garage, where Richard would appraise it more closely, and where it would eventually be repaired, sold or traded.

“Can I take you home?” the Mayor asked.

Jennifer noted the shattered headlights and crumpled right hood. Poor thing looked like it had been in a fight and lost, Jennifer thought. She’d really liked that car. “I don’t want to go home,” Jennifer said.

“Then I’ll take you to our house. Gladys will make some hot chocolate. You’re shivering. You’re going to catch pneumonia, if you don’t get inside. Please.”

Jennifer didn’t respond. “I should be here. See if there’s anything I can salvage.”

“They’re not going to let you go in there. It’s too dangerous. There’s nothing you can do, Jennifer. Nothing at all. Please, let me take you to our house.”

Jennifer looked at him, sadly. “No… take me home... I just want to go home.”

In the Mayor’s car, Jennifer sat slumped and depressed. They traveled down the two-lane road toward her condominium and she stared out the window, drearily, as they passed Harvey’s Pond. A small group of skaters edged across the ice, like sailboats, leaning into the wind.

“Did you have insurance?” the Mayor asked.

“Some. Not all I need. I was going to get more... next month.”

The Mayor turned away in a fretful silence.

“I was just about to move into the black,” Jennifer said, flatly. “Christmas sales were strong.”

“That damned place is cursed!” the Mayor said, bitterly.

Jennifer turned to him. “Cursed? What do you mean?”

He shook his head quickly, wishing he hadn’t spoken. “Nothing… just…”

“Mayor Hartman, tell me!”

“Two years ago, that building was a bookshop and café. It did so well and then… well, a tragic thing happened. The woman who leased it, Donna, died of leukemia. She was only 29 years old. I’m sure you’ve already heard the story.”

“No...”

“...We were all very fond of Donna. She was married to my son, Alex.”

“Your son? I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Gladys and I seldom speak about him. He and I didn’t always get along very well, but I love him more than my own life. We got into so many damned arguments over the last few years. He hated my politics—disagreed with everything I stood for. Then, after Donna’s death, Alex left town. Just kind of disappeared. He took his son, Jason, our only grandson, with him.”

“How old was Jason?”

“He was 4 years old. The cutest and smartest little child,” J. D. said, proudly. “I guess all grandparents say that, don’t they? He’s six now.”

“Have you stayed in touch with your son?” Jennifer asked.

“He wrote occasionally, to his mother, but then he stopped writing altogether and we lost track of them. Gladys was so worried that she made me hire a private investigator to find them. They were eventually located in Kearney, Nebraska. Alex was working as a waiter in some restaurant.”

The Mayor opened his mouth as if to finish his sentence, but then stopped. “He was a teacher, such a wonderful teacher. Taught history and sometimes literature at the high school. Anyway, we called him, but he didn’t return our calls. We wrote him and begged him to come home or at least stay in contact with us, but he didn’t, and we soon lost track of him again. We located him one other time in California, but again, after we contacted him, he didn’t write or call. Finally, we stopped. Now, we just pray. What else can we do?”

Jennifer looked at the Mayor, saw the sorrow on his face, and noticed the light had left his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mayor. Life is so cruel, and I guess we all feel it more at this time of year, when we’re fed all these sugary, impossible fantasies about peace on earth and love and joy.”

The Mayor gave her a sideways glance, afraid to pull his eyes from the road. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but Jennifer could hear the emotion in it. “We must believe in those things, Jennifer, otherwise we’re just lost. We must try to find them and live them, otherwise what hope do we have?”

“Face it, Mayor, we’re all lost. It’s better to face it—to face the reality—than to believe in fantasies and illusions of peace on earth and goodwill toward men and women. That world just doesn’t exist and never will exist. That’s just not the way reality is.”

J. D. Hartman looked at Jennifer compassionately. “You’ve had a tough blow, Jennifer. Get some rest and you’ll feel better. We missed you at the Christmas party. I wish you’d have come.”

Jennifer sighed. “I couldn’t make it.”

The Mercedes turned into the condominium parking lot. It had nearly been cleared of snow, but there were mountains of it on the periphery and in the corners, piled under the fir trees that skirted the condominium complex. J. D. stopped the car and looked over.

“Well, why don’t you come over Christmas day? Gladys always prepares a wonderful feast and I know she’d want you to join us. Say 6 o’clock?”

Jennifer grasped her handbag and reached for the door latch. “No thanks, Mayor. I won’t be celebrating Christmas this year.”

The Mayor sighed. “It’ll all work out, Jennifer. Things will look better after you’ve had some rest.”

She stared with hollow eyes, as she opened the door and swung out. Before leaving, she turned back toward him. “Do you know a Mrs. Wintergreen, Mayor?”

The Mayor considered her question. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Frances Wintergreen?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Should I know her?”

“…No.”

“Get some rest, Jennifer,” the Mayor said.

Jennifer didn’t look back at him. She closed the door and traipsed off to her apartment.

Inside, the silence was overwhelming. The walls seemed to close in on her. She felt dazed and defeated. There was no fire in her body. No life or hope. A sorrow came, so deep, that no diver would ever find the bottom, no grave digger would ever reach the coffin it was buried in. She covered her face with her hands, but she couldn’t cry. Nothing would come. The bitterness was too thick, the anger too heavy, like a dark wet blanket. It was all she could do to collapse onto the couch and flop over on her side, lifting her feet, curling up like a baby. Minutes later, she fell into a deep sleep.

When she awoke, she glanced at her watch. It was almost 10 a.m. She sat up, rubbed her face and swept the room with her eyes. Stabbing memories began creeping back into her consciousness. She shot to her feet, looking about, as if searching for some kind of escape hatch, a way out, an escape route away from her thoughts, memories and responsibilities. She suddenly remembered something Mrs. Wintergreen had said to her at Harvey’s Pond the night before.

“You’re going to be tested,” she had said.

What did she mean by that? Had she known that her shop would be destroyed? Without thinking, Jennifer heard herself call out. “Mrs. Wintergreen!”

It surprised her. The name echoed in the apartment. Then she recalled what Mrs. Wintergreen had said about Mrs. Stanton not accepting her help. Jennifer reached for her phone and called the hospital. She was connected to Mrs. Stanton’s room. Mrs. Stanton’s niece spoke kindly to her.

“Mrs. Stanton has had x-rays and we’re waiting for the results. She’s still agitated, but she’s been given a sedative. I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

Jennifer thanked her, offering apologies once again, then hung up. She turned in the direction of Harvey’s Pond. She grabbed her coat and left the apartment, forgetting for a moment that she didn’t have a car. She started off on foot toward the pond, pulling through the deep snow with urgency, feeling the sting of the wind across her face, feeling foolish, yet determined to find Mrs. Wintergreen.

About 20 minutes later, she arrived at the gazebo where she and Mrs. Wintergreen had talked. Someone had cleared the snow off the ice, and there were six people skating. One elderly couple, hand-in-hand, drifted easily across the pond, seemingly lost in the pure joy of each other, swaying gently in a perfect rhythm. It was as if nature were holding them up to her as an example of what she’d never have. She watched them for a time, jealously, darkly. The Christmas music from the speakers was Judy Garland singing
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
.