Waxing philosophical Charlotte ponders home when the home fire is tended by strangers. Or no one, as is more often the case. Memories resting in a bed of ghosts with no keys to the front door any longer. It is not home without a bed free of hotel aromas and the footsteps of when was I last here? What is home, she thinks, as we listen, if not the place where you are most comfortable? Even, as it is now, Christmas Eve, these thoughts invade her mind, curtailing any notion of Jack Frost and Bing Crosby. But I was never comfortable here. Never. Like that old oak tree surrounded by maples behind Papaw’s place I didn’t fit in and when I did it was because we were all covered in the same stuff that makes all small-town people look the same. Small. Too harsh, she thinks. I know some great people here. Tired. That sounds better.
Back to snow she goes as the windshield wipers keep time without keeping the flakes at bay. Her car, like the old oak she personified casually, looks like all others covered in snow on a lonely back road of state road numeracy. She comes around corners slowly, avoiding the brakes as any snow driver knows, while gently turning the wheel. No white knuckles here. Her Alabama plates deceive when it comes to winter driving. Eighteen years in Kentucky, just south of Ohio, teaches a mild respect for winter hatefulness. She tunes the radio for no reason, knowing as she does, twangs, thongs, and thangs are all she’ll hear in these hollows. If that much.
A skid comes up from the road, invades her tires, twisting them like weak metal as she grips hard, turns into the sly skid, avoids her brakes, and cusses aloud. As if any other cussing is as relieving to one’s emotions. Physics is a cruel navigator as it drops her passenger tires, rear then front, into a ditch. She slams the steering wheel with her hand, cussing more loudly and wondering why the fuck exactly (her words, not mine) she was coming back home anyway. She grabs her cell but we know what she finds, no bars at all. The headlights illumine fat flakes falling silent and uncaring as she races through her mind for options. I could walk. And probably die. I could sit. And probably die. I could push the car, slip, break my knee, and probably die. Charlotte suffered from a lack of faith uncontested; faith in the rigid failure of all her ideas. She was assured of the misaligned stars dancing above. The world punishing for some prior-life crime, which, in its infinite ledger of rights and wrongs, saw fit to never reveal to her, much less forgive.
Flashes of light stand out in a snowy, ill-fated night and now was no exception. Charlotte turned sharp from side to side, as if the options she entertained were standing around the car, listless shadows in a dark night longing to be noticed and agreed upon. Nothing was found suitable so she sat listening to a twangy lament of drunken love and poverty while hoping her instincts about freezing to death were unfounded paranoia brought on by a lifelong obsession with worst case scenarios.
The lights she saw came from a farmhouse, which did come from a place unseen before physics ruled the story. It was a two-story house, as far as she could see, with Christmas lights flickering and dancing in muted reflection on the deep, hateful snow.
The night nurse is texting her boyfriend, hoping silently that he’s not at Toad’s Hideaway with his friends, particularly Smitty, who, let’s be honest, would rather him cheat on her and get caught than wind up married in a few months, which is exactly what our responsible night nurse longs for since the Facebook posting just last week mentioned, to her, such a possibility. The lights flash on the board and she sighs deeply. This old biddy rolled over on her caller again, she thinks, as we listen again, and now, seriously ta Jee-sus, I gotsta go and fix it. The room is still with sanitized aroma. Night nurse lifts, sighs, pushes, more sighs, and then finds the caller. Second push stops the sound. The woman is dead, according to the missing pulse. The clock reads 12:18 but no matter. There’s no holiday in death.
At first Charlotte thought of zombies. Wasteful images of the late-night variety, in black and white with popcorn finger tips she’d turn it off. But here there’s no remote and the images are not zombies. People move from the farmhouse. Two people, tall, somewhat wide compared to the other shadows bouncing excited around them. They move in unison but not in step. Each progressing up the driver, to the right towards her ditched ride, with the same pace. Not hurried but something Charlotte couldn’t name until days later.
The first to reach the car was the Man. A capitalized male with no hint of the diminutive traits common in the cities Charlotte visits for work. She thought of bringing the window down but then exited to face this Man directly, to stand on her own. The Woman, absent her own smallness, came up behind him as Charlotte stood and smiled. The Children laughed and played among the snowballs flying.
It snowed this year!
I missed the snow last year.
Me too! Here comes a big ‘un.
The Man speaks first to Charlotte.
Merry Christmas, praise to the Glory. Looks like your rear tires are ditched.
Hardly a Merry Christmas so far. Yep. Charlotte smiled gently. The Children stopped at her words.
Mama?
It’s fine Children. Merry Christmas to you ma’am. Despite the car.
We’ll fix that. The Man said. Come on kids. Ma’am, if you don’t mind. Can you get in and steer? We’ll push it up out of the ditch. James, on the right. Lil’ Jean, on the left. Millie, you ought to stand out a bit in case anyone comes up. Just raise a hand. They’ll stop.
Of course. Kids, listen to Daddy.
The Children stopped and moved into position. They passed by Charlotte and in the ambience of headlights and snow-reflected moon she swore they were beaming with joy and smiles. She caught the off-putting smell of Kerosene, or maybe burning firewood as the Man touched her shoulder gently.
All you must do is steer. We’ll fix the rest ma’am.
Are you sure? I mean. I appreciate it, but you don’t have to trouble yourselves. It’s Christmas.
Charlotte felt all four of the strangers stop and look at her. A breeze, steady blowing, stopped quietly.
Lil’ Jean spoke.
Ma’am, of course it’s Christmas. That’s why we’re here.
With that the small child, perhaps six if we can judge in such darkness and cold and with the sight of long hours of driving, laid her tiny hand upon the trunk of the car.
There’s a hushed urgency to death shortly after midnight when most of the Western world is engaged in myth making, wine drinking or nibbling on cold desserts wondering why they invited Family over in the first place. Night nurse filled out the forms as Mrs. Millie, the cadaver’s name, enjoys her bed for a few more hours. No rush. It’s a holiday and it’s not like she’s going anywhere. Looks like she had a family visit scheduled for today. Good for her. Someone didn’t forget her. Good for you old biddy, we mean Mrs. Millie. Someone cared. His ass better not be out too late. I’m three days late. Night nurse had no way of understanding when she read the cadaver’s name. Gertrude Elizabeth Samuels. Why does everyone call her Mrs. Millie? This is an unfair question for our ears since we will know shortly that Gertrude had one daughter, with current snow troubles, whom she consistently called Millie. Her husband wanted the child to be named Charlotte but, as happens, the Mother ultimately wins. Charlotte was called Millie as a family nickname. As Alzheimer’s came calling the name Gertie (her name for 76 years) remembered best was Millie. In time, Mrs. Millie she became. As we mentioned, it is unfair to expect an overworked Night nurse with a delayed cycle and drunken boyfriend problems to know the entire story.
James put his hands on the trunk as well. The Man walked over and positioned himself between the two kids as his wife dutifully stood in the road just in case.
These people smell like shit. Charlotte said. Smoke or Kerosene, something. I mean damn. And who drags their kids out on Christmas Eve? Don’t you have toys to put together Santa? Seriously. She dropped the car into gear and gently touched the gas. Sweetie you better watch out. You’re so small they’ll never notice if you slip and fall. She looked in the mirror. In the red glow of her lights Charlotte saw Lil’ Jean’s face. She was smiling, then laughing. With the ease of a greased sliding door, Charlotte’s car was out of the ditch.
The kids squealed. We did it Daddy! We helped! Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas kids! I love you! Merry Christmas Mama!
Charlotte lowered the window in time to hear the Mama respond.
Praise to the Glory. Merry Christmas! Can I get another hug?
The kids ran to the Mother and hugged her tight. The tears glistening down the Woman’s cheeks made Charlotte turn her head. It’s shameful to watch a stranger cry with joy.
The Man approached the window.
Merry Christmas ma’am. You’ll be good for the rest of the trip.
He stopped abruptly and looked up over her hood. Charlotte thanked him but kept watching as he watched the distant fields.
What’s over there? Charlotte turned to look at her dark passenger window. Only the house with Christmas lights was visible.
It’ll be okay Ma’am.
What?
You’ll be safe from this point on. Just. Well, Merry Christmas.
What is it? Did you see an animal?
The Mama walked over, kids on her side.
James?
It’s okay. She’ll be okay, safe. Her looked at Charlotte slowly. She saw his eyes, a gentle green, widen and take the softness of a Father looking at his Child. It’ll be okay Millie. Merry Christmas.
What did you say?
Merry Christmas ma’am.
Before that?
We need to get back to the house ma’am. You’ll be safe now.
All the formalities were completed with apathetic proficiency. Death is part of the shift log in places such as these. Night nurse made the correct phone calls, dotted I’s, crossed t’s and even livened the documents up with her spirit dots, just to fight the boredom. Mrs. Millie was dispatched quietly to the morgue as the driver checked out night nurse’s ass and she, despite her best efforts, wondered if he was single or, at least, in a relationship on a part-time, need to know basis. His girl don’t need to know when he was off the clock, so to speak. The sun came up and with a push of a button her shift ended. Well, she said softly, I hope her family don’t let this ruin Christmas. Jesus saves. They should remember that.
Years later Charlotte remembers the moment she heard of her mother’s death every time she smells bleach or sees a brown and eggshell checkboard pattern floor. The bleach hit her nose when she walked in that morning. The brown and eggshell is what she fell to when the Doctor told her Gertrude Elizabeth Samuels was no longer walking the planet. She walked her Mother’s small room as memories flew like a flutter of butterflies around her. Cooking with Mom, talking with Mom, arguing with Mom, missing Mom, watching Dad die with Mom, listening to Mom say it was Okay, she’d be okay and seeing Mom when Mom doesn’t know her. Hearing her Mom with Who are yous and When did you get heres and the pocket-sized hurts fighting to remember Mom can’t help it anymore. Mom is gone. Breathing, but gone.
She drove to the morgue, to the funeral home. Papers to sign. Decisions to make. The sympathies of strangers to accept with grace. Tears shed behind the tinted windows in the abandoned parking lot of the long-closed grocery store where she once shopped with Mom weekly and now remembers the dish set Mom so wanted that Daddy worked overtime for four weeks to make sure the complete set would make it to the second-hand hutch in their dining room. She ordered flowers from a kindly woman who set aside her judgment at Charlotte’s hungover look to make sure the flowers for Gertie Samuels were the best anyone had seen in just shy of a decade.
The faces at the memorial and graveside were later a puzzlement to Charlotte. I remember her eyes, but her smile seems odd. My babysitter! Of course, I remember you! Yes! Thank you for coming. The crowd was small but honest. Stories of her Mom and Daddy. Memories of Charlotte she never knew. I took you to your first softball game because your Daddy had the car and Gertie was sick. It was just after she lost the baby. What baby? Gertie had a miscarriage after you. She never told you? Honesty has a price. We learn of life through death. Cornerstone meets capstone as life fades from the physical. Truth has no more honest companion than death. We can offer aphorisms ad nauseum but let’s stop here. It is not what Charlotte needs. She needs her story told. A story she can’t tell because too much is unknown to pass as fact and far more truth than is welcome in fiction. Onward.
The hours were now days when Charlotte decided to leave. Gertie was gone, buried as instructed, with stories from church going friends. Even one of the nurses showed up to offer condolences. I was the one who found her, she was such a sweet lady. I’m so sorry.
The road was clear, the snow melted in time for new bikes to be tested, movies to be watched, golf clubs swung, the smell of new clothes to fade. Charlotte thought on her Mom’s life as she drove. She thought of stopping to see the family that helped her. For several days the family came to mind. In between talk of God and Life and Death, Charlotte thought of the small family with their smoke aroma and cherry disposition for such a late-night generosity. She turned around and decided to bypass the main road. They won’t mind. A quick thank you.
She passed a small store on the way. The human mind remembers everything it ever experiences. The recall of the memory, however, is left up to powers less assured by research. Charlotte figured she was at the right spot. She saw the remnants of her ditched tires. She saw the fence that bordered the family’s home. But here she was confused. The house was in shambles. Windows gone, walls still blackened but what seemed a fire.
You’re kidding me? My God no. Charlotte yelled. She got out of her car and walked to the end of the driveway. The house was destroyed. The roof was gone completely. The porch, maybe once a deck but more a porch looking beast now, was rotting, turned downward.
I was here four days ago. This must be the wrong house.
The store she passed now sat in front of her. It was an old country store with a cranky ice cooler out front and a picnic table with carvings going back twenty years. She walked in. A chubby man sat behind the counter smoking with lottery signs dangling down from the ceilings. A counter of pickled pig’s feet, hot sausages, and pink eggs sat nearby.
Howdy! The man said.
Hi. Charlotte walked to the drink cooler. The man kept smoking and nodding his head as the radio preacher castigated anyone listening with fire and brimstone.
She picked out a bottle of water. It is beyond class, education and income that we avoid embarrassment. In front of his man Charlotte had no desire to appear lost or ignorant. Weakness came to mind. But she wanted to thank the family.
He blew smoke as she approached the counter.
Howdy again. He said. That all?
Yes sir.
He tapped the keys.
One-oh-nine.
You take cards?
No ma’am. Cash or your first born. That was just a joke about the first born. No ma’am. Cash only.
Well. I really needed some directions. To be honest and I didn’t want to not buy something.
Where you headed?
Atlanta. But I’m looking for a family.
Who?
I don’t know. Christmas morning my car got stuck in a ditch and they came out of their house and helped me out. I was tired, a bit worried about my Mom. She passed, ya’ know. Well, you don’t know but you know what I mean. So, I was tired and didn’t really thank them. Like thank them, thank them. Ya’ know.
Christmas morning?
Yes.
These folks come out and help you get your car out of a ditch?
Yes. And they had these kids, two little ones and they were helping and I wanted. It sounds silly now. To visit them I mean. I don’t have any cash.
Keep the water ma’am. Hang on.
The man walks from behind the counter, goes down the candy aisle to a side door. He opens it and disappears inside. Charlotte hears mumbled voices with no clear meaning.
The man reappears. Description are in order. He’s a tall man with a slouch and belly reminiscent of sitting for years in front of a TV. Not a fat man, mind you, but obviously unaccustomed to exercise and the benefits of fresh foods. His pale skin was paler than expected as he walked from the door.
Sorry about that. You can have the water.
A woman came from the door. Her hair streaked gray and pressed against her skull like paint. Her cane, hickory wood and embossed with a silver cross, proceeded each step
Tell me of this family, the old woman said.
Me?
Yes ma’am. Tell me of the family that helped you. Everything.
They were nice. Pushed my car out of the ditch. Typical family, I guess. Really nice. Kind even. A man a wife and their kids. One of the kid was called.
Called?
I can’t remember. Wait. It was something almost sweet. Lilly? Lila. Annie. No, that’s wait. Lil’ Jean. She was called Little Jean.
Jesus. The man blurted. Mother Mary and Jesus.
I told you boy, the old woman said. Been telling you for years. Missus, tell me if you would. Why were you in town that night? Christmas morning, I mean. Travelling in all that snow?
My Mother was not doing well. The doctor called a few days prior and told me I should visit for the holidays if I could. I wasn’t coming but then decided I should. I was coming to see her for Christmas.
Did she pass ma’am? Your Mother I mean.
Charlotte felt the tears suppressed. Yes ma’am. My Mom died before I could get her.
Yes. The old woman said. She moved towards the counter, up the candy aisle, and gently took Charlotte’s hand.
I’m sorry your Mother passed but I’ll be okay.
Thank you.
The old woman looked at the man behind the counter.
Do you see now boy? Do you see?
Yes ma’am. He began to weep quietly.
Do you know where that family lives ma’am? Charlotte asked the old woman. Her nerves, Charlotte we mean, were unravelling more by the second.
Tell her boy.
I don’t know if I can Mama.
Tell her boy. You gotsta hear yourself say the truth ‘for you know it for sure.
Yes ma’am.
The man stood up straight and wiped the tears from his eyes.
Ma’am. Well that family. They’re the Walkers. He was a construction fella, his wife stayed at home with the kids. The two young’uns you spoke of.
Little Jean? Charlotte said.
And James, the man said. Yes ma’am. Well there was a fire Christmas and to be honest, they all burnt up.
Charlotte felt a stinging in her stomach. Lil’ Jean. James. The Mama standing in the road. She pictured the night again. Tears welled up in her eyes. When will I run out of tears?
Oh my God, Charlotte said. They were such nice people. So, kind. Coming out in the middle of the night.
Finish boy, the old woman said.
I don’t know if I believe all that Mama.
You can’t deny what is shown to you in flesh and blood! With this, the old woman tapped Charlotte. Here the proof stand boy! Here! Deny no longer what you see! Speak!
What else? Charlotte said.
Well ma’am. That wasn’t this Christmas.
What?
The Walkers didn’t die this Christmas ma’am. The Walker family burned up seven years ago. It was Christmas morning, for sure. Made the paper and people talked about it for years. But it weren’t a few days ago. It was seven years ago.
Charlotte went numb. Goosebumps danced along her skin, teasing her body with a story her mind couldn’t accept.
I saw those people. Four days ago.
Yes ma’am. I ain’t saying you didn’t.
And you say they died seven years ago?
Yes ma’am. On Christmas.
Finish boy!
I can’t Mama. I just can’t.
It’s right here boy! RIGHT HERE MIND YOUR SOUL!
The man ran into a back room, crying profusely, lamenting some may say.
Charlotte stood there. This is bullshit. What are you two pulling?
The old woman moved closer. It’s not a story young’ un. Folks before my time used to say that those who died on Christmas would come back every year. They come as a reminder of His resurrection. They come to help those in need and remind those who’ll see that we are never alone, never unloved and always forgiven.
My mother died on Christmas morning.
She’ll be back.
Excuse me?
The Walkers lived just down the road ma’am. Their trailer is there. All burnt up. You say they come out and helped you. You won’t see no foot prints. Did you see any when you went there? I can see by your face you been there. Thought you were lost? The old woman giggled. You were more found than ever before.
Charlotte looked at the old woman as the boy wept loudly in the back. He asked forgiveness and confessed aloud all manner of sin that we should ignore out of respect. Charlotte went to her car and forgot her water.
We should leave now. Let Charlotte sit in her car. It’s shameful to watch people cry.