CHRISTMAS ANGELS – by Jerry Black
(Part one is here)
Christmas Angels – The Second
Less than an hour later, we bade farewell to our Christmas Angel. Father, daughter and cat now entered the deserted lobby of a highway motel, somewhere west of Kingston, Ontario. As a younger gentleman approached us, it finally hit me as to what a mess we were in. With twelve dollars in my pocket, no credit card and no support for a cheque’s paper promise, I did not know how I might prevent our return to the barren highway.
So, I told him how our little family had come to be at his door. And then, revealed the extent of our financial distress, asking only that we be allowed to use their phone, perhaps a cot for my daughter to lie down on for a short while. He turned away and moved quickly, silently to the front desk, from where I imagined him summoning the authorities to remove this unseemly blight from the entrance to his establishment.
Instead, when he again faced us, in his fingers he was holding a key, shining bright as Christmas tinsel. ‘Follow me’ he said. We were ushered into a simple but spacious room with two twin beds. Then our second Christmas Angel returned to the room with a pan of kitty litter, in case our invalid feline felt the compulsion.
A telephone along with a Yellow Pages directory was placed at our discretion, with my assurance that any calls made would be collect. Pam collapsed on one of the beds, and was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
Christmas Angels – Three and Four
It was now ten o’clock on Christmas Eve. My charges were off in dreamland, leaving me to panic in isolation. For Pam, Christmas was the only time of the year when she knew that she would be with her mother, father and grandparents all at the same time. Our Christmas mornings were five-person events, but I was in charge of the centerpiece, the gift to all of us. Nor had I (yet) suggested to Pam that she might miss Christmas morning in Montreal, and I don’t believe that sweet child had any doubt in her father making it all turn out as planned.
Consequently, missing was not amongst my options, as I saw them. The Telephone directory was of no use. Regrettably, other than rumours of a Jolly Fat Man bounding from rooftop to rooftop, there didn’t seem to be a creature stirring – nor any creature conveyances. But there was one last phone call I could make. Given the time, not much of chance from the rescue side of things, but at least I’d get to talk to my old friend Nick, and his wife, Barbara, and we could share a laugh over yet another one of my misadventures.
That was my expectation. This was the phone call:
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!” Nick’s voice boomed.
“Ho, ho, ho” (or something equally inane), I countered.
“Hey, Man, where are you – in Montreal??”
Because it was Christmas, Nick knew that I would turn up in Montreal at some point, and that we would get together
“Uh…, no”, I elaborated, “Not all the way – in a motel in Kingston.”
“Why are you in a motel in Kingston?”
“The car blew up. Well, it didn’t exactly blow up – caught fire, though”. This wasn’t going as I had planned – my story-telling ability had left me entirely, and I could sense that Nick, bless his overly-large heart, was much more concerned than entertained.
“So, you want me to come and get you?” No incredulousness. No upset. Just a question – just checking to make sure I’d be there when he arrived.
“That would be nice”, I offered, a purposeful smile in my voice, intended to allow him to make light of the suggestion – after which we would both collapse in hearty guffaws at the very outrageousness of the idea.
“Let me get rid of my parents, first. They’re over here having Christmas dinner with us.”
Hard to respond to that. A deep sigh, followed by, “Thanks, man”, was all I could come up with.
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It was one o’clock Christmas Morning when both Nick and Barbara arrived at the motel. Several years earlier, Nick had had the great good fortune and wisdom to wed Barbara, a truly remarkable lady, who has become a most wonderful friend. Back then, though, I was astonished to see her there. Rushing out in the dead of night to rescue a silly friend seemed the kind of macho thing guys do. The role of their wives, operating from my limited appreciation of the gender, was to berate the husband as a sucker, the friend as an idiot, and storm off to bed, leaving little doubt as to what was expected of the now confused hero. Barbara was creating paradigm shifts.
After many hugs were shared by our little group, we bid farewell and thanks to our Second Christmas Angel.
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I guess we should have just headed for Montreal, but the more insistent part of me wanted the Xmas morning for Pam, including the dispensing of all the gaily wrapped gifts – most importantly, the ones that she had lovingly selected or fashioned herself. So, in the rush of good will and friendship (and the attendant optimism), we headed yet further away from Montreal – in the direction of the abandoned presents.
My gaze swept the parallel, remote roadway, as time passed and the interior of the car became silent. The miles slipped beneath us and the digital clock on the dash served up a new hour, bringing with it the horrible thought – how much longer can we afford to drive before turning back? It wasn’t this far, was it, I wondered …..
Then, “There it is!” I yelled excitedly, and noticed that I had not been breathing for a while. In the distance, the dark hulk was as remarkable as tumbleweed in the desert on a moonless night, relinquishing no clue as to whether it had been engulfed in flames during our absence.
Still further west we drove, now in search of an exit. It was another fifteen minutes before we changed direction and finally pulled up behind the desolate wreck. All appeared the same as when we had left. Buoyed by finding our Christmas goodies intact, we accomplished their transfer with speed and delight, as a few bright, tiny flakes of snow appeared, dancing about us, applauding our efforts.
As we hurried through the night, the light dusting of gentle flakes became a heavy fall. Within thirty minutes, the roadbed had again disappeared, and diminished visibility had us all peering anxiously through the windshield, as if our combined effort could offer extra vision to our rapidly tiring driver.
When snow falls this heavily, this quickly, the front of a storm, it tends to have a short life, but I was the only one in the car that was convinced this had nothing to do with weather. The malevolence that Pam and I had escaped earlier was back and bitter, and now we were all going to pay.
So, instead of easing, the snow began to fall ever harder. Flakes now fell in hypnotic sheets. Spaces in the gauzy downward flow revealed nothing but white movement behind white movement, a kaleidoscope of a single colour.
As it worsened, Nick hunched further and further over the wheel, trying in vain to see anything but white. Our speed dropped to a crawl. Through all the car’s windows, we could see nothing but falling snow. The headlights created a white tunnel in the night, ten yards of light pasted on the front of the car, illuminating nothing but the false tunnel.
I knew something had to change. Nick was tiring fast. The snow fell unabated, blinding, piling up in front of us. Inside the car, it was quiet as a tomb; only our snail-like progression countered the feeling of having been buried alive in an alabaster grave.
That change came as we inched silently forward; the walls of the white tunnel seemed to expand. Everything was lightening, and it took a moment before we realized what was happening. Somewhere out there, the sun had risen. It truly was Christmas morning.
Other changes after that were rapid. It was as if the light of day had caused our foe to vanish in vampire-like fashion. All dangers were removed. The snow stopped, so all we had to do was to keep the car on the road. We had been plowing through the heavy fall, including drifts across the highway, but as we neared the city, we no longer had to be the trailblazers – the car could now be eased into tracks created by others.
It was seven o’clock Christmas morning when the car rolled to a stop in front of Pam’s grandparent’s home. Bathed in the porch light, three expectant faces peered out through the frosted glass of the aluminum door. They had no way of knowing when we would arrive, only that we had left the hotel at one a.m. and were very late. Nick had been behind the wheel for nine straight hours – and those unplanned hours had started at the end of a long, full Christmas Eve.
Endings
Thanks to all our Angels, we had our Christmas morning. It was wonderful, it was blessed. Christmas was joyously celebrated again, a couple of days later, with a well-rested Nick and Barbara who had given us so much, including one more definition of friendship.Poor little Mildred finally succumbed before she could return home to Brampton. But in addition to being remembered for her own unique qualities, including the intense vitality robbed from her by the severity of her illness, she will forever form part of the story of the Christmas trip of 1984.
Thanks to that experience, I will always believe in Christmas, at least the Spirit that enters hearts and minds at that time of year. For me, that is the true meaning of Christmas, and it is for people of all faiths – and for people whose only faith is in each other – perhaps the greatest faith of all.
P.S. – In case you’re wondering: Yes, the Christmas Angel, Barbara, in our tale was, and is, Barbara Lewis.
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“THE CONTRARIAN” COLUMNIST, JERRY BLACK IS AN EX-MONTREALER WHO RESIDES IN A LOW, DARK DOMAINE IN INGERSOLL, ON, SUITABLE FOR PONTIFICATION OF THAT NATURE. HE IS HAPPY TO BE “UPRIGHT AND SNIFFING THE AIR” – (STEPHEN KING.)
Read more from Jerry Black – Little Bits of Wisdom