Home For Christmas
Karen Over
Nigel Hamilton passed the winter solstice of 1960 on the back porch, in the company of a large marmalade cat. Though barely visible through the San Francisco mists, the sun spoke to Nigel's soul through the changing colors of the sky, not so very different from the dawns of his English childhood. To the east, the fog took on a rosy tinge, curling in on itself as if making way for something.
"Apollo's chariot approaches, eh Rufus?"
The cat sitting sentinel on the steps twitched one ear in acknowledgment, otherwise keeping his full attention eastward.
"Ah, 'tis Solstice Morn. God is reborn. Light returns. And perhaps there is more than dawn on our horizon, this day?"
"Mmmphh" Rufus abandoned the damp wooden step for the warmer perch of Nigel's leg, kneading with tickly claws, rumbling smugly, smiling sphinx-like.
"Yes, Rufus, I know. Company's coming. But I don't know who, so don't ask me."
"Meh!" <why not>
"Because I can't See everything, any more than you can. You want to pester someone, go on into the kitchen and pester Jason."
"Maow?" <coming?>
"I'll be along, as soon as I pry this old bag of bones out of this chair."
With a sniff, Rufus was off, the squeak of the cat flap heralding his entrance into the kitchen. Joints creaking almost as much as the door hinges, Nigel pulled himself up and followed.
With a skittering of paws across the floor, Rufus pounced on Jason's feet, smiling his smug cat smile.
Smiling back, Jason inquired, "And what news might you have this grand fine day, Rufus the Red?"
"Wowl." <no mice in the garage. kipper?>
"I might scare up a kipper or two."
"Mmph." <mustard please>
"Be all in your whiskers."
"Eehh!" <i wash>
With an offended sneeze, Rufus retreated beneath the table, wreathing himself about Nigel's legs. Peering down, Nigel grinned at the rumbling tom.
"Shame on you, Rufus the Red, telling mouse tales. If you expect tea with those kippers, you better tell Jason there's company coming."
Setting out two saucers for the cat, Jason rose to the bait.
"All right my love, what have you Seen?"
"Nothing, really. A darkness that someone's lost in."
***
Turning on the attic light, Nigel took his bearings. When he'd hauled that cedar chest up here in 1945, he'd put it where he wouldn't have to encounter it unless he really wanted to. Now, even though dreading it, he wanted to. Bear was in there, and Bear would need a good airing.
Nigel tried taking the top tray out of the cedar chest without actually looking at the contents, but he didn't manage it. The telltale green of the Army Air Corps, the flash of the silver wings, and underneath, the window placards which had once proudly proclaimed that Carstairs House had two sons in the war. Then memories of the dreams, the nightmare vision of clouds and flames. Driving up the hill with Jason, seeing one too many bicycles in front of the porch.
The Western Union boy leaping off the porch, snatching up the bike, pedaling away. Jonathan, standing in the foyer with the scrap of yellow paper in his hand, the devastating message in his face.
Flight lieutenant William Patrick Carstairs, 22, San Francisco, California. B-17 shot down over enemy territory. Crew presumed dead.
Darling Billy, gone down to death. Even if the crew had been able to get out, Billy wouldn't have jumped. He wouldn't have risked falling into Nazi hands, when even walking through his own barracks could be hazardous to his health.
Beneath the placards, a small stack of letters, the postmark of the English airfield blacked out by wartime censors. Letters to Uncle Nigel about Sally, the sweetheart Billy had met in England and planned to bring home with him. Only Nigel had realized that "Sally" was code for Sol Rosenfeld a young mechanic attached to Billy's squadron.
Beneath the tray, memories of the young man who'd gone to defend a nation more grateful to some than to others. A letterman's jacket from Stanford. A photo album Nigel couldn't bring himself to open. Down in a corner, tucked carefully against the aromatic cedar lining of the chest, a stuffed bear. By now it would be a valuable antique, were it not for the one fact which made it priceless.
Bear had belonged to Billy. Bear had valiantly chased away bogeymen, even the really nasty ones that hid under boys' beds and lurked in their closets. Bear had even gone to Stanford. Billy had eventually found others like himself, but none had kept his confidences as closely and loyally as Bear.
"There's a boy needs you, Bear. Even more than our Billy. I know you're a sleepy old Bear these days, but it's time for you to come out of hibernation. Can you do that, Bear? Can you wake up and watch over Jace? He's never had anyone to look out for him, never had a Bear to keep close. Out you come now, Bear. We've got another boy to raise, you and I, old and tired as we are."
Home For Christmas originally appeared in the March 2011 issue of Collective Fallout.
Copyright 2010 by Karen Over All rights reserved
"Apollo's chariot approaches, eh Rufus?"
The cat sitting sentinel on the steps twitched one ear in acknowledgment, otherwise keeping his full attention eastward.
"Ah, 'tis Solstice Morn. God is reborn. Light returns. And perhaps there is more than dawn on our horizon, this day?"
"Mmmphh" Rufus abandoned the damp wooden step for the warmer perch of Nigel's leg, kneading with tickly claws, rumbling smugly, smiling sphinx-like.
"Yes, Rufus, I know. Company's coming. But I don't know who, so don't ask me."
"Meh!" <why not>
"Because I can't See everything, any more than you can. You want to pester someone, go on into the kitchen and pester Jason."
"Maow?" <coming?>
"I'll be along, as soon as I pry this old bag of bones out of this chair."
With a sniff, Rufus was off, the squeak of the cat flap heralding his entrance into the kitchen. Joints creaking almost as much as the door hinges, Nigel pulled himself up and followed.
With a skittering of paws across the floor, Rufus pounced on Jason's feet, smiling his smug cat smile.
Smiling back, Jason inquired, "And what news might you have this grand fine day, Rufus the Red?"
"Wowl." <no mice in the garage. kipper?>
"I might scare up a kipper or two."
"Mmph." <mustard please>
"Be all in your whiskers."
"Eehh!" <i wash>
With an offended sneeze, Rufus retreated beneath the table, wreathing himself about Nigel's legs. Peering down, Nigel grinned at the rumbling tom.
"Shame on you, Rufus the Red, telling mouse tales. If you expect tea with those kippers, you better tell Jason there's company coming."
Setting out two saucers for the cat, Jason rose to the bait.
"All right my love, what have you Seen?"
"Nothing, really. A darkness that someone's lost in."
***
Turning on the attic light, Nigel took his bearings. When he'd hauled that cedar chest up here in 1945, he'd put it where he wouldn't have to encounter it unless he really wanted to. Now, even though dreading it, he wanted to. Bear was in there, and Bear would need a good airing.
Nigel tried taking the top tray out of the cedar chest without actually looking at the contents, but he didn't manage it. The telltale green of the Army Air Corps, the flash of the silver wings, and underneath, the window placards which had once proudly proclaimed that Carstairs House had two sons in the war. Then memories of the dreams, the nightmare vision of clouds and flames. Driving up the hill with Jason, seeing one too many bicycles in front of the porch.
The Western Union boy leaping off the porch, snatching up the bike, pedaling away. Jonathan, standing in the foyer with the scrap of yellow paper in his hand, the devastating message in his face.
Flight lieutenant William Patrick Carstairs, 22, San Francisco, California. B-17 shot down over enemy territory. Crew presumed dead.
Darling Billy, gone down to death. Even if the crew had been able to get out, Billy wouldn't have jumped. He wouldn't have risked falling into Nazi hands, when even walking through his own barracks could be hazardous to his health.
Beneath the placards, a small stack of letters, the postmark of the English airfield blacked out by wartime censors. Letters to Uncle Nigel about Sally, the sweetheart Billy had met in England and planned to bring home with him. Only Nigel had realized that "Sally" was code for Sol Rosenfeld a young mechanic attached to Billy's squadron.
Beneath the tray, memories of the young man who'd gone to defend a nation more grateful to some than to others. A letterman's jacket from Stanford. A photo album Nigel couldn't bring himself to open. Down in a corner, tucked carefully against the aromatic cedar lining of the chest, a stuffed bear. By now it would be a valuable antique, were it not for the one fact which made it priceless.
Bear had belonged to Billy. Bear had valiantly chased away bogeymen, even the really nasty ones that hid under boys' beds and lurked in their closets. Bear had even gone to Stanford. Billy had eventually found others like himself, but none had kept his confidences as closely and loyally as Bear.
"There's a boy needs you, Bear. Even more than our Billy. I know you're a sleepy old Bear these days, but it's time for you to come out of hibernation. Can you do that, Bear? Can you wake up and watch over Jace? He's never had anyone to look out for him, never had a Bear to keep close. Out you come now, Bear. We've got another boy to raise, you and I, old and tired as we are."
Home For Christmas originally appeared in the March 2011 issue of Collective Fallout.
Copyright 2010 by Karen Over All rights reserved
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