“That’s very thoughtful,” the old woman said, unwrapping the sandwich. “Would you care for some of this?” She offered me — another lost bird — half of the sandwich. I laughed. “No, thanks. I get all I want on the job.” And thank God for that with seemingly half the city standing in soup kitchen lines!
"Well, at least sit for a few minutes and keep me company. As you see,” she indicated the fluttering birds, “I don’t like to eat alone.” She patted the seat next to her. “I’d better not.” I held out my smoldering pipe in excuse. “Nonsense! I don’t mind at all. My Harry smoked a pipe for forty years — and I’ve missed it,” she added wistfully. With that reassurance, I settled down, accepted a handful of bread to feed the birds, and began my friendship with Victoria Clementine Hays.
She was a sprightly and lucid raconteur with endless stories of social swirls and acute observations on the character of the city and its endlessly fascinating denizens. Her husband, Harry Hayes, a minor municipal functionary had been dead for twenty years, and their single offspring — a son — was a mining engineer, gone to South Africa three years now with his young wife to make his fortune. I came to look forward to our daily encounter on the park bench. I hadn’t had enough time to make any friends in this hectic city too preoccupied with its daily survival, so I appreciated Victoria’s companionship as much as the grist her tales provided for my literary mill. I’m sure she must have been equally grateful for the food I brought in my coat pocket from the diner. I suspected it might have been her only meal of the day. At least, if Victoria and I were not becoming fat on Bernie’s limited secret bounty, the local avian population was. Victoria took a particular concern in my struggles to write salable fiction, and offered to read my work with a critical eye — if I thought it might help.
“Fantastic!” I replied. “I never could get anyone interested in reading my stuff at home. It would be wonderful to have someone else’s opinion.”
She squinted at me in the late summer sunlight. “I warn you, Warren, I won’t go light on you. You’ll not get complimentary drivel from me. I have a sharp eye, and I’ll tell you the truth.”
“That’s what I want,” I said, hopeful that she might spot something in my style I could fix and thereby increase my chance of commercial success.
The next day, I gave her a carbon of my latest and proudest
achievement: a story called, Jazzman. The day after that, she criticized it to pieces. But every flaw, once pointed out, became evident and correctable. It took three weeks until she finally nodded and told me that the image of the old jazz trumpeter, playing his heart out on the large rock behind the skating pond in Central Park before laying down and freezing to death, brought a tear to her eye.
We both agreed that the story was ready to send off.
The season slowly changed. Leaves turned red and gold, the grass around the park bench grew brown as dust, and the impersonal island of Manhattan was surrounded by swirling winds that chilled to the bone. But Victoria appeared on our bench almost daily in her opera cape, and I continued to sneak food across the street, fretting about her welfare on those wet days she wasn’t there. When the snows came, I worried even more.
I was startled one day in the middle of December, when Bernie announced that his mother in Florida was sick and he had decided to use the opportunity to close the diner and take his family south for the holidays. A week before Christmas, he handed me a $20 bill, wished me a happy holiday, said that we’d reopen January 2nd, locked the diner, and disappeared into the worst snow storm of the season.
The money could get me through the next two weeks, but that wasn’t my primary concern — it was Victoria Hayes. It was bad enough that the weather allowed only sporadic opportunity for me to help her recently, but with the diner closed and the snow falling daily, even that little was impossible. I didn’t see her again until the afternoon of Christmas Eve. For once, the sky was as clear and bright as a blue diamond and the temperature relatively tolerable. Victoria was perched on her bench when I got to the park, and I could see her dipping into her little paper bag, again sharing bread with the birds. I tried to explain and apologize for my impoverished circumstances and inability to help her, but she immediately hushed me and reassured me that all her wants were well taken care of. I realized then that we never actually had discussed her particulars, and I just assumed that she was as close to destitution as so many others — myself included.
“Well,” she said happily, “then you shall just have to spend Christmas with me.”
I could picture the two of us, sitting on the park bench throughout Christmas day, feeding the birds until we both froze to death like the jazzman in my story.
“You’ve been so busy writing,” Victoria continued, “that I didn’t want to interrupt your efforts and invite you over before. You most definitely must join me for Christmas dinner.”
“Delighted,” I said without displaying my reservations. How could I refuse? How could I express my concern that Christmas dinner would find us both rummaging through the garbage in search of someone else’s edible castoffs? Later that day, I wandered through the shops by the YMCA, seeking a little gift to bring to Victoria’s Christmas dinner. Finally, I settled on a large, exquisitely detailed, hand-painted nutcracker. Actually, it was part of a set that included Clara and The Prince but as I could ill-afford even the one piece, and the whole set was out of the question, I talked the needy shopkeeper into selling the nutcracker by itself. Christmas dawned cold and bright, and I worked at keeping my freezing fingers warm at the typewriter until the time came to meet Victoria in the park.
She was already there, feeding the birds, and I had visions my worst fears had been realized — that this was our Christmas destiny. But my concern was short-lived as Victoria, finishing her task, slipped off the bench, and with the wind beginning to kick up the powdered snow around us, took my hand and led me through a rabbit warren of nearby tenements to an old Brownstone a few blocks from the park.
I had never seen anything like it. Inside, it was grandly spacious and gleaming with polished woods. The soft glow of a coal fire in the hearth flickered on plush papered walls. Gas fixtures and oil lamps with neatly trimmed wicks lit the place with the warm solace of a summer sun. Beautiful antique furniture cluttered the place, encouraging comfortable conversation and relaxation. The air was redolent with spices and cooking food. I was embarrassed at my previous conceit regarding Victoria’s circumstances.
“Light the Christmas tree, will you, Warren.”
I looked around for the switch. Finding none, I inspected the well-decorated pine, only to discover that it had no electric lights, but instead, each branch held a small, cupped candle. It was all as old-fashioned as Victoria Clementine Hayes herself, and I delighted in this new experience that made me feel I’d stepped into the Victorian era with my gracious and charming companion.
What a grand evening! We feasted on succulent roast duck with great dollops of thick orange sauce, tiny roasted potatoes and buttered vegetables. Victoria cooed happily over her nutcracker, and refused to allow it out of her sight. Afterward, we drank brandy and sang Christmas carols by candlelight at an upright piano, which she played with surprising skill. Then she talked of gentle years with a loving husband, and a son thousands of miles away. I spoke of my hopes and aspirations to write wonderful stories that would touch the lives of millions. All the while, I never ceased being amazed at my comfortable surroundings. Who would have imagined this most fantastic of all Christmases!
Later, with the remainder of the brandy tucked under my arm and a large piece of duck wrapped in a cloth, I barely made it back to my distant room before the skies opened and a terrible blizzard shut down the city for the next two weeks. By the time I ventured out again, it was only because Bernie was back and I was willing to brave any weather to protect my precious job in a city of the unemployed. The bench in the park was buried in snow, and with the si
de streets barely passable, I knew I wouldn’t see Victoria at her post, but I still looked out through the steamed diner windows with a longing for the warm companionship I’d found on Christmas day.
When the notice came in the mail, it was totally unexpected. The Saturday Evening Post had accepted Jazzman, and to prove it, I held a beautiful check for $350 — a veritable fortune! Not only was I flush with cash, but one of the most widely-read and prestigious magazines in America had confirmed my talent and opened the door to a very possible literary future.
I couldn’t wait to share the good news with Victoria, but before I did, I went directly to the shop where I had purchased the nutcracker, and paid handsomely for the matching figures of Clara and The Prince.
It took me some time to find the old Brownstone, what with the snow and my poor sense of direction, and I thought that I was mistaken when a young woman, a few years older than myself, answered my insistent knock. “Oh! I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I must have the wrong address.”
“Who were you looking for?”
“Victoria Hayes.”
“I’m Vickie Hayes.”
Taken aback, I explained: “No, I was looking for Victoria Clementine Hayes — she’s at least eighty years old.” I hastened to describe the old lady I had grown to love like a mother. As I talked, I found myself describing an older version of the woman in front of me: the same unique green eyes, dimpled laugh-lines, slightly full lips. With a shock, we both realized the similarity at the same time. “You’d better come in,” Vickie Hayes suggested. It couldn’t have been the same Brownstone. The shape of the front room was identical, but the furnishings were definitely Art Deco knock-offs rather than the heavy Victorian pieces I lounged in on Christmas day. The walls were painted, rather than papered. Where the piano had stood, there was now a large Zenith multi-band console radio. The Christmas tree lingered in the same corner, but — as the rest of the room — it was lit by electricity. There wasn’t a candle, oil lamp or gas fixture in sight.
Perplexed, I perched uncomfortably on the edge of a chair and recounted how I’d met Victoria Hayes, and everything that led up to our recent Christmas dinner. When I unwrapped the small package of Clara and The Prince to show her, my hostess went to a drawer in a large credenza and returned with a well-worn photo album. She opened it, and held the tattered pages out to me.
“Is that the woman you’re talking about?” she asked, nervously.
The photo was brown and faded with age, but there was no doubt that the person in the picture, standing with the mustachioed, pipe-smoking man, was Victoria. “Yes...yes,” I mumbled, confused. “That’s her — that’s Victoria Clementine Hays.”
The young woman got up from her seat beside me, walked across the room, took something from the jumble of Christmas decorations on the mantle and pointed again to the picture in the album resting on my lap.
“My grandmother has been dead for almost fifty years, Mr. Crawford. She died on Christmas day in 1889. She was found in her chair by the fire, holding this.” Vickie held out her hand to me.
In it was the beautiful handcrafted nutcracker that perfectly matched the two figures I still held in my trembling fingers.
THE LAST CHRISTMAS TREE
For my grandchildren
The crooked little tree shivered in the north wind. It was just before Christmas, and the small fir stood by itself on the side of the hill.
Until now it hadn’t been so cold, but with Christmas close, the woodcutters had come day after day until all the larger trees that had protected the small tree from the winds had been taken. Now it stood exposed.
Could anything be as lonely as this? Especially after the summer when squirrels had played in the green branches, hopping from tree to tree while flocks of chattering blue jays and sparrows flitted back and forth from the Douglas firs to the conifers and the majestic silver-tip pines. Even the old bare oak, far away at the top of the hill, must have been aware of its own solitude. It stood vast and strong against the sky. But it had been standing there so long that, by now, there could be little surprise when, as in years before, the tree-takers came through, picking the biggest, fullest and straightest trees for Christmas, and then returned later for the inferior specimens — for those who could only afford less. So far no one took the little tree.
They planted the hillside each year to provide holiday trees for the village in the valley. The trees were nurtured from one season to the next just to be cut and brought down the hill. But the little fir grew too close to three others, and they had greedily sucked up the water and food from the ground better and faster than it could; so now the small tree stood, stunted and crooked, alone and rejected because no one would want to buy it when there were so many others which were taller and stronger. Now, with old snow banked against its thin trunk and the wind forcing it to bend over and kiss the cold ground, the tree waited patiently, but no one came to take it. The days passed toward Christmas and still no one came. The old oak, its summer leaves long fallen to muddy mulch, seemed to laugh in the wind at the unwanted little tree. The hillside was exposed, and usually there was always a breeze sweeping across it. In the spring the trees danced against the sky when the wild flowers bloomed; in summer, the sound of their branches was a rivulet of gossip on the warm air; and in the fall the trees rustled in eager anticipation of the Christmas harvest — for that was their purpose, the reason they were grown.
And now, the whispering winds from below carried music and laughter, the happiness of children.
Alone on the hill, the small tree dug the tendrils of its tiny roots further into the frozen soil, beneath the hard surface, drinking deep of the water there, waiting for another year, another chance to gladden someone’s Christmas. For now, shunned and worthless, the runt would try to grow strong and tall.
A few days before Christmas, the sky darkened long before the complete disappearance of the almost invisible sun. The wind wickedly lashed the bare ground, and the small tree swayed wildly back and forth beneath the empty heavens. When the fresh snow finally came, it blew across the hillside and found only the solitary tree and barren ground upon which to settle. The old oak on the top of the hill hardly shrugged against the familiar winter onslaught, but the small fir bowed and shuddered under the unaccustomed weight of ice and snow.
Then, suddenly, two birds flew out of the icy white mists. Fighting vainly to stay aloft on capricious freezing drafts, they finally plummeted into the little tree, shaking a frenzy of snow from its thin, ice-laden limbs.
How long had it been since the great patterned flights of gray geese had flown overhead? Where now were the flocks of clamoring wrens, cackling jays and shrieking sparrows that had lounged in the summer leaves? And why — out of nowhere —had these two lost creatures, their feathers slick with frost, fallen from the sky?
The little fir’s branches became a shelter for the birds. And during the storm, more came: a thrush, a goldfinch, a meadowlark, and even a cardinal, resplendent in his noble carmine cloak. They all nestled beneath the blanket of snow that covered the little tree like a tent as the wind swirled sleet, rain, and more snow about the naked hillside. Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful, the sky was a crystal glass filled with sparkling dreams. In the village, children laughed, slipping and sliding through the streets and ponds on new sleds and skates. And when they were tired of whooping and hollering, the children ran home, too tired to admire their blinking, glittering Christmas trees — which had already served their function. But, high on the side of the hill, overlooking the valley, the last little tree of Christmas found its purpose. It stood proud against the snow, branches filled with birds: glorious decorations that fluttered and sang to the yellow flower of the sun, the blue diamond of the moon, and the newborn Child of Bethlehem.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
FIRST CHAPTERS BONUS
Primarily, as a novelist, I usually avoid writing short stories. It’s not that my ideas are a
lways so grandiose that they automatically demand the length and breadth of a novel to develop them, but that short stories are just plain damn hard to write. You don’t have the luxury of time to develop characters, the extravagance of chapter after chapter to spin out a leisurely tale, or the indulgence of many pages to snuggle up to the reader and make yourself a fixture.
No, short stories require the brilliance of a great idea presented in an economical and succinct style, yet as fully developed and complete in a few paragraphs as any novel requiring a thousand pages. You can see why I prefer novels. I’m not that disciplined.
However, in today’s fast-paced and hectic world, a cunning novelist will try to grab his reader in the first pages, the first chapter. We novelists don’t want our readers slipping away because of a malaise of words that don’t intrigue and captivate. We don’t need our audiences to sneak out to the television set and other more simplistic recreations just because we have failed to entertain you at the beginning of the book and saved all the good stuff for further on.
Therefore, I have included the first chapters of my novels, as well as a short summary of each book. Not just to tempt you to read the books which, of course, is an ulterior motive, but as brief entertainments, complete enough in themselves to be short stories worth reading.
Enjoy.