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For The Love Of Mary - John Gardiner

He stood looking into the store window and he could not move. Tears welled up in his eyes. He trembled, not from the cold, but from the emotion he felt. It was Christmas and the window in front of him contained such a display, so that he had come to a pause in front of it, and now he looked into it, where tiny policemen directed tiny cars and tiny shopkeepers tended to tiny shops, and the tiny shoppers walked the snow-covered streets of a tiny village. And he could not pull away from it, try as he might. In the window, he saw not just ceramic figures fashioned to look like the past in some faraway land for nothing more than profit, but a scene from his own past, from the days of his youth, when all had been well with both the great, wide world, and also with his own much smaller, but equally important one.

His wife, dear Mary, had died this past summer, so he had been left alone in life. He struggled with it, would weep unabashedly at his predicament, had done so this very morning in the shower. Broke down into a thousand tears, sobbing uncontrollably, his whole body racked with the ache of awful sorrow at his loss. And now, as he stood in front of the gaily-decorated storefront and regarded the depiction of the miniature village that was displayed there, he was reminded of what his own life had been like during that time so many years ago, when they'd all been together. Back into the past, when he'd been a young whip of a man, just starting out in his life, his schooling years behind him, just beginning to grow into the responsible adult everyone had predicted he would from the time he was a youngster.

He'd met Mary in the last year of high school, when her father was transferred to town by the bank he worked for. And it seemed like his life was complete from the moment he met her. It was sort of like that love-at-first-sight stuff. He'd asked her to dance at the first dance of the school year, and they were an item forever after that. He'd not bothered much with girls until he met her, so she represented his whole worldly experience with women. They'd spent forty-eight years together, through thick and thin, bad and good, in sickness and in health.

The day after she'd died, he'd found himself alone for a moment in the house they'd built together when they were just starting their family. He remembered thinking he'd not been apart from her for longer than three days for the entire forty-eight years -- and for three days only that once when he'd had to travel to the city for an important bowling tournament. She'd been his whole life.

"Are you okay, mister?" asked a voice from somewhere outside his thoughts.
He gave a start and turned to face the questioner. He realized he was standing in the middle of a busy downtown sidewalk weeping. He reached up to brush away a tear.
"Are you okay?" asked a young man, most likely in his late teens, a look of concern on his face.
"Yes," he answered, "I'm quite fine. Just being a stupid, old man." He added the last bit as a way of explaining the tears. He smiled.

"Well, you look pretty shook up," the young man said, putting a hand on the older man's shoulder.
"I was just thinking too much," he answered.
"This can be a hard time of year for that," the young man said. "Can I buy you a coffee?"

He was surprised by the invitation. It was rare in these times of desparation and misery that such an act of apparent kindness might occur.
"How about it?" asked the young man. "Maybe I can cheer you up."
"I guess," he answered somewhat uncertainly, not sure he was thinking clearly, his thoughts perhaps clouded by the emotion he'd just been feeling, but remembering the loneliness that had come into his life.
"Great," answered the young man. "Come on," he instructed.

"What the......" he started to say, but the young man wheeled and grabbed him by his coat, pushing him back against the brick wall.
"Shut-up you old asshole," the young man hissed.
He recoiled, banging his head on the wall. He could taste his assailant's words. "Why....." he tried to cry out, but the young man shoved his hand heavily against his mouth.
"I told you to shut-up, you pathetic old sack of shit," the thug hissed. "Give me your wallet."

He remembered reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the wallet, the one his good wife had given him just this Christmas past, then he was pushed down in a heap onto the cold, hard asphalt of the alley's surface, as it was snatched from him, and the attacker left him, fleeing deeper into the blackness of the alleyway.

He sat on the ground for a moment when he was again alone. His head hurt, as did most of the rest of him, but he was generally all right. But even as he sat in a heap in the alleyway, he was again overwhelmed by the sadness that had often come his way in recent times. He would go home after suffering this indignity, and there would be no one there to comfort him -- no one to tend to either his wounded body or his wounded spirit. He would sit alone in his big, comfortable easy chair and feel very sorry for himself. And no one else would care. Not in the least.

He staggered back to his feet and more stumbled than walked out of the alley and back onto the downtown street. A couple of passersby gave him unkind looks, perhaps thinking that he was in fact just another derelict of the streets coming awake for another night of swilling with his derelict cronies. He burrowed deep down into his coat, paying them no nevermind. He headed for home. He didn't report the mugging. There'd been five bucks in the wallet and some plastic cash. The money was nothing and the cards could be cancelled and replaced. He was sorry to lose the wallet, a momento of Mary, but he knew it was indeed lost.

And later that night, as he did sit in his big, comfortable easy chair feeling very sorry for himself, his thoughts were of the way of the world. He was thinking of the miniature street scene he'd seen in the store window uptown. It had brought back memories of those other Christmases, celebrated when the world was young and fresh and he was in the bosom of his family, feeling all warm and comfortable as he slept in his bunk bed, his brother safe and snug below, and visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. His father and mother would still be up wrapping the last of the presents, the very special ones, from Santa, for the children.

He shut his eyes tight. He wanted to be there. He wanted to go back. He wanted to be safe and secure and comfortable again -- just once before the end came rushing up to meet him. He thought again of his Mary and the Christmases they'd spent together during their years together. Those had been wonderful years, when their son had been small and Christmas had been a magic time. God, he wanted to go back. Oh, God.

But he couldn't go back, and instead he got to his feet and went to find his coat. And he went out into the wintery night, where he set about walking through the town where he had spent his life. And as he walked, it was like it was all strange to him -- he recognized nothing about it and everything looked all out of proportion to everything else. And despite the fact that he had walked these streets many, many times over the course of his lifetime, he knew nothing about it and felt himself lost in a strange land. He felt himself stumbling and staggering and he felt more and more tired, until, finally, he fell and lost consciousness. All he saw was blackness.

"Well, hello there," said a woman, who came quickly to his side almost as soonas he stirred.
He looked up at her, but said nothing, offering only a faint smile to show that he'd heard her.
"Say, you've had a bit of a fall," she said.
He started to try to get up, but his head hurt and he grimaced and lay back down.
"Yes, you've hit your head," the woman said. "You've got a nasty bump."
"Where am I?" he managed to ask.
"You're in the hospital," the woman said. "You were brought here by ambulance after you fell."
"You're a nurse," he realized.
"Yes," she answered. "Now, you should take it easy, until the doctor gets a chance to take a look at you." She paused and turned to attend to something behind her. "By the way," she said, turning back to him, "you have no identification. We're not quite sure who you are.

He remembered back to earlier in the night and thoughts of the mugging returned -- his wallet taken.
"It was stolen," he answered.
"Oh, dear," the nurse said. "We should call the police."
"No," he answered. "It's all right. Just call my son."
And with that, he gave particulars of how to contact his son, then laid back to wait for the doctor to come. That young man was along directly and tended to his wounds, told him he should stay in hospital overnight, just in case there was some serious damage.

His son came next, the younger version of himself hurrying into the room where his father lay, fussing about as his mother might have.
"Dad, are you okay? What in the world happened? Why didn't you call earlier? Your wallet's been stolen?" The questions poured from the son, so that the father recoiled.
"I'm all right," he answered. "Just had a bit of a fall."
"There's no such thing as a bit of a fall when you get older," the son said. "What's this about having your wallet stolen?"
So, he explained the previous evening's happenings, as his son listened rather impatiently. Then, he told the boy that they would not call the police, and that he should go home and get some sleep -- he'd see him tomorrow when he could go home.

Finally, his son left. It was very early in the morning by this time, the sun just starting to peek into the hospital room through the blinds that were open just a crack. He felt extremely tired and resolved to sleep.

The noise and activity of the hospital caused him to awake just a short time later, but he was relieved to discover that his headache had subsided and he was able to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He took a deep breath, and slipped off the bed and onto the floor, a little wobbly at first, but stronger with each step as he crossed the floor to the bathroom, that task soon accomplished.

Then, he searched about in a closet in the room and came up with a housecoat and a pair of those flimsy hospital-type slippers, and he was soon out of his room and into the hallway, looking about and ready for the new day. There was no one about, so he walked toward the nurse's station.

"Well, good morning," said the nurse on duty as he approached. "You look better than last night."
"You're still here," he remarked. "Long shift."
"Oh, we do those 12-hour ones," the nurse said. "Are you sure you should be up?" she asked, concern in her voice. "You took a nasty fall last night."
"Yes, I've got a goose egg on my noggin," he said, rubbing the sore spot.
"But the headache's gone and I feel fine. Can I get my clothes?"
"Don't be rushing things," she said. "You'll have to wait for the doctor and he won't be along for about an hour."
"Mmmmm," was his response. And he padded his way back to his room.

The doctor came and confirmed that everything was as it should be, and he was given leave to phone his son to come and pick him up. He got the boy out of bed with his call and could tell the young man wasn't happy to be bothered so early in the morning. Still, he said he'd be along directly.
The old man had a little breakfast -- might as well get his money's worth -- showered and got dressed. The boy came and helped wheel his father toward the hospital exit.

Just as they were about the leave the place, there was a commotion in the doorway. Two rather burly police officers were wrestling someone through the doors and there was considerable bad language and upheaval as they carried out the task. The old man was starting to get up out of the wheelchair, when the officers and their catch crashed in through the door and bumped heavily into him, knocking him backwards before his son reached forward to steady him.

"Sorry, sir," apologized one of the police officers, while the other put a firm grip on the person between them. "It's just that this piece of scum is giving us a hard time."
And just at that instant, the old man looked toward the police officer and he caught sight of the person being detained. It was him -- the young man who'd stolen his wallet the night before -- he could recognize him even through the smear of blood across his face. And also in that instant, he thought he could see real fear and desolation in the young man's eyes, and he thought that odd for a truly evil person, that he should fear anything.
He knew it was the culprit who had accosted him, but he said nothing, only indicated to the officer who had spoken that he was fine -- no harm done.

He said nothing to his son about recognizing his assailant at the hospital, only thanked the boy for getting him back to his comfortable home.
"Now, don't forget, we're going to be out of town tomorrow and the next day," his son said, as he prepared to leave.
The old man wondered at this and the younger man realized his father was puzzled. "Dad, it's Christmas tomorrow," the boy said. "How could you forget? That bump on the head must have shaken you up worse than you thought. It's Christmas and we've got to go to Margie's folks' place this year because her Dad isn't well."
"Yes, how could I forget," the father answered. "I suppose the kids are all excited."
"Waiting for their loot," the son said. "Too old to get in the Christmas spirit."
There was a slight pause.
"I wish you'd change your mind and come with us," the son said. "I hate to think of you sitting here at home alone. You didn't even put a tree up."
"I don't want to be away at Christmas," the father answered. "And there's no need for a tree and all that sort of stuff. There's just me rattling around the house and I'm not much of a Christmas guy these days."
"Well, if you have a change of heart today, give me a call," the son said.
"We're leaving first thing tomorrow morning."
"You go and have a good time and don't worry about me," answered the father.
And they finished their conversation and the boy left, returning to his own home and family.

The old man found a place for himself in his easy chair, actually opened himself a beer, even though he wasn't much of a drinker and it was still early. He just thought he needed to relax and the beer might help.
And it wasn't long before he had dozed off, and while he was gone to sleep, a dream came to him.
He saw his good Mary, his good and noble Mary. And she looked radiant and it was obvious by her attire that it was a special time, and finally he saw that she wore a small Santa Claus for a brooch, and he knew it was Christmas. And while he watched, she went among the poor and unfortunate and ministered to them, giving them sustenance and tending to their souls.
He could see her as she laid her hands upon them and tried to raise them up. It was the way she had been, always the good and noble person who would do unto others as she would have them do unto her.

The dream was intense and felt like reality in his mind, and he felt it so strongly that he wanted nothing more than to be with her -- to help her in her task -- to show her that he was worthy of her -- that he could be good and noble also. He knew he wanted to be with her for an eternity; that he must be with her for an eternity. He wept in his dream, so badly did he want her.

It was the taste of the salt that awoke him, stirring him from his morning nap, as the tears had intruded into the true reality and coursed their way down his face. He felt the sadness that had gnawed at him since his wife had died. It ached in him.
But he bundled up and went out into the bright sunshine of the winter's day for a brisk walk into the uptown. He walked spryly and smartly up to the town police station, and then in through the front door to duty officer.

"What about over Christmas?" the old man asked.
"Well, we'd likely release him into his parents' care if we could," the officer said. "But the way it is, he'll likely spend the holiday right here in the slammer."
"That's too bad," the old man said. "Could I see him?"
"That's doubtful," the officer answered. "Why would you want to see him?"
"I'd like to talk to him about something," the oldtimer answered. "I might be able to be of help to him."
"You a lawyer?" came the question.
He answered the officer in the negative, but asked again if he could see the young man.
"Well, sir," the officer answered, "I don't know what to make of this, but if you'll give me a minute, I'll check with somebody a little higher up the ladder."

Finally, he sat across from his assailant in a small interrogation room, separated by a glass shield in the middle of a table.
"What's up, gramps?" asked the young man, total disrespect in his voice.
"I thought we might talk," the old man said.
"Talk," the boy said. "It's your quarter."
"Do you remember me?" the old man asked.
There was a pause.
"I might," answered the boy.
"I could cause trouble for you," the old man said.
"I already got trouble -- in case you haven't noticed," the young man said, sarcasm in his voice.
"Not a great place to be at Christmas," the old man said.
"I been in worse places," the young man answered.
"Maybe you have," the old man said, "but it still isn't a great place to be."
Another pause.

"So, what?" asked the boy.
"I got some work that needs doing," the old man said. "You come home with me for Christmas and help me with a few things and we'll call it even."
"Why the hell would I do that?" the young man asked. "Why would you do that?" he followed up his first question with another.
"I'd like to try and help you," the old man said.
"Help me?" the young man asked. "Why would you do that? And why wouldn't I break your head at the first chance? You know me."
"I don't think you're a really bad person," the old man said. "I saw it in your eyes at the hospital today -- you were frightened and alone -- if you were a real criminal -- a real bad guy -- I wouldn't have seen that in your eyes."
"Yea, right, old man," sneered the young man. "You're crazy as a hoot owl."
"Maybe I am," said the old man. "But I wish you'd take me up on my offer. I'll pay your fine, and you can work that off, plus what I lost."
"Christ, you're a pushy, old man," the young man said, but there was something different about his voice, and he almost smiled. "There's no strings other than helping out a little."
"And helping me eat turkey," the old man said.
"What do you mean by that?" the boy asked, suspiciously.
"It's Christmas," the old man answered. "I always have turkey at Christmas."
"You know, I'm not even sure the cops will let this happen," the young man said. "They hate me real bad. They think I'm a bad cookie."
"I'll talk to them," the old man said. "I think I can persuade them, if I'm willing to put up the money for you. What should it matter to them? If you break my head, they can put you away for good, eh? If I turn up with my head broken, they'll know exactly who to blame. It'll be an open and shut case."
The young man said nothing, but seemed to consider his options. "I'll go, I guess," he finally said. "I could enjoy a little turkey." And this time, he actually did smile.

The police expressed obvious concern at the situation, but the old man would not be dissuaded, so they finally relented. "This is highly unusual," the duty officer said, as he tried to figure out what the old man was up to.
"But it's Christmas," said the old man. "I think I can help the boy. Give me a chance. Give him a chance." There was hint of pleading in his voice.
"But he hasn't even had bail set," the officer said.
"He'll be with me and you know where to find me," the old man said.
"We're not going any place."
"I guess I'm going to allow this," the officer finally said. "It'll probably mean my pension when that young punk crushes your head, but for some reason, I trust you -- I think things will be all right." He paused. "Plus, it's Christmas."

He went and got the young man and brought him out to the front of the station. "This gentleman is going to call me if you so much as sneeze the wrong way," the police officer said to the young man. "He's offering you an act of kindness. See you thank him properly for it."
And the old man left the building with his new companion, after making a promise to return after the holiday.

"What now?" the young man said, as soon as they stood on the sidewalk outside.
"We've got to walk to my place," the old man said.
"Walk?" exclaimed the young man.
"It's not far," said the old man, and they set out.
They walked the distance to his comfortable little bungalow at a steady pace. The young man wasn't really dressed for walking.
"Where's your winter coat and boots?" asked the old man, as he watched his companion dodging among the snow drifts to avoid having his shoes filled with the cold, white stuff.
"Yea, right, oldtimer," answered the young man. "You think those things just grow on trees?"

The old man stopped up short. "Where are your parents?" he asked with a tone of exhasperation in his voice.
"My old man's in jail right now," answered the boy. "And I'll bet my Mom's turning a Christmas Eve trick."
The old man said nothing, but was sorry he'd asked the question, realizing that he was out of line. The boy turned suddenly away and put his hand up to his face.
"I'm sorry," said the old man. He reached out to console the boy, but was brushed aside.
"Let's go," said the boy. "I'm freezin'."

And they set off again toward the house, arriving soon after, and they came into the kitchen of the place and pulled off their foot and outer wear.
"Christ, it's cold out," complained the young man.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd watch your language when you're in the house," the old man said. "It's not that I mind, but it's out of respect for my wife."
"She dead?" the young man bluntly asked.
"Yes, she is," the old man answered, but it was his turn to feel emotion at the remembering.
There was a moment of silence and they both stood awkwardly, surrounded by uncertainty at what should come next.

"So, where's this work you want me to do?" asked the young man.
"Well, we've got to split some wood for the fireplace," said the old man, "and I want to get my basement workshop cleaned up a little. But that stuff can wait. Right now, we're going to go out and get a Christmas tree and a turkey."
"I thought you'd have that stuff already," remarked the young man.
"No," answered the old man. "I've always been a last minute shopper."
And they set off out into the fading afternoon, having indeed left the shopping 'til the last minute, with only a couple of hours remaining before the shopkeepers would be home with their own families and set for the festive occasion.

They got a heck of a deal on the tree, because the lot owner had long ago given up hope of another sale. It was a bit of a scraggly tree, but the boy picked it out and the old man let him, thinking he had perhaps not carried out such a task in his lifetime, and that he might be able to capture some of the spirit of the season if he was allowed to participate in it.

Next, he went to the grocery store and got a turkey, not really sure what he was looking for, never having been this close to an uncooked turkey in his life, and still not exactly sure what he was going to do with it once he did get it home -- his dear Mary the cook in the family. Still, they ended up with a most suitable bird and had a few laughs picking it out. And, as they passed along the grocery store aisles, the old man gathered up a few other treats for the holiday, while the boy nodded in approval at each selection.
And the old man watched the boy as they continued along their way, and it was like he was getting more and more into the spirit of things -- seemed to be smiling and laughing more and more. And the old man was glad that he might be able to help the young unfortunate perhaps forget his sordid life -- even for a short while -- a respite from the storm.

Then, they stood at the entranceway to the mall, and the old man looked at his watch. The stores would be open for about an hour.
"You wait here," he said to the boy. "I've got to run a couple of errands." And he disappeared out of sight of the boy, not really sure whether he'd see him again or not. But he went to do a little shopping nonetheless.
And when he returned, parcels in hand, he wasn't too surprised that the boy was gone. He had hoped, but he hadn't been sure. Gone also were the groceries and the turkey. Robbed again.

Still, he took his packages and headed out into the parking lot and had soon reached his car, where he was surprised to discover that the groceries and the turkey had been left in the car's half-open trunk, left open to allow for the Christmas tree. Would wonders never cease? he thought. Still, there was no sign of the boy. It looked like he'd taken it on the lamb. And that was too bad. Too bad indeed.
But he loaded the rest of the stuff into the car and headed for home. He was driving up the street where his house was located when he saw someone sitting on his front porch. It was the young man. Apparently, wonders never would cease.

"Why are you doing this?" the boy asked at one point.
"My wife told me I should," the old man answered.
And the boy didn't pursue it further, so the topic was dropped.
Finally, they stood back and admired their handiwork. The old man reached down and plugged it in. It was a beautiful tree. "Yes!" exclaimed the young man.
And they spent the rest of the evening getting things ready for Christmas.

The old man was amazed to see that the boy actually seemed to be enjoying himself. It was late by the time they finally settled down to relax a bit and put their feet up. The old man made a batch of popcorn and they pigged out on that, regarding the Christmas scene that they had set.
"Well," said the old man, "just about time to turn in. We've got a big day tomorrow if we're going to get that turkey cooked."
"You think you know how to do that?" asked the boy.
"Oh, I suppose we'll figure it out," the old man said, punctuating the remark with a smile.
And they finally did head for bed, the old man showing the boy to the room his son had once occupied, helping him get settled in for the night. A thought crossed the old man's mind that the boy might wait for night -- but it was only a fleeting thought and it was soon gone.
And he didn't think again about the boy as he prepared for bed, other than to hope the young man had actually enjoyed the evening and that his time had been better spent than in jail. He said a quiet prayer on Mary's soul before turning out the light. He repeated this ritual every night. It was an important part of his life.

He slept a deep mostly dreamless sleep, but was awake early, up and about -- he had some wrapping to do. He hauled out the packages he'd bought at the mall the day before and was soon wraping up a new coat and boots for the boy -- he hoped they'd fit, because he'd guessed at the size. He supposed he should have taken the boy with him, but he wanted the gifts to be a surprise -- he thought that was important. When he'd finished, he took the parcels to the living room and gingerly placed them under the tree. There, that looks much more complete, he thought.
Then, he went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee and waited for his guest to awaken. He looked out his kitchen window and saw the sun climbing into a frosty blue sky and knew it would be a good day.

And, finally, the young man awoke. First, the old man heard him rumaging about in the upstairs, making use of the washroom and such, then he heard him on the stairs making his way down.
"Good morning," he said as brightly as possible. "Merry Christmas!"
"Same," returned the boy, offering a shy smile.
"Want a coffee?" asked the old man, gesturing toward the pot.
"Absolutely," replied his young guest.
"Well," said the old man, as he presented the boy with a steaming mug, "want to see what Santa brought you?"
"Yea, right," said the young man. "If Santa's been checking his list to see who's been naughty, I think he'll have passed by this house."
"You might be surprised," said the old man. He indicated for him to follow and led the way to the living room.

"Presents!" exclaimed the young man, on seeing the packages under the tree.
"And I think they're for you," the old man said with a smile. He went to the tree and removed the gifts and presented them to the boy.
"Thanks," said the young man, and there was a sparkle in his eye.
And with that, he ripped open the wrapping paper and found first the new coat and then the boots, bubbling over with glee at each discovery. There were also gloves and a hat, so that he could be completely outfitted for winter. Finally, he sat on the living room floor, with all his loot surrounding him. He was grinning broadly. "I'm still not sure why you're doing this, but thanks," he said. "You're a very kind man."

"And you're not a bad kid," answered the old man. "Just had a few bad knocks in life."
"I've got something, too," the young man said.
"What do you mean?" asked the old man.
"I've got a gift for you," the boy answered. And he reached into his back pocket and produced the old man's wallet. He reached out and gave it to him. "Really sorry I took this and knocked you down," he said somewhat mournfully, head hung low.

"Thank you," said the old man.
"There was about five bucks in it and I spent that, but everything else should be okay," said the boy.
"I appreciate this," said the old man, holding tightly to the wallet.
"I owe you," said the boy. "You've been good to me."
There was a pause, both men reflecting.
"Now, we've got to get that turkey in, or the darned thing'll never get cooked on time," the old man finally said.
"Just tell me what to do," said the young man.
And the old man told him to go out and find others who were down on their luck and had nowhere to go for Christmas, because he knew the young man would know such souls. And before the end of the day had been reached, a total of fifteen hungry unfortunates had received food and drink from the old man and his elf. They went about their tasks with a light heart, knowing it was true good that they did. There were often smiles between them as their guests marvelled at the unexpected bounty. And the old man knew it was good.

And, finally, the day had passed and was at an end. The old man lay in his bed and was content. He had done what he could and he felt better for it. He would offer the boy a permanent place to live if he agreed to go to school and to rejoin the right side of life. He wasn't exactly sure why he was doing it, but only thought that his Mary had said he should. And he did feel better for it. God, how he had loved her. But you couldn't go back -- you had to move ahead -- and try to do good. He would try to do both. And he hoped that would be enough. And was sure it would be.
He slept.

.