Luminary

LUMINARY

  by Peter Schnake

  copyright 2012 Peter Schnake.

  Scripture quotations taken from the NIV.

  THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Mom. Merry Christmas.

  LUMINARY

  Immediately upon putting a hand to the glass doors, the wind raked me into the bitterness, whipping me toward the street like a paper bag. It left me tip-toed on the edge of the curb, fighting for balance as the blur of a taxi kicked icy sluice into my face.

  Merry Christmas, Christie.

  I turned to wipe my eyes. Through frozen blinks the doors of the department store transformed into an enchanted fireplace—enormously tall like in the fairytales I read as a little girl—framed by exquisite stone posts and a mantle bearing the store’s name. The decorations inside spun and caught the light, flickering like tongues of fire, while the stone mantle seemed to grow as on the strike of midnight when the army of rats emerges from beneath the skirt of the tree. I searched for the toy soldier destined to wake and fight for me, but none appeared.

  If only my imagination could be wiped from my head like slush from my eyes. A stiff drink would sober me.

  I drew close to the Christmas display in the window. What wonderful toys glittered behind the glass! They would be perfect for Alex and Lisa. All of them. There wasn’t a single one they wouldn’t have liked, screamed for, drooled over and broken. It didn’t matter if the toys broke. It didn’t matter if they wore out, rusted, or simply bored them after a mere fifteen minutes. It only mattered to be able to give a gift at all.

  Ray wouldn’t allow it.

  Not since the divorce. Not since my rights had been terminated. Not since he remarried and Heather-the-succubus legally adopted them as her own.

  I had the money. I had the money for the whole display. It was easy to save it; hadn’t had a drop of alcohol for three weeks. The kids were the only thought that kept me going. They were my higher power: the only thought that steadied my hand as I reached for the bottle in aisle ten.

  I left the group after they wanted me to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. I had no wrongs to admit to anyone, not to myself, to God, or to another human being. Ray was the unreasonable one. I was the victim.

  I pressed my hand to the icy glass, imagining the feel of each toy. I patted the fuzzy nose of the giraffe, the sleek buttons of the twirling robot. I slid my hand along the slats in the track after the steaming locomotive swept by. I wrapped them in cellophane and bright tissue; tied them with glossy string and satin ribbons. I curled bows and signed tags. Love, Mom.

  Don’t you cry, Christie. Your tears will freeze. Don’t you dare cry.

  “Don’t they want to visit me?” I asked Ray. “Even for a day?”

  “No,” he said. His sigh hissed through the phone. “Don’t put them through that.”

  I slammed the half-empty fifth onto the tile in anger.

  “Don’t they ask about me?”

  “Don’t do this. Let them be. They’re not yours anymore.”

  Maybe this was how the Virgin Mary felt: to lose her child, to be rebuked by his very mouth. She had only wanted to visit him, and so many had gathered—wasn’t that why the lame man was lowered through the roof? And she sent a friend to fight through the crowd to tell him she was there, that it wasn’t a short walk to find him, that she hadn’t heard from him in weeks, that his silence was unbearable. And Jesus sent her away. The whole crowd was his mother and brothers, he said.

  How many times have you heard that story, Christie?

  Every Christmas memory from my childhood included a pastor reading from Luke. “A sword shall pierce your own soul, too.”

  One Christmas Eve, I asked my Grandma what that meant. She leaned so close I could see her eyes over her glasses. She whispered to me that it hurt Mary to see Jesus die on the cross. But I think Mary’s Christmas promise came sooner than that. I think her heart broke when Jesus dismissed her as merely one of the crowd of sinners, when he refused to spend time with his own mother.

  The wind whipped and stung my ears. I raised my hands as shields and stepped to the next display. A rotund fir rose from a pile of glittering snow, surrounded by a circle of luminaries. The tree’s plump branches were rife with glass birds. Doves nestled together for warmth, while cardinals stretched their wings to swoop across the tree and skim its snow-dusted branches in playful joy. Their angular shoulders and beaks coruscated in the flickering candlelight.

  Each of the ceramic luminaries beneath had been shaped to imitate a white paper bag. They looked handmade; each of them bore a unique glowing heart. One heart was cut of star shapes. Another of parallel zigzags. Another as if the heart had fractured into a dozen glowing pieces.

  I felt like one of those luminaries. My soul contained one fractured heart. Only mine didn’t glow so brightly. What could possibly be glowing from my heart? Ray had squelched all reason to glow, all hope of glowing again.

  My hand slid from glass to brick as I walked the length of the store. A drink would be nice. Yes, a drink would definitely be nice. Maybe I could finish that bottle tonight. It had been a rough day, made rougher by window-shopping. Yes, you deserve a drink, Christie.

  At the edge of the store, I paused before crossing the alley. My hand fell from the brick at the sight of a glimmer in the corner of the alley. In squinting I discerned flames peeping between several silhouettes—two of them children.

  I don’t know why I started down that alley. It was one of those times when my feet started walking before my head made up its mind. The flames drew me. I realized that I wouldn’t have been able to see the flames if the people had huddled more closely, forming a solid wall—except that people don’t make good walls. I would have seen that fire no matter how tightly they huddled.

  A heart makes a good wall. You can hide a lot behind your heart—love, jealousy, hate—but break it open, and you’ll see its contents. A broken heart sheds a very bright light, at least in luminary terms.

  As I neared the silhouettes, one of the adults turned to me. I recognized him immediately and gasped.

  “Ray?” I said.

  The two children stepped back and clung to the woman.

  “Sorry, lady,” the man said. “I don’t know a Ray.”

  How stupid of me. Of course it wasn’t him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You just looked like someone I...”

  The light from the barrel contoured his face so like Ray’s. He could have been Ray’s brother. The kids, fully in the light were clearly not Alex and Lisa. And the woman didn’t look anything like the Succubus.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated and turned.

  An intense rush of wind stalled my first step.

  I turned back.

  “Do you folks have anywhere to sleep tonight?” I said.

  I kicked myself. For all I knew, they could be murderers who lured victims into this alley by their generosity.

  “We’ll sleep right here,” the man said.

  Shine bright, Christie. You are able.

  “No. It’s too cold,” I said. “Too dangerous. I know what it’s like to be desperate. You’ll stay with me.”

  I turned again and walked out of the alley, hoping they would follow. They did; and I guided them the few blocks to my apartment. They expressed deep appreciation for my hospitality, though I didn’t have much to offer. A few frozen dinners and couch cushions. I hadn’t even bought myself a bed y
et. At least they were out of the wind.

  I lay on the floor of my room that night and wondered what I would have done if it had really been Ray. It was easy to help a family in need. It’s what you’re supposed to do. But if that had really been Ray and Heather and the kids standing over a barrel...they probably wouldn’t have wanted my help anyway. They would rather have frozen to death.

  I rolled over to relieve the pain in my back and sighed angrily. So much for finishing the bottle tonight.

  In the morning, Christmas Eve, I walked my “tenants” over to the mission. The mission could take care of them better than I could. The mission offered warmer clothes and employment assistance.

  As we stepped inside, Ray’s doppelganger turned to me with pathetic eyes and said, “How can I thank you?”

  “I didn’t do much,” I said.

  And I hadn’t. I could have given them the money I saved for Alex and Lisa’s presents, or at least bought them better food and clothes, or even a few small toys. I hadn’t let them stay a second night at my crummy apartment where even if I didn’t have beds for them they probably had more room to spread out than at the mission.

  “There’s nothing to thank me for,” I said.

  I don’t think he believed me. But the walk to the mission made me realize I could do more—the more fractures the brighter the light, right? —so I volunteered to serve Christmas dinner the following day.

  If Ray didn’t want me around, and the kids didn’t want me around, well, maybe the homeless would have me.

  Mr. Bubba, the soup kitchen supervisor, led me to the gravy station.

  “You guard this ladle with your life,” he said. His dirty apron heaved with each asthmatic breath he took. “If you take an unscheduled bathroom break, they’ll think it’s ‘serve their own gravy time,’ and we’ll run out.”

  He exampled a serving size.

  “This much and no more.”

  Beige slime glopped from the ladle.

  “Got it,” I said.

  It was an easy job. Good cheer abounded. The destitute bore fractured smiles as if the Joy of Christmas erased their yesterdays and tomorrows. I avoided looking too closely at their teeth. The half a fifth in my stomach provided a warmth (my own Christmas Joy) which caressed my ribs with each ladleful of gravy.

  I raised my hand to wave at Ray’s doppelganger down the line when I saw Alex over his shoulder—my Alex! And then I saw Lisa and Heather raise their plates for potatoes.

  My heart froze.

  What were they doing at the mission? They should be opening presents in front of the fire. Ray should be padding around in his slippers, making waffles and otherwise destroying the kitchen. Had they come to torment me? They couldn’t possibly be in need, could they?

  “Gravy!”

  The voice startled me. The man in front of me eyed the ladle I held in limbo over his plate.

  “Gravy!” he said again.

  I quickly poured it over his potatoes. He pointed to his turkey.

  “Gravy!”

  I didn’t have time to argue with him. I didn’t care what Mr. Bubba said, I needed to get away. I couldn’t let Ray see me so pathetically alone, or come near and smell my breath. I slopped the mucous across the man’s plate, and turned to run and hide.

  Mr. Bubba loomed in the kitchen doorway.

  “One scoop per person.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” I said.

  “Stay at your station.”

  His apron heaved.

  I returned to the gravy, sure that Ray and the kids would be waiting expectantly for me to serve them. How was this ‘let your light shine’ thing supposed to work now? How was I supposed to treat them? Should I smile and pretend that they hadn’t disowned me? Maybe I should pretend I didn’t know them at all? What if they asked for a second scoop?

  But Ray wasn’t waiting for gravy. Nor were Alex or Lisa or Heather. They had disappeared from line.

  I ladled gravy for a waiting plate, held by an ash-smudged woman with blackened fingernails and a sere stocking cap.

  “Thank you,” she said, showing me the gaps in her grin.

  I contorted my wince to match her smile but looked past her into the rows of tables. I quickly spotted Ray and the kids bowing their heads over gravy-less dinners.

  I hoped their turkey was dry. How could they snub me like that? Maybe they thought they were being polite by pretending not to see me, but they had robbed me of my opportunity to let my light shine.

  How foolish of me to even worry about doing good by them. I knew if I stood face to face with Ray I wouldn’t have a single nice word for him.

  I fanned the flames of anger within my chest. How dare he bring the kids to a soup kitchen on Christmas! If he left me because he thought it was best for the kids, what the hell did he think he was doing for them now? Couldn’t the Succubus pull her weight in the family? Couldn’t she provide anything?

  I was glad I had spent their toy money yesterday: loaded up on Christmas Cheer, and I couldn’t wait to get home to partake.

  I plunged my ladle into the gravy. Beige slime splashed into my eye. Just what I needed.

  When I finally relieved my eye of the burning, Ray stood in front of me. I had never seen him looking more pathetic: matted hair, circles under his eyes, overgrown stubble.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he said. He motioned vaguely to the kids and Heather. “It’s...” he sighed.

  My anger roared like a magic fireplace. Midnight tolled.

  “How can you even stand,” I said, “to look at me.”

  The words caught me off-guard, but I realized the moment I said them, I meant them. They were true, but I wasn’t ready for step nine. I wasn’t ready to make amends for my wrongs. I hadn’t yet admitted my wrongs to myself.

  I sobbed. My heart snapped into a dozen icy shards.

  “Everything I did to you, to the kids. The things I put you through.”

  I couldn’t name my faults. They were too much to bear.

  “I wasn’t a good mother,” I said. “I wasn’t a good wife. And you’re standing on that side of the gravy, and I’m on this side, and it’s not right. It should be the other way around.”

  I covered my face.

  What are you doing, Christie? This is Christmas. This is Jesus’ birthday.

  Jesus. Of course. It’s always been Jesus. Jesus is the light which pierces our darkness—even the darkness of a crumpled, paper bag of a heart. I needed to stop walling off his light with my pride and arrogance and let him shine.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “How can you ever forgive me?”

  He sighed, shrugged, sighed again, shrugged again.

  What happened to him? Where was his strength, his decisiveness?

  “Can I see the kids?”

  He nodded.

  I ignored Mr. Bubba’s hysterics at abandoning my ladle, and fought through the crowd to kneel at the folding table in the middle of the room.

  “Alex, Lisa,” I said, taking them each by hand, “I miss you so, so much. And I’m so sorry. I wasn’t a good mommy to you. I wasn’t there when you needed me. I only thought of myself. And because of that, God has given you a new mommy, and I hope that she loves you in all the ways that I failed.”

  I cleared my throat, and blinked away both tears and residual gravy.

  “Kids, do you know what today is? Of course you do, it’s Christmas. It’s the day that God declared himself one of us so that he could save us from ourselves.”

  I cleared my throat again. Get to the point, Christie.

  “It’s the day I pledge to be better for you. I’m gonna try, but I’m not perfect, and I’ll struggle. Can you ever forgive me for the things I’ve done.”

  I searched their eyes, so much like my own yet so unfamiliar. They showed no sign of response.

  I was rejected. Just like Mary: no better than a crowd of sinners.

  I sighed.

  It came to me then that Jesus wasn’t denouncing Mary
, although she may have felt the sting of his words. He was saying that we—that I am as important to him as his mother, as a family member. It only mattered to be forgiven by Jesus. He was my Christmas Joy and Peace.

  “I will.”

  I turned, surprised by Heather’s intrusion.

  “I’ll forgive you,” she said.

  I stood as Heather circled the table and embraced me. Shortly, the children’s arms wrapped around my waist. The very touch of their hands seemed to heal a piece of my heart, seemed to give me the strength—the permission—to get better.

  Ray watched us from the edge of the crowd. He didn’t join our embrace. I don’t think he was ready to forgive. He might never be ready. That’s okay, I suppose. The more fractured the heart, the more light can escape. Right?

  *

  For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light to shine in our hearts to give us the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. And we have this treasure in jars of clay so that all may know that this all-surpassing power is not from us. II Corinthians 4:6-7

  ***

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Peter Schnake lives and writes in Lincoln, Nebraska. Although stories had a bad habit of interrupting his life and possessing his pen, he didn’t write in earnest until a bout of seizures in his early twenties caused him to reexamine his priorities. Now he devotes as much time as he is able to his writing and hopes soon to make it a full-time occupation.

  He believes that stories should surprise and move. Language should be precise and clean and images should evoke and provoke. He believes that happy endings are not always the best endings, and that sometimes a great story dissatisfies.

  When not writing (or drinking coffee) Mr. Schnake enjoys stargazing and watching the Food Network.

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