An Advent Calendar - 13. Door#13 - Eternal Flame

Eternal Flame

On Christmas Eve, all night long, my great grandmother left a light on in the living room window, just like her mother, and her grandmother, and back in the Old Country, her great grandmother. The light shining in the darkness during the shortest days of the year is a family tradition, which I continue to this day. Here are three vignettes about why I do so. I hope you enjoy them.

Cohasset, MN, a house on Lake Sissabakwet, near the mouth of the Mississippi River, December 24, 1921. -38 degrees Fahrenheit.

Ellie threw another log into the stove, quickly closing the door and adjusting the damper. No matter how much fuel she fed the fire, the house was cold, drafty, and dark. Christmas Eve was a sad affair this year. Her mother had died of consumption, recently referred to in the newspapers by the term pneumonia. It didn’t matter what a person called it. Her mother drowned in her own fluids, her father had informed her.

Of course, her Da didn’t call her mother’s disease anything at all. He said she died in her sleep.

Ellie was beside herself. As the teacher at the Sugar Lake rural school, she didn’t have the funds or the time off to go home to Hibbing and see him. She only had letters from him and letters from a few relatives. Otherwise, she was isolated, and alone, sad and forlorn.

No, forlorn wasn’t the right word. Ellie was depressed thinking about her father and her siblings spending Christmas without their mother. Without her as well. Three days ago, it seemed like maybe she could make it. She thought with a small loan, maybe she could get a railroad ticket and go. It wasn’t that far. But, times were tight. The loan wasn’t going to happen. Thankfully Mr. Otis and his mother begged her to join them for the holiday. She lived at their house full-time as part of her teacher pay, but still she was thankful they included her. Especially Art.

She had such a fondness for Art. No, she couldn’t think of him that way. He was her landlord, not her beau.

Art, that was Mr. Otis’s first name, was really strange sometimes. Ellie thought he might be a little touched. He fumbled and mumbled around her, but oddly enough, he was a really good businessman. The Otis Lodge was doing well, at least that’s what people said. As the local school teacher, she heard it all. People would talk around her as though she wasn’t really there. Sometimes being invisible was quite nice. Other times it wasn’t exactly a joy. Anyway, Art was doing quite well in the summer visitor trade. Sometimes he even started on about getting aeroplane rides and possibly building a permanent aero-field in the area. He was overly optimistic about things, though it was quite adorable.

She had to stop thinking of him like that. He was her landlord, sort of, not a sweetheart.

“God in heaven,” she heard from the other room. “It’s turrible. Just turrible out there.”

Ellie called back. “Mrs. Otis, are you okay?”

She didn’t hear a response at first. The room’s oppressive darkness from the closed windows made the air feel even chillier. The thick carpets draped over the openings stopped light and even sound.

“Mrs. Otis?” she called again.

“It’s so cold. I ran to the chicken shed and almost froze.” Freda Otis stepped into the room unwrapping her head and opening her coat. “I lit a spirit lamp in there for some heat, but I’m not sure it will be enough. When Art gets home, we need to put some coal in the stove in the shed. I can’t lose those chickens.”

“Here, take another sweater,” Ellie said, rushing forward with an afghan. She wrapped the blanket around the woman once her coat was removed. The thin woman shuddered under her fingers. The teacher shivered from the cold radiating off the older woman. It was that cold out.

The two women had bowls of thin, watery soup, and waited and waited. Art had gone to town to get supplies and hadn’t returned. Mrs. Otis was obviously worried about her son. Her fidgeting and furtive peeks behind the draped windows was telling. Ellie tried not to be nervous, at first. Her concern started to grow as the evening grew darker and the weather harsher. After all, people died from extreme temperatures like these.

Outside, the cold had become so intense, it no longer frosted the windows. The glass was clear. The effect of the elements had powdered the hoarfrost clearing the glass. The cold creeped through every surface of the outside walls. Ellie kept loading the stove with wood. The stove seemed defeated in its battle with the wintery weather. She felt her neck prickle from the chill in the air even as she fed the fire.

As the evening turned to night, Mrs. Otis retreated to her bed. It was clear her fear was shrinking her, making her become smaller and less present. Her worry consumed her. Her son was still out there somewhere and the situation seemed bleak.

Ellie watched the door and windows closely, yet Art, Mr. Otis, wasn’t returning. The weather was now so dangerous the air outside seemed to have frozen away and disappeared. The outlines of the trees and buildings were stark and without interference. No one could survive this. No one could walk for miles in this weather and live, right?

Ellie lit a lamp and placed it next to her. She figured the light would keep her awake. She stared into the inky blackness and the white that she could see, yet shouldn’t. That’s the nature of the cold in the climes of the North. She could see white, black, gray, and well, it had to be death as well.

Ellie shuddered. She stared into the inky night and then impossibly fell asleep.

***

“What are you doing?” Ellie heard and her head snapped up.

“I made it. I saw the light,” she heard a muffled male voice say.

“Thank God,” the female voice said. “Let’s get you to bed to warm up.”

“Ma, I’m so cold,” the voice whined, teeth chattering. “It’s so cold.”

“Come now,” Mrs. Otis’s no-nonsense voice said.

Ellie got up, stretched, brought the sweater around her tightly, and waited. Mrs. Otis’s voice was excited at first. Her son’s rich, low responses seemed to calm her. She listened as he sat next to the stove and drank something. His mother’s voice became softer until it ended with the creaky sounds of her ascending the stairs.

***

Ellie waited in the cold as their words dried up. She listened as Mrs. Otis went up to bed leaving Art in the kitchen. She wanted to crawl into bed and pull the quilt over her head. Ellie wanted to drift away, but her heart was beating more urgently, ardently now.

After hearing the heavy thuds of Art’s feet climbing up to his bedroom, she arose and climbed the steps. Ellie slid into his bed, put her arms around Art, and held him until his trembling ended. She kissed away his tears. He did the same for her. They both fell asleep finally feeling the deep, satisfying sharing of body heat. The cold had driven them together and the terror had glued their bond.

Abbott Northwestern Hospital, December 24^th, 1965, Children’s Cancer Ward.

Danny tried hard not to listen. Hearing his mother’s sobs was making him feel so blue. It was depressing enough lying in a hospital bed right before Christmas knowing he was breaking her heart. As much as he was told it wasn’t his fault, he knew it was. You don’t get sick without a reason. You don’t get blood cancer unless God or fate or something was punishing you for being bad.

He’d been really bad.

His thoughts kept poisoning him. Stan’s boyish, devilish face danced in his head instead of sugar plums, or girls like Sandy Whitaker. When he tried to picture the lovely blond girl’s face, it would suddenly fly away and the peach-fuzzed cheeks of his best friend took its place. Thinking about what he wanted to do to Stan, to make him smile and laugh, to make his toes curl, was wrong. That’s why he had this disease.

A disease that made both his parents so sad. However, making his mother cry was even worse.

“They’re poisoning him.” He heard her muffled voice say. “It’s a lost cause, I just know it.”

“Hush, now. Dr. Carpenter said this should work. I guess they’ve had success doing this.” It was Danny’s father trying so hard to make his mom feel better. He could hear the strain in his voice though. He was scared too, which was terrifying because his dad was never scared of anything.

“They are giving him three or four drugs at once and its making his hair fall out. I can’t bear it anymore. This is torturing him.” Danny’s mother’s voice was almost a screech now, like a scared hen or a frightened rabbit right after their dog, Blackie, cornered it. People thought rabbits didn’t make any sound. They usually didn’t except when fear gripped them so tight, a terrified squeal escaped from their lips.

“Dr. Carpenter said this is our best bet, Danny’s best bet. If they use these drugs in tandem, it will kill off the cells.”

“It’s killing him.”

Danny cleared his throat loudly. He didn’t want to hear any more of this. His father hissed telling his mother to quiet down.

Danny took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His throat hurt today, and he tried not to look over at his pillow. He knew more of his fine, brown hair had come off his head. While the nurses tried to clear it away before he noticed, he saw the strands when he awoke in the morning. He tried not to think of how weird he looked almost bald and with dark red rings around his eyes. His skin was so white it looked gray in the mirror. He remembered when his best friend came to visit, how he reacted.

Stan stood in the doorway with Danny’s parents behind him. They usually didn’t allow visitors in the children’s ward, but somehow his parents knew seeing the redhaired boy from down the street would help. Danny tried not to smile when he saw Stan, but a flood of joy and relief passed through him.

He’d never been away from the other boy as long as this hospital stay. Growing up on the same block, they’d seen each other at play, at school, and at each other’s homes almost every day since they were little. Danny couldn’t remember a time they’d been apart more than a week. It had been sixteen days now since he’d seen Stan’s goofy smile.

Stan’s smile wasn’t goofy today. Stan’s smile was ghostly.

“It’s okay, honey. You can go in,” his mother whispered.

Stan stayed rooted to the doorway for a minute. Then Danny’s father whispered. “He’s still Danny. He’s just sick.”

Stan jumped at the words, turned and looked sheepishly at Danny’s parents. Danny saw Stan take a deep breath and turn.

“Hey doofus,” he said.

Danny smiled back at him and answered. “I thought they kept weirdos out of the hospital.”

Stan’s face beamed. His lips curled into his usual smart-alecky smirk. “Then how did you get in here?”

Danny felt a flush of hope. Stan was still the same guy. He was still his best friend. They were still buddies and all the rest didn’t matter. It felt like the puking and the feeling sick all the time was worth it if he could see Stan smile and kid with him.

After his parents left, Danny told him what he needed to. It might be his last chance.

“Dr. Carpenter is on his way down with the latest test results,” his usual nurse said loudly. His parents noised the appropriate sounds and came back into the room with her following. Nurse Endicott wore a blindingly white dress, white stockings, and a starched white nursing cap that was pushed down on her graying dark hair. She seemed gruff at times, but when the lights went down at eight o’clock and his parents had to leave, she snuck him chocolate pudding. It was the only thing he could keep down all night. The mellow sweetness made his dreams more pleasant.

“Do you know what he’s going to say?” Danny’s mother asked. Her face was so pinched and her lips were trembling.

“I’m not sure,” she answered. She brushed the pillow next to Danny’s head and tried to hide the hair she’d collected from them. “I believe he has good news though.”

Danny looked at her sharply. “What?” he asked.

“Please don’t sugar-coat it,” his mother said quickly.

“Don’t sugar-coat what?” It was Dr. Carpenter walking in from the door. “The fact Danny’s going home for Christmas or the fact his tests are coming back with reduced counts.”

“What does that mean?” Danny’s father asked, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders. They turned and watched the white-coated man, a stethoscope hanging out of his pocket, grin and fold his arms over his chest.

“It means, Danny’s responding well to the treatment. The team thinks he should go home, enjoy the holiday, and come back for follow-up treatment in January. At this point, we see him in remission.”

His mother and father’s mouths gaped open. “Are you sure?” his mother asked.

“I’m sure. We’ll keep a close eye on him, but the methotrexate, prednisone, and other drugs seem to have done the trick. Danny will be able to have Christmas at home with his family and friends.”

***

The ride home was strange. Danny felt a little sick both from the last vestiges of the drugs and from nervousness about going home. His parents were so excited, almost giddy, but he still wondered. How would Stan treat him now that he was finally coming back. Would he treat Danny’s confession like it never happened or what? Without Stan, what did he have to live for? That thought hurt.

“Tonight we’ll skip church and have a quiet supper at home for Christmas Eve. We’ll take it easy, okay bud?”

Danny nodded at his father’s comments. He wondered if Stan was awake or at church or at his grandparents. He wanted nothing more than to see him. Every Christmas Eve, they would have a sleepover, however, after Danny kissed him, he wondered if Stan would hate him or avoid him. It seemed okay at the hospital, but then both of them thought it was almost over. Danny was sure Stan was merely placating a dying friend.

The snow was mounded in gray piles along the road. The street lamps made cones of silvery light and invaded the dark shadows of the wintery night. As they approached their house, he could see a single light gleaming from his house. He assumed it was the light above the door.

As his father pulled into the driveway, he saw it was not. It was a light in the window of his room. Centered in the light was a dark shape. It was a boy-shaped mass and he was waving. Danny felt his heart lurch in his chest. His nausea was forgotten. His fear disappeared into the inky, cold of the yuletide. His face burned with excitement as he realized, Stan was waiting for him.

In this light, there shined hope.

Gay 90’s, downtown Minneapolis, December 24^th, 2015

At first I just stared at him in shock. He didn’t realize how hurtful his question had been. I thought having a drink at our usual place on Christmas Eve would get me in the holiday spirit. Instead, it brought back the pain. Carl, the bartender in the Happy Hour section of the 90’s, was smiling warmly at me. He really didn’t know.

“He’s gone.”

“Oh, I see,” the iron-haired man said with a stutter. “I’m sorry. When did he leave?”

“This past spring,” I answered him, not really hearing the question or caring. Nick was gone and that left me alone and depressed for the holiday. I won’t even call it Christmas anymore. People don’t understand how when you have nothing left, the day has no meaning.

“How did-?“

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, raising a hand to stop the bartender’s inquisition. “I better go.”

It had been a mistake to go down and have a drink on this day. Nick and I would always head down to the Happy Hour bar and have a nip or two before heading home to get ready for the string of appearances we’d make. First his brother and his bitchy wife, Tessa. Then my sister and her two kids. Finally, we’d end up at a late night Christmas eve candlelight service singing carols and greeting old friends.

To end the night, we’d have a late supper with our dear friends Dave and Ned. We’d trundle off to bed by midnight so we’d be fresh the next morning for brunch and opening more gifts with more friends. It was Nick’s favorite holiday and therefore now my least favorite. I couldn’t bear the thought of the night and the morrow alone, abandoned, and sick with depression.

“Toby, I’m really sorry. I hadn’t heard,” Carl said, looking particularly distressed. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“No thanks. I’m just going home.”

I struggled into my winter coat, pulled on leather gloves, and wrapped a muffler around my neck. Heading out into the cold, I waved away calls of “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Holidays,” and even a couple of “Sorrys” thrown in for good measure.

Driving home was a particularly trying experience because while I’d been able to ignore most of the seasonal trimmings, tonight everything seemed to scream the holiday. The decorations on the street lights seemed brighter and more present. The shop and office windows with white flocking, red and green strings of lights, and Christmas trees seemed to have become more prevalent in the thirty-six minutes since I last drove past.

When I got to our neighborhood, every house seemed to be sparkling in the dark with decorations and glowing windows filled with cheer. By the time I turned onto my block, my foul mood had turned morose. Without Nick to lift my spirits, I felt my soul turn blacker and heavier. I crawled out of my truck and trudged up the walk to my front door.

Inside, I turned on the light and looked around. Blissfully, the house was pretty bare and there were no Christmas trimmings to annoy me. I turned on the porch light, like I did every night, and plopped down in front of the television. I found a horror movie on one of the scifi channels that didn’t have anything to do with the holiday and watched it for a while. I must have fallen asleep because I next heard the screams of a demon and someone or something scratching on my front door.

Pulling on a fleece sweater, I got out of the chair and muted the TV. The scratching stopped for a moment. Then, it began again along with a strange noise. I couldn’t recognize it at first. I thought it might be crying or whining. I put the chain on the door and opened it a crack.

Sitting on my porch, shivering, was a small dog, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. I know the breed because it was Nick’s favorite. He would pet and coo over the one our neighbor had. Nick talked about getting a dog, but never did. Now I could see this white and chocolate brown colored one was shaking in the cold. His eyes were begging and his breath was visible, white and frozen on his whiskers. The dog had a collar with a tag. I shut the door, unhooked the chain, and opened it to step outside. The dog ran past me into the living room and over to the radiator. He turned and looked at me, panting, smiling like the breed always does.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” I said to him or her. The dog wasn’t familiar at all. He must have seen the light I’d left on. The promise of warmth had drawn him in.

I walked over and bent down to read the tag. “Your tag says your name is Percy.” The dog licked my face gleefully, and I couldn’t help but giggle. I looked at the tag again and the owner was listed as Nick Peterson.

Nick.

Peterson.

I began to weep. The dog looked alarmed, but didn’t move. I felt the steaming hot tears trickle down my nose. “Why did you come here? Why are you making me think of him? He’s gone. He left me.” My voice sounded hollow in the empty house. But, the dog reacted.

Percy stood up and nuzzled my leg. I petted him as the tears continued to flow. “Nick, how could you leave me all alone. It wasn’t your time to go. It isn’t fair you get to leave and I have to stay. Nick, it’s not fair.” Nick died and left me. The feelings of being cheated continued to embitter me, at least until this moment. The emotions came spilling out and I fell to my knees.

I couldn’t stop the tears. The dog lay next to me, warming and comforting me kneeling in the middle of the room, alone. I felt his shaking begin to ease. He was warming up. I was feeling his heat and his wet nose and tongue. These sensations seemed to melt me, easing the ache inside. Calm was creeping over me. I wanted to be mad. I wanted to be hurt and sad, but those emotions were fading away as a realization began to dawn on me.

Nick had come back to be with me one last time. He’d sent me a messenger and a message.

I wasn’t alone. I’d always have him in my heart, if not my life. Maybe I could finally let go of the pain.

Nick gave me the Christmas I really needed one last time.

Door#13 - a lucky number, right? Thank you for reading! We'd love to see you at the story thread too, and talk with us about electrified cookie tins, locusts, gingerbread, Carol Burnett...