The Return of Sam Sherman... Sort Of.

The following is a short story I wrote in 2017, when I was going through a divorce at Christmas time. I worked with it for a while, then decided it was garbage and stashed it away. While I'm still not fond of it, I've been having trouble getting into the holiday spirit this year, and revisiting this made me feel better, so... here it is. Yes, the main character IS Sam from JACKIE, but don't read too much into that. It's probably because Sam turns up in stories that are essentially about me.

For Christmas

For Christmas, my wife gave me a divorce.

She was never very good with gifts, but this was a new low. She’d given me things I already had, and she’d given me things I didn’t need, but she’d never given me something I simply didn’t want. One paper, a couple of signatures, a notary stamp, and that was it; 10 years down the drain.

For obvious reasons, Christmas Eve Day wasn’t especially festive for me. The icy breeze bit into my skin, and it was snowing yet again. The skyscrapers of the inner city boxed me in on short horizons, offering no solace from the urban decay. People moved along the sidewalks in tight clusters, pushing through busy intersections while grumpy cabbies honked at them. From what I could see, the only “Christmas” in the culture manifested as random people wearing Santa hats and reindeer horns, as if gimmicky headgear alone could make the world a better place. And if that didn’t work, maybe the shopping bags would. It seemed like everyone was toting last minute gifts.

You can keep your material paradise, I thought. Want to give me a good gift? Tear up that god-forsaken document Emma made me sign. That’s all I want.

I’d rather have been in my apartment, warm and cozy, than freezing my tail off in a mad rush of frantic shoppers. Still, I had good reason to be out; in fact, I had better reason than most of these townies. You see, I was about to meet Emma in a little diner somewhere on the west side. Oh, I wasn’t about to give up on her. Breakups don’t happen on Christmas, right? Christmas is a time of miracles. A time of family and forgiveness. Believing the hype, I’d asked her to meet me at a place of her choosing as soon as she was available. She chose a Starbucks several blocks down from where she worked.

There was an obnoxious holiday crowd in the restaurant, but it took me no time to spot Emma. Even from behind, she still looked great. Her hair had grown out over the past few weeks, and she had tinted it with blond, but I recognized her by the blue scarf and the red turtleneck sweater. I’d given her that sweater on the previous Christmas. Was she doing this to me on purpose?

I wasn't surprised to find her nursing her drug of choice: a steaming cup of coffee. "Thanks for wearing the sweater I gave you,” I said. “That’s a bit of a soft kick in the balls.”

She frowned at me. “I wasn’t even thinking about that.” Her voice was as sweet as ever, that same voice that once lulled me into the false security of her arms.

“Of course you weren’t,” I said. “How long before you have to go back to work?”

“I don’t. We got out early.”

“Can we go somewhere else, then? Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“I don’t have time,” she said, averting her eyes. “Let’s just talk about what’s bothering you, okay?”

“If you don’t have to go back to work, why the hurry?”

She sipped her coffee. “I have to meet someone.”

I attempted to condemn her with my gaze, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Who is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “No one you know. Don’t waste time, okay? Just talk to me.”

“Never mind,” I grumbled. “Don’t let me keep you from your date.”

“Sam, I’m worried about you. You didn’t sound right on the phone.”

“You mean you still care about me?”

“Of course I still care about you. I’m still your friend.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

She heaved that same eye-rolling sigh she’d been giving me since the proceedings first began. “Sam...”

“Emmy, I know things have gone wrong, but we can do better.”

“Be realistic,” she said. “We’ve been trying to do better for years.”

“Don’t you remember how great things were at the beginning?”

“The beginning of a relationship is always the fun part,” she said. “But for us, the rest hasn’t held up so well.”

“We can go to therapy,” I suggested. “We can go to a priest if you want. I made a commitment to you, Emmy, and I’m not giving up.”

“Sam, what do you want from me?” Her hand quivered slightly as she drained her cup and set it back down. “We’re not even on the same page anymore. Everything that makes me happy makes you miserable. Everything that you want from me, I can’t give you.”

“I’ve had some time to get my head on straight. I can still be the person you want me to be.”

“How many times have you told me that you can’t handle this?”

“I got lost, okay?” I said. “I dropped the ball. I let all the stress drag me down and it turned me into someone I hated. But I’m ready to pick myself up and be the person you married. Just give me a chance.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” I grew angry. “This is about the other guy, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not about him,” she said. “This is only about us.”

“If it’s about us, it should matter that I don’t want a divorce!” I shouted, no longer considerate of the other customers or their knowledge of my plight. “This isn’t about us. This is about you.”

“Quiet,” she insisted. “Why do you always have to make a scene?”

“Sometimes, I wonder if you can hear me when I don’t raise my voice,” I returned in a lower tone. “Why do you care so much about what people think?”

“I value my privacy.”

“Fine. I’m not here to argue with you, anyway.”

Rubbing her eyes, she replied, “God, Sam, I don’t think we can help but argue anymore.”

“Yes, we can,” I said. “We can leave everything in the past and move on.”

“Sam...” She seemed unsure of how to express herself. “There are words that can’t be unsaid, things that can’t be undone. I just... I don’t want this marriage anymore. It’s how I feel. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Lovely,” I said. “So, after ten years of bleeding and scraping and fighting, that’s the end of it. Just like that.”

“That’s the thing,” she said. “A marriage shouldn’t be painful. It shouldn’t be an everyday struggle.”

“Maybe not to that extent,” I admitted, “but what did we say when we got married? It’s a full-time job, and you have to fight through the worst of it, otherwise you’ll just throw in the towel like all these other jaded latter-day jerks who see divorce as an accepted emergency exit! There are good times and there are bad times, and we’re supposed to be committed through both! That’s what the vows are about!”

“I know.”

“Well, go ahead and give up then,” I declared. “It’s a good thing we weren’t able to have kids, or they would have to go through this too.”

She returned a sad glance. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Fine,” I said. “Merry fucking Christmas to you too, Emmy.”

All at once, her face grew cold, and her walls went up. “I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go,” I sneered. “You just don’t like the conversation anymore, so you’re running out as usual.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, and I have a lot to do.” She rose to her feet. “I specifically made time for you because I was worried.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Thanks for the great present.”

For a moment, she leaned against the table, fighting back a surge of anger. “You never liked anything I gave you.”

“That’s not true.”

“No matter what I bought, you had some critical judgment about it. ‘I don’t play those games anymore. What am I going to do with that? I already read those, why do I need them on CD?’”

Now she was just shaming me. “You know I learned my lesson about that.”

“You loved those books,” she said. “I was dumb enough to think you might like to listen to them while you were driving back and forth to Jersey that year. What happened to them? Do you remember?”

“They got sold at a yard sale,” I muttered. “Look, I was a jerk. I apologized. I hated being that guy! I’ve learned from my behavior, and I don’t act that way anymore!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“So, this is your revenge?” I laughed. “This year, you’re giving me a piece of paper that says, ‘Fuck off.’”

Her eyes glistened with tears, and I knew we’d reached the end of the meeting. She never wanted to let me see her cry, and she wasn’t about to let everyone in the diner witness it. Zipping her coat, she made one final statement. “No, you wouldn’t understand what I’ve given you. I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

“You’re the one who wants this, not me!”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Emma!” I called. “Wait!”

She opened the door just long enough to let an icy swirl of flurries into the diner, then she was gone with the winter wind. The patrons looked up to watch her blow out the door, then glanced over at me.

Humiliated, I kicked the door open and retreated from their gazes. I didn’t want to be seen by anyone. Here I was, stuck in a crowded city on the cusp of celebration, and all I felt was isolation. No one wanted anything to do with me anymore. Few things surprised me, but it never failed to amaze me just how fast someone could lose everything.

Pulling out my cell phone, I called my childhood friend Aaron. He always made me feel better with his practical optimism. Sadly, he didn’t pick up his phone. Instead, I called my college buddy, Errol, who lived about forty-five minutes away. If I told him what was going on, he wouldn’t let me sit alone on Christmas Eve. He did answer the phone, but only to say that he’d already gone down to his sister’s, which was four hours away. He promised to visit as soon as he returned, but that left me with two days of bleak nothingness. My parents and my brother were three hours away. I suppose I could have gotten in the car and gone to see them, but the thought of sitting in a cramped vehicle for that long drained me of the will to travel.

Damn it, Emmy, I thought, why did you forget? We were supposed to grow old together. It was all we wanted. I never promised a bed of roses, and you never asked for one. Why does everything have to change? Why did you lose faith?

That night, I had a dream. In that dream, a spirit of past and future came to me, showing me the true path back to my wife.

No, not really.

I didn’t have any dreams. There was no fairy tale, no Dickensian miracle. There were no spirits besides the cheap crap the drunks on the streets were drinking. I didn’t even go home. I wandered aimlessly, up sidewalks and around corners, losing all sense of where I was headed. Honestly, what did I care? I’d lost my wife, my dignity, and my future.

Dusk came quickly. According to the street signs, I was ten blocks to the east and four to the north of where I’d started. The sun was gone, and evening’s chill gripped the city. The flurries had stopped, but they had left a thin frost on the pavement. My path was marked with empty footprints.

I felt alienated. People were gathering in number, smiling and laughing, but I just couldn’t partake of the goodwill. Gradually, a rainbow of lights flickered on outside the shops and in the windows of the apartments above. Those gimmicky holiday hats grew in volume, and I passed no less than three Santas. One of those schmucks “Ho-hoed” right in my face. I almost punched his.

When I couldn’t stand to walk any farther, it occurred to me that I had quite a long trek back to my apartment. I’d have to hail a cab, but given the traffic, the drive could easily cost me thirty bucks.

I recognized the area. Two blocks north, there was a side-street that led through a small neighborhood with a lot of Russian signs. Winding my way through the connecting alleys would cut down on travel time. As I ambled up two blocks and turned onto the side-street, it occurred to me that I had never taken this route at night. Still, it was well-lit with Christmas lights, and the few people I saw were jolly enough.

I had almost made it to the end of my short-cut when I came upon two seedy guys standing at the mouth of an alleyway. Both were bundled in stained jackets. The first was bareheaded, with stringy black hair and an emaciated face that betrayed heroin abuse. His friend was red-faced and chubby, wearing a woolen cap and shoes that looked too nice for the rest of his tattered apparel. I tried to pass them in silence.

With a hollow stare, the thin one called out, “Hey, man! You got any money?”

“Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” I said.

“Come on, can’t you spare anything?” he begged. “We’re starving!”

I doubted they wanted to use the money on food. But who was I to judge on appearances? Maybe the guy did need money. Maybe he had kids. Maybe it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and think about others. I mean, if I could help someone, why shouldn’t I? Wasn’t that the true meaning of the season?

“You’re right,” I said, pulling out twenty of the fifty dollars in my pocket. “Here, go get something hot.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, snatching it out of my hand.

A finger tapped me on the shoulder. Turning, I beheld the other guy, staring at me with cruel, burning eyes. Unlike his buddy, he had a presence in his gaze, and it was unhinged. With slow, deliberate words, he asked, “You got anymore?”

My heart started to pound.

“That’s all I can afford,” I said.

He snapped open a switchblade and pressed it under my chin. “Gimme the rest.”

“Here.” I felt panic rising as I ripped out the other thirty. “J-Just take it and go. That’s all I have, I swear!”

Before I could cry for help, he drove his fist into my gut, doubling me over in a fit of pain and nausea.

This is what I get, I thought. This is what I get for trying to help someone.

The other guy spun me around, lifted my head by the hair, and clocked me in the eye with enough force to send me to the cold ground. The frost burned against the seed of that bruise, and as they repeatedly drove their feet against my back and legs, I curled up to protect the major organs.

Do I deserve this? I married a wonderful woman, I promised her love and support, and somehow, I disappointed her so badly that she saw no choice but to leave me.

When the kicking stopped, I tried to cry out, but all those blows had knocked the wind out of me. I felt a hand jam into the pocket of my jeans and rip out my wallet, but all I could think of was how disappointing it was that Emma wasn’t here to witness this.

Is this what you want? Would it make you feel good to see this?

The hand slipped into my other pocket and tugged out my cell phone.

I’ve failed at everything. Why shouldn’t it all just end?

“Hurry up, Slug!” the skinny guy hissed. “Don’t cut the jacket. We’ll get twenty for that, easy.”

As I felt Slug crouch over me, I was filled with the most surreal sense of ambivalence; blinding terror at the prospect of death, yet at the same time, there was a curious acceptance. The thought of release seduced me. Maybe it was time. Time to give in.

“Cut his throat and grab his coat so we can get the fuck out of here!” the skinny thug insisted.

Slug’s breath came in rabid bursts. Drops of hot spit pattered my cheek.

It’s better this way.

The clatter of falling aluminum sounded from the back of the alley, followed by a tumble of refuse. The muggers snapped into defensive postures, with Slug ready to attack and his friend ready to flee.

“Who the fuck’s there?” Slug asked, holding the blade point-first into the darkness.

“Let’s get out of here!” the thin guy said, fleeing out of the alley and around the corner.

Slug glanced at me, his face ghostly white, then took off after his cohort.

Another crash echoed from the darkness, followed by the clatter of a trash can lid. Fighting a rash of painful bruises, I held my side as I pushed myself into a sitting position. Bits of gravel and rime stuck to my cheek. Dragging myself up off the pavement, I backed toward the mouth of the alley.

“Whoever you are… I have nothing,” I gasped. “They… They took it all.”

A thin black and white cat sashayed out of the shadows, its long tail slithering with the sort of haughtiness reserved only for felines. Leaving a trail of tiny paw prints in the frost, it approached me, cocked its head, and offered a decisive meow.

“Are you the one making all that noise?” I asked.

It rubbed against my leg, purring softly.

"Stupid cat,” I sighed. “Why can’t you just leave me to die in peace?”

A metal door opened in the brick wall to my left, and out stepped a tiny man in a turtleneck sweater. “Sebastian!” he called. “Sebastian, are you out here?” He looked further down the alley, then turned to face me. “Hey, have you seen my cat?”

Sebastian swaggered out from behind me and mewed up at his owner.

“There you are!” He crouched down and picked up the animal. “Jesus, Sebastian, I open the window for five minutes and you have an adventure?” He showed concern as he glanced at my face. “Hey, man, are you okay? Did you get into a fight or something?”

“Believe it or not,” I said, “I just got mugged.”

“Holy crap,” he answered. “I believe it. This ain’t the best neighborhood, not even on Christmas Eve.”

I tested my face for open wounds. “They took everything.”

“Well, not quite everything. You’re breathing.”

“We can thank your cat for that.”

Nodding back at the door, he said, “Come inside, okay? I’ll call the cops.”

Turns out, the guy’s name was Buddy. He lived on the first floor of the building with his wife and two little daughters, both of whom were very happy to see the cat return safely. I was permitted to stand in their foyer while we waited for the police to arrive. Buddy was friendly enough, and his eldest daughter seemed quite curious about me, but his wife, Angela, clearly didn’t feel comfortable with the situation. She repeatedly called her daughter back into the other room, and the few times I saw her, she gave me a suspicious glare.

Officer Kelly arrived in a surprisingly prompt fashion. When he learned that I was still walking under my own power, he commented that I was luckier than I realized. Thanking Buddy for his selfless assistance, I allowed the cop to escort me to the nearest clinic.

He brought me to a Catholic hospital. I had no reason to object, but when he considered the name “Sherman,” he grew concerned that he had offended me by taking a Jew to a Catholic hospital. I told him he was being ridiculous, though I wondered what life experiences had given him that sort of mentality.

The ER was decorated for the holiday. A garland of holly adorned the front door, and the building’s stained-glass windows flickered with electric candlelight. A statue of Mary stood by the sidewalk, glowing with red and green, while a string of colored lights framed the wall behind her. Once I was checked in, Officer Kelly took a rather hurried statement. He expressed doubt, however, that the muggers would be found.

My eye hurt. My side hurt. Hell, my soul hurt. I wasn’t comfortable being there; even on Christmas, the emergency room was not a pleasant place to be. There was an aluminum Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with paper ornaments drawn by young patients, and a plastic mistletoe over the door frame. Still, I was not the only one failing to feel the holiday cheer. The middle-aged couple to my left looked especially unhappy, with the wife sobbing into her husband’s chest. The somber patient to my right seemed to be in another world, and he spent several minutes bleeding through the bandage on his forehead before a nurse finally ran out to change it. In the corner behind me, a few children played near the fake tree. I didn’t know to whom they belonged, but I kept a close eye on them, as a disheveled man was wandering back and forth, muttering to himself. Eventually, he snapped and began to drive his fist repeatedly against his head. An orderly appeared to calm him, leading him gently to a seat away from everyone else. The children seemed only momentarily disturbed before returning to the fake tree and its empty gift boxes.

The girl to my right was a cute little blond with dramatic hoop earrings and red lipstick. She’d been playing with her cell phone since I came in. While I was giving my statement to Officer Kelly, she had given me the once-over, but she seemed entirely dedicated to her phone.

After about seven minutes, she asked, “What are you in for?”

“Got mugged in an alley,” I answered.

“Oh, God!” she replied. “Bunch of pigs out there on the streets, huh? I’m sorry.”

I smiled. She sounded like Marisa Tomei from My Cousin Vinnie. She even resembled her a bit. Or maybe I had sustained brain damage from the beating. “Yeah, they got my wallet, so now I have to call the banks and cancel all my credit cards. I’ll have to get a new license, and I’ll probably warn social security.” Glancing at her phone, I realized, “Oh, yeah, I have to cancel my cell phone too.”

“Damn,” she said. “Not a very merry Christmas.”

“Not really,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“How is your fault?”

“It’s not. You’ve just forgotten what it sounds like when someone’s trying to be supportive.” She offered me her hand. “I’m Carly.”

“Sam,” I answered, returning her firm handshake. “What brings you here?”

“I work at a diner around the corner. One of the other girls cut her finger chopping vegetables.” She made a cutting motion across her forefinger. “I swear to God, she almost took her top knuckle right off. I had to rush her down here immediately. They finally took her in, but I’ve been waiting like an hour.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty busy.”

“So, did they let you use the phone to contact your family?” she asked. “I mean, I saw you talking to the police, but does your wife know you’re here?”

“My wife?”

“Yeah.” She gestured to my hand. “That’s a wedding ring, right?”

“Oh.” Spreading my fingers, I gazed longingly at my titanium band, choking back sobs as all the feelings of loss flooded back. “I suppose I should take this off. I’m just not ready to.”

“Why? What happened?”

“She’s divorcing me.”

Her eyes grew wide with sympathy.

“Spoke to her earlier today,” I said. “Figured I could change her mind by tapping into that holiday spirit, but... no luck.”

“God, you poor thing!” she replied. “You really are having a shitty day. I mean, I’ve had some less than optimal Christmases, but that just sucks.” Dropping her phone into her purse, she faced me head-on. “Look, if you want to talk, I’m all ears. I’ve been through this before. My parents got divorced when I was six, and I went through my own two years ago.”

“You?” She looked too young to have gone through a divorce. “What are you, twenty-one?”

“I’m twenty-seven,” she said. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But anyway, I’ve been where you are, and I know things you don’t know yet. Talk to me.”

Whoever Carly was, she seemed genuine. Even if she wasn’t, what was she going to do? Take my shoes? So, I told her a little about my marriage and my break-up. She was a good listener, attentive and empathic. In return, she shared some of her experiences. Apparently, she had grown up in New York, then moved out to Arizona with her parents for a time. She had returned when, at the age of eighteen, she had clashed with her parents over their neglectful treatment of her younger brother, who was afflicted with Down’s Syndrome. Now, she took care of him.

“When I married Zack,” she said, “it wasn’t for the right reasons. I was just looking for someone to partner up with. Someone to help me with Sebastian, help pay the bills.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Your brother’s name is Sebastian?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really weird,” I mused.

“Why?”

“I met someone else with that same name tonight.”

“Did you?” The fact didn’t seem to interest her. “Anyway, Zack and I were totally wrong for each other. We made it, what, six years? But in the end, I realized I didn’t need him, so why was I dealing with his fucking abuse? I could support myself, get Sebastian the help he needed. It was a pretty hostile split. At least you and Emma are on good terms.”

“I don’t know how long that will last.”

Again, she shrugged. “Especially since there are no kids to raise. Maybe it’s for the best.”

“I just wish she had picked a better time of year to destroy the only family I have in two hundred miles.”

“Yeah, that does suck,” she said. “My grandfather passed away on Christmas when I was twelve. Honestly, the holiday has never been quite the same. It was like, ‘Thanks, God, for this wonderful gift of pain and loss.’”

“That’s how I feel,” I said. “A divorce, huh? Nice gift.”

“Hey,” she grinned, elbowing me in the ribs, “at least she didn’t give you an ugly tie. Am I right?”

“I guess so,” I chuckled. “You know, she and I argued about gifts. I was a good gift-giver, but I wasn’t a very gracious recipient. I told her that this was her worst gift ever, that she was giving me a divorce for Christmas, and she acted like she had given me this great thing and I was too dumb to see it. She said something like, ‘You’ll never understand what I’ve really given you,’ as though she did me some massive favor by leaving me.”

“Hmm.” She mulled it over. “I don’t think that’s what she meant.”

“What?”

“I mean, you’re looking at it all wrong,” she said. “After my grandfather passed away, I cursed and screamed at God for ruining Christmas. But one day, I realized: what was more important, the fact that he died, or the fact that I knew him? What good would I do his memory if I just obsessed about his death all the time? Now, I use Christmas as a time to remember all the years I spent with him.”

I leaned forward in thought. “I guess that’s a good point. You think I’m focusing on the wrong thing?”

“Well, from one perspective, Emma gave you a divorce,” she said. “Forced it upon you like a curse. But from another perspective, we could say she gave you, oh, ten years of her life. Some of the best years of her youth, sounds like.”

“True.”

“I mean, I can see why you like her,” she said. “Sounds like a nice lady. But trust me on this, you do not want to force yourself on someone who doesn’t want to be with you. It’s better you just get out of each other’s way.”

An odd sense of ambivalence came over me. On one hand, she was making a lot of sense; on the other hand, I still felt that sense of loss, the bitter chill of being rejected and abandoned by the woman I loved. Still, if Carly had shown me anything, it was that there was another side to consider.

“There she is!” Carly said, rising to her feet.

An attractive dark-haired girl was coming our way. Her left hand was bundled in gauze, with the first two fingers cocooned together. She didn’t look happy.

Carly hugged her. “They fix you up?”

“Yeah,” the girl said. “The doctor said I didn’t quite sever the tendon, but it’ll take weeks to heal.” She was still wearing her name tag from the diner. It read, “SHOSHANA.”

“Hey, a few hours ago, we thought you were losing a finger,” Carly said. “Could be worse, right?”

“I guess,” Shoshana said. “Kind of a shitty Christmas, though.”

“You’re not the only one.” Carly gestured to me. “Sam can tell you about shitty Christmases. He’s been keeping me company while you got your hand wrapped up.”

“Hi,” I greeted.

She waved her mitt awkwardly. “Hey.”

“What do you want to do?” Carly asked her. “You want to go home, or you want to go back to the restaurant?”

“How can I go home?” Shoshana’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t afford to miss work! Because of this, I’ll be out for weeks, and that bastard is going to shut off my electric! I don’t know what to… Bob’s out of work again, and the kids… I just need them to stay warm…!”

“Hey, hey,” Carly said, setting her hand on Shoshana’s cheek. “Didn’t I tell you I was going to help you? Nobody’s shutting off anything while I’m around. I spoke to Gordon, and he already said you can keep working through your injury. You’ll just do whatever you can until your hand heals.”

Shoshana sniffed back her tears, nodding as she wiped the bandage across her nose. “We’re still going caroling, aren’t we?”

“Damn straight,” Carly said. “It’s your hand that hurts, not your feet, and certainly not that mouth of yours.”

They giggled.

Pulling out her wallet, Carly handed me a twenty-dollar bill. “Here. Get yourself home and have some rest, okay?”

“I can’t accept that,” I said.

“Yes, you can,” she insisted. “Take it. I don’t want you walking out of here with nothing.” When I balked again, she added, “It’s Christmas. Let me help.”

“All right,” I frowned, pulling the bill from her fingers. “I’ll get it back to you.”

“I’m not asking to be repaid,” she answered., “but if you must, come by Gordon’s, near the corner of 14th and Elm. But only once you get everything sorted out.”

I admit, I was bored after she left. Being alone, of course, only reminded me of Emma. Standing in an unfamiliar ER on Christmas, still coping with the violation of having been attacked, I pined for the arms of my faithful companion.

I stood up and paced back to the metal tree, which stood against the wall beside the back row of chairs. To its right hung a wooden crucifix. Wandering closer, I examined the figure. He hung silently, suffering under his crown of thorns.

“Yeah, I know,” I whispered to him. “It’s like we were born to get the shaft, right?” Staring at the carving, I wondered, “Are... Are you listening?”

“He’s always listenin’,” replied a gruff Louisiana accent.

I looked to my right to find a grizzled old black man sitting several chairs away. His head was covered in by checkered cap, while his white beard resembled the frost outside. He gazed at me through haunting brown eyes.

“He’s not listening today,” I returned.

“You go to church, son?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m not Christian.”

“Well, what are you, then?”

“Nothing really,” I said. “I’m not religious. But I was raised Jewish.”

“Well, God bless you.” He gestured to the crucifix. “You’re among family, you know. Go to synagogue?”

“Not in a long time.”

“Maybe that’s why you think he ain’t listenin’.” He surveyed my bruises. “What are you here for?”

“I got mugged.”

He whistled. “That’s some bad luck. But you’re still alive on this glorious night, so don’t be tellin’ me the Good Lord ain’t listenin’.”

“It’s not that,” I sighed. “It’s just...” Christ, what did I have to lose? Maybe the old codger had some wisdom up his sleeve. “My wife is divorcing me after ten years.”

“Is she?” He displayed a sympathetic frown. “Well, that’s a terrible thing, son. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to lose her,” I told him. “I know I’ve screwed up, I know she’s screwed up, but I’m willing to fight with every ounce of my being to change, to make it work.”

“You tell her that?”

“She knows,” I said. “She doesn’t care anymore.”

“Well, then you best be askin’ God for help.”

“I have. I asked him to help her find her way back to me, but... nothing I say or do will change her mind.”

“Damn, boy, no wonder you so miserable,” he chuckled. “You prayin’ for the wrong thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“God ain’t gonna take away your sadness and strife just because things got tough,” he said. “It’s all part of his plan for you.”

“I don’t know if I believe that. Who ever said there was a plan?”

“You believe what you want.” He folded his arms and looked away, but when he turned back his eyes were wider and more intense than ever. “The Bible says God gave us free will, so you get to believe what you choose. But your wife, she got that same free will. If she wants to move on without you, you think God’s gonna make her change her mind because of what you want?”

“I guess not.”

“Let me give you some advice, son,” he said, peering at me through those huge brown eyes. “In sixty-five years, I been rich, I been poor, and I lived on the street. Through it all, I learned one thing: God don’t take away all your trouble and strife, because he knows you’re goin’ through it for a reason. Maybe its punishment, maybe it’s a lesson; the reason don’t make a damn! Next time you talk to God, instead of askin’ him to change all the stuff you don’t like, you try askin’ for the strength to deal with it. With his grace, you come out of it a better person.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to ask. “And if there is no God?”

“Then it’s up to you to find that strength and come out of it with your own grace.” Staring into my eyes, he added, “Answer’s the same either way, son.”

“Maybe.” I considered his words. “Thanks.”

“Oh, don’t be thankin’ me,” he said, pointing to the crucifix. “That’s the man who died so we can live without fear.”

“And yet there are still so many things to fear in the world,” I said, reliving the too-recent memory of being mugged and nearly killed. “So many people out there want to hurt us, no matter how good we try to be.”

“Oh, I get afraid of other people sometimes,” he said. “But not of myself, son. Not with Him to guide me.”

I nodded, but decided it was best to move off before I was tempted to get into a religious debate. When someone reaches out to you from the goodness of their own heart, stepping on their belief is not a gracious thing to do. Besides, who’s to say which of us was right?

After another slow hour, one of the practitioners agreed to see me. The appointment was anticlimactic. I explained the situation, he gave me a quick examination, and I found out that all I really had was a black eye and some bruised ribs. Nothing broken, nothing out of place. No internal damage that he could diagnose. So, that was one thing that worked out for the best. Merry Christmas, eh?

When I got back out to the waiting room, I expected the old black man to be gone, vanished like a miracle into the Christmas night. But he was still there, sitting silently by himself, waiting for… Actually, I have no idea what he was waiting for. He just seemed to be waiting.

By the time I signed a waiver of payment, telling the hospital that I’d had all my money stolen, it was 8:30 PM. I hailed a cab and received a quick ride home, which I afforded with Carly’s gift. After such a rotten day, I wanted to bury myself in blankets for the next week, but I found no peace there. Home, that lonely, empty place where I had nothing but the buzzing glow of the television and a million things to remind me of Emma... and whoever’s arms she might be resting in that night. No, I was bandaged and defeated, but the empty shadows of home only reinforced my lonesome ache.

I had to go somewhere. Money didn’t worry me. They knew me at my bank, and once I explained my situation and cancelled my stolen credit cards, they’d let me pull out what I needed. In the meantime, I had $300 stashed away for an emergency.

Grabbing fifty of it, I locked up the premises and went back outside.

As I stepped into the brisk evening, I glanced up, and there it was: the Christmas star, silver and holy, gleaming like a beacon of hope over the city.

Gotcha.

There was no Christmas star; the snowy cloud blocked out everything, including the moon. Still, I felt safer than I expected wandering the main avenues again. They were crowded with celebrating city-dwellers. As I walked, I thought about that evening of tribulation. Maybe Christmas isn’t just colored lights you nail to your house, or trees and music and funny hats, I thought. Maybe perspective is the key. Sure, I’d had a rotten night, but everyone I had run into seemed to be dealing with their own landslide. I had been dumped, robbed, and beaten up. On the other hand, I was alive, I wasn’t badly hurt, and I knew I could sort out the robbery with time. I still had food to eat and a place to live. How many people out there in the city couldn’t even claim that much? But didn’t I already know this stuff? Hadn’t I learned it repeatedly?

How quickly the stress of reality buries the clarity of our wisdom.

Stopping at the closest pay phone, I dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed Emma’s number. After her voicemail beeped, I left her a message:

“It’s me, Emmy. I just wanted to apologize for the way I acted today. I know you were trying to be my friend.” ...Sigh… “Listen, what we’re going through... I mean, I don’t know if we’ll ever be together again. If not, it’ll take me… a long time to get over this, but... I just want you to know, if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call me. On second thought, don’t call my cell phone. Some prick named Spud is running around with it, and I don’t want him getting your number. Long story. I’ll tell you about it later. Um... Wherever you are, I hope you’re having a Merry Christmas. Talk to you later.”

As I hung up the receiver, I laughed to myself. Too bad I wasn’t back in grade school with one of those assignments that said, “Write about what happened to you over Christmas!” Boy, this one would have been fun. I can just imagine the bulging eyes as I read it aloud to the students who’d had a great Christmas because Uncle Fred gave them Barbi and G.I. Joe and then Grandma made reindeer cookies. To this day, I consider it a missed opportunity.

After leaving the message, something seemed different. The air felt warmer, somehow, and I viewed mass of people through a different lens. Some were drunk, some were sober, but for the first time that day, it felt like Christmas. Yes, I was going to have to get a new phone. Yes, I was going to have to call the bank. Whatever. The businesses were shut now, so it was pointless to dwell on it. I’d worry about it after the holiday. It was snowing again, and the falling flakes perfectly complimented the lights and garlands. It stung to see so many couples enjoying their time together, but I realized: did I want to be the one to ruin their enjoyment? These precious moments slipped away so fast when real life chewed its way back through the festivities. Which party was I going to be like: Spud and his friend, who willingly hurt people in their predatorial hunt for drug money, or Carly, who gave what she had without a second thought?

People noticed me when I smiled, and I received a couple of holiday greetings. I returned them. It was all I had to give. But for a lot of these people, it seemed enough.

When I came to the corner of 14th and Elm, I found the place. “Gordon’s,” just as she’d said. Even from outside, I could see that it was a dive. One of the windows was cracked, covered over by a peeling ribbon of packing tape. A number of destitute citizens wearing moth-eaten anoraks gathered by the door.

A little bell tinkled as I entered, but no one looked up. Inside, it was cramped and dingy. A handful of the city’s cast-offs gathered there for warmth, downtrodden folk with nowhere else to go. A young man with Down’s Syndrome, probably sixteen or seventeen years old, was the loudest person there, and he seemed unerringly happy for being in such a dismal place.

Shoshana was taking orders, expertly balancing a note pad on her left arm, above her bandaged hand, while she jotted information with her right. She smiled in recognition when I passed.

Carly was at the bar, rushing back and forth in a hurry to deliver hamburgers, chicken patties, and coffee. Rather than disturb her, I sat down on an empty stool and waited for her to notice me.

The teen with Down’s Syndrome turned to me. “Hi!” he waved. “I’m Sebastian.”

“Hi, Sebastian,” I greeted. “Are you Carly’s brother?”

“Yeah! You know Carly?”

“A little bit,” I said. “My name’s Sam.”

“Hi, Sam,” he returned. “Hey, did you know it’s Christmas tonight?”

“I might have heard something about that.”

“Santa’ll be here soon,” he said. “I asked him for a train this year, and I know I’m gonna get it, because I been extra good!”

When Carly recognized me, her smile turned into a look of disbelief. “Hey!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

I handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

She looked displeased, and a bit stunned. “You’re kidding me.”

“I have some extra stored away.”

“You don’t need to pay me back right fucking now.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“I told you, it was a gift.”

“Hey, it’s Christmas,” I echoed. “Let me help.”

She pushed my hand away. “I don’t need it. Give it to someone who does.”

As it happened, Shoshana was passing by, carefully carrying a tray of food on her good hand. She stopped when I tossed the bill onto her tray.

“What’s that for?” she asked. “I haven’t even taken your order.”

“It’s to help keep your kids warm,” I said. “For whatever it’s worth. Merry Christmas.”

She looked as though she was about to thank me, but her eyes grew heavy with tears, and she was forced to move on before she began to weep in front of her customers.

Carly watched me warily for a few seconds, then gradually allowed her smile to peek through. “You want something to eat, knucklehead?”

“Listen,” I said. “I came down here to thank you, you know, for helping me out, and for being there when no one else could.”

“Like it’s any skin off my nose?” Setting her elbow on the counter, she leaned her chin against her palm. “It’s a scary world out there, Sam. If we don’t take care of each other, who will?”

“Years ago, I knew a girl who taught me that sometimes we have to look at multiples sides of a situation in order to really appreciate it. I can’t believe I fell so far that I just... forgot.”

“You’ve got to have perspective. Sometimes, I forget too.” Clearing her throat, she continued, “So, did anyone ever look at those wounds?”

“One of the doctors saw me,” I said. “He said I’m just bumped and bruised, really.”

“That turned out pretty well, considering,” she said. “You’re a lucky guy, Sam.”

I opened my mouth to send back a pessimistic barb, something self-deprecating as usual, but fought back the urge. “Sometimes.”

“Now,” she said, “what can I get you? You can’t come all the way down here and not eat. You want a burger? A slice of pie?”

“I could use a hot beverage.”

“Decaf or regular?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee?” She sounded overwhelmed. “How about a mug of cocoa? Wait, I’ve got just the thing! You drink hot cider?”

“Depends on whether or not it’s good.”

“It’s phenomenal,” she said, stepping aside to fill a mug. “Gordon makes it every year. Yes, there’s a secret ingredient, and no, you don’t get to know what it is.” Setting the mug before me, she said, “Drink. This will cure all your ailments.”

I blew the steam away and slowly took a sip.

“Well?”

“It’s really good,” I said, returning an honest smile.

“If you’re gonna want more after that, you’ll have to be quick. My brother might finish the whole pot. Anymore and he’ll turn into Johnny Appleseed.”

“Hey, Sebastian!” I called, tapping his shoulder. “You want another mug of cider?”

His face lit up as he faced me. “I get more cider?”

“Sure,” I said. “On me, Carly.”

Sebastian threw his arm around my shoulders. “You’re the best, Sam!”

“Hey, hey!” Carly interrupted. “Sebastian, what did we say about giving people their space?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” I laughed.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she muttered to me, half-hiding her smile as she filled another mug.

A large man with a hanging gut and sweaty hair matted to his scalp pushed his way out of the kitchen carrying a tray of freshly washed mugs. “Carly, don’t stand around yappin’,” he said, using his massive hand to unload the mugs three at a time. “We gotta get this place shut down by ten if we’re goin’ out tonight.”

“Sorry, Gordon.” She straightened her posture. “Sam, you want to go caroling with us?”

“Caroling?”

“Yeah, you know, ‘Deck the Halls’?” Gordon said. “‘Silent Night,’ ‘O Christmas Tree,’ fa la la?”

“I’m not much of a singer,” I said.

He pressed his thumb against his chest. “What, and I am? Come on, we’re gonna bring some food down to the shelters. Do a good deed with us.”

“You know what?” I said, finishing my cider. “I think maybe I will.”

I surveyed the diner, enjoying the warmth of the cider in my belly. Everyone in that dingy little place seemed happy. All those poor people, huddled in their old coats and woolen hats, most of them dirty and unshaven, seemed content with their cider and their coffee and their candy canes. I mean, they had each other, right? I could see it in their eyes. There was so much power in that.

And that’s it, really. No spirits, no magic, and no miracles. Just a frustrated middle-aged guy struggling to get through a rough stretch of life at the wrong time of year. Sometimes, it’s just a story about the lost and the wounded finding one another in times of need, helping each other to bear their crosses up that terrifying hill. Sometimes, it’s just about giving and receiving, about searching for ways to honor a dream of sacrifice and forgiveness, to take whatever tiny steps we can toward that unreachable goal of peace on Earth.

The door flew open in a flurry of snowflakes, and in stepped a disheveled Santa Claus with a rumpled velvet sack. “Ho ho ho, you lazy bastards!” he cried.

“Flannigan!” Gordon cheered. “You made it!”

“Santa!” Sebastian gasped, sprinting over to him with all the exuberance of a child. “I’ve been good, Santa! Do I get a present this year?”

“All right, settle down, mate.” Reaching into his sack, Flannigan pulled forth a small yellow object. “Someone told me you like trains. Is that right?”

Sebastian threw his arms around him. “It’s just what I wanted! Thank you, Santa!”

It was a tiny thing, a plastic yellow train with cheap bolts barely attaching its squeaky wheels. In fact, it was no larger than Sabastian’s open hand. It couldn’t have cost more than two dollars.

With a grin, he clutched it to his chest and declared, “This is the best Christmas ever!”

And from a certain perspective, maybe it was.

COPYRIGHT © SETH A. FELDMAN, 2018