It was Christmas. At least that's what they said; they being those who were in condition to celebrate such occasions. But that did not include him. He had not celebrated Christmas for all these many years, since that one Christmas all those years ago, when she had been taken from him. She who had been his pride and joy. She who had represented his hopes and dreams. His daughter.
He had been wrapping it when the police had come. The music box. The one with the little ballerina on top. The one that played the delicate melody to which the ballerina performed her dance. The one which had captivated the little girl only a few days before when they had seen it in the window of the toy shop. It would be from Santa Claus, because he was the one who saw that look of innocent awe in the eyes of little children, and he was the one who could sense the glee such a gift would bring on Christmas morning.
But, when the police had finished, the jolly, old elf was forgotten. There had been an accident. His wife and the little girl had been coming home from the Christmas Eve church service. The roads were slippery, the officer explained. It was hard to say whose fault it had been. He was so very, very sorry. The mother was in hospital in critical condition. The little girl......dead. Taken from her mother's arms, as she was pulled from the burning car. They would take him to the hospital. They would take him to be with his wife. He would have to identify the child.
He felt nothing as the police car wound through the streets toward the hospital. He stared with a blank, emotionless stare out the car window, watching the sights of the season pass by; the bright colours of the Christmas lights, the store windows gaily decorated in an attempt to attract one more festive shopper inside. A short time ago, it had meant so much. Now, it meant nothing. It was all gone. Crushed against the dashboard of a skidding car.
His wife was well enough to attend the funeral. It was a sad affair, but he didn't cry. He was strong. As the minister said the final words over the tiny casket, he stared straight ahead in a blank, emotionless stare, not really listening to the message the good pastor was delivering; more intent on the vision of the music box, where a little ballerina performed her dance to such a delicate melody, and on the little girl who had been so captivated by it only a few short days before.
He could have gotten on with his life, and he should have gotten on with his life. But, in the weeks after the funeral, he seemed to exist within his reality ghostlike; not quite able to block out what was real, but also not quite able to come to grips with it. He slept on the couch. He didn't really feel he blamed his wife, but he also felt isolated from her, as he now did from everything. They rarely spoke, and even then, it was in a dead, gray monotone. And when he went back to work a couple of weeks after, that having been the agreed upon period of grieving, he found he could not concentrate on his daily tasks. And he found himself drawn to the corner bar each night after work, and once there, he drank himself into quiet, desperate oblivion, the only state that seemed to fit his dead, gray, monotone mood. And so it went. And it was like he had been the one who'd died. And surely a part of him had.
His wife left about a week after he lost his job. His boss had tried to be understanding. His wife left a note saying she needed time to be by herself to think. He guessed he should have gone after her, but, instead, he forgot her. And then he forgot himself.
But that had been long ago. And even now, as he felt the music box in his hands, he felt nothing. It was like his life had ended all those Christmas Eves ago, and, in many senses, it had. He didn't know if there was anything he could have done, because he simply hadn't tried. Friends had advised him to seek help, whatever that meant , but he had not really even considered that as an option. He hadn't wanted to save himself from falling through the bottom of life. It had seemed as if that was where he belonged.
But he had kept the music box. On that long ago day, when he had gathered together a few meager possessions, the remains of his life, and set out on the road to despair, he had taken the music box. To remind him of her. Of the little girl who had stolen his heart.
Gently, he wound it. And he heard the delicate melody as it played, and he watched the little ballerina perform her dance. And it was as it always was. He felt his heart rise in him, until it threatened to choke him. But he did not cry. It reminded him of her, but it could not stir that kind of emotion in him. He regarded it now in the same blank, emotionless manner he had taken to regarding life with on that Christmas Eve that had come before.
Then, it had finished, and he had carried out the ritual, so he replaced it in the special place he had for it.
Hungry, he thought.
As he walked the few blocks to the men's mission, the December wind whipped and whirled around him, cutting through his thin topcoat, and making him shiver from its raw coldness. He tried to bury himself deeper in the coat, but discovered there was no escape from it, so tried to hurry himself along the street, past the derelict buildings, most of which had ceased to matter in life, sharing that in common with any of the people who frequented these environs.
There was also no escaping the thoughts of the little girl on this night. She remained with him, as he found himself a place in a corner of the mission dining hall, and settled in for a bowl of stew. Haunting him. Refusing to leave him alone in this place where there was no room for the pure and innocent; where there existed only those who had played at the game of life, but lost, and in the process, become cynical and soiled and beaten. As he looked around the room, he saw only stooped shoulders and furrowed brows. There was no peace on earth, good will toward men. Here were tales that told only of misery and suffering and tragedy.
He spoke to no one, finishing the stew, and taking his empty bowl back to the front of the hall, before he slipped away into the raw December evening. Back to the loneliness and emptiness of the place where he had learned to exist as a society of one; to the place where no others ever came and to where none were invited.
As he walked, he felt less cold than before. The stew had helped.
Alone. If he felt anything at this particular time on this particular Christmas Eve, it was a feeling of aloneness -- incredible empty aloneness. It was the same each Christmas since he had forsaken humanity to be only with himself. It was the dull aching that came with the knowledge that this was all there was to life; that he was not merely going from one point in his existence to another, as was the case with many lonely people, but that he was truly alone, with no hope or inclination to return from whence he had come, and no real prospect of any future. Only aloneness. Empty aloneness.
It was just when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself, at least that was what he guessed he was doing when such a mood came over him, that he rounded the corner onto his street, and he saw the tiny figure huddled on the steps of one of the decrepit tenements that proliferated in this area of the city.
He would usually have given such a discovery a wide berth, secure in the knowledge that it couldn't possibly be any of his affair; that this was a situation best handled by someone with a real stake in life, and not someone like him, who had seemingly lost the ability to care, even for himself.
But something made him walk closer. He saw the tiny figure shivering miserably against the coldness of the winter wind, heard its sobs, and felt something deep inside him move, just ever so slightly.
"Here, what are you doing out on a night like this?" he asked, a certain gruffness in his voice.
There was no answer, but he could see a pair of red-rimmed eyes peering up at him out of a pair of very dirty-looking hands.
"Did you hear me?" he asked, but this time more softly, sensing that he might be frightening the already-frightened child. "What are you doing out here. It's cold. You should be home. Are you lost?"
The hands moved away from the tear-stained face and he could see he was speaking to a small girl, who looked completely miserable and extremely cold.
"What's your name?" he asked, trying a different tack with the shivering waif. "Have you got a name, or should I just call you girl?" he asked, this time forcing himself to smile ever so slightly in her direction.
"Amanda," she said softly, but firmly.
"My, that's a pretty name," he said, remembering that that was the kind of thing you usually said to little girls when you were trying to win their confidence.
He thought he saw her smile ever so slightly in his direction.
"I'm cold," her tiny voice said.
"Here, maybe I can help," he said, and he unbuttoned his own thin garment, removed it and wrapped it around her to try to help shield her from the bitter December wind.
"You'll catch cold, mister, if you're out here without your coat," the little girl said in her most motherly tone.
"I'll be alright," he answered. "I'm just afraid you might catch cold. I'm bigger. My cold won't be as bad."
She looked up at him seemingly unconvinced, but said nothing, already seeming to shiver somewhat less.
He sat on the step beside her.
"So, what are you doing out here, Amanda?" he asked softly.
"I ran away," she answered, and there was a trace of defiance in her voice.
"And why would a pretty, little girl like you run away on Christmas Eve?" he asked, with a sincere desire to know what would cause such a tragic circumstance.
"My Daddy was hitting my Mommy, and the policemen came," the little girl said innocently. "They hit my Daddy and made him lay on the floor, and my Mommy was bleeding."
Tears welled up in her eyes and he instinctively put his arm around her and held her close. He felt her tiny body shake as it was overcome by a series of sobs.
"There, there, my little princess," he found himself saying, and almost before the words were out of his mouth, he remembered another little girl from another time and another place. That's what he had once called her, when he had wanted to show that special affection that exists only between fathers and their daughters. He felt something move deep inside him. It was only a quiver, but he felt it still. "There, there," he repeated, and he held her close trying to comfort her.
They sat quietly on the step of the tenement, somehow sharing the aloneness they each felt on the frigid cold of this Christmas Eve night.
Finally, though, after her sobs had subsided, and she had curled herself somewhat contentedly into the crook of his arm, he knew he must do something about her predicament.
"Amanda," he started softly.
"Yes," came her tiny answer.
"I've got to do something with you," he said. "We can't sit here all night, or I might very well catch that cold you were talking about earlier." He looked down at her, and she looked back up at him in that trusting kind of way small children have.
"I think we should go to the police station," he said. "They'll know where your mother is and they'll know what to do with you."
"The policemen were mean to my Daddy," she answered, some sound of fear in her voice.
"Well, I don't understand that," he replied, "but if we go to the police station, maybe we can find out what's going on. At least that would be a good place to start."
He paused for a moment as if to give the child a moment to digest what he had said. Then, he unwrapped his arm from around her, and got to his feet.
"Is that alright, Amanda?" he asked. "Will you come with me to the police station, so we can see what happened to your Mommy?"
She looked at him with a rather serious look that made him think perhaps she was considering her options.
"Yea, I guess I'll come," she answered. "If I don't, you might catch cold, right?"
"Right," he answered, smiling down at her.
So, he took her hand and they started off in the direction of the police station he knew was located only a few blocks away. He buttoned his coat around her, and although it dragged on the ground when she walked, he was sure it was doing at least some good, and helping to shield her from the wind.
He was surprised at the level of activity at the station house, considering it was Christmas Eve. But, then again, he guessed that he had read somewhere that there was considerable domestic strife and other human suffering carried out on what was supposed to be the happiest of holidays.
He felt somewhat nervous as he approached the officer who seemed to be the ranking authority figure. Society frowned on those such as he, and what were police, but the protectors of that society?
"And what can we do for you, bud?" the officer asked, as he approached with the little girl tucked in behind him.
"I was wondering if you could tell me what's happened to this little girl's parents?" he asked the officer. "She said her mother and father were having a disagreement and the police were called. I think her father might have been arrested."
Just then, another officer who had been within earshot walked over.
"Well, little lady, we've been looking for you," he said to the girl. "You ran off on us." The officer looked at him. "Thanks for bringing this little lass back to us. I never would have thought it."
"What will happen to her?" he asked, as the little girl clutched tightly to his hand.
"I'm afraid her father has been detained and her mother's in hospital, at least overnight, so she'll have to go to a shelter for tonight, and tomorrow we'll try to track down some relatives," the officer answered.
"Is it alright if I sit with her until you figure out exactly what's going on?" he asked, also holding tight to the little girl's hand.
The officer led them to a bench over near the door of the station house.
"Here, you can sit here while you wait," he said, and he turned and went off, presumably to deal with the apparent paperwork caused by such a situation.
As he sat, holding the little girl's hand, he couldn't help but think how sad it seemed that she would be spending Christmas Eve alone in a children's shelter, with no one around who really cared, even the slightest.
"Amanda," he found himself asking, as he looked down into her trusting, young eyes. "How would you like to come home with me tonight? Your Mommy's not feeling well and she's in the hospital. You stay with me tonight, and we'll find her tomorrow." He paused and looked down at the child. "Is that alright?" he softly asked.
"I'd like that," she answered, smiling, and not seeming to give it a second thought.
And they slipped out of the door to the station house and were lost in the bitter December night.
The little girl still wore his coat as they walked toward his humble home, but the cold could not penetrate him. He felt her hand in his and a warmth extended up his arm and all through him.
As he opened the door to the apartment he shared with the rats and mice and other creatures who frequent poverty, he was, for the first time, embarrassed that he had no more to offer; that this represented the sum total of his worth, a few threadbare sticks of living room furniture he had rescued from the curbside garbage, and a wobbly kitchen table, which now had only two of its original four chairs for companionship, and the tiny cot he called a bed.
As he turned on the light, the lone unshaded bulb cast stark eerie shadows throughout the place, and he felt the little girl's hand tighten its grip on his.
"Well, this is home," he said rather uncertainly. "It's been a while since I had company, so you'll have to excuse the mess."
"It's nice," the little girl said, as she released his hand and found a seat on the edge of the couch, suddenly looking all worn out and very tired.
He helped her off with his coat, before taking her's. He hung both on the hanger beside the door.
"I don't have much," he said, "but I've got some tea bags, if you like tea." He paused for a moment. "Do little girls drink tea?" he asked, sort of thinking out loud.
"Sometimes, my grandpa would let me sip his tea," she answered. "You could let me sip yours."
"Yes," he said, "I suppose I could." And he went about putting a pot of water on the hot plate that served as his stove.
"I've got some bread here, too," he said, " and a little jam, if you like bread and jam. I really haven't got too much of anything else."
"Can you make horses and cows?" she asked with her tiny voice.
"Horses and cows?" he inquired. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"My Mom always cuts my bread into horses and cows," she said matter of factly. "It makes it better."
Then, he remembered. Horses and cows. Of course.
So, he went about fixing them a cup of tea and her some horses and cows, and as he prepared the slight repast, he felt himself remembering what it might have been like to prepare such a snack for another little girl, in another time, and another place; one he thought had ceased to matter for one such as he.
She ate quietly, as he sipped his tea and watched. She looked extremely thoughtful and serious as she ate, or at least so he thought. But her face had retained the tear stains it had acquired earlier in the evening, and she looked so very tiny and hopeless, as she sat considering each of the horses and cows she ate, and whatever else it might be that could be on her mind.
She had obviously been hungry, because he remembered that small children rarely ate everything given to them, unless it was particularly good, and he doubted his bread and jam would fall into that category, and she finished every crumb.
Then, he helped her wash up a little, rubbing the tear stains from her face, and helped her clean the grime from her hands.
"My, but there is a little girl under all that dirt, after all," he said.
For the first time since he had found her sitting on the step earlier in the evening, she smiled a broad smile up at him, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity, he felt a wave of emotion wash over him, warmly caressing his very soul.
"You're nice," the little girl said, and she wrapped her arms around him and gave him her very best little girl hug. He felt tears coming to his eyes and he turned awkwardly away from her, trying to recover himself, before someone saw; before the world saw him shed a tear.
He stood quietly. Alone.
"What's the matter?" asked a tiny voice.
Embarrassed, he covered his eyes with his hand.
"Nothing," he answered hoarsely. "I'm just being silly. It's nothing."
"You look sad," she said.
"I'm fine," he said, starting to recover himself. "I'm fine," he repeated softly, looking down into the forgiving, understanding eyes of a child.
And he was. But he also found that something had happened in that moment when he and the girl had shared just the tiniest bit of affection for one another. For the first time in all these many years, his heart had opened, perhaps just a little crack, but it had opened, and a glimmer of light had intruded inside.
He bent over and gave her a tiny kiss on the forehead.
"You're nice, too," he said. "And I'm not really sad. I was just thinking of somebody I was very fond of, and who I can't be with this Christmas, that's all."
"I know," the little girl said. "I wish I could be with my Mommy and Daddy. I miss them."
"Well, I guess we'll just have to do the best we can," he said, his voice again soft and re-assuring. He placed his hand on her shoulder. "We'll get you back to your mother tomorrow. But, for tonight, we'd better get you to bed. You look very tired."
"I am," she said, admitting something children won't often admit. "But do you think you might be able to tell me a story? My Mommy always tells me a story before bed."
This caused him a little start. It had been some considerable length of time since he had told a bedtime story, and he wondered about the prospects of telling one now.
"I'm not sure I know any bedtime stories," he said, hoping this might help change her mind.
"Please," she said. "You must know one."
And he looked down at her and another looked back up at him, not the girl he had found shivering on the street, but the little girl he had not seen for so very long; the one who had been lost all those many years ago on a Christmas Eve he thought had been lost forever.
"Yes," he said, "I think maybe I can remember just one." He took her hand and led her to where his little cot was located.
"Here, let's get you all tucked in here," he said, as he pulled the covers up over her.
And he told her the only Christmas story he felt sure he could remember and recite with confidence, the only true Christmas story; the one about Mary and Joseph, and the baby in the manger, and the three wise men and the shepherds; very likely the same story another little girl had listened to on another Christmas Eve, just before she had been taken.
"That was nice," the little girl said, as he finished, and Mary and Jospeh had spirited the baby away from Herod's soldiers and into safety.
"I'm glad you liked it," he said. "And I'm glad I could remember it. It's a nice story."
They sat for a moment in silence. He remembering; she considering.
"Do you think Santa will remember me?" a tiny voice suddenly asked in a most uncertain manner.
He was taken by surprise. He should have considered she might ask such a question. She was about the right age that she would still expect a visit from the old elf. What now, he thought? What now? Do I tell her? Do I shatter her illusion and tell her that Santa Claus is only for children whose Daddies don't come home drunk and beat their wives, or that he can't fit down the chimney of a decrepit tenement?
"I wouldn't worry about that," he said, trying to put off answering the question for a second longer.
"I've tried to be a good girl," said the tiny voice.
"I'm sure you have," he said softly. "And I'm sure Santa will remember you," he added saying the only thing he possibly could.
"Do you really think so?" she asked, her tone of voice and her face brightening considerably.
"He never forgets anyone," he answered. "Remember, he's magic. I'll put my little bed lamp in the window just to make sure he knows we're here."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" the little girl exclaimed excitedly, taking his arm and hugging it tightly.
He pulled gently away from her, and unplugged the little bed lamp, carrying it over to the window, where he placed it on the sill, and plugged it back in. He turned off the starkness of the overhead light, and the room was bathed in the soft glow of the tiny reading light.
"There," he said. "That's better.
"Yes," she agreed. "That's much better.
"Now," he said, "you get to sleep. If you don't get sleeping, you'll be as grouchy as a bear tomorrow and your mother won't even want to see you if you're like that."
"Alright," she said. "I'll try." And she turned over away from the light.
So, he sat in silence in his old armchair and wondered. He wondered how he would now be able to fulfill a young girl's wishes about Santa Claus. And, as he sat, he felt a weariness come over him; a tiredness that washed over him, and spilled down through him, until he found he could barely keep his eyes open. The last thing he saw was the little girl. She had fallen asleep, and had turned back over so he could see her face. And, on it, was an expression of innocent dreams, of hope, and of life yet to come. And he slept.
And it was when he had fallen into the deepest realm of sleep, to the point where there is nothing but a black nothingness itself, that he first heard a tiny voice calling out to him.
"Daddy," the voice seemed to say. "Daddy, where are you.......are you there?"
"Yes, my little princess, I'm here," he heard himself answer.
And, suddenly, soft light broke through into the apparent black of the nothingness, and he could see her standing there, dressed still as she would be if she were just coming from church on a Christmas Eve.
"Hi, princess," he heard his voice say.
"Hi, Daddy," she answered. "Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you." Her voice had a scolding tone to it.
"I've just been here," he answered. "Right here, waiting for you."
"Will Santa come tonight, Daddy?" her tiny voice asked. "I've tried so hard to be good."
"And you have been," he answered. "And I'm sure Santa will come and bring you something."
"Oh, I'm so glad, Daddy. Oh, how I do love Christmas," she said. "You should have seen the church tonight. It was so beautiful. And the Christmas story. I could hear it again and again."
"Oh, princess, I love you," he heard himself say. "I do love you so much."
"Oh, Daddy, you silly; I love you, too," she said, giggling ever so slightly.
There was a moment of silence and he felt the image fill with raw, powerful emotion.. He could feel only profound sadness at what had happened, as he watched her standing within him, looking the way she must have looked on that other Christmas Eve; the one when his life had ended and he had come to this.
"What do you think Santa will bring me?" the tiny voice asked. "Oh, I do hope he brings me the music box with the little ballerina on top," it said excitedly. "It was so lovely. So beautiful.......Do you think I might be a ballerina one day, Daddy?" she asked.
"You can be whatever you want to be," he heard himself saying, as emotion overwhelmed him. "Oh, my little princess," he said......"My little princess."
And even within the dream, he felt the tears come and he cried. And the symbol of his pent-up grief poured down his face, and he tasted its saltiness.
And then she was gone. And the black nothingness returned. But the sadness stayed.
He awoke, and discovered that the tears had come with him from the world of dreams, so that he cried even now, as he sat in the threadbare armchair, in the drabness and dinginess of his squalid surroundings.
And he arose from the chair, and went to the place where he kept the only special thing that still remained in his life. The music box. The one with the little ballerina on top. He wound it and listened to its delicate melody and watched the ballerina dance her dance. Then, he searched out some old newspaper comics that were lying crumpled in a corner, and set about smoothing them carefully with the flat of his hand.
And then he set about carefully wrapping the little music box; that which had always meant so much to him. It was all he had of her, but it seemed she had told him what he must do with it. That it was valueless as long it stayed only with him.
He lamented the fact he had no tree to put it under, and once he had finished wrapping it, placed it beside where the little girl slept, thinking that then she would see it when she first awoke in the morning.
Then, he returned to the armchair, where he stretched out and waited for sleep to again take him. And it did. And he slept a deep, dreamless sleep. Alone.
"Look, look!" exclaimed an excited young voice that interrupted his latest bout of sleep.
He opened his eyes to see Amanda standing before him, holding the crudely-wrapped package in her hands, beaming, grinning from ear to ear.
"Well, well, what have you got there?" he asked, trying to appear surprised.
"It's my present from Santa Claus!" the little girl bubbled. "He remembered me! He remembered me!" she exclaimed.
"I told you, he's magic," he said. "He never forgets anyone."
"I'm so glad you were right," she said. "I was so afraid he wouldn't be able to find me last night."
She stood before him, holding her package tightly, as if fearing that somehow yet it might be taken from her.
"Are you going to open it?" he asked.
"Can I?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"It's your present," he answered. "I think Santa would want you to see what was inside."
"I suppose you're right," she said.
And he watched as she carefully started to unwrap her package, apparently not caring that it was poorly wrapped in the funny papers from some long forgotten Saturday in the past. As she tore away the wrapping, and started to realize what the package contained, her level of excitement rose.
Finally, she held the music box aloft, regarding it with awe.
"Oh, it's so beautiful," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "Look at the pretty dancer. How beautiful she is."
"Listen," he said, reaching over and winding the key a few turns.
And the delicate melody played and the little ballerina performed her dance, as the little girl stood, her eyes wide, able only to watch with wonderment.
He felt a tear come to his eye, as he watched the look in her eyes. This was the way it should have been, he thought. And, finally, it has come to be.
He felt himself smiling.
"Thank you, Daddy," he heard a tiny voice say.
"You're welcome, my little princess," he felt himself answer back.
"Good-bye, Daddy," the voice said.
"Good-bye, princess," he answered.
And the delicate melody played. And the little ballerina performed her dance.
And it was Christmas.