Eighth Day of Christmas - #8 of 12

Eighth Day of Christmas

                At three o’clock in the multi-purpose room, Timmy helped the other carolers put away the chairs they pulled out from under the stage.  They had been practicing since noon. Assistant Reverend Roger directed.

                Timmy was excited.  He had turned twelve and graduated from the little kid Sunday school program to the bigger kid program.  That made him eligible to join the choir and be a caroler for the first time.  And to add to the excitement they were going to drive out and sing to his neighborhood first.   

                Reverend Roger handed each of them vests like the road guards wore around the school only the vests were red and green and trimmed in garland sown next to reflective strips.  Half the carolers had Santa Claus caps to top off the presentation.  After they donned the vests, they took their folders with the sheet music for a dozen carols they had been practicing. 

                Timmy had a folder too and held it up with rest for the uniform appearance they gave but he didn’t need it because he had memorized them all.  They were ready to go.  The setting couldn’t have been better.  A light snow fall fell on the sun warmed streets melting off instantly.  Only the temperature was starting to drop.  Black ice was in the cards and Reverend Roger warned about stepping carefully crossing the streets.

                The carolers piled out of the church van at the top of Timmy’s street.  They formed up in a crescent in front of the first house on the street while Reverend Roger walked up to the door and knocked on the door.

                A woman answered, listened to the Reverend and went back in.  In a minute, she returned with a man and three kids.  She had a cell phone raised.  Reverend stood to one side and gave the count.  They sang Deck the Halls, followed by Silent Night, and three more songs, finishing the set with Wish You a Merry Christmas.

                The troop of carolers worked their way down the street.  Timmy sang for his mom and dad, and Sally from his own front lawn.  Mom had her digital camera out.  There was little doubt in Timmy’s mind that the singers had been well documented with pictures and video.

                Leaving Timmy’s house, they turned the corner and sang their way down the street.  Three houses in a row didn’t answer the door and one told them to go away.  Timmy was puzzled by that and chocked it up to something to talk to dad about later.  Finally, they came to Mrs. Davenport’s home.

                The Reverend knocked and Mrs. Davenport appeared immediately.  She went back in and came back out with her coat and put it on.  Timmy and his fellow singers started their set.  Mrs. Davenport grinned and bobbed her head to the voices.  Timmy couldn’t have hardly felt better except for the annoying warbling sirens just a few blocks away. 

                “Please wait a second.”  Mrs. Davenport said.  She went back in the house and returned with the keeper of cookies Timmy had left her a few days ago.  The top row of the sugar cookies was gone.  Prying the top off she offered each of the carolers a cookie.  Timmy didn’t want to take one.  He wanted for her to have them but knew she wanted to share and would feel bad if he didn’t take a cookie.  Reaching in he selected the smallest one in the layer.

                “Thank you, Mrs. Davenport,” Timmy said.  The others echoed his appreciation.

                Mrs. Davenport just shook her head and waved her other hand.  “No, no.  My pleasure.  Your singing is divine.”  On that note, she retreated back into the house. 

                Timmy followed the rest out of the yard and closed the gate.  They headed to the next house that stood on the corner of the main road.  Timmy heard the screeching of metal and the sirens were louder than ever.  He saw blue and red flashes of light on the snow banked by the plow as a car careened around the corner and slid across the street the carolers were walking on. 

                The silver projectile hit the curb broadside and flipped over once, spun and slide on it’s top into the yard on the corner.  Reverend Roger and Mrs. Jamieson were walking side by side as they lead the rest on the sidewalk.  The pair was clipped by the spin of the car and thrown clear across the street.  The police car, and two more hit their brakes hard.  Another police car came down from the direction of Timmy’s home. 

                They skidded to a stop as their studded tires dug into the pavement and as on cue five officers descended on the silver car with guns drawn.  No one came out of the car that was chased into the yard.  One of the officers, pulled a baton and busted out the driver’s window, reached in and grabbed an arm.  In the span of a breath, two more officers helped him to drag the man out the window.  They forced the man’s head into the snow.  The driver thrashed about and the officers told him to lie still or they would taz him.  Then he howled and Timmy heard a crackling sound.

                The carolers dispersed.  Some were tending to Reverend Roger and some to Mrs. Jamieson.  One of the decans shed his jacket and put it under her head.  Two of the officers peeled off from the silver car and helped with the fallen carolers.  Timmy heard more sirens growing louder in the distance.

                Within a minute the paramedics were on the scene. 

                “We’re needing another EMT unit at this location.” 

                Timmy spun to see another policeman that had just pulled up talk into a microphone on his lapel.

                People were pouring out of the houses up the street.  They stood in their yards to gawk.  He turned again and him mom and dad were headed his way.  Timmy looked at Reverend Roger and he was trying to sit up but the paramedic wouldn’t let him.  Mrs. Jamieson just laid there.

                Almost as though it appeared out of nothing, another EMT unit arrived and was loading Mrs. Jamieson, slammed all the doors and left with sirens and lights.  That isn’t good. Timmy remembered what his dad had told him.  Tim looked over at where Reverend Roger had been and the EMT’s were rounding the corner with lights only.  Timmy sighed. 

                “Timmy, you alright?”  mom asked as she came to a sliding stop with her feet flying out from under her.  His dad caught her and righted her.

                “Tim, you okay?”

                “Yeah, I’m fine.”  He looked around at all the activity.  What just happened?

Seven Day of Christmas - #7 of 12 Fiction

Seventh Day of Christmas

            Timmy rode in the front seat of the family Honda. Sally was in the back-seat thumbing through something on her iPhone.  Mom slowed as they turned off the main road to town and kept the speed down even though the road had been plowed and salted.  Their route took them in front of Mrs. Davenport’s house.

            The wreath Timmy left Mrs. Davenport hung from the flimsy screen door.  “The wreath looks nice.” Mom commented. 

            “Did you find anything out about her gas?”  Timmy asked.

            “I hadn’t heard from Pastor Brown.  I’ll call him sometime this afternoon.  Are we all done?”

            “Done?”

            “Christmas shopping.  Did you get everything you wanted to get?”

            “Oh.  Yes.  I’m all finished.  Sally?”  He looked over the seat.  “Sally!”

            “What.”  Sally snapped.

            Mom repeated the question and got a feeble affirmative from Sally.  Timmy shook his head.  He was fine with his old flip-phone and didn’t feel the least bit slighted she had a smartphone that cost hundreds, and his phone was free with service.

            The driveway was navigable with several inches of snow on it.  Timmy remembered his promise to dad.  “Mom, pull all the way up to the garage so I can salt the drive.”  She pulled the nose of the Accord right to the garage door, parked it and popped the trunk. 

            Timmy jumped out and pulled the new wreath from the trunk and took it around to the front door.  He hung it on the left side of the double entry doors.  The side that rarely gets used.  The deep green looked good against the bright white doors. He had expected to catch hell for taking the other one, but all dad said was it was nice, and they would get another one.

            Grabbing the last double handful of plastic bags filled with packages he forced the trunk lid down with his elbow leaving a clean streak on the black finish where he wiped the gray road haze off.  It soiled his jacket, but he didn’t care.  Inside the house, he set them with the others on the floor by the kitchen table.

            Mom answered the doorbell.  Who could it be?  All their friends knocked on the mudroom door located on the back side of the house.

            After some muffled speech, mom yelled, “Timmy, are you in the house?”

            Timmy was just about to exit the mudroom and turned back.  “Yeah, I’m coming.”

            A squat, stocky man stood at the threshold when Timmy came up next to his mom.

            “Tim, I’m Burt’s dad.  I’ve been looking for him and wondered if you’ve seen him?”

            That was a shocker.  Why would Tim’s dad think Burt would ever come over to his house.  Unless it was to knock him down again.  Timmy had lots to say about Burt.  He said, “No.  I haven’t seen him since the day before yesterday.”

            Burt’s dad nodded. “Okay, thought I’d give you a try.  Burt said you were friends.”

            Mom asked, “How long has he been gone?”

            “Since early this morning. It’s unusual for him not to show up for lunch.  Anyway, thanks.”  He turned and left.

#

            The salting didn’t take long.  Timmy thought about why Burt’s dad said he was a friend of Burt’s.  That was a dubious place of honor he couldn’t see himself in, even by Burt’s admission. No, Burt was probably off somewhere breaking something or worst and would turn up whenever he felt like it.

            Timmy was just coming up on Mrs. Davenport’s gate as the Gasman was coming out. “Did you turn her gas back on?”

            The guy looked at him, “Merry Christmas.  Yep, just got a reactivation order.  I lit all her pilot lights too.”

            “Thanks, that’s super.”  He traded places with the gasman and closed the gate.  Timmy was skirting the side of her house and saw the padlock was gone.  When he came to the back door all the wood he had cut was gone.

That couldn’t be right.  The pile was nearly as tall as he stood and twice as long.  Mrs. Davenport wouldn’t have, couldn’t have taken all that inside.  I don’t think she would.  He knocked on the door.

            It opened, and Mrs. Davenport peeked out.  She was wearing a ty-dyed skirt with a yellow top covered by a plain tan sweater.  “Yes.  Oh, hi Timmy.”

            “Mrs. Davenport, did you take all the wood that was stacked by the back door in the house?”

            “Oh, so you’re the one that put all that there.  No, I just took in some last night.”

            “Okay, thanks.”

            Mrs. Davenport shut the door.

            From the stoop to her back door, Timmy scanned the backyard.  He wondered if in times past Mrs. Davenport and her family took wood from the greenbelt that ran behind her house.  There was a depression leading around her shed to the green belt.  Timmy could tell the snow was fresher, less packed in a trail than the snow around it.

            He trudged through it and came to the edge of the green belt.  There was a depression of ten-feet before the woods rose again on the other side.  A small creek ran down the middle.  Forming a snowball, Timmy threw it into an evergreen tree along the edge of the belt.  Snow cascaded to the ground.

            “Help…”

            Timmy whipped his head back to the greenbelt.  Did he hear something?

            “Help.”  It was a little louder this time.

            Inching closer to the edge, Timmy peered over.  Below the wood he split was scattered all over the bottom by the creek.  Off to his right, it looked like a blue ski-jacket.  Then the jacket moved.  Moving along the edge, Timmy came to where the edge of the bank was caved it.  He leaned over.  “You okay?”

            “Help, I’m stuck.”

            It was Burt’s voice.  Leaning out to hear better, he felt the ground give and pitched him over the side face first.  It was steep, but he managed to twist and rolled down the hill coming to rest next to Burt.  He sat up and shook.  Dirt and snow flew off his pants and jacket.

            Timmy stood and extended his hand to Burt.  “Come on we can jump the creek and get out down at the overpass.”

            Burt was pale, his lips blue.  He was past shivering.  “I can’t.  My leg’s caught and I can’t feel it anymore.”

            Timmy tried pulling the tangle of limbs apart so Burt could get his leg out, but they wouldn’t budge.  “Your leg broke through the ice and is in the water.  How long you been here?”

            “I don’t know, long time.”

            “You throw all Mrs. Davenport’s wood down here?  Did you know that’s all she had for heat?”  Timmy was mad.  For two-cents, he would leave Burt right where he is.

            “I didn’t know that,” Burt croaked.  “I saw you splitting it and wanted to bust your chops.  I’m sorry.”

            “Okay.”  Timmy pulled his phone out and flipped it open.  No signal, not one bar. He looked at Burt.  “I’m going have to climb up higher to get a signal.”  He jumped the creek and climbed half-way up the other side.  Two bars.

            Holding down the #2 button, the phone started ringing.  “Dad, It’s Timmy.  I’m with Burt.  He’s hurt.  We need help.”  He listened.  “Yes, behind Mrs. Davenport’s house.  We fell in the creek. Burt’s going to need paramedics.”  He listened again.  “Yeah, I’ll stay with him.  Better hurry.”

            A few minutes later, Timmy heard sirens. 

            Timmy pulled a card from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Burt.  “I was going to give this to someone else, but I think you deserve it now.”

            Burt opened it and read:

Merry Seventh day of Christmas

Your neighbor

               

Sixth Day of Christmas - #6 of 12

Sixth Day of Christmas

            The snow continued to pile up.  The path Timmy made to Mrs. Davenport had filled in overnight and through the day.  He hadn’t been able to check on her all day.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t have, but he was at George’s most the day playing Call of Duty on the PS4.

            Crossing the street from George’s, he saw the driveway.  It was heavy with snow when he went over to George’s.  Oh man, dad shoveled it. 

            Timmy found dad in the TV room, kicked back in his recliner.  The news was on the television.  “Dad.  I was going to clear the driveway.”

            “No problem.  I didn’t want to wait on you in case we needed to get out to go somewhere.  Tomorrow, maybe.”

            Timmy still felt bad.  He had done the driveway and hadn’t checked on Mrs. Davenport.  He sat on the sofa.

            “Take your coat off if you’re staying in.”

            “I’m going back out in a minute.  Did you know Mrs. Davenport’s gas meter is off and has a padlock on it?”

            The recliner snapped shut, and his dad leaned forward on his elbows.  “No, I didn’t know that.  How did you learn of it?”

            “I saw it when I was there yesterday.”

            “I’ll check on it.”  Leaning back, he shouted over the chair.  “Ann, do you still have the number to Pastor Brown?”

#

            Timmy stood in front of Mrs. Davenport.  The walkway was covered in snow.  No footprints were in it.  He brushed snow side to side as he made his way up to the porch.  After pulling open the screen door, he placed a wreath between it and the front door.  Set the card on the wreath and knocked.

            On hearing Mrs. Davenport’s recliner close, he took off and was around the mailbox as he heard the door open.  He felt he was on a roll now.  The card he pinned read:

Merry Sixth Day of Christmas

Your neighbor

            Shedding his outdoor gear in the mudroom, Timmy heard his mom call out.

            “Frank, do you know what happened to our wreath?”

Fifth Day of Christmas - 5 of 12 Fiction

Fifth Day of Christmas

            Timmy pulled an arm out of the covers and recoiled.  He couldn’t get it back under fast enough.  The double-paned window was lightly hazed over on the inside.  That meant only one thing.  The temperature dropped last night, dropped a lot.  Steeling himself to the inevitable, he swung one leg out of bed then the other.  Waiting a bit to acclimate to the room, he sat up pulling the covers up with him.  In only his briefs, he dashed over to the hook on his bedroom door to retrieve his robe he decided it was time to don pajamas for bed time like mom told him to do several days ago.

            Back from the bathroom and wrapped in his robe, Timmy rubbed the back of his hand on the window.  It was a deep gray out with snow falling in dime size flakes that danced in the air, teasing the ground before lighting.   The snow drifted up the side of the garage almost reaching the eve.  A second later he heard the muted sound of a snow blower.  Dad must be doing the driveway.  He rushed to get dressed.

            Attired to do battle with the elements, Timmy found dad on the third row in the drive way.  “Can I do that!,”  Timmy yelled.

            The blower throttled down to an idle, then stopped.  “What’s that?”

            “Can I do that?” 

            “I’ll finish the drive.  You can do the walk when I’m done.”

            “Okay.  Can I take it down to Mrs. Davenports?  She’s supposed to be home today.”

            “Sure.  Just check the gas before you head over there.”

            The snow plow had been down the road.  Black speckled snow was pushed up cover the curbs.  Timmy fetched a shovel from the garage and began to clear the ridge across the front of the driveway.  The whole snow clearing effort looked for not as the driveway turned white behind his dad’s efforts.  He learned that even with the blower when it snowed this hard it was the only way to get ahead of the weather.

            Timmy plowed a twenty-four-inch path down the middle of the sidewalk all the way to Mrs. Davenport’s house.  He opened the gate and jockeyed the machine until it lined up with the front door and engaged the rotors.  Snow flew across the yard until he reached the porch.  As he turned the blower around, he noticed the hardball size hole in the smaller window to the left of the front door.  He climbed the porch and looked at the break.  Shards ran up into the aluminum frame and he could see glass on the floor through the hole.  On the floor by the glass lay a fist size rock. 

            Burt did it.  Timmy was sure of it.  He jumped off the porch and immediately his feet flew out from under him.  Arching his back as he landed on the bottom step, he took the fall across the shoulders lessening the impact.  Rolling over he picked himself up and headed for home as fast as he felt safe to go.

            The car was gone. Oh no, dad went somewhere.  He flew through the mudroom and found dad in the kitchen.  “Dad, I thought you were gone.”

            “Nah, Mom took Sally to dance.  You need something?

            “Someone threw a rock through Mrs. Davenport’s window.  Can we do something?”

            “Of course, we can.  Let me suit up.”

            “What you going to do?”  Timmy ask as his dad measured the bottom pane of the window. 

            I’ve got some quarter-inch plywood in the garage.  We’ll cut a piece big enough to cover the aluminum and use a few nails to wedge it in place.  That will keep the elements out until the glass can be replaced.”  He stood up.  “That’s it.  Get the blower and put it away.”

            Timmy’s heart sank.  “Dad.  It was right here in front of the porch.”   There was number of large boot prints surrounded where Timmy had left the blower.  He could see where the blower had been dragged over the ridge of dirty snow left by the plow.  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

            Dad looked up and down the street.  “Come on.”  He didn’t say anything else on the walk home.

            When they reached the back door.  “Tim, go out in the garage and see if you can find that quarter-inch plywood.  It’s a half sheet, I think.  I’m going to call the police.  I’ll be out in a minute.”

            The police arrived at Mrs. Davenport’s just as Timmy and his dad finished mounting the plywood over the window.  The officer parked a couple lengths up the street and came down the trail Timmy had made with the blower.  An inch of new snow already covered the walk.

            “You Frank Dorset?”  The officer asked.

            “Yes.  Thanks for coming out.”

            “Could you show me some I.D.?”

            “Sure.”  Dad loosened his coat and dug in his back pocket and produced a card and handed it to the policeman.”

            The officer read off the information into the microphone clipped to his jacket pocket.  He handed the card back.  “Is this your house?”

            “Oh no.  My son.  Timmy,” he pointed, “ran the blower down here to clear Mrs. Davenport’s walk.  When he saw the broken window, he ran home to tell me.  It was stolen sometime between then and when we got back here.  Couldn’t been twenty minutes.”

            “I see.”  He jotted in his small notebook.  “Timmy, did you break the window?”

            What, why would he thing that?  Timmy was dumfounded. “Uh, uh….”

            “Timmy didn’t break the window.  He found it that way.  We just finished covering it.”

            The policeman took the details, make and model of the blower and promised to get back to them. 

            Timmy and his dad walked home.  “Why did he think I broke the window, Dad?”

            “He didn’t think you did. He was fishing. Don’t worry about it.”  Dad handed him the hammer and left-over nails.  “Put these away when we get home and come in for lunch.”

            After lunch, Timmy headed down to Mrs. Davenport.  She wasn’t home yet.  He walked around the side of her house to check the other windows and noticed the gas meter was turned off with a padlock on the valve.  That meant no gas.  His house’s furnace ran on gas, did her furnace?  Moving on, he didn’t find anymore broken windows. 

            There was a large pile of wood rounds that looked dumped in the backyard next to a piece of stump two-feet across.  An axe was stuck in it.  Timmy realized this was where the wood was split for the fireplace.  There were only a few split logs by the back door.  Mrs. Davenport would need more to stay warm.

            The snow had let up.  Timmy wiggled the axe free and stood a round on the stump and it with the axe.  The blade stuck in the wood and he beat the round back on the stump until the wood split.  The two halves split easier.  Timmy looked at his wrist watch, it was one o’clock.

            At one-twenty, he pulled off his stocking cap and unzipped his jacket.  The cold air rushed in and around his sweater.  It felt good.

            Three o’clock, Timmy gathered and stacked the wood by the back door.  He pulled a card out of his pocket and wedged it in the top log.  Timmy retrieved his stocking cap, and zipped up his coat and went around the corner of the house.  When he closed the gate and took a few steps up the sidewalk he saw an ambulance turn on to the street. 

            Mrs. Davenport was almost home.

           

Fourth Day of Christmas - Fiction

Fourth Day of Christmas

            Timmy stood on the corner.  It could hardly be a better day for the weather.  The temperature climbed to thirty-five degrees, and the sun was full out.  Rivets of water were flowing down the curb into the storm drain with a gurgle, run off from the sidewalks and driveways.  He wondered what was that was going on as the fire engine and EMT wagon flashed their lights in front of Mrs. Davenport’s. 

            Firemen garbed in their black water proof trouser and yellow suspenders pushed a red wheeled stretcher up the porch and in the front door.  Shortly, they returned with Mrs. Davenport wrapped up in blankets.  Wisps of her lavender hair stuck out from under a stark white cap that Timmy was sure the medical people had put on her.

            Burt was among a group on onlookers across the street with arms folded.  The brat was grinning.  Timmy felt disgusted at him and worried for Mrs. Davenport at the same time.   Half-way from the curb to Mrs. Davenport’s house was as far as Timmy got as two of the medics raised her into the EMT wagon.  One climbed in after her and pulled the door shut.  The other man climbed in the cab.  The lights went out as they pulled out into the street.  The fire engine fired up with a heavy diesel smell and made a right at the next corner departing from the other vehicle. 

            Timmy finished his walk to Mrs. Davenport’s house and closed the gate left open.  The house was back to its usual darkness.  The firemen must have unplugged the Christmas tree.  He turned and saw Burt take a step his way.  He didn’t want to have to deal with him right now and bolted for home.

#

            As Timmy came up the driveway, he saw dad head into the garage.  Mom and dad, it seemed, lived a life of duality.  Mom always seemed in the kitchen or the laundry room and dad was in the TV room or garage.  Timmy slipped in through the man-door.

            It seemed dark despite the Sun shining in the west garage window.  His dad was setting out some clamps on the workbench.  “Dad.”

            “Hi, Tim.  Where you been?”  He leaned against the workbench.  “Want to help reassemble this curio door?”

            “Sure, Dad.  I walked Sally to dance.  There were emergency trucks at Mrs. Davenport’s.”

            Dad pursed his lips.  “Oh, that’s not good, but she is pretty old.”

            “They didn’t have any lights or sirens on when they took her away.  Is that good or bad?”

            “That’s good.  Sirens means life or death, lights with no siren means urgent and none means routine.  She must not be too bad then.”

            “How can we find out how she’s doing?”  Timmy asked.

            “Go in and ask mom to call Pastor Brown.  Mrs. Davenport goes to the Methodist Church where he preaches.  I think Mom’s in the laundry room.”  He set the curio door on the bench.  “Come back when you’re done.”

#

            Mom set a plate of fried chicken down on the table with a bowl of green beans and dinner rolls.  Timmy and Sally plopped themselves at the table.  Dad was coming in the back door.

            “Did you hear from Pastor Brown, Mom?”

            “Just a little bit ago.  Mrs. Davenport’s diabetes numbers went too low and she passed out.  Her home alone necklace alerted the medical service and they called the paramedics.  She’ll be okay.  The hospital will keep her overnight, to get her numbers back in line and then send her home by ambulance.”  Mom smiled and sat.  “It’s sweet you’re worried about her.  She’ll be okay.”

            “I’m worried about her too, Mom.”

            “You too, Sally.  She’ll be fine.”

            Dad sat at the head of the table.  “Let’s bless the food.”

            Soon as the blessing was over, “Dad, can we go over to see her after dinner?”  Timmy asked.

#

            Mrs. Davenport was asleep when they moved into her room. 

            Timmy put the Bible he brought on the stand next to her head by a box of tissues.  He pulled a little on the card he put in its pages so it couldn’t be missed.  He put his finger to hush Sally and his dad.  The three left the room.

            “What was on the card?”  Dad asked.

            Timmy told him:

Merry Fourth day of Christmas

Your neighbor

              

Third Day of Christmas - Fiction

Third Day of Christmas

Timmy was standing in front of Mrs. Davenport’s house.  His breath almost shrouded his view in the cold still air.  Her house had for a long time showed neglected needs such as the peeled painting on the sides and the dry rot of the eve’s boards.  He already experienced the sponginess of the rickety porch. 

It was about two in the afternoon, and her windows were dark.  It was like she wasn’t home, but Timmy knew she was in there.   He pondered, what next?  The Sunday school lesson on charity had a profound effect on his heart.  As the lesson progressed, Mrs. Davenport came to his mind.  He regretted charging her twenty-dollars to mow her yard last summer.  Six months later, he could see she couldn’t afford to pay for the mowing.  What had changed in that time, he couldn’t put his finger on, but he planned to do her yard this year for free. 

WHAP.

A snowball came flying from his right and hit the side of his head.  Timmy’s stocking cap went flying off his head, and he felt moisture flow down the side of his head as the projectile spun him around.  What was that?  He wondered as his head cleared only to tackled to the sidewalk.

“Well, Timmy four-eyes.  Whatcha doing here?” 

Trapped in a half-nelson, Timmy groaned.  There must have been more ice in the snowball than snow.  “Let me go, Burt.”

“No way, you little turd.  I ain’t seen you since Christmas break started.  Time to catch up.”

Burt, on top of Timmy’s back, forced him to his knees.  Timmy’s glasses landed by the mailbox post.  Even still, he could make out a small dark shape running their way from the corner.

“Let me go.”  Timmy struggled but was no match for the two years older boy.

The dark shape loomed pink as Sally jumped on Burt’s back.

“Let him go, let him go.”  She beat on Burt’s back. 

Burt shrugged her off, and she tumbled into the snow in the medium between the sidewalk and the curb.  “Need your little sister to rescue you?”

Timmy heard tapping and the gate clasp flick.  “Turn that boy loose you, filthy bully,” Mrs. Davenport called in a raspy voice and waved her crane at Burt.

He let go, stood and took off down the street all in the same fluid motion. 

 “Are you all right, young man?”  Mrs. Davenport hadn’t put on a jacket in her haste to save Timmy, leaned on her cane and peered at him and shivered.  “You’re bleeding.”

Mrs. Davenport looked to be turning blue as her thin blue shift.  “Oh, I’ll be okay.  I’ll run home and get mom to look at it.”  He touched his hand to his head and came away with red on his fingers.  “You go back in, Mrs. Davenport.  It’s too cold out here.”

She hesitated, nodded and slowly turned and headed back toward the house.

Sally regained her feet, retrieved Timmy’s glass, handed them to him and stood next to him as they watched Mrs. Davenport disappear back inside.

“Thanks, Sis.  I don’t know where Burt came from.  He took me by surprise.”

“I hate him.  He picks on everybody.”

“Let’s get home.  Mom is going to be mad at me for getting my head busted.”

#

                Timmy and Sally hung their coats in the mudroom and pulled off their overboots before entering the kitchen. 

                Mom was writing out Christmas cards at the table.  Stacks of green, red and white envelops sat to her side.  “Hi Kids,” she greeted without looking up.

                “Mom.  Timmy got hurt.”

                “What.” She looked up.  “Oh my gosh, Timmy.  Let me look at that.” 

                He came around and presented his head to her.

                “We need to wash you up.”  She got up and pulled him over to the sink.  “Sally, get me a clean washcloth from the drawer.”

                Sally handed it to her.

                Turning on the sink faucet, she stuck her fingers in the stream of water when she seemed satisfied with the temperature. She wet the cloth.  “What happened?” she asked as she washed the frozen blood off.

                “Slipped and fell.”

                “Did not, Mom,” Sally interjected.  “It was Burt.  He hit Timmy with a snowball.”

                “The Ferguson boy?  Were you playing?”

                “Yeah, we were playing.  Not a problem, Mom.”

                Sally harrumphed and stomped up the stairs.

                “You boys have to be more careful.”

                “Mom,” Timmy changed the topic.  “Can I have the old tree we bought the year before last?”

                “Tree”

                “The short one we got when Dad remodeled the living room.  It’s in a box in the shed.”

                “Sure, if you want.”

#

                Timmy took the lead with Sally carrying the rear of the four-foot Christmas tree in its box. They had waited until they saw the Access Bus stop in front of Mrs. Davenport’s house and pick her up to take her downtown.

                On the porch, they took the tree from the box and assembled the pieces, hung several ornaments.  Timmy left two boxes of purple and silver ornaments in the box along with some garland.  In the branches, he stuffed a card.  In the card he had written:

Merry Third day of Christmas

Your neighbor

                Placing the tree next to the front door, Timmy and Sally went home.

#

                “Timmy, you still want to check on Mrs. Davenport?  It’s dark out,” Sally asked.

                “Yeah.  Let’s do that.”

                Timmy and Sally on tread on freshly fallen snow that the starlight lit the sky despite the sun setting an hour ago.  They stopped at Mrs. Davenport’s mailbox.  Instead of the dark windows as usual, through the curtains of the front window, they saw a multicolored glow, with sparkling lights of the Christmas tree.

Timmy and Sally took a high-five and headed home.

Second day of Christmas

Second day of Christmas

The weather drizzled late in the afternoon and turned to rain in the night.  It was just light the next morning as Timmy looked through his bedroom window and saw the sheets of ice hanging down on the power lines and the trees looked like Sikorski crystal figurines.  They sparkled.  He pulled his phone out and took a picture.

            Single-mindedly, Timmy was moving fast he traversed the kitchen.  Dad was sitting at the table sipping a hot chocolate not doing anything particular.  “Tim.”  That brought him up short.

            “Dad? Morning.”

            “It’s single digit out there.”  He smiled.  “You need some breakfast before you go out.”

            “I’m not…,” Timmy started to protest.

            “Don’t matter.  Most important meal of the day.  Have some cereal at least.” 

            “Okay.”  Opening the cupboard, Timmy pulled down a bowl and set it on the table.

            “Take your gloves and coat off.  You can put them back on when you go out.”

            “Dad,” Timmy said between heaping bites.  “What would it take to fix a gate hinge that came loose?”

            Hid dad leaned back in the chair.  “Well, it depends on why it came loose.  Ought not to be too tough to repair.  Why.”

            Timmy told him about Mrs. Davenport’s gate.

            “I’ll take a look at it.”

#

            Timmy walked along with his dad pulling a wagon until they were in front of Mrs. Davenport’s house.  There were no lights on inside or out.

            “Here, Dad.  Think we can hang it back up?”

            “I’m sure we can do something.”  Lifting the corner, he wiggled the gate, and the top hinge let go of the post.  Timmy’s dad chuckled.  “Looks pretty shot. I’ve got some new hinges in the garage I haven’t used.  We can fix this.”  He pulled a tape measure out of his coat pocket and stretched it around the post.  “I have some cedar boards we can cut to clad this old post with.” Lifting the gate to inspect it.  I think we’ll just make her a new gate to mount.  You want to help.”

            “Yeah.  But I have something to do first.”

            His dad looked at the wagon.  “I see.  Come on home when you’ve finished.”

            “Okay.”  Timmy watched his dad head back up the street with the gate in his hand. 

Grabbing a pound coffee can out of the wagon he dipped it in the sack.  It only took ten minutes to salt Mrs. Davenport’s walk before towing the wagon back home. Then he pulled out the spade.

#

That evening Timmy held the new gate in place while his dad drove the screws in the stainless-steel hinges with his cordless screwdriver.

“There, good as new.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

#

            Timmy opened the card to double check the message and slipped it in the mailbox.  He heard the door open on Mrs. Davenports house.   He took off at a brisk step and stopped at the corner where he could still see her.

            It took Mrs. Davenport awhile, but not as long as before for Timmy scrapped the troublesome clumps of dirt off the walk with a shovel when he spread the deicer.  The ice was all melted from her path.  She stopped at the closed gate and studied it.  Reaching out a hand she flicked the clasp and pulled the gate open and slipped by it to the mailbox.

Reaching in the mailbox, she took out the card.  As Timmy had before he mouthed the inscription as she unfolded it.

Merry Christmas on its second day

Your neighbor