Chapter Text
~*~
December 24th
My darling Chris,
It’s been a few days since I’ve written to you; I’m sorry. Things have been pretty hectic here, as you can imagine, with present wrapping and cookie baking and various members of your family and mine almost constantly underfoot (I don’t mean that the way it sounds—they are doing their utmost to help me and the girls through this difficult time, and god knows I appreciate it).
But the last lingering relative (your brother) has been shooed out the door, Allie, Lizzy and Bella are tucked into their beds, and I have a quiet space of time to devote to your letter at last. It took forever for the girls to settle down. Well, it always does on Christmas Eve—except for last year.
Elijah was surprisingly helpful in coaxing them to go up to their rooms. He has a quiet authority matched with an easy manner to which they instinctively respond, and which leads me to believe that he is older than he looks, and has some experience with children. I don’t know if he’ll be around long enough for me to find out his age or if he has any siblings, but I do know that now is not the time to ask him any personal questions. He definitely isn’t ready.
In any event, visions of sugarplums are hopefully dancing in the girls’ heads now. They’ll be up with the sun, of course, if not earlier, but everything’s ready for them: the stockings are filled and the presents are piled under the tree—well, under and around and halfway up the tree would technically be more accurate. I went a little overboard with the gifts, Chris, I admit it; I am overcompensating madly, as is my wont. Not that all the toys in Santa’s workshop could ever equal the only, and impossible, present Allie put on her list: you.
But I promised you I wouldn’t dwell on that, didn’t I? So, enough.
The special Santa plate is sans chocolate chip cookies, except for a few telltale crumbs, and the special Santa milk glass is nearly empty. Elijah ate the cookies and drank the milk; he protested at first, but I could tell he wanted them—he seems perpetually hungry and is the least-likely-looking Santa stand-in you can imagine—and I couldn’t have choked them down myself. Not this year.
There, I’m doing it again, but I’m determined not to be a wet blanket, for the sake of the girls. I desperately want them to enjoy this Christmas. So, enough and enough. I won’t cry all over this letter. I promise.
Elijah’s astonishment when the girls presented him with his Christmas stocking this morning at breakfast was almost comical. You’d have been proud of them: they insisted he had to have a stocking, although he’s only been with us for two days, and they even helped him hang it on the mantel. Allie wrote his name on it with Elmer’s Glue-All and silver glitter. Oh Chris, you’ve never seen such uneven lettering—I’m afraid you were right, and she’s inherited my erratic handwriting.
Elijah won’t be expecting to find anything in the stocking besides the candy cane and Hershey’s kisses that the girls added (and Chris, I wish you could have heard Lizzy explaining to Elijah, very seriously, that the ‘bumps’ in the toe of his stocking weren’t lumps of coal but candy; he actually appeared on the verge of smiling for the first time), but I snuck away to CVS and battled the last minute shoppers for a few essential items to put in it—razors, toothpaste, that sort of thing. He doesn’t have much in the way of belongings—a backpack holds all his worldly possessions, if you can believe it—and he shouldn’t put up too much of a fight if they’re given as stocking stuffers.
One observation I’ve made about Elijah already: he’s prickly as a porcupine and practically has to be forced into accepting even the smallest favor. Thank god for the girls—it’s more difficult for him to say ‘no’ to them. I admit to employing subterfuge in the form of our eldest daughter to get him to accept a loan of a few hundred dollars. When prompted by me, Allie was more than happy to express dismay at the state of Elijah’s clothes and hair, and offer to help him pick out some new things and get a haircut at the mall.
Fiscally irresponsible, no doubt, to give him so much cash, as he could bolt and run at any moment, but he has assured me very earnestly that he’ll pay me back every dime, and somehow I believe him. I don’t care about repayment, although money is tight this year, but if it will make him feel better about himself to reimburse me when he’s on his feet again, I’ll accept the money and keep my mouth shut.
Why are you smiling, Chris? I can keep my mouth shut sometimes, you know.
I’ve persuaded Elijah not to think about looking for a job until his bruises fade and the cut over his eye heals- he wouldn’t be an inspiring sight to any prospective employer right now- and I’ve made certain he understands that he’s welcome to stay here until he can find work and his own place to live. I’ve carefully avoided asking him how his injuries were incurred, but of course the girls aren’t hampered by the same inhibitions that an adult is. All he would say in answer to Allie’s anxious, ‘Oh what happened to your poor face’, however, is that he slipped and fell on some ice. But I know what the mark of a fist looks like, Chris.
Funny. It occurs to me now that my references to Elijah must have you completely bewildered, wondering who Elijah is, and what on earth he’s doing in our home, this young man of whom you’ve never heard before. Forgive me; as I said, it’s been a hectic few days.
But no… No, I’m not being truthful with you, and I promised you the day I asked you to marry me that no matter what, I would always tell you the truth.
I haven’t written sooner about Elijah because, although I assured him that it was what you would have wanted me to do, a part of me wonders if you’ll think that I’ve taken an irresponsible risk in inviting him into our home, perhaps even believe that I’ve endangered our beloved daughters. Because I know very little about Elijah, except that he’s battered and bruised in spirit as well as body, and desperately in need of a helping hand.
And he’s completely alone, and surely no one should ever be alone at Christmas.
Our families think I’ve lost my mind. Both sets of parents have pulled me aside and lectured me about being ridiculously impulsive and allowing a stranger to take advantage of me- and they don’t know about the money or... other things. They appear to think my actions are some bizarre manifestation of grief. Maybe in a way, they’re right. Because looking into Elijah’s eyes was like looking into a mirror. And in my heart of hearts, Chris, I have to believe that had you been sitting there in my place, you wouldn’t have hesitated either to offer him shelter from whatever storms he’s had to endure.
Well, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I can picture your wry smile and hear you say with exaggerated patience, “Sean, would you please get to the point?”
You will be surprised- possibly even shocked- to learn that I met Elijah in St. Cecilia’s. Yes, you heard me right: St. Cecilia’s. I went downtown on Tuesday morning to run some errands and pick up a few last minute gifts, and I was trying my best to put myself in the holiday spirit, to feel like the garish decorations and never-ending carols were a pleasant immersion in the spirit of Christmas rather than a hellish assault on my senses. I was succeeding rather well, I thought. But then I was ambushed in the Dunkin’ Donuts-by Judy Garland, of all people.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas must be the cruelest Christmas song ever written.
I guess we watched Meet Me in St. Louis too many times over the years, Chris, laughing about how much Tootie reminded us of Allie, secure in the knowledge that our little family would never suffer through what the Smiths did. Now, try as I might, I can't get the lyrics to that song, or the melancholy sound of Judy’s voice, out of my mind.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
From now on,
our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on,
our troubles will be miles away.
Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more.
Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow.
And have yourself
A merry little Christmas now.
Oh Chris, I don’t know what scares me more: the knowledge that we never will all be together again, or the idea that someday our troubles will be miles away, that I’ll learn to live without you, or forget how you looked and smelled and sounded…
God, I’m sorry. I’m trying, I really am. But it’s so fucking, fucking hard.
I nearly bolted from the store without waiting for my coffee—only that inherent stubbornness that used to drive you nuts and a reluctance to waste good money kept me in place. I don’t even remember how I got out of there, to be honest, but I have vague impressions of bumping into several people waiting in line and nearly dropping my coffee.
When I got outside, it had started snowing: big, lazy, lacy flakes. The whole downtown looked some frigging Hallmark card- but a blurry one, because I just couldn’t stop the tears, Chris, though you’d think I’d have run out by now- and that damn song kept playing over and over in my head: Through the years, We all will be together, If the Fates allow. I needed to get away, find someplace quiet to recover my equilibrium, before I sat down on the sidewalk and bawled like a baby. So I ran across the street- and I’m ashamed to admit I nearly caused an accident- and into St. Cecilia’s.
I know it seems strange, given how many letters I’ve written about my crisis of faith since you left us, that I would voluntarily find refuge there of all places. I’d say ‘any port in a storm’, but now that a little time has passed, and given what happened, I can’t help but wonder if I wasn’t somehow… well, guided there for lack of a better word. Now you really are shocked, aren’t you: me, Mr. Skeptic, Mr. Doubting Thomas, implying that some higher force was at work? But I went into the church with no intention of doing anything more than waiting inside the front doors until I had myself under control and then leaving again as quickly as possible.
So why did I go into the nave, Chris, instead of leaving after I forced back the tears and dried my eyes? I didn’t intend to, didn’t want to, dreaded what I’d find there (how can one place be both the source of one’s happiest and one’s saddest memories??) but as if against my will, I found myself pushing open the door, stepping inside, genuflecting and crossing myself before sliding into a pew at the back.
You know, I’d never been in there before when it was empty. It felt so odd, and I realized suddenly how much background noise there is during a service: the creaking of wood as people shift in their seats, the thud of the kneelers being let down, the muted coughs, and the whisper of missal pages being turned.
The smell of incense and the smoke from the votive candles were suffocating, and the silence pressed down on me with the weight of a thousand memories, holding me in place. I tried to shut off my mind, but it was useless. How could I not think of you, of us, there in the very place where I married you, where I held our children while they were baptized, where I said goodbye to you for the last time…
I dreaded what I’d see if I looked toward the altar- you, radiant with happiness on our wedding day, or a flower-draped coffin; either seemed horrible to me right then- so I took out Granddad’s pocket watch and began to fiddle with it, turning it over and over in my hands and focusing on it as if it held some hypnotic charm that could take my mind off the past and prevent me from turning my face heavenward and railing against God yet again for stealing you from us. I completely lost track of time then, mired in my self-pity, until I was startled back to myself by several loud sneezes in succession- they sounded almost like gunshots in the silence and I literally jumped. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t alone, after all.
I was expecting to see Father Michael appear, blowing his nose and sighing and bemoaning the fact there is no such thing as hypoallergenic incense, and began mentally preparing myself for his ‘we cannot question God’s will, Sean, we simply must accept it and have faith in Him’ speech. Father Michael is in many ways a good priest and he’s a very kind-hearted man, but the last thing I needed at that moment was another from his store of well-meaning platitudes. But you’ve heard more than enough from me on that score, haven’t you.
But it wasn’t Father Michael who had sneezed—it was a man whom I hadn’t noticed when I came in. He was sitting in a pew a few rows up and across the aisle. I couldn’t make out much more than the back of his head and his hunched shoulders under a hooded sweatshirt and denim jacket. I wondered what had brought him into the church, and to keep my mind off my own troubles began to speculate on his. I don’t know why I was so certain that he was miserable, too. Maybe it was his attitude that made me think he was no stranger to grief: gathered in on himself as if waiting for the next disaster to befall him.
When he sneezed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve, some impulse-perhaps deriving from the same unknown source that had led me into the church in the first place-had me on my feet and walking over to where he was sitting.
‘Here,’ I said, and pulled a Kleenex from my coat pocket and offered it to him. He hadn’t heard me approach, that was clear, but he seemed startled as much by the gesture as my sudden presence. He didn’t make eye contact with me or say anything, but he did take the tissue and wipe his runny nose.
Up close, he didn’t look very good at all. His clothes were wrinkled like he’d been sleeping in them, and his hair was lank and too long and obviously hadn’t been washed in some days. All he had with him in the pew was an old black Jansport backpack- you know, the kind students carry- and it was pretty dilapidated.
I asked him if he was all right- stupid question as he obviously wasn’t, but what else was I going to say- and he told me to fuck off in no uncertain terms. But I couldn’t, Chris, I simply couldn’t. There was something about him: something so weary and defeated that I could not in good conscience have walked away, even if he didn’t want me there.
Instead I sat down next to him, careful to keep some distance between us. He flinched a little, but didn’t move away. He just sat with his forearms on his thighs, fingers nervously shredding the tissue while he stared down at the shadows around his feet. And I waited. Why or for what I had no idea, but eventually he grew curious enough to turn his head and look at me, and I got my first glimpse of his face. Chris, someone had beaten the shit out of him. His face was covered in bruises, recent ones, and there was a cut over his right eye held together with a single butterfly band-aid, a cut that clearly could have used stitches.
The expression on my face must have reflected my shock at his appearance, and he quickly averted his head. I asked him if he needed medical attention or if there was anything I could do for him. All that got me was another ‘fuck off’. Then he added that if I was a fucking priest or social worker, he wouldn’t go to a fucking homeless shelter and I should just leave him the fuck alone and mind my own fucking business.
But the truth is, despite his hostility, he didn’t sound like he really meant it. He sounded utterly exhausted, like a fighter on the ropes after twelve rounds with the heavyweight champion, throwing punches with nothing but desperation behind them.
I said I wasn’t a priest or a social worker, just someone, like him, looking for a quiet place to sit out of the cold. He gave a little laugh at that, but it was about as far from amused as a laugh can be. Then he shivered and sneezed and blew his nose, and I remembered the coffee and offered to get it for him, said I wasn’t going to drink it anyway- which was the truth. I could practically see the war being waged inside him. He obviously wanted it, but wasn’t sure whether he should say ‘yes’ or not. I decided not to wait for him to make up his mind- you know what a draughty barn the church is and how difficult it is to heat- you could practically see your breath- but went and got the coffee for him anyway.
‘Look, just take it,’ I told him. ‘It’s going to go to waste otherwise.’
After a moment’s hesitation, he did, and the haste with which he gulped down the first few mouthfuls was almost painful to watch. Then he looked at me, seeming embarrassed at revealing his desperation, and muttered, ‘Sorry. I should have thanked you first.’
That’s when I said, because, as I told you already, looking into his eyes felt like looking into a mirror, that if he needed a place to stay for the night, he could come home with me. He didn’t reply at once, only studied me for a while over the rim of the styrofoam cup, and I had no idea what was going through his mind. Then he shrugged again and said sure, why the fuck not, that he’d be kicked out of the church sooner or later anyway.
‘My name’s Sean Astin,’ I said, and held out my hand. He stared at it with the strangest expression on his face before taking it in his and briefly shaking it. I hadn’t noticed until then that the beds of his nails were ragged and bloody, as if he’d been chewing-no tearing-at the cuticles, the way he had at the Kleenex.
‘I’m Elijah.’ He didn’t offer a last name, and I didn’t ask him. To be honest, Chris, I still don’t know what it is.
‘Finish your coffee first,’ I advised him. ‘It’s cold out and there’s no rush.’
‘I better make one thing clear first,’ he said abruptly. ‘None of that bareback shit, understand?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ It was like he was speaking a different language all of a sudden.
‘Condoms, man. I won’t let you fuck me without a condom. And I’d like to take a shower first. I… haven’t had one in a while.’
His cheeks were burning beneath the bruises, but so were mine, though I’m sure for entirely different reasons. It hadn’t occurred to me, well, obviously why would it have, that he’d interpret my offer that way.
While I struggled with shock and embarrassment at my naiveté, he kept talking. ‘I never expected to be hit on in a fucking church of all places.’ He shrugged again and drank some more coffee, but he wasn’t as nonchalant as he was pretending to be. ‘You come trolling here a lot? Seems kinda chancy to me.’
‘Perhaps I’m the one who should make something clear now, Elijah,’ I said quietly. ‘I was married in this church thirteen years ago this past June. Fourteen months ago my wife’s funeral mass was held here. I have three daughters at home and one spare guest room that you are welcome to use for a few days if you don’t have anywhere else to go. I have only two requests. The first is that you lose the language around my girls. The second is that you get it out of your head that I expect anything in return. Understand?’
Chris, I thought he was going to curl up and die. He whispered that he was so fucking sorry, and I could tell he thought that he’d blown what was probably his last hope for somewhere to stay that night. For answer I picked up his backpack. It was pitifully light. I asked him, already sensing what his reply would be, if he had any other belongings, and he shook his head.
‘Come on, Elijah,’ I said. ‘Let’s go. Bring the coffee with you.’
‘You’re sure?’ He looked stunned. ‘But how do you know you can trust me?’
It was my turn to shrug. ‘I don’t. But I’m willing to take a gamble. Besides,’ and my eyes strayed to the front of the church, and Chris, I swear that for one moment I could see you standing there, smiling at me, ‘I think it’s what my wife would have wanted me to do.’
He had no good argument for that. So we left the church together and I drove him home. It was snowing harder, and the world looked dazzlingly clean and bright.
That’s how I met Elijah, Chris, and so far the gamble seems to be paying off. In fa-
*
*
*
*
I’m back. I apologize for leaving so abruptly, but I heard a noise, and I was afraid that it was Allie and Lizzy sneaking down to peak at what Santa had left for them under the tree and to check if he ate the cookies and drank the milk.
But it was Elijah. I’d thought he was asleep already; he’s been sleeping a lot- the sleep of total exhaustion. He was standing by the fireplace and staring at his stocking. I swear he hardly looked older than Allie, wearing the pajamas I loaned him- the red plaid ones- you remember them. They’re miles too big for him, which will make you laugh, Chris, because you know I’m not a big guy. Well, he makes me look like Shaquille O’Neal.
He’d noticed that his stocking was a lot fuller than it had been, and I confessed that Santa had added a few more things to what the girls had put in it. For a moment, he seemed actually on the verge of tears, but I get the impression he doesn’t cry easily- unlike me- and he pulled himself together and asked me why I was being so nice to him. I joked that when he saw what was in the stocking, it would be a huge letdown, but he didn’t laugh. I wonder if he even knows how?
He said he hoped he hadn’t wakened me, and Chris, the oddest thing happened then. I told him the truth: that I hadn’t been asleep, but writing a letter to you. I don’t know why I told him. Other than my therapist, he’s the only one I have told. Maybe it’s because he’s a stranger and won’t be here long. Maybe it’s his eyes. I should explain that Elijah has rather extraordinary eyes, and a way of looking at you that seems to invite confidences. A very strange quality when he reveals nothing of himself. Or perhaps that’s the key: telling him a secret is like dropping a rock into a very, very deep pool.
I was sure he would think I’m nuts, writing letters to someone who can never respond, but he asked me, very seriously, if I’d told you about him. When I said yes, he wanted me to apologize to you for what happened in the church- what he’d implied about my reasons for being there. Maybe that was just his roundabout way of apologizing to me, but it gave me an opening I’d been looking for.
‘Would you really have done it?’ I asked him.
He reached out and touched the glittery, uneven ‘E’ on his stocking. Specks of silver drifted to the hearthrug like tiny snowflakes. ‘Yeah,’ he admitted. ‘I would have.’
‘You were that desperate.’ I can’t wrap my mind around it, Chris, the fact that Elijah had been willing to sleep with a stranger just to have a shower and someplace to spend the night. But it makes me all the more determined to help him stand on his own two feet. No one should be that desperate.
‘I couldn’t have gone with just anyone,’ he added. ‘But I wouldn’t have minded it with you.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’ I demanded.
He looked at me then and said simply, 'You have very kind eyes, Sean.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t have sounded as meaningless as Father Michael’s platitudes. Instead I suggested that we get a couple of beers and see what was on TV. Miracle on 34th Street had just started, and we watched that for a while without talking until I noticed Elijah’s chin starting to droop toward his chest and he nearly spilled his beer.
I turned off the TV and told him to go get some sleep. ‘You’ll need it. The girls will be up in a few hours, and you’ll be thinking all those packages of batteries under the tree are meant for my three Energizer Bunnies,’ I joked.
That got a smile out of Elijah at last. He looked like an entirely different person, Chris. Maybe the person he’s meant to be. I hope so. Before he went to bed, Elijah thanked me again, and I told him that I was going to have to institute a ‘no thanking rule’ if he didn’t stop it. He was still smiling as he climbed the stairs.
I made one last tour of the house, checking that everything was locked up tight, and as I walked through the quiet rooms, I realized how selfish I’ve been, how absorbed in my own self-pity and grief. Perhaps meeting Elijah is meant to be a wake-up call for me- perhaps in a strange way he’s my Clarence. I have three beautiful, healthy children, a job, food and shelter, and family. Elijah appears to have none of these things. I can’t promise I won’t cry again, or feel despair, but it is past time that I start remembering the blessings I still do have.
But it’s growing late, and I’d better bring this letter to a close and try to snatch a few hours’ sleep. Elijah isn’t the only one who will need all his energy to keep up with the girls. And Chris, I have a feeling my dreams tonight might be happy ones for a change.
I see it’s after midnight now, so I can wish you a Merry Christmas, my dearest. I’ll write again tomorrow night.
I miss you.
Love,
Sean