Six Days 'Till Christmas (Could Be Short Story #2)

Part the First

Timothy was dead: to begin with. He had no doubt whatever about that. And what else should he be? His nose was cold, his ears were cold, his fingers were cold—even his toes were cold, wrapped up in a newspaper and a double layer of socks.

But the worst of his discomfort and the cause of his deadness was the knowledge that the O'Connors had invited the Wrights to spend Christmas Eve with them, and Timothy still hadn't found the right moment to tell his parents about the understanding he and Mary had come to. Mrs. O'Connor had delivered the fateful invitation as genuinely as she ever did anything, and Mary had turned to him with wide eyes upon hearing it. He still remembered that look, framed by candlelight—it was at once pleading and eager. She'd followed him out the door, begging him to tell her as soon as possible what his parents' answer was. She was tired of hiding too.

He trudged on through the snow blinking snowflakes out of his eyes, and pulled his hat lower over his ears and his collar higher around his neck. The early winter dark seemed colder and damper after leaving the warm brightness of the O'Connors'. He'd come to be a regular fixture there on Sunday evenings, but his parents asked no questions and he gave no answers. He dreaded that day—what would they say? That he was mad? Foolish, even? What was he thinking? How could he subject Mary to the uncertainty of living on the income provided by a cripple?

He stepped out of the dark of the alley the O'Connors lived on and into the warm orange flare of a street-lamp. Several figures huddled in the glare, perhaps pretending that the deceptive glow was a bonfire flame. He rubbed his hands together and kept going, sensible of the fact that dead people were easily robbed. When at last he heard the rattle of an approaching cab he flagged it down and was left to jolt around in uncomfortable silence for the next half hour.

He wanted more than anything to see his two worlds collide. But he feared the damage it might cause to both.

***

"Did you have a nice time at the O'Connors', dear?" Mrs. Wright asked the moment Timothy labored his way up the stairs and into the glorified attic they called home. She sat by the stove in the frigid little room that doubled as a living and dining area, and darned stockings with deft precision. Mr. Wright read a paper opposite her by candlelight, and only acknowledged his son's appearance by turning the page.

As cold as it was it was warmer than outside, and Timothy was glad to shut the door firmly behind him. He was almost positive the plaster ceiling cracked. "Yes, very nice," he said, and paused, sitting down on a stool between them to pull off his shoes. He needed to dry off before the damp of melting snow seeped into his wooden foot. "You know—it's peculiar you should ask—they'd like to invite all of us for dinner on Christmas Eve." He braced for impact. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was a start.

Mrs. Wright stopped darning stockings long enough to look at him in open-mouth surprise, and Mr. Wright put down his paper. Timothy busied himself with stripping off the first layer of socks to find out if the second layer was damp.

"Are you really such good friends as that?" Mrs. Wright asked. Timothy wondered if his father hadn't somehow lost his tongue at church that morning. Why didn't he say something?

"Yes, good friends," Timothy said, and then scolded himself. Good friends! He didn't meet Sam every Sunday. Here was his opportunity to out with the whole truth, but the words just wouldn't come. He sat there in painful indecision for a moment, turning his wet socks back right-side out, and then ventured to say that he thought they might have a real Christmas this year.

"A real Christmas?" Mr. Wright echoed, proving that he did, indeed, still have a tongue. "What do you suppose all those Christmases we spent at the Astors were?"

Timothy pulled off the last layer of socks with a sinking feeling. There was nothing more painful than an Astor Christmas. It meant starched collars, injunctions to be on his best behavior, and—inevitably—Prissy laying claim to whatever either Timothy or George had been given. At least the Christmas tradition of new crutches begun when he was twelve put a stop to that. Timothy didn't even want them. Now, poor as they were, the giving of presents had ended entirely.

"I do believe the O'Connors might have new traditions we might find enjoyable," Timothy tried again, shoving those disappointing memories back where they belonged. They weren't the kind of Christmas he'd read about in books.

"Should we accept, Charles?" Mrs. Wright asked, resuming her darning.

"I don't see why not," Mr. Wright said, picking up his paper. "We haven't anywhere else to be."

Timothy stopped in the middle of unwinding the newspaper from his wooden foot, but the conversation had already turned to the following day's work. Timothy put the paper in the fire and watched the steam wick off it. It might as well have been his courage too, because his parents' unemotional responses to the invitation had siphoned off anything that might be called bravery. Never mind—it didn't seem quite fair to say something without Mary there. Perhaps it would be better to tell them at the O'Connors'. There was strength in numbers.

Six days. He had six days to prepare himself. Oh, Lord.

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