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

Part the Fifth

Timothy made his way to work the next morning, muddle-headed from a lack of sleep and wishing for Sam's incredible memory. He limped his way amongst the crowds out doing Christmas shopping, puffing along like so many steam boats in the frosty cold. The snow sparkled bright white in the sun, hurting his eyes.

What he wouldn't have given to have lain abed a little longer that morning. A part of him was still on Mary's doorstep, reveling in the assurance that not only did he love her, but she loved him—but that part became increasingly hard to find as he labored up the stairs inside the The Evening Telegram and was faced by the bleak prospect of a nearly empty office. Christmas cheer, indeed.

The stale cold of the building seeped into his bones. When he sat down at the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, he tried to write about the excellence of the crescendo, but wrote only about the way Mary's face brightened with pleasure because of it. In the next paragraph he began to write about the distinguished crowds, but finished with the thought that there was only one person he'd have wanted to be with amongst that multitude of strangers. He tried to do justice to the painted fairytale characters watching the concert from above but somehow wrote about the fact that not one of them had a love as true as this music that filled his soul.

Frustrated, he scrapped them all and scraped out the driest, most uninspired article about a concert that ever graced the pages of The Evening Telegram and submitted it to Mr. Ainsley before any more foolishness crept out of his pen.

Then he went and wished Sam a merry Christmas—something his friend needed desperately, because Mrs. Paine was furious about her son having the audacity to still be unwell.

"I can think of merrier Christmases than this one," Sam groaned, lying in bed with covered ears because Mrs. Paine was clanging pots and pans around like a symphony of cowbells outside his room. "One year I carved her a jewelry box for Christmas and she was in a good humor for a whole week."

Timothy could do nothing but express the opinion that Sam was a better son than she deserved. He'd grown bold enough to sit inside the room with Sam and the door was shut. They were safe enough from prying ears—not that anyone could hear anything with the noise Mrs. Paine was making anyway.

Sam picked at the top edge of his covers for a moment, then sighed. "What are you getting Mary for Christmas?" he asked.

Timothy stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Sam furrowed his brow. "Do you mean to say you haven't got her anything? Mercy, I see why Elesol declared its independence. You're all muttonheads."

"Sam, you might have just saved my life. Merry Christmas!" Timothy exclaimed, jamming on his hat and stepping out the door as fast as he could without tripping. There wasn't a moment to lose. What kind of ignorant, unfeeling sort of lout must he be to forget a present for Mary? His parents didn't expect anything, but she might. Muttonhead. Sam was right. He had money now. He had better use it.

He caught a cab to the market district of Thameton and scoured the inside of every shop. Fruit seemed too uninspired, books ridiculous. He lingered for a moment in front of the baking powder and decided that would send the wrong message too. Ribbons were a mystery to him, as were any feminine articles of attire.

When his panic dissipated, he realized that there was no more time. He had to go home and dress, or else he wouldn't have even himself to present. The fog of shame crept into his heart once again. He'd really done it this time. Oh, Lord.

At home he found both his parents sitting by the one little warm spot around the stove; one mending a shirt and the other with his nose buried in a paper. The air was almost blue with cold and the damp plaster ceiling seemed ready to cave in at any moment, but Timothy mustered enough leftover cheer to wish them both a merry Christmas because he hadn't done it that morning at breakfast and he wasn't sure he could look an O'Connor in the face if he didn't.