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Christmas, back in New York City, was filled with wonder and light. Emelia thought, when she was no older than Jack, that the holiday had been invented in New York and for New York alone. From the Christmas carols that suffused the air, and trees all wrapped and lined up on the streets, to the store windows, all done up with cotton batting and sprinkled with stardust…
She learned over the years it was so much more than all that. And now with so very little, and so far removed from her childhood, how much more precious everything became.
The sky hung low in the valley that day, the clouds like a fog that shrouded the peaks, softening the jagged edges. Heavy and expectant. Emelia rubbed idly at the taut expanse of her belly. The baby also sat heavy and still, for the moment, and she knew. Soon, Emelia thought. Soon.
When the snow came it drifted on the air, fat and fluffy and dancing clumsy. Disappearing into the swirling black water of the creek. The whole ranch prettier than a painting. Emelia stood at the window, looking out over their yard as she peeled the potatoes for dinner. She saw Arthur emerge from the snowfall, so broad and strong and ruddy. In his thick blue coat, the one lined with fur. The collar turned up to his ears. His breath coming out in warm steady puffs from beneath his father’s hat. A hacksaw dangled in his left hand. With his right he firmly gripped the trunk, dragging the prize. A lovely fir tree, bejeweled with frost, branches trembling.
Jack ambled beside Arthur, his round face hidden in a green coil of wool scarf. Chattering away. He carried sprigs of mountain ash, the berries bright and red as cardinals. Emelia could not make out what they said, but she could hear the cadence of their conversation. Jack’s high, joyful little voice, twittering away. The warm, rumbling softness of Arthur’s steady patience.
“They’re back,” Emelia called. Abigail came and stood with her. “Oh, would you look at that," she said.
Emelia went to open the door just as they reached it.
“Someone here order a tree?” Arthur hollered, grinning. He stomped the snow from his boots.
Emelia smiled at him. “We might be interested.”
“It’ll cost ya,” he said. He stole a kiss then, briefly, sweetly. His lips still cool.
“I found it,” the boy declared, leading the way in. His mother unwrapped him and found him rosy and beaming. “I found it, momma!”
“No,” Abigail gasped, playing along. “You picked this beautiful tree?”
The boy grinned.
“You got a good eye,” Abigail said proudly.
“He wanted an even bigger one,” Arthur chuckled, dragging the tree across threshold. The disturbance lifted its fine scent into the air. “But I, uh… convinced him to go a little easy on his old workhorse.”
“I think you coulda done it, Uncle Arthur.”
“Maybe…” the ex-outlaw allowed, clearly doubtful. He stripped off his coat. “Wouldn’t of fit in here regardless.”
“And what are all these for?” Emelia asked, gesturing to the pile of ash berries now on the table.
“They’re pretty,” Jack said. “Don’t you think they’re pretty?”
“Oh, they are, Jack.”
“D’you think we can make somethin’ with ‘em?”
“Wreaths, maybe. Or garland?”
The tree was a perfect, handsome thing. Ten feet high with a sure, straight point. They set it up in the main room, in a metal bucket, and secured with stone. Opposite the fireplace, so as not to dry it out too quickly. It spread gloriously, the great boughs reaching out like wanting arms and the whole room smelled clean and crisp and green.
Emelia fetched the package from the cabinet. The one wrapped in brown paper with a New York postmark and the Woolworth’s label.
“Here, Jack,” she said, handing it to him.
“A present?”
“In a way,” Emelia said. “It’s part of the fun. Go on, open it.”
The child settled on the floor and ripped through the brown parcel paper. To the box within. He lifted the lid, revealing the neat rows of partitioned carboard and tissue paper and gasped.
“Wow!” Jack exclaimed. “Treasure!” And indeed, the contents must have seemed thus to his young eyes. All silver and gold. Owls and pinecones and bells, gleaming and shinning on their silver hooks. The strings of glass beads, like crystalized dew.
“They’re glass ornaments, Jack. For the tree.”
“Can I put them up?”
“If you promise to be careful,” Emelia said, and already he nodded, eager to comply. “They are very delicate.”
“Oh, I will be, Aunt Emma, I promise!”
“I’ll hand ‘em to you,” Abigail offered. And Jack, true to his word though he trembled with excitement, handled the objects with softness and care.
Arthur came to stand next to Emelia. He wrapped an arm around her waist. “How’d we afford this,” he asked quietly.
“It was a gift,” she said. “From Caroline.”
His brows shot up in surprise. “Yer sister?”
Emelia nodded.
“They thawin’ out a bit?”
“A bit,” she said. Arthur kissed her temple. He set down his coffee mug. He picked up Jack and sat the boy on his shoulders. “Can’t remember the last time we bothered setting one o’ these up.”
“We never been in a place long enough,” Abigail said handing Jack one of the delicate hollowed balls. It was frosted with rose paint and isinglass, glistening like snow in the firelight. “Seemed so… frivolous.”
“Yeah,” Arthur said. A long pause followed. Jack put up three more decorations.
“I wonder how they’re fairin’,” Arthur said aloud.
Emelia looked at him, and felt her eyes water, her heart was so full. Oh, sweet redeeming grace… He had come so far, thank god. Of course, he would think of them, on this night of all nights.
Abigail sighed. When she spoke her voice was strangely soft and subdued. “I wish…” she began. Her voice cracked.
“I know,” Emelia said. She drew her arm around Abigail’s waist and the two young women watched in silence. Abigail wiped her eyes as Jack reached, reached, reached and settled that glass star on that true, straight point.
The candles flickered and danced in the frost-painted panes, darkening from soft grey to black. After they had eaten a modest meal of roasted pheasant and winter vegetables, once everything was cleared away and the animals had been fed, they sat by the fire and enjoyed a Christmas drink. Jack had a glass of milk, all curled up on his mother’s lap. Emelia read to them, first a poem about St. Nicholas. Jack’s imagination set alight by the idea of a sleigh pulled by reindeer rather than horses. He fell asleep by the fourth stave of a Christmas Carol.
“I guess all that gallivantin’ tuckered him out,” Abigail said, struggling to rise without waking the boy. Arthur did not ask. He stood.
“Let me,” he said taking Jack in his arms. He carried him upstairs.
Abigail went to follow. She paused on the landing and looked at Emelia. “Good night,” she said. “And… Merry Christmas.”
Emelia smiled. “I’m glad you’re both here.”
Abigail blinked and nodded, steely as ever and climbed the stairs.
He returned a few minutes later. He placed another log on the fire before coming to stand in front of Emelia, where she still reclined on the couch. Trying in vain to relieve the pressure on her ribs. Arthur paused there a moment, gazing at her.
“Ain’t seen anythin’ so beautiful,” he said.
“Still?” Emelia asked, blushing. Truthfully, she doubted, feeling swollen as she did.
“Yer glowin’,” he whispered.
Arthur kneeled before her then, his hands splaying, smoothing the fabric of her dress and curving against the ripe firmness of her. The child within trembled then and Emelia met Arthur’s handsome, hooded gaze. His eyelashes so thick, his eyes so clear, so bright. Like the winter sky at sunset. Calm blue fading to gold at the edge of the earth.
“Merry Christmas, Arthur,” she said. His eyes glistened and he blinked furiously, swallowing thickly. His smile a soft, brittle thing. Again, the baby tumbled against his palms and he chuffed an incredulous little laugh and pressed into it, firm and gentle. Arthur cleared his throat and shifted, so he could lean in better. His mouth fit well against hers. She worried his lush lower lip and pressed her fingers into the hard curve of his shoulders. He kept a hand on her stomach as the other came to stroke her hair. Kissing, unhurried. So tender and mild.