Chapter Text
It was Christmas Eve, and Tom knew something was wrong the minute he woke up.
In the year since he’d quit his job as printer’s assistant and moved back in with Aunt Polly, he’d grown accustomed to the comforting rustles and rattles of his aunt in the morning. Efficient as clockwork, she often awoke before dawn, made breakfast, accomplished her household chores, and was out the door running errands by ten.
In the days leading up to Christmas, with Sidney and Mary expected and all sorts of extra preparations to be made, she had taken to waking in the cold black of morning, to be hard at work before the sun rose.
Which was why it was so alarming that this morning, the day before Christmas, when Tom most expected to hear pots clanging, broom bristles whisking, and doors banging, he instead heard…silence.
He slid out of bed and ventured down the hall, bare feet cold on the boards. At Polly’s door, he rapped.
“Out in a minute,” came her voice, brisk as usual. “I won’t be making breakfast. Get some of yesterday’s biscuits and run to your job. Everything’s fine.”
A shiver of dread curled down his spine. “What’s wrong?”
The silence on the other side of the door made his heart sink. Cautiously he turned the knob and peeked in.
The room was dark, shutters closed, not a single lamp or candle lit. In the gloom Aunt Polly sat on the edge of her bed, a damp handkerchief pressed over her eyes. “I said I’m fine, Thomas. Honestly.”
Tom crossed the room, sat beside her, and gently pulled her hand from her face.
The skin of her eyelids puffed over her eyes like over-risen dough, angry red and waxy white. Only the barest fringe of lash poked from deep within the crease, crusted with yellow.
Tom was aghast. “What happened?”
“Just a little irritation.” Aunt Polly dabbed the damp cloth at her face. “Once the swelling goes down I’ll head downstairs and finish getting everything ready for tonight.”
This was absolute madness. Tom stood. “I’m running for the doctor.”
Aunt Polly snatched for him and missed; she couldn’t see him. “Don’t you dare. You’ll be late for work.”
“Mr. Hammond will understand.” He doubted his boss would do any such thing, but it couldn’t be helped. Aunt Polly’s condition was serious.
The doctor, upon his arrival, seemed to agree with Tom. “Granulated eyelids,” he said. “You got too much soot in your eyes yesterday cleaning the stovepipe, Polly—”
“Fiddlesticks,” said she—
“—Yes, you did, you probably did the whole job on your own, you never ask for help for anything—”
“Boo,” said she—
“—And now you have an infection,” the doctor finished.
“I can’t have an infection. I have guests coming.”
“Nevertheless.” His voice was stern. “For the next week or so Thomas here is going to be your guardian angel.”
“The next week—” spluttered Aunt Polly.
“Or more,” declared the doctor. “If you don’t follow my instructions to the letter. Thrice a day you must apply a warm compress, to dissolve accumulated discharge. Then, spread your lids with this cooling lotion.”
He handed a bottle to Tom and raised a bushy eyebrow. Tom nodded.
“Above all, you must stay in complete darkness,” the doctor said. “Your eyes will be extremely photophobic. Any light will be extraordinarily painful and cause your eyes to tear up, which would worsen your condition.”
“I can’t sit in the dark all day,” said Aunt Polly. “That’s absurd. Sidney is coming this afternoon, and Mary tonight. We're having Christmas dinner at midnight. We alway do; it's tradition. I have a million things to do.”
“Tom will attend to your business in town and assist with tasks around the house, I’m sure. Right, Thomas?”
Tom thought of his job and Mr. Hammond, but he nodded.
“Good.” The doctor snapped his bag shut. Tom counted out a dollar and dropped it into his hand, and the doctor strode out, wiping his brow.
Over the next few minutes, Tom and Aunt Polly worked out a chore list.
First he’d run by the general store to tell Mr. Hammond he couldn’t come to work today, nor tomorrow, nor possibly the rest of the week.
While he was there, he’d pick up various assorted items Aunt Polly needed: cranberries, allspice, cloves, popping corn, and crepe paper. Then he’d run by the butcher to collect their goose, which they’d paid for in installments and which was finally ready.
Then he’d run home, chop the wood, make lunch, apply Aunt Polly’s compress and lotion, air the bedding, sweep the floors, polish the table, and that should get him to early afternoon.
Tom felt out of breath, and he hadn’t even started.
Unfortunately, the first task went miserably, and set the tone for the rest of the day.
“No. You can’t have the time off.” In the general store, Mr. Hammond drummed his thick fingers on the counter. “I already gave everyone else the time off, because they have seniority. You must work.”
“I can’t,” said Tom. “Aunt Polly is sick, and there are a million things I must do for her—”
“It’s not Christmas only for you,” said Mr. Hammond. “You can’t have it off. It’s impossible.”
Tom sighed and gathered his courage. “I’m sorry. I won’t be here.”
Mr. Hammond’s face darkened. “Then you won’t be here in the new year, either.”
Tom nodded slowly. “Very well.” He put on his hat and left.
And that’s how he lost his job on Christmas Eve.
Standing on the street outside, Tom felt numb. He told himself it was for the best—Mr. Hammond was a boor, the shop dull, the wages terrible, now he was free to find something better. But all he could think was that he’d been fired, fired, fired, no more money, he’d have to rely on his savings and Aunt Polly.
He’d failed another job. Just like the print shop.
He walked across the square to the butcher’s and collected the goose—a fat white one, with a long limp neck and feet tied with twine.
“You owe the last payment on that,” said the butcher. “One dollar.”
A whole dollar! And he already spent a dollar on the doctor. But they had to have the goose; everyone looked forward to it, and anyways they’d already paid the other installments. With an inward sigh, Tom counted out the money. It hurt more, handing it over, now that he was unemployed.
As he left he remembered he was also supposed to pick up Polly’s groceries at Hammond’s. He cursed as he stared across the square at the store.
“I really don’t want to go back in there..." Facing Hammond again so soon after being fired was too painful to bear.
He decided to pick up the items later. “I’ll be out for other things.”
For a moment he lingered, studying the fence outside the general store. He imagined a tall, thin figure sitting on the rail, long hair tangled in the wind, tattered hat askew, cob pipe stuck in the corner of his smirking mouth.
Tom’s breath grew tight. If only…
He shook his head, banishing the image. There was no one there. There hadn’t been anyone there for a long, long time.