Christmas Carol by Clabe Polk

Christmas Carol by Clabe Polk

A cold wind blew the last of the oak leaves careening down the street bouncing on the uneven pavement and manhole covers. Streetlights lanced the gathering darkness as the last vestige of twilight fell behind a tall building causing lengthening shadows to shiver down the allies

consigning service entrances to darkness. One of the shadows, amplified by a street lamp, was that of a woman ambling apparently aimlessly from shadow to shadow down the street.

The shifting lighting concealed her features. Daylight would have revealed a short woman of indeterminate age, hunched over, hugging herself against the cold wind. An army field jacket zipped to the throat covered a dirty, tattered hoodie; her thin blond hair, mingled throughout with streaks of gray, was covered tightly by the tightly closed hood. Stumbling briefly, she half-hopped onto the curb and scurried through the patchwork of lights and shadows cast by the storefronts lining the street. Delicious smells of cooking food from the restaurants wafted through the darkness causing her stomach to clinch with hunger bringing tears to her eyes as she tried to remember her last meal in a restaurant. The 51st Street mission was close. It wouldn’t be long now. “See you next time, Gus,” Miriam McAdams called to the man behind the counter as she opened the shop door to leave. “I’ll come back next week when your new sweaters come in.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Mrs. McAdams…there should be some your husband would like for Christmas!” “I’m counting on it, Gus,” she said over her shoulder as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. She pulled her coat tight around her expanding belly. Her baby was big and at the end of seven months, she was feeling big and awkward. Besides, dark had fallen and with it, the temperature had plunged. Be careful of ice, she thought, it wouldn’t do to fall. Seven months along…a fall could be a disaster. But there was no ice in her path. Only a sidewalk with an endless mosaic of shifting light and darkness. Looking left, she saw only a short woman walking slowly and a bit unsteadily toward her. Umm…looks like someone from my husband’s mission, she thought moved with sympathy, She should be there, where it’s warm…not out here in the freezing cold! I’ll tell her where the mission is.

But the woman disappeared. Odd, Miriam thought, Oh well, maybe she’ll catch up at the corner. At the corner, looking back down the sidewalk as she pressed the button for the pedestrian signal, she could see the woman walking behind her, still too far away for a conversation. Turning back, the traffic signals and the multitude of Christmas lights and signs claimed her attention; and then came the signal to cross the street.

Curtis Grayson had grown up a mediocre student, joined the army, spent much of his enlistment in jail, and retired with a dishonorable discharge to the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He’d gone through girlfriends like a rampaging tornado collecting a variety of assault and battery and domestic violence charges along the way, but tonight…he was free. It was just him, his bottle, his vintage Camero held together with wire and Bondo, and the open street. No one was his master…and that included traffic signals and other traffic. He owned the world, and it felt great!

The shabby woman in the army jacket watched from the shadows of an alley entrance as Miriam pushed the crosswalk button. She observed Miriam’s fashionable coat and shoes and felt a bit envious of Miriam’s obvious pregnancy. She, too, had dressed fashionably. She, too, remembered child-birth; the birth of a son who’d died in a pointless war. She, too, had served in that war in the same service as her son. Sighing, she held back in the shadows, for her own reasons uncomfortable sharing a street-corner with the young mother-to-be. As she watched, the pedestrian light changed and she hurried forward to follow as Miriam stepped from the curb into the crosswalk.

As his alcohol-infused fingers, addled brain and blurry eyes searched for a new radio station, Grayson’s Camero barrelled toward the intersection. The car ahead stopped for the light. Grayson didn’t. He did, however,

swerve left, the Camero hitting the stopped car a glancing blow in the left rear spinning both cars into the adjacent traffic lane forcing two other cars into the oncoming lanes.

A loud crash hit Miriam’s ears as she reached mid-street a half-second before being catapulted into stalled cross-traffic. Ten steps behind, the homeless woman, seeing Miriam thrown into traffic, leaped forward and kneeling beside her as though driven by an outside force, began assessing her injuries. Oblivious to the gathering crowd, and ignoring the kibitzing onlookers, some calling help, others clicking their cell phone cameras, she immersed herself in CPR.

At the 51st Street Mission, Reverend Jimmy McAdams heard sirens. It’s almost Christmas and someone will be needing a Christmas miracle, he thought placing another food pan in the steam table. More meatloafmana from Heaven, he thought, may God continue to bless us to be able to feed these people! But the sirens sounded close; too close. Motioning frantically to others to take charge and grabbing his coat, he ran out the door to see if he could help.

Mayhem greeted him. First responders were just beginning to arrive. A woman lay prostrate in the street, another woman frantically performing CPR on her. Oh my God! The woman doing CPR looks like Carol! He was stunned. Carol was one of his regulars at the mission, though he didn’t know her well; she rarely talked…certainly not about herself. But there she was doing CPR on…Oh my God! It’s Miriam!... Oh my God! He sank to his knees on the pavement sobs racking his body as the paramedics arrived and relieved Carol. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “It will be all right,” Carol told him, “God is watching over you and your family. It’ll be a boy.” Jimmy wiped his eyes…but she was gone. Lost in the crowd.

Jimmy brought Christmas dinner from the mission to Miriam in the hospital. There was much to be thankful for. Miriam was recovering. The baby, delivered prematurely, was thriving. He thought often of Carol. She had not been back to the mission.

A knock on the hospital room door. A short, trim woman of indeterminant age stood there dressed neatly in a casual blue suit. “C… Carol? Jimmy stammered. “Is that you?” “Merry Christmas, you two”, Carol said. “For unto us a child is born; unto us, a Son is given. An unto you, both life and a son are given.” She smiled.

“Thank you,” Miriam said. “Thank you so much!” “Who are you?” Jimmy asked. “You do CPR like a pro.” “It doesn’t matter who I am. You know me as “Carol”, others know me by other names. I help wherever I can.” “You’ll always be “Christmas Carol” to us…the wonder woman that saved our Christmas.

End CLABE POLK is the author of The Detective Mike Eiser Series and The Adventures of Harry Morgan Series of crime/action novels, as well as The Road to Armageddon. He has also written numerous short stories and flash fiction pieces that occasionally appear in e-magazines and anthologies. He enjoys woodworking when not busy working on his new science fiction series or adding new books to the Detective Mike Eiser Series. He brings a deep love of natural sciences and more than thirty-seven years of professional environmental protection and public safety experience to his writing. He lives near Atlanta, Georgia with his wife, two daughters, and the family’s Cockapoo named Annie.