Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, from Ed Calkins Steward of Tara (and me)
But sleep and the chance to escape the avalanche of
horrible knowledge eluded him. As the boy contemplated the ceiling cracks, he
hoped for early trucks and quick delivery, but John-Peter abandoned that hope
after Ed’s shouting jolted him awake. A steady stream of snowflakes floated
past his window.
Ten
minutes later, the roads were already thick with the slippery mass. Ed peered
between the frozen smears his old wipers left on his windshield as he guided his
car toward Main Street .
“John-Peter,
it’s a good thing Irishmen have an abiding sense of tragedy. It sustains them
through temporary periods of joy.”
“I
never heard that saying.” The yawn escaped his lips before he could stop it.
“Did you make it up?”
“No, ‘tis as old as the hills of Ireland .”
The
boy huddled deeper within his coat and leaned his head against the frozen
window. A thirty minute nap was more welcoming than listening to Ed quote Irish
proverbs. He woke with a start. Shivering, he pulled the musty old burlap that
served as a blanket around his neck and peeped into the parking lot. Thick
layers of heavy, still-falling snow covered the vehicles. Carriers, eyes at
half mast to block the driving wetness as they left the building’s shelter, struggled
to push their carts through the slush.
A
cart handle scraped the car, but the carrier kept going without a single
apology. John-Peter opened the door, stepped out, and sank halfway to his
knees. He wasn’t surprised, only cold and damp. Intense snowfalls were a part
of every winter he'd ever known. He shuffled and slid to the center and then
blinked against the bright lights.
Ed
Calkins, standing tall on a work station, cupped his hands around his mouth,
and called out, “The Queen of Christmas!”
The
winner was one of the new carriers, a tiny woman who barely reached
John-Peter’s shoulder. Her girlish giggling at being honored in this manner
belied the oily, gray strands drooping onto her forehead. With mincing steps,
the woman approached Ed Calkins, climbed onto the station beside him, and
allowed him to place a jingle bell tiara on her head.
“All
hail Gloria Nefstead, our new Queen of Christmas!”
One
carrier yelled, “Hurray!” A few more clapped their hands. Most ignored the
festivities as they hurriedly double-bagged their papers. Clutching the back of
the work table, Ed lowered himself to a sitting position and then bounced to
the ground. That’s when he noticed John-Peter.
“Good.
You’re awake. Three new drivers need to sign my petition. Can you bag the
Munsonville Weeklies while I go hunt them up?"
"Sure,
Uncle Ed.”
“Don’t forget. Double bag.”
The
plows were working their way down the main roads, and the sky was hinting at a
few pink streaks by the time Eircheard's Emporium came into view. Eircheard was
just setting two freshly baked loaves as John-Peter and Ed slid through the
door. John-Peter devoured the first loaf with half the contents in his water
jug before Ed made his first deal of the day.
“Got
any elf costumes?”
The
little old man leaned back in his chair and relit his pipe, puffing on it a few
times before he spoke. “Didn’t you buy one last year?”
“Look
how the boy has grown. He’s not going to fit into that costume. Hey, you didn’t
sell that collection of Irish toasts I was reading here yesterday?”
“I’ve
seen plenty an Irish lad grow big and strong on my bread. And, no, I didn’t
sell the book yet. It’s around here somewhere.”
John-Peter
swallowed the last mouthful and cut a thick slice from the second loaf. He
didn’t doubt the superiority of Eircheard’s bread. He tasted heaven with every
bite.
Ed
sifted through a table of paperbacks. "So what about that elf
costume?"
Eircheard
rose to his feet and spoke around his pipe. “I’ve got a leprechaun costume in
the back that might fit him. He could wear that with your elf’s hat.”
“No!”
John-Peter shouted before he could squelch it.
Ed
dropped the paperback, and Eircheard’s hand, already on the curtain, paused.
Surprised at his outburst, John-Peter slid his hand down his jeans and over the
bump in his right pocket. Guard your
mouse.
“The
boy is right, Eircheard. ‘Twouldn’t be right.”
John-Peter spread a thick slab across the last
piece of bread. “I can wear a green shirt with my suit coat and your hat.
That’s more elfish than any leprechaun costume.”
Lucky
for him, the Steward of Tara agreed.
Illustration
by Kathleen Rose Van Pelt for Bryony.
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