Published in Western People, December 19, 1991
It was my mother who thought of inviting a stranger from the Salvation Army Hostel to share Christmas dinner with us. She'd read about a family who did that every year and it had been in the back of her mind for a long time. She said Christmas fell short of her expectations. Even though we gorged on food and had presents piled around the tree, she still felt empty. It was somehow all a pursuit of nothingness; a pursuit of greed.
I couldn't agree with her more. Being a kid I sometimes felt a little like that but I would never have mentioned it. I wouldn't want my parents to think I didn't enjoy Christmas. I looked forward to getting gifts I'd wanted all year, at least since the ads on television told us what we should want. My mother thought that sharing Christmas with a disadvantaged person would bring back the true meaning of the day.
If nothing else her idea opened up the lines of communication in our family. My father was quiet on the subject except to say that it would be good for us to see that everyone didn't have an easy life. My sister wanted to know if the stranger would look like a bum she'd seen on television, all bristly and wearing an old coat.
My mom said we shouldn't expect a gift and gave Ashley a lecture on always expecting something.
The dinner would be our gift to him, explained Mother. He might feel uncomfortable if we gave him something and he had nothing for us.
"But Jesus had nothing and people brought him gifts."
Mom looked perplexed for a moment. "We'll get him something--like gloves--to keep him warm."
"I could knit him a scarf," Ashley said. Ashley is six years old and has just started knitting. It's not really knitting but holding knitting needles with yarn on her lap and yelling for Mom to come because she'd dropped another stitch. The stranger would be cold for a long time before he received a knitted scarf from Ashley.
My Great Aunt Rose was very upset when Mom told her about the idea. "He could be an escapee from a mental home or worse still, a killer. He could murder you in your very own beds on Christmas night. I could never rest if I knew your dear family was in danger," and she went on and on as only Aunt Rose can. She's the kind of person my father says that if there were 40 days of sunshine and one day of rain, she would complain about the rain. There's a perpetual downturn around her mouth. If she couldn't find something to fret about she went in search of it.
Christmas Day arrived at least. We scurried around and with all the thoughts running through our heads we couldn't help but feel apprehensive. My parents thought that we shouldn't have an ostentatious display of wealth and made us put away all the gifts from under the tree except one for each. Dad decided to wear his older coat when he went to pick up the stranger and drive the 1908 Plymouth and left the new Toyota in the garage.
When he returned with the stranger we were as ready for him as we could ever be. He was small and slim with hair that curled over his collar. There was a gaunt look about him but his face was young--not more than 20. He looked away from us. He reminded me of Uncle Ernie's dog after his master died. He was afraid to look up in case he might see what was going to happen to him--and it might not be something good.
In a desire to make him feel welcome Mom filled the silence with talk about the weather. It wasn't even cold today. The sun shone across the snow like diamonds glistening and hoarfrost clung to the trees like angel dust.
So the stranger had to listen to my mother's comments about the weather. He merely nodded or grunted a negative or affirmative answer. My father then fired a quick round of questionsat him.
His name was Peter McDonald. He was 21 and from New Brunswick. "Somewhere in the north," he said not wanting to be more accommodating.
Making conversation with Peter McDonald was like trying to write a long English term paper. It was hard to find the right words and you had to keep working at it every step of the way. He looked small and fornlorn and Mom hustled off to the kitchen to get dinner ready. She feared he might be starving.
The five of us sat around the table, heads bowed thanking our Creator for what he had given us. I looked up suddenly at the stranger. There was a profound look of sadness on his face. If this was supposed to be a good idea, to help a disadvantaged person, I think we should dispense with it next year. He showed no signs of happiness.
I was startled when he finally spoke of his own will. "Don't you have any more family?"
"Oh yes," answered Ashley, who is quick to reply if there's a chance to talk. "My Gramma and Auntie and Uncle and cousins are in Florida for Christmas but we couldn't go because we couldn't afford to" and she looked toward the tree where our four little gifts sat. Peter's eyes followed hers. In our haste to make him feel comfortable we'd carried off everything that looked like it most cost more than $10.
"Aunt Betty wanted us to go to the farm but Daddy had to work," Ashley continued. "Do you have family?"
"Two brothers and a sister."
"Really, that must be so much fun to have someone to play with," and she looked at me. I am 12 and Ashley is six so we get along but I don't play with her very much because she's only a kid and I am almost grown up.
"You're our project," she continued. Mom put her hand up to her mouth in a shushing motion. "We decided to invite you to come over to cheer you up." Mom and Dad both started talking at once running over each other's words. Mom finally took Ashley along to the kitchen under the pretence of getting the pudding ready. Dad started talking about hockey but Peter didn't follow hockey.
I could tell by the look on my father's face that he was thinking "blasphemy"--a Canadian boy who doesn't care about hockey. The three of us sat there staring at each other and down at our plates.
Ashley and Mom had returned with the dessert. Peter's appetite was not the cause of his downcast face. He had not eaten very much and it was good, too. Mom had been afraid she wouldn't have enough or he might not like turkey so she had also cooked a ham and two kinds of vegetables in case he was a finicky eater. Because of that there was enough food for us and all our relatives.
He suddenly turned to me and asked me what I had received for Christmas.
That was a difficult question. I wouldn't be lying if I just mentioned the coin book I'd received from my Gramma.
He looked at Mom and Dad suddenly. I could see that he thought they must be awfully poor or horribly cheap to give their son only a book for Christmas as we sat at the table piled with food.
Ashley brought over her gift which was a jigsaw puzzle from her cousin, Linda.
"Here's something for you," said Ashley and she brought him the gloves although he didn't know what they were until he opened the package. His face didn't brighten when he saw them.
Ashley ran for the scarf she had been knitting. It was three inches long with holes in it from dropped stitches. "It's not finished yet but it's for you--to keep you warm." She held it up to his neck. It was the same length as his collar. He laughed and some of the gloom washed away from his face.
His eyes travelled across the room to the piano.
"Who plays?" he asked.
"It's Gramma's," I said. "She left it with us when she moved out of her house. I'm learning to play it."
"He's not very good at it," added Ashley. "He hates to practice and he doesn't like his teacher, Mrs. Evans, because she makes grunting noises."
He moved toward the piano with a spring in his step and sat down. His fingers danced across the keys as if exploring an old friend. Then music burst forth. He started playing carols and we scrambled to find song books to sing along. He played until we ran out of songs and then he repeated our old favorites like Silent Night and Joy To The World. The gloom was erased from his face. Whatever had weighed heavily upon him evaporated with his ability to play.
I couldn't get over the difference between his playing and Mrs. Evan's. She probably was good at it but there was something stuffy and stifling about the music she played. It followed a rigid plan and there was no room for enjoyment. Listening to him, my fingers ached to get on the keys--to see if I could produce such magic. He paused and looked at me and read my thoughts.
"Have a go at it, Jeremy," he said. I shook my head. I could play tomorrow. His music would still be in my head. Where he went there would be no piano.
After that the ice melted in the air. We were friends--even like a family--any family having Christmas dinner and singing carols. We sat by the piano as long as we could not wanting to break the spell, but finally it was getting time for him to leave and for us to go to bed.
My dad suddenly asked him if he would like to telephone home. He said no at first. I suppose he thought we couldn't afford it but when Dad insisted, he said he would pay us back when he got a job. He didn't seem to want to call collect.
He went into the kitchen to make the call. We sat politely in the living room except Ashley who positioned herself in the hall outside the kitchen door. She didn't want to miss anything. To be perfectly honest we would have all liked to have been six years old and without scruples.
She told us the few snatches of conversation that she could hear. He asked about everyone--Bob, Linda, Tom and others. At the end he said not to worry that he was spending Christmas with some friends. "I am fine," he said.
Mom looked suddenly very happy and a little smug. It was true. It was Christmas night and we didn't feel the least bit empty.
My mom offered to make coffee. I am sure it was to delay his departure because we sure didn't need it. He declined and as he was putting his coat on he said, "Would you mind if I came over and helped Jeremy with his piano lessons once in a while?"
I nodded excitedly to my parents and Mom assured him it would be OK.
"It would be my gift to you," he said. "I don't know how long I'll be here. I think I have a job but then I might go home one of these days." I could feel my face fall. He smiled. "Believe me we need the Mrs. Evanses of the world to keep us going. If you're really trying and concentrating, you won't hear the grunting." And then he was gone with my dad.
I lay in my bed and listened to my mom talking to Aunt Rose on the telephone, assuring her that we were still alive.
At last when Dad came home he came up to tuck me in.
"Did you have a good Christmas, son? Did you like your gift?"
"Oh yes. Do you think I'll ever be able to play like that?"
"If you practice." He was quiet for a while. "I meant the computer game we gave you."
"Yes Dad, I really like it." I couldn't remember where it was at the moment. In our haste to hide our gifts it had gotten lost in the shuffle. I had begged for it for months.
"He thinks we're paupers, you know."
My father laughed. "We did seem to overdo that a bit. I think he understands that we're not destitute anyway."
"Could we do it again next year? If Peter's still here. He could come too."
"Maybe. And the next year another, and then we could close down the Salvation Army kitchen and have them all here--not that your Mom wouldn't have enough food for them. Let's take it year by year. Have a good sleep, son," and he rubbed my hair with his hand.
I feel asleep and dreamt that Peter was standing in our doorway. He smiled and his teeth were like piano keys. Mom came and stood beside him and started to sing Joy To The World. Then Dad came and joined in, and my sister and then Aunt Rose and my other aunts and uncles and cousins all kept joining the group and singing louder and louder and all the time Peter moved his teeth up and down to make the music.
When I awoke I realized it was only a dream. I could still hear the music.