All You Need at Christmas

Story posted by Chris Cade | Short Christmas Stories on Oct 26, 2008 in Inspirational Christmas Stories (If known, the original author is listed below)

Cassie Rivers hated snow. Growing up in the South, pictures of snow—glistening, white, pure—had fooled her. No more. Now she knew snow. It was cold and wet and stung your face in the wind like a handful of sand. And it hurt when boys at school packed it into hard balls and hit you when you weren’t looking.

She sighed and stared out the window of the school bus. Mirrored in the glass, she saw a girl with black curls poking from under a red wool beret. Sad eyes in a thin, freckle-dusted face stared back at her. Beyond the road, patches of stubbled corn rose in a frozen, desolate landscape. Iowa in December didn’t look or feel like Louisiana.

Her brother’s metal lunch box banged into her knees.

“Watch it, Eddie!” she cried. “That hurt!”

Eddie pulled the lunch box onto his lap. “S . . . s . . .s . . . orry,” he said.

She regretted her sharpness at once. Right after Hurricane Katrina, when they were living in the shelter, Eddie had begun to stutter. She could understand why. Living with hundreds of strangers bustling about had scared her, too. Even at night, when the lights dimmed and blanketed forms stirred restlessly on cots, the sound of coughing and sneezing and babies crying made sleep difficult.

She glanced out the window. A sullen gray sky without a hint of pale sun stretched to the horizon. Periodically, the bus shuddered to a halt at crossroads and driveways to disgorge noisy children. Many had parents waiting to greet them with hugs.

There wouldn’t be any hugs for Cassie and her brother. Their mother worked the dinner shift as a waitress at a restaurant and wouldn’t be home until late. But she usually left a cooked meal, or at least a TV dinner, for Cassie to warm up in the microwave. Cassie was 13, an eighth grader, and responsible for caring for her eight-year-old brother and herself.

“Aren’t we there yet?” Eddie complained. “I’ll miss my TV programs.”

“Almost. I can see the church.”

Ahead, the steeple of Glenview Community Church rose like a needle. The bus driver flashed his lights and stopped the bus. Cassie and Eddie got off. They watched the bus’s yellow tail lights shrink and disappear in the fading light.

They climbed the steps to the trailer and removed their boots. Cassie unlocked the door and turned on the lights. The cold trailer, stuffed with mismatched furniture, curtained off sleeping areas, and cramped kitchen, smelled musty and metallic, like a tool shed. Cassie turned up the thermostat and put their wet boots on a newspaper just inside the door. Eddie plunked down in a worn bean bag chair patched with duct tape and grabbed the TV remote.

Cassie looked around. Home, sweet home. The trailer had been the outreach office of the church. But that was before Katrina blew its destructive path across New Orleans, smashing the levees and flooding the city. When the water started coming under the front door of their rented house, Mrs. Rivers had taken Cassie, Eddie, and Rufus, their lab and who-knew-what-else dog, and fled. Their aging Toyota had died in the surging water, forcing them to abandon it and wade to higher ground. They joined the thousands of people trapped on the concrete island that held the Superdome. Scared, hungry, sometimes thirsty, they waited helplessly until buses arrived to carry them to a shelter in Texas. Cassie remembered how Rufus had strained at the leash held by a Red Cross worker, barking in disbelief as they boarded the bus without him.

Still, they had been lucky, she reflected, that members of a church in Iowa had converted the trailer into a temporary, rent-free home. Moreover, they had generously donated used furniture, clothing, and household necessities. But a trailer wasn’t a house. And Iowa wasn’t Louisiana, especially in December.

Cassie’s eyes filled. I miss Rufus. But she missed her father more. He had been gone for almost a year, serving as a truck driver with a National Guard unit in Iraq. His tour of duty wouldn’t end until next month—after Christmas. Even before the hurricane, Cassie had noticed how her mother changed after talking to him on the phone by satellite. Once the call ended, the laughter drained from her voice and the smile vanished from her face. Cassie looked at Eddie, engrossed in a television program. She tries to keep it from us, but she’s scared for dad. Lately, as the news of road-side bombings had risen, Cassie had begun to notice new lines beneath her mother’s eyes.

Her glanced at the plastic, table-top Christmas tree by the window. A few decorations, paint peeling with age, had been given them by the church’s women’s guild. She had helped her mother decorate the tree with crinkly garlands of popcorn. A scattering of lights glowed bravely, but some of the bulbs had burned out. Mrs. Rivers had cautioned Cassie and Eddie not to expect much in the way of gifts for Christmas this year. Money was tight.

Better to remember last year, when they had all been together, and think about next year, when they would be together again.

“Wh . . . wh . . . at’s for supper?” Eddie didn’t lift his eyes from the screen.

Cassie opened the refrigerator and scanned the shelves, looking for what her mother had left for them. “Macaroni and cheese.”

“Again!”

She examined the freezer compartment. “And there’s some of those frozen strawberry fruit bars that you like.” She set about preparing dinner.

Mrs. Rivers returned home several hours later. She drooped from weariness but forced a smile.

“Can I heat some water for tea, Mom?” Cassie asked.

“No, honey. Did you get your homework done?”

“All finished. Only math tonight. And I had Eddie read to me.”

“Good.” Her mother’s voice sounded mechanical, as if her mind were somewhere else. “Is everything going okay at school?”

Cassie hesitated. “Everything’s fine, Mom.”

But of course, it wasn’t. She had to get up earlier to ride the school bus. Once she got to school, she had to adjust to new teachers, unfamiliar textbooks, and classes with strangers. At first, other children had sought her out, eager to hear about what it was like to be in a hurricane. But when the scenes of flooding faded from television, so did their interest.

Truth was, Cassie was homesick. She missed yams and cornbread and dirty rice and jambalaya and fresh shrimp from the Gulf. She missed warm, moist air that wrapped you in a soft blanket. She missed hearing Cajun music. She missed her friends and relatives, scattered across the country.  She missed her bedroom with stuffed animals and pictures and souvenirs from Disney World.

Stop that! Cassie told herself. You’re lucky to be alive! You’re lucky to be where you are and have what you have. . . But she really didn’t believe it. Christmas was approaching, and it promised to be the worst Christmas ever.

The week before Christmas passed quickly. One thing Cassie had to admit: the holidays sure felt different up north. The air, chilly and bracing, stole her breath when she stepped out the door. Somehow the idea of Santa Claus, dressed in a heavy red suit and cap, seemed more real when flurries danced in the air and snow crunched underfoot. At school, pictures of candles, Christmas trees, and snowmen enlivened the walls. As Cassie and Eddie rode the bus home in late afternoon, strings of colored lights began twinkling on houses. A manger scene greeted them on the church’s front lawn.

One night, after Eddie had gone to bed, the telephone rang. Cassie’s mother stiffened and looked at the clock. “Who could be calling at this time of night?” She picked up the phone nervously. “Yes . . . this is Helen Rivers. Yes . . .that’s the address we lived at in New Orleans.” She stopped and her eyes widened. “Oh, yes! Very much. We’ll be at the airport at 3 p.m.”

“What is it, Mom?” Cassie asked.

Her mother beamed. “It’s Rufus,” she said. “An animal rescue group got our old address from his name tag. They offered to fly him out here. We can pick him up at the airport tomorrow afternoon.”

“Rufus! Rufus!” Cassie cried. “I’ve got to tell Eddie!”

“No, let him sleep. . . .”

But Cassie had already vanished behind the screen that shielded the sleeping area.

When they picked up the dog the next day, his thinness shocked them. Rufus’s ribs stood out, and his chest had shrunken. But the minute he left the metal travel cage and saw them, his tail began to wag and he barked loudly. Rufus was home!

As Christmas drew close, they settled into a new routine. Cassie took Rufus for walks in a nearby park before and after school. At night, when they were together, Rufus settled by Eddie’s beanbag chair. Whenever Eddie rose to go to another part of the trailer, Rufus watched him until he returned. Then his muzzle dropped and his eyes closed again.

Only a few presents lay under the tree, but Cassie didn’t care. She still had some of her birthday money, so she bought a warm scarf for her mother and a Super Heroes comic book for Eddie. She wrapped them and added them to the sparse pile of gifts. School ended for the holidays, and Cassie looked forward to being able to sleep in late, the way she did on weekends.

Christmas Eve arrived. Eddie had gone to bed, and Cassie watched TV while her mother baked cookies in the kitchen.

The doorbell rang, followed by a pounding that rattled the windows. Rufus growled and came to the door.

“Cassie, see who that is,” her mother said. Cassie rose from the lumpy couch and Rufus stirred. Probably someone from the church to remind us about tomorrow’s service. There was no light over the door, and she could make out the bulky figure of a man against a gray wall of blowing snow. He stamped his feet impatiently and tried to peer through the frosted door pane.

She opened the door until the chair caught and stopped, speechless.

“Cassie!” boomed her father. “Open the door before I freeze to death!” Once inside, he wrapped one arm about her and hugged her to him hard. She noticed that his other arm hung in a sling. “Who is it, Cassie?” her mother called out.

Her father released her, and she stepped aside so he could come in.

“It’s Sgt. Edgar Rivers, ma’am, home for the holidays—and for all the holidays to come, I hope.”

Cassie’s mother slammed the oven door shut and rushed into the living room. She cried and threw her arms about his neck. “Your arm . . . what happened?”

He dropped his bag on the floor and looked embarrassed. “Well . . . I was driving in a convoy on a highway outside Tikrit when a tire blew. I went off the road into a ditch. Broke my left arm. Since you can’t drive a truck with a broken arm, the Army let me out a month early.”

Eddie emerged sleepy-eyed. “Wh . . . o . . . wh . . . o’s . . . there, Mom?” His eyes lit up. “Dad!” He hurled himself at his father.

After Cassie’s dad had unpacked, they sat around the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate with tiny white marshmallows. Mrs. Rivers laughed for the first time in weeks, eyes shining, and the lines in her face eased. Eddie proudly displayed the Army medal his father had given him. Cassie’s dad ate two, then three, of the warm oatmeal cookies and never stopped smiling. No one commented when he slipped a cookie under the table to Rufus.

The heater in the drafty trailer rumbled into life with a blast of warm air. Cassie studied the animated faces of her family. She felt so happy she thought she’d cry. Her eyes fell on the plastic Christmas tree and small pile of presents. Who cared? It didn’t matter where you were or what you had or didn’t have at Christmas. What mattered was that the people you loved and who loved you were there to share it. This wouldn’t be the worst Christmas after all. It would be one of the best.

© Copyright 2005, Arthur Carey