Christmas Miracles

Some Christmas gifts are more special than others.

I almost didn’t visit the Café. My wife, busy making a special dinner, never liked having me in our linear little Portuguese kitchen. She shooed me out of our apartment to get a little exercise. I wandered my usual path down toward the river and Café Mondego.

Original Art by Jeanne Stewart Langston

Café Mondego was overflowing with people; the odds of getting a seat in my favorite little sanctuary of solace approached zero. I had never seen this many people here before. I wondered if a tour bus broke down nearby and dumped them, but they seemed cheerful, festive, and animated in their conversations. I was also struck by how attractive the group was and wondered if Hollywood knew they had gone missing. Maybe I was sensitive because I stood out among them, the only light-skinned, wrinkled old person among them.

But then there began a slow exodus and it seemed the group was leaving so I lingered by the door watching them stream past. It was a diverse group age-wise; a few children, many elders, and a few scattered young families. All in all, there were nearly 30 people all speaking a foreign tongue, certainly not Portuguese, but not quite unfamiliar. Whatever the dialect, it was well-enunciated, yet lyrically fluid, and unhurriedly shared. A hint of familiarity in the rhythm of their words, the inflection, a repetition of ooo, and uuu sounds, all dancing through exotic phrases, teased my ragged memory.

No one paid any attention to me as they flowed out the door of the Café, a river of friendly humanity, perhaps on holiday. Colorfully dressed and swathed in warm overcoats, they were prepared for the Christmas Eve cold spell that had descended from our Nordic neighbors to find a temporary home here on the Iberian Peninsula.

I could not help but notice a few of the more ancient-looking elders bore the marks of cultural scarification on their foreheads, something not commonly seen here in Portugal, but certainly not unknown with our proximity to Africa. Those identifying scars stirred memories in the recesses of my past; memories I had suppressed, but now unleashed in full.

There was an ugly time in my life. Not long out of the military, I poured copious amounts of alcohol on the invisible scars and scabs of haunting images left from an Asian conflict. War changes people, although Vietnam could hardly be called a war in the historical context of two armies facing off against each other. That quagmire was more like a game of whack-a-mole played with napalm and 500-pound bombs. Twice the number of tons of explosives dropped in all of Europe in WWII, fell in little Vietnam. The sky’s fury made it the most bombed place in history.

In the backwash of my discharge, I was working temporary gigs in Atlanta, moving from one meaningless meander to the next. In a laughable once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I got hired as the conductor of a train, a very special one. A miniature Christmas train atop an eight-story department store, back when such things existed in America. Every year this downtown landmark transformed its rooftop into a Santa’s workshop, nested in a forest of large potted pines and adorned with a monstrous Christmas tree rivaling the one in Rockefeller Center, New York City. An electric-powered train hooted its whistle around and through this artificial winter wonderland as it towed a half-dozen child-sized cars around an elevated track, giving passengers an exciting view of the streets below.

Rich’s Department Store, Atlanta Georgia, 1969

From Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve, I loaded children and the occasional nostalgic adult into tiny coaches. From the relative comfort of a trackside control booth, I guided the jolly Christmas caravan around the edges of the rooftop. Comfortable in the fact that I wasn’t folded up into one of the three-foot-high coach cars containing compressed, now not-so-nostalgic adults squeezed among gleeful children. There was a Santa shed up there too. It was special fun watching the young kids, especially when they climbed up in Santa Claus’s lap to make their wishes.

Christmas Eve ended the seasonal superficial magic on the rooftop; Santa had other engagements to keep. I took the elevator down packed tight with sheepish-looking elves wishing they didn’t have to resume adulthood in the basement locker room.

A few of us, now Christmas refugees, decided to immigrate to a nearby bar called The Library, a great bit of marketing genius in name. If your loved one, parent, partner, or whatever called to find out where you were when you were supposed to be somewhere else, you didn’t have to make up a lie: "I’m at the Library.” When I reached my limit, I had one more or maybe it was two, but eventually, I checked out to head to my empty nest.

Street lights illuminated the cold grey overcloud blanketing the city; an ill wind stirred discarded holiday wrapping paper, cigarette butts, and urban flotsam down the almost deserted streets, reasonable people already nested in homes and apartments, or on their way.

I pulled my watch cap down on my ears and it almost muffled the faint sobbing sounds I heard passing by an alley. Each breath I took turned into an icy mist; I just wanted to get to my apartment a block away. Frowning and sighing at the same time, I turned and reluctantly walked back a few steps, peering into the alley.

A small waif of a girl, perhaps four or five, stood at the end of the alley next to a green dumpster. Pale light from a nearby delivery door cast an eerie glow on a bleak scene. I could almost feel the dense cold insulting the thin, blue cotton dress she wore. A dirty too small winter coat was clutched around her like it was the only thing between her and winter, because it was.

Silently staring back at me, she stood shivering, deciding if I was good or evil, caring or uncaring. We both waited a few timeless seconds to find out before she pointed her tiny hand at something I couldn’t see, something hidden behind the dumpster. I took the required deep breath and went to see what Santa had left me.

Given my drunkenness, the details are fuzzy. But the tiny child was ebony beautiful in the way only young children can be. As I reached the end of the alley, she startled me in two ways: her green eyes sparkling in the dimness were mesmerizing, but they accented two pock-shaped scars above each eye. Back then, I had never seen anything like that, never heard of the cultural rituals of scarification practiced by some Central African tribes. And then I turned to look behind the dumpster.

A small-framed woman lay in a tangle of blankets, curled up in a fetal bow. I couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead. Looking back at the child for some kind of clue, I asked what was wrong. She sent chills down my spine when she silently, prayerfully tented her palms together; I watched tears form, then slowly track down her cheeks.

Kneeling beside the prone figure, I tried to rouse the sleeping figure, gently tapping, and then shaking her shoulder. She was deaf to my words so my Army medic training kicked in. I wet my finger and placed it under her nose; a slight pulsing coolness told me she still had breath. Touching her forehead revealed an intense fever and the direness of the situation began to sober me up.

This was way before cell phones and in a part of town where phone booths were rare and more likely found with dangling lines stripped of their handsets. I looked around the alley for some stray miracle lying around, feeling the child’s eyes watching my every move. An old tire, a few empty bottles of Mad Dog 20/20, and a tangled mess of a discarded shopping cart were the only decorations in this Christmas manger. Christ, all we need are a couple of sheep and a donkey — Wait … the shopping cart!

Often referred to as RVs for the homeless, an idea formed in the part of my brain still functioning. I checked it out and the wheels still rolled, and that was enough. The kid flinched when I kicked out the back gate part of the rig. I struggled to pick up the bundle of unconscious woman and blankets, somehow arranging her inside the makeshift wheelchair. I rolled out of the alley with the tiny little girl under one arm, the other trying to steer a wobbly cart.

One very long block later, we abandoned the cart and somehow I managed to carry the petite woman upstairs to my apartment. I doubt I would have thought myself strong enough to accomplish that sober, but drunks don’t have good judgment. Don’t ask me why I didn’t call an ambulance or the police. Maybe it was stupid what I was doing, but the little girl kept looking at me like … like I was supposed to know what I was doing. My mind told me if I called the authorities, they would separate them. They will take the little girl away, somewhere. Somewhere else.

I laid her in my bed and for the first time she groaned a little and opened her eyes. She just stared at me, frowning in confusion maybe, but then the child came over and held her hand. Her eyes never left me, the frown becoming a weak smile before she closed them again. Her child came and sat on the end of the bed, pulling some blanket over her legs. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her.

I covered the woman’s torso and legs with another blanket but took a cold washcloth to clean the city grime from her face. I left a cool, clean one across her forehead while I searched the bathroom cabinet for acetaminophen to treat her fever. There were a few left in an almost empty bottle and, with a little help, the woman was able to get them down. I held her up and she drank the whole glass of water through lips cracked and chapped from the cold. She gripped my hand tightly when the glass was empty and I realized she wanted more. She drank three more glasses while her daughter sipped some milk that hadn’t gone bad, found in the back of my ‘fridge.

I scrounged through the kitchen and found dried onion soup mix and put it on to boil. Toasting several slices of bread, I spread a thick coat of peanut butter on each. The little girl smiled as she nibbled them gone. When the soup was ready the thin young woman in my bed propped herself up and I spoon-fed her every last drop.

The only thing I had left was some crackers and cheddar cheese which I offered on a small chipped plate, but the woman's eyebrows asked what it was. She sniffed it, eyed me questioningly, and pinched her face when she tasted it. I reached for the plate, thinking she wouldn’t eat it, but she pulled it back and finished every crumb before she fell asleep again.

I was beat. A long day, too much to drink, and this call to duty weighed heavy. But her skin burned under my hand when I touched her forehead, her breath shallow and uneven.So I followed the training I remembered. Her daughter watched my every move, as I brought a large pan of cool water and more towels to the bedside. Gently, reverently, I continued to sponge-bathe her while she fitfully slept. Shaking chills slowed my progress, as I waited for each to abate.

It was nearly three A.M. when I finished and tucked the blankets around her, the fever was finally gone. I removed the pan of water and took away the towels. When I returned, the tiny child had perched herself along her mother’s side. Those beautiful green eyes sparkled up at me as I covered her with another blanket. She gave me another smile, melting my heart and some of the fatigue I felt in my bones.

When I finally lay on my couch, my eyes drooped closed. Before I could make any plan for the approach of morning, I was sleeping deep and hard. I dreamed, happily, of seeing myself floating above the Santa village where I had spent the last month. I watched the Christmas train go round and round, the never-ending line of little children climbing up in Santa’s lap, and when Santa looked up at me, he smiled too.

It was nearly noon when I awoke, stiff, sore, and hung over. Why I am I sleeping on my couch? Then I half-remembered, confusing my dream, drunken images of elves drinking Jack Daniel shots, and a tiny waif waiting for me at the end of a dark alley. I shook my head, trying to reorder the mess inside.

Tiptoeing to my bedroom, I discovered it empty, with only a tangled mess of blankets on the bed. Confused and concerned, I washed up and found the last two acetaminophen and washed them down. I ran down the stairs, finding the battered shopping cart just outside the apartment where it was abandoned last night - I’m not crazy; it wasn’t a dream!

I hurried down the street to the alley where this saga all began; it was empty save the Mad Dog 20/20 bottles and discarded tire. Closing my eyes, I tried to clear away cobwebs and think. I circled the block, then considered the bus station but it was too far away for them to walk. Or was it? I had no idea of where to look so I trundled back to my apartment, picking up some bagels and breakfast food on the way. I was famished and frustrated, not knowing what to do.

Back at the apartment, I cleaned up and changed all the bedding, and that’s when I noticed it. A simple shell necklace, carefully arranged and placed on the night table next to the bed. Simple and beautiful, I picked it to look closely. Was it a gift, some thanks for the refuge I had given on a Christmas Eve night when my empty world found some meaning? I tried it on, feeling a little foolish. I’d never worn any necklace before; I’ve never been without it since.

The Café was empty now, or so I thought. I sat at a table as the waiter cleared away cups and saucers. I ordered my usual galaō with a Portuguese croissant, knowing it would be more like a brioché, but happy nonetheless.

I heard the door to the WC rattle and a straggler from the group emerged. The tight braids of her black hair artfully framed her perfect ebony skin. Attractively dressed, her knee-high black leather boots contrasted nicely with her snow-white leather jacket and she moved gracefully toward the doorway. She glanced my way, took one more step, and stopped like she hit a stone wall.

She turned to face me; I looked up to meet her gaze. The sparkle of those incredible green eyes was still there; the two small circular scars unchanged. She was in her thirties now, I guessed. As beautiful a woman as I have ever seen. She stared at me, eyes wide, nostrils slightly flared. Walking the few steps between us, she leaned over, squinting, her brow creased.

In accented English, she whispered, “It’s you isn’t it … you from …?”

“Atlanta,” finishing the sentence for her. Chills raced up and down my spine as I stood and we embraced. We must have been a strange sight, locked together, tears flowing. An unlikely pair of strangers, four thousand miles and decades later, discovering how small the world can be.

A tall handsome black man appeared at the café entrance, frowning in confusion. He spoke a single word, her name I think. His tone, a question in any language.

“Adaeze?”

She released me and stepped back, turning toward him and holding up one finger. Looking back at me, we both knew there would never be enough words, enough time, to bridge this Christmas mystery.

I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and pulled the necklace out, showing it to her. Her eyes widened again, she swallowed hard and stared at it. I unclasped it, my fingers clumsy with emotion. When I placed it in her palm, her hand lingered in mine, trembling. Folding her fingers around it, I wrapped the gift with my best smile.

Tears streamed down her face; her smile spoke volumes. Taking a deep breath, her eyes rolled heavenward. Then she kissed each cheek, and slowly walked toward the door, eyes still on me. She blew me another kiss and turned to a very puzzled-looking man. Taking his hand, they left the café.

The waiter set my galaō on the table, along with the brioché pretending to be a croissant, and a shot glass of something dark and red. I traced the rim of the cup, staring at the door where she’d disappeared. Some gifts, I thought, don’t need ribbons or words—they find you when you least expect them. The ones you remember, are the ones you give.