A Christmas Story about Movies, Love and Lifesavers
It's hard to imagine that at this time last year, I had no idea if I would ever finish writing even a single story. And here I am, less than a year later, with my own entry for the 2024 Winter Holidays Contest. I never intended to write a holidays story, but I read a number of the other submissions this year, and I thought that many of them were just excellent. And then I had a kernel of an idea that grew into this story, so here we are.
My wife teases me that if most of my stories were movies, they would barely be rated PG. She's not wrong. And if I am totally honest, I suspect that if this story were made into a movie, it would rate a solid G. There isn't even much swearing, so if you are looking for the naughtier side of the holidays, this is not the story for you.
But if you are still reading, you might want to make yourself a cup of hot cocoa, settle in under a warm blanket by the fire, and let me tell you a story about the forgotten victims of holiday romances. For every girl-next-door who finds her happily-ever-after, there is the other guy, the one who gets left behind ...
The soldier gazed up longingly, his hands thrown wide in supplication to the heavens. By his side, the broken barrel of a cannon offered a stark contrast to his passion, a testament to both human ingenuity and the horrors of war. The flickering candlelight in the church teased out the vibrant colors of the stained glass, which were otherwise concealed by the night.
As a child, there was something about the Soldier Window that captured my imagination, so I insisted that my family sit in the pew closest to it whenever we came to church. My parents weren't weekly parishioners, except when I was singing in the choir, but we came often enough that I had that window memorized down to the smallest details, to the point that I would sometimes even see it in my dreams.
The window was installed in 1920, in honor of the men from the church who had fallen in battle in the First World War. When I was young, I thought that the young man in the window appeared gallant, even heroic. But as I got older, he seemed to grow wearier and more lost to despair.
At the base of the window was a large brass plaque with a series of names, listed alphabetically, and engraved in a flowing script. Most of the names were of men far younger than me who had died alone, often in terror and pain, in the trenches of France or later, plummeting from the skies. I shared little in common with those men, except for one whose name could be found about two thirds of the way down—First Lieutenant Lawrence "Larry" O'Brien. He was my great great grandfather, and he died alone in the Battle of Saint-Mihiel, leaving behind a wife and two young sons.
If I died today, there would be no window to mark my passing, and I would leave no one behind.
I made an involuntary snort as I shook my head at myself in disgust. Yes, it sucked to be alone on yet another holiday. But even at the height of my self-indulgent pity, I couldn't compare my life to his. Larry O'Brien was a hero who held a machinegun emplacement for over eight hours against an overwhelming German counterattack, almost singlehandedly ensuring the American victory. Lawrence O'Brien was a project manager for a faceless international conglomerate, who had bad luck in dating, particularly around Christmas.
The two were hardly comparable.
My train of thought was interrupted by the priest's voice as it began to rise in both volume and excitement. It had been several years since I had been in church, but anyone who has spent any time in one knows that an enthusiastic priest means one of only two things: someone is going to hell, or the service is coming to an end. Given that it was Christmas Eve, I was pretty sure that it was the latter.
My guess was vindicated when the organist pulled out all the stops and started playing the first notes of
Joy to the World
. Soon, the choir started singing and the priest led the final procession towards the back of the church. I had to admit, the priest seemed genuinely joyful as he walked down the aisle. St. Alban's was an inner-city church with more than its fair share of families and individuals who had fallen on hard times. He seemed to make it his personal mission to spread as much warmth and Christmas cheer as he could to those who needed it the most.
I knew that the next day, the church would be hosting a Christmas meal for those without a home, family or who just didn't want to be alone over the holidays. I made sure to leave a healthy donation to support the meal in the offertory plate. I was spending much less this Christmas than I normally would, so I made sure that those savings would bring as much joy to others as possible.
As I turned to watch the procession pass, I couldn't help but notice the young woman standing at the end of the row. She was wearing a dark blue Peabody coat with a colorful scarf that was open at her neck. A burgundy beret sat beside her on the pew, partially covered by an open Hymnal, which would protect her strawberry blonde hair from the elements once she left the warmth of the church and went back out into the late December chill. She glanced over as I looked her way and she gave me a shy smile, before turning back to watch the choir. I blushed at being caught checking her out, in church no less, so I looked away and continued to sing the recessional hymn.
Once the last notes of the hymn faded, the priest wished us all a Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year. I stood and pulled on my coat then walked down the pew towards the center aisle. As I got nearer, I noticed that the woman was still standing in the pew, watching as the choir milled around at the back of the church. I paused, waiting for her to move out into the center aisle so I could get by and leave.
"You have a lovely voice."
It took me a minute to realize that the woman was speaking to me.
"Thank you, I don't get much of a chance to sing anymore, but I still enjoy it when I do."
"I would never have known from listening to you. You sound like a professional opera singer or something."
As I turned to acknowledge the compliment, I got my first good look at her. Maybe she wasn't classically beautiful, but she had an open and friendly face with a radiant smile that was framed by her curly strawberry blonde hair. She was maybe a half-foot shorter than me, even wearing boots with a low heel, but I was used to that kind of difference in height, given that I was almost six foot three. I couldn't really tell much else about her, as she was hidden away beneath her thick coat and scarf.
"Not an opera singer, but I used to be a soloist in the boys choir at this very church, back when I was younger."
That elicited a soft laugh from the woman and a wider smile. I could feel my heart skip a beat at the sound. I wasn't the overly romantic type, but that laugh held the promise of cool nights snuggled up under a warm blanket by the fire, and warm summer evenings holding hands under the stars.
"I bet you looked cute in those ... whatever those robe things they are wearing are called," she said waiving her hand at the younger choristers who were gathered at the back of the church.
I replied in a mock formal voice, "I will have you know that those robe things are called cassocks, and the white frilly garment worn overtop is known as the surplice. They are part of what makes being a choir boy so cool, don't you know.
"If they still have the same tradition from back when I was in the choir, the organist will give each of the choristers a book containing eight rolls of Lifesavers before they leave, as a thank you for singing and as a Christmas treat. I loved those books. Some of the flavors were standard, mixed fruit and the like, but a couple were special; you could only get them at Christmas. My parents weren't big on sugary snacks, but even they couldn't say no to Lifesavers on Christmas Eve.
She chuckled at my commentary, but didn't seem to be in any hurry to move or to let me out of the pew.
"Are you waiting for someone? Perhaps, I could slip by you if you are."
Looking embarrassed, she moved into the central aisle of the church.
"Sorry about that, I am just waiting for my friend Sean who was singing in the choir. I am Anne-Marie by the way," she replied offering me her hand. I couldn't help but feel strangely disappointed when I heard that she was waiting for a friend—and that friend was a man. Oh well, no Christmas meet cute for me, I guess. Nonetheless, I shook her proffered hand and introduced myself to her in return.
