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December 19th, 1937
Christchurch Cathedral
Christchurch, New Zealand
“You can’t kiss the Virgin Mary,” said young Clive, in a commanding tone.
That was Clive Murney smirking at me and folding his arms imperiously over his chest.
“What’s that?” I replied, though I had heard him.
“I know it’s what you’re thinking of doing, but you can’t.”
And he was right. Mary was standing beneath the mistletoe, and kissing her was all I could think about. Of course, she wasn’t really Mary. She was Olivia, Clive’s older sister, and she was only dressed as Mary for the pageant. She stood on a chair, waiting patiently for her mother to adjust her gown. Olivia smiled, talking to her father, and barely keeping the pasteboard halo, attached by wire, from falling off her head.
A sprig of mistletoe hung just above her, one of dozens rolled up in twine, hanging every several feet along the rectory hall. The place was in chaos. Junior cherubs and flannel-covered shepherds ran riot about the folding tables. Harried stage mothers smeared glittery face paint on their children’s impatient faces or tried to patch the rips and tears in the long, flowing costumes. On her chair, Olivia stood above it all, literally. I waved to get her attention, to no avail.
“I’m pretty sure you’re committing a mortal sin even thinking about it,” Clive continued. I decided to visit the refreshment table. Clive followed me. “I hate to think of you falling into mortal sin, Candlewax.”
“I hate to think of you falling headfirst into a rubbish dump, Clive,” I countered.
He gave an overdramatic gasp. “I’m writing that down,” he said. He began to fetch his notebook out of the knapsack he carried, but a silver tray set with cups of raspberry trifle commandeered his attention. “Brazen saints! Look at that!” He soon had one in his greedy possession. “I’d lay off if I was you, Candlewax,” he said. “Time to think about your figure, old man.”
Clive spooned the sweet stuff into his mouth with speed but not precision.
“You’re smearing your face,” I said.
“You do know that ‘Livia’s got a boyfriend, don’t you?” he countered. A non-sequitur it may have been, but he got my attention.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you haven’t got a prayer. She’s practically engaged to Nate Garrick. He’s sixteen, you know. Real man of the world. You can’t miss him. He’s playing Joseph.”
I had never seen anyone relish the delivery of unwelcome gossip so much as Clive clearly did.
“So, what of it?” I said. “I don’t care.”
“Like Hades you don’t. Your face is going crimson right now. You’re an open book, Candlewax.”
“And you’re an unholy turd, Clive.”
“Strong words. I’m going to write them down.” This time, the notebook came out, tattered and faded from constant use. Clive wrote things down. It was his most famous trait. He started the practice out of frustration with adults dodging his questions by saying ‘I’ll tell you when you get older.’ Clive made an early decision to keep track of those evasions and bring them back up whenever it was least convenient. He jotted notes on anything he felt he might bring up in future, whether to his own advantage, or to the dismay of others.
“Unholy ... turd,” he said, as he recorded my slur with a stub of pencil before shoving it back in his pocket. “That one’s going to come back on you, Candlewax.” He scrunched his face as he looked at the page in front of him. “Gosh, I could extort money with the silly things people say around me. Look here, if you dare. ‘Livia tried to tell me she met Santa Claus. She didn’t blush or anything! I ask you!”
“I suppose she could be right,” I said.
“You would say that,” he answered.
Olivia stepped down from the chair. An entourage fluttered around her. She smiled as her father Cyrus snapped a picture. I couldn’t help gazing at her every expression. At fifteen, she had grown out of her gawkish years, and now she moved with elegance and self-assurance. She still had a slight overbite, a feature that Clive enjoyed mocking. It was no flaw. It was fully part of her inarguable charm.
I hadn’t seen Olivia since June. In summer, our families always stayed together at a cabin in the Southern Alps as part of my father’s ecumenical retreat. That year, we had gone skiing, and I had a memento, a photograph of Olivia and myself, wobbling on our skis and laughing. She sent it to me in late October. It was tucked into a pastel yellow envelope, decorated with rubber-stamp kiwis and flowers. Along with the picture, she included a brief note.
Mannie,
I can’t wait to see you at Christmas. There’s something I’m dying to tell you.
Love,
Olivia
No message could be better calculated to send a daydreamer like me into romantic reveries. I knew she wasn’t likely waiting to declare undying love for me, but that didn’t stop my mind from hosting a hundred imaginary conversations, every one of which ended with a kiss. I was thirteen, so I hadn’t told a soul about this crush of crushes. And yet, everyone seemed to know.
A high-pitched voice called out.
“Mannie! Mannie Candler!”
It was Olivia’s older sister Annabella. Always easy to spot, Annabella was taller than anyone else in her family. She hurried my direction but soon noticed Clive, now adorned with sloppily eaten trifle.
“Oh, Clive! You beastly brother.” She reached into her pocketbook and produced a green-colored wipe. She licked it and began rubbing it on Clive’s face. “You’re about to enter the house of God. I’d like to think you had a little more reverence.”
“I didn’t want anyone else to eat it first,” Clive said, then added an Ow! of protest to Annabella’s relentless scrubbing.
“I want you to go and change into your robes now. And put your notebook away, please. I won’t have you carrying it around the church.”
“They’re all like this, Candlewax. You might as well know. “Go now!,” Annabelle ordered.
“Bossy, that’s all I’m saying,” Clive whispered in an aside as he stepped away.
“Mannie Candler, you’ve grown seven inches since summer!” She knelt down and inspected my face, then she licked the green handkerchief again and rubbed at my left cheek. I winced, as I still think any rational person would. “You should try to aim for your mouth when you eat,” she said, though I hadn’t actually eaten anything since arriving at the cathedral.
“Nice to see you, Annabella,” I said.
“Did you take the train to get here?”
“Yes. Dad drove over yesterday, but Mum and I took the train from Springfield this afternoon. It was nice.”
“You’re lucky. We came in Dad’s car, and it was beastly hot with all six of us.”
“Six?”
“We brought Nate Garrick along. That’s him over there,” she added, waving the handkerchief above my head.
I turned around and spotted a handsome young man, blond hair, well-defined chin, bright blue eyes. Just as I saw him, he was taking hold of Olivia’s hand. He proceeded to pull and tug her all the way across the rectory hall.
“Is that who Clive was talking about?”
“Yes. He’s become a family friend. Crazy about Olivia.”
“They’re not really engaged, are they?”
“What?!” She puffed an astonished laugh. “Did Clive tell you that?”
“Yes, something like it.”
“It’s a joke. Mum and Dad tease her about it. Olivia’s much too young to entertain suitors. She’s a sweet girl, Mannie, but I worry about her mind. She’s dreamy and silly. Of course, you’re a bit dreamy and silly too.”
She kissed my forehead. Not for the first time. She ended most of her chats with me in just that way.
The costumed players for the pageant were called away, and I was taken to the vestry and fitted with robes. A young deacon reviewed with me the gospel passages I was to speak. I had already memorized them.
Ten minutes later, I was standing outside the cathedral door, lined up behind two dozen adult choir members and a seeming army of fidgety choir boys, waiting for the moment we would enter the sanctuary to begin the pageant. Cathedral Square was alive with shoppers and passers-by, but from the cathedral steps, I could hear little noise from all the activity. The evening sky was still bright and warm. Our robes caught a slight breeze, and we all billowed gently as the choirmaster leaned by the entrance, waiting for the right moment to cue our procession. It was a moment of hypnotic serenity, soon interrupted by a confident blast of joyous music from within the church. The grand event was underway.
It was the most gorgeous Christmas pageant any of us had ever seen. A dozen acolytes carried banners of green, red, and gold. Some of them stretched out across the altar forming a billowing archway over the central manger. Six angels stood on a raised platform, beneath the star of Bethlehem, shimmering and silvery, reflecting colors from the stained glass windows. Three kings in elaborate bejeweled costume stood sweltering to one side. In the center of it all, there was the manger, with its own spotlight, and beside it, glorious Mary in her white and blue gown, and terribly handsome Joseph, who had one arm around Mary’s waist. He had forsworn the fake beard. With his grinning face, he brought to mind a matinee idol. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine the wedding pictures in some future album, with Olivia’s adoring face gazing up at Nate’s, perhaps in front of this very altar.
It was a pointless train of thought, and I still had my narration to deliver. I told myself to get over her, firmly decided that I had done so, and then I opened my mouth to speak.
“And there were in that same country,” I shouted, “shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night!”
My voice cracked as it thundered out across the sanctuary, bounced and echoed for a few moments. Faces turned and looked at me, some smiling, some shocked at the sudden volume. I quickly modulated my delivery, but it was too late. I could feel my ears warming up. I knew my face would soon betray my embarrassment by glowing red. I pressed on with the text.
“And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them!”
Olivia looked up to find the source of this raging voice piercing the holy silence. For the first time since I had arrived, her eyes met mine, and her face did something altogether unfair and wondrous. It transformed from Mary’s serene demeanor to Olivia’s own unvarnished surprise. She smiled so broadly, with such evident pleasure at finding me at the center of the room. And I have to mention, she laughed, just for a moment. I smiled back. We both stood in our own dedicated spotlights, our eyes locked on one another and we were the only two people in the world. Then I remembered that several hundred men, women and children, and presumably God Himself, were watching as a young boy stood center sanctuary, gawping.
I found my voice again, and as I continued, I turned to face the back half of the congregation. I spoke like a great orator, lifting my arms, making long, slow gestures, just as I had seen my own father do when he was rolling with a good sermon.
I don’t know if the assembled throng found my performance inspired, or merely astonishing, but when I finished, there was applause, loud and sustained. I turned back to the manger, and Olivia was laughing with apparent delight, beaming at me. Was that a show of admiration, or had I just made a priceless fool of myself?
The applause faded, and the small orchestra began to play. I knew the song, for it had been composed by Rex Palmer, who lived in Clarketon, and led the choir at my father’s church. I had already heard the anthem in our own sanctuary, and thought it lovely.
Olivia began to sing. She had a beautiful voice, low and rich.
In darkened cave, in freezing wind and winter
From every place of comfort turned away
Against his skin, coarse cloth and wooden splinter
His bed a broken crib of straw and hay
When she got to the first chorus, a second vocalist joined in. It was a boy soprano with a perfect voice, pure and lilting, singing a refrain in counterpoint with Olivia’s melody.
From this emerged a kingdom, from this a prince of light
From here we turn our hearts and lives around
Oh let our humble praise turn back the endless night
With heaven song and angel sound
It was Olivia’s younger brother, the holy terror Clive Murney. Anyone who didn’t know him would have thought he’d just been fitted for a halo.
It was a night for surprises. I sat down at a bench seat near the choir, looking out into the pews to find my parents. They were in the second row, my mother and father, and next to them, someone I hadn’t expected to see. My Aunt Audra sat beside my mother. My mouth opened in silent astonishment. Audra lifted her eyebrows, and smiled in a conspiratorial kind of way. I could read her expression. This is the last place you’d expect to see me, isn’t it! She gave a little wave and mouthed several words. I couldn’t read them all, but love was one of them. Then Audra crossed her hands over her heart, her mouth pursed into a kiss.
It’s a night of miracles. The thought ran in my head, repeating itself as I held Audra in my gaze. Her presence was like a miracle. It was so unlikely that I didn’t want to look away from her, lest she vanish. The sanctuary settled into restless silence. Then the choirmaster cleared his throat. He was looking right at me. So was everyone. It was my turn to speak again.
“The concluding passage!” whispered the choirmaster in such a way that everyone could hear it. “Go on, lad!” A ripple of laughter passed through the congregation. I shifted my attention to the audience, and felt that remarkable sensation, like a great iron door slamming shut in my mind. I had forgotten every word I was now supposed to say.
“It’s a night of miracles!” I yelled. Not knowing what else to do, I threw my arms outward in a triumphant gesture and smiled for all I was worth. Then I repeated the only words I could muster. “It’s a night of miracles, everyone! Happy Christmas!”