Ben Raines looked up from the colored brochures that littered his coffee table and grinned broadly. “Euphoria,” that’s what I have. I don’t believe I’ve ever had euphoria before.”
Clara Munson, Raines’s cleaning lady, was running the vacuum cleaner over to his right. The ancient cleaner made more noise than a B-17, but Clara had acute hearing. She looked across the room at Raines and bellowed, “You got what?”
“Euphoria,” Ben shouted back.
“It ain’t catchin’, is it?”
“I wish it were. No, euphoria, my dear Clara, means ‘a feeling of well-being or elation.’”
Clara gave the vacuum cleaner another push, considered this, then shut the machine off. “Why are you feelin’ so good?”
“Because, dear lady, I’m going to Spain.”
“Nothin’ over there but Spaniards.”
Ben Raines laughed and stretched broadly, reaching for the ceiling and arching his back. “I suppose that’s true enough, but then there are Germans in Germany and Frenchmen and frogs in France.”
Clara sniffed and went back to vacuuming. She was a heavyset woman of fifty, usually cheerful, but with stretches of depression when she did not win at Bingo.
Raines sat back down and began studying the travel brochures. All of his life he had wanted to go to Spain for some reason, and now he was going!
Suddenly a sound from the television reached him, and he looked up to see that a game show was on. “I can’t stand game shows!” He clicked the remote and suddenly there was Jimmy Stewart and It’s a Wonderful Life.
Raines quickly clicked the remote again, and Clara, who had stopped to watch the screen, said, “Why did you turn that movie off?”
“I can’t stand It’s a Wonderful Life.”
Clara was scandalized. “It’s my favorite movie!” she protested, her face screwed up as if she had bitten into something sour. “It’s everybody’s favorite Christmas movie.”
“Clara, it’s not true.”
“What do you mean it’s not true? It ain’t supposed to be true. It’s a movie. You read true stuff in newspapers.”
“Not always, Clara,” Raines said wryly. “I wish everything you read in the papers were true, but unfortunately that’s not the way things are.”
“Well, ain’t that an awful thing to say!” Clara snorted. “Here you write for a newspaper, and now you tell me they don’t tell the truth.”
“Clara?”
“Anyways, movies ain’t true—not like the Bible. They’re just supposed to make you feel good.”
Ben knew he shouldn’t argue with Clara, for he’d never won an argument with her. “That movie shows life the way life is not.”
“What do you want, one of these movies where they chop people up with chain saws? That’s true enough. People really do those awful things.”
“No, I don’t want a chain saw movie, but I don’t want It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“It’s a movie that makes you feel good.”
Raines always found it impossible to argue with Clara Munson. She was incapable of reason. He had announced once to his boss, “My cleaning lady thinks with her feet.”
“It’s a Wonderful Life makes people hope for miracles,” Ben said finally, knowing that would not help with Clara.
Clara turned to face Raines. The fact that he was her employer never caused her to modify her behavior one fraction. “And what’s wrong with hoping for miracles?”
“I don’t believe in miracles, Clara.”
“Didn’t I tell you how my first husband nearly died but God healed him, how he got up out of that hospital bed and walked when all the doctors said he would die? God healed him. It was a miracle.”
Raines grinned but refused to argue. “I’ll tell you about a miracle, Clara,” he said quickly. “I’m going to Spain and have a month of sunshine and no writing! Now that is a real miracle!”
“You just want to go watch them poor bulls get killed, that’s what.”
“I’m not going to a bullfight.”
But declarative sentences had never influenced Clara. She had bullfights on her mind and could not get them out. “You’re just awful, Ben Raines, that’s what you are. Them poor bulls never hurt nobody.”
Knowing he was making a mistake, Ben said, “Look, Clara, do you know anything about those bulls?”
“I know they get kilt.”
“Those bulls are taken care of all their lives better than any animal on earth. They’re very valuable. Their owners have special herdsmen to take care of them. They have the best grass, good water. If they get sick they have a vet.”
“They still get kilt.”
Raines threw up his hands. “They have one bad afternoon in their whole life. I’ve had as many as twenty bad afternoons in one month.”
“So you’d rather be one of them bulls and get kilt with a sword?” She pronounced the w in the word sword persistently.
“I think I would. It beats what I’ve got.”
“You ain’t got no gratitude. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
“Well, I’m going to Spain, and I’m grateful for that and it’s a miracle.”
Clara Munson sniffed. “That ain’t no miracle. That’s just leavin’. You arranged it all your own self. A miracle is somethin’ God has to do. It ain’t something you can do yourself.”
“Well, if it’s not a miracle, it’s close enough for me, Clara.”
Ben Raines vowed for the five hundredth time never to argue with Clara. He went back and studied the brochure. It featured a picture of a flamenco dancer, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with her hands over her head, clicking her castanets and smiling seductively.
“Spain, here I come—a miracle, no matter what Clara says!”
* * *
Although Christmas was nearly a month away, there were the beginnings of decorations and signs of the holiday spirit at the Veteran’s Hospital. As Ben entered the lobby, he saw a Christmas tree being erected by two sturdy women and stopped long enough to say, “You’re a little bit early, aren’t you?”
“Never too early for Christmas.” The older of the two women gave him a wink and said, “Merry Christmas to you.”
“Bah humbug,” Ben said and saw the two stare at him. “Just kidding. Imitating Scrooge.”
“Scrooge who?”
“Ebenezer Scrooge from A Christmas Carol.”
“Is it a movie?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. But before it was a movie it was a novel by Charles Dickens.”
“I never seen it, but if he says ‘Bah humbug!’ about Christmas, it couldn’t be a good movie.”
“Well, I beg your pardon. Go on with your decorating, ladies.”
Ben made his way to the elevator, and when he got inside he saw a hand-printed sign: “Wanted: Someone to be Santa Claus.”
Ben stared at it, then muttered, “Here’s my chance. If I really wanted to have a miserable Christmas instead of just my usual not-good Christmas, I could dress up in a red suit with a pillow for a stomach, come down and be Santa Claus to the veterans.”
The elevator stopped at the third floor, and Ben got off and walked down the hall. He saw that already there were Christmas cards pinned to the bulletin board where important bulletins were usually kept. When he reached his father’s room, he started to turn in, but Mabelene Williams, a large black woman in a white uniform, was coming out. “Hello, Mabelene.”
Nurse Williams stared at him. “Well, you did come—at last.”
“I’ve been real busy, Mabelene.”
“I’ll bet you have.”
For some reason Mabelene felt it was her calling in life to shame Benjamin Raines for not coming to see his father more often. She was usually successful, for Ben already had a guilty conscience about the matter. Every year he made resolutions to come and see his father at least once a week, but somehow it never worked out that way. “I’m going away for Christmas, but I promise you, Mabelene, I’ll come every week before Christmas.”
“You won’t be here for our Christmas party?”
“No, I’ll be in Spain.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.” Mabelene’s eyes went all flinty, and she had more to say, but Ben didn’t want to hear it. He had heard it all before, and besides, he didn’t need to carry a guilty conscience with him to Spain. It probably was against the law to do such a thing. He said, “Merry Christmas, Mabelene,” and ducked inside the room. His father was in his wheelchair, and his head was tilted to one side. He was sound asleep. His mouth was open, and he looked helpless and vulnerable.
Ben stood there uncertainly and then took a chair, moving quietly. He knew his father wouldn’t mind being awakened, that he always wanted to talk, but what was there to talk about? Desperately, Ben had tried to interest himself in the affairs of the Veterans Hospital. When his father had first come here four years earlier, he had been more faithful, but coming to visit his dad had become a drudgery that he hated.
Ben sat and studied his father, and as he did, uninvited thoughts came trooping into his head. He wished heartily that there was a lock on the door of the mind—that he could shut things out that had no business there. But there was not. He had tried everything. It irritated him that he was an intelligent man but could not control his thoughts.
Sitting there with the pale sunlight streaming through the window, Ben regarded his father, Willie Raines. In Ben’s mind William Raines had always been a failure. He had volunteered for the army and had been so terribly wounded at the Battle of the Bulge that he could never again do heavy work. He was unskilled at anything, and during Ben’s formative childhood years the family had moved from one place to a cheaper one throughout the meaner streets of Chicago.
Ben thought about how many times during his teenage years his father had been unable to work, and Ben had had to struggle to bring in what income he could. This meant that he was not able to participate in sports, at which he had been rather good, and even after all these years it took all the strength he had to keep the resentment back.
The sleeping man stirred, coughed, and suddenly reached out with his hand as if trying to grasp something. He mumbled something in his sleep, and his face twisted. But then he relaxed, and Ben leaned back in his chair. He thought of the years he had spent at the newsstand on Thirteenth Street. His father had finally managed to buy into a newsstand, but it had been Ben who had had to keep it running. It was an outside newsstand, covered with plastic and canvas when it was closed, but Ben had sat there many weary days, through snow and sleet and ice and blistering summers, while the other boys were out playing ball.
Harsh, bitter memories stirred within Ben, and he had a sudden impulse to get up and flee the room. He was not a Christian, but he had strong notions of right and wrong, and one of these notions was that it was wrong for him to despise his father for his failures. When he tried being logical, it had come out something like, You should have been born to a rich father. Your mistake was being born to a poor daddy. Somehow it’s all his fault. He realized the ludicrous logic that lay here, but now as he sat there he tried desperately to think of other things.
“Why, hello, Son.”
Snapping back to planet earth, Ben made himself smile and stood up. “Hey, Dad. How you doing?” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder and felt how fragile the man was. He seemed to be nothing but skin and bones, but the blue eyes that had turned up to him were lively.
“I’m glad to see you, Son. You’re looking good.”
“So are you, Pop.”
Willie Raines’s face was shrunken. The flesh was faded, and though he had been an attractive man in his youth, he had lost all that. “Clark Gable had better watch out, eh?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Ben pulled the chair over and began searching for conversation topics. His father liked baseball, but baseball season was far away. Willie cared little for football, so that was out. Finally Ben began edging toward the subject that he dreaded. He talked about his work and how he hadn’t had a vacation in nearly three years.
“You really need to take some time off, Son. You work too hard.”
“Well, Pop, I think you may be right about that. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a good opportunity here, but it would mean I’d be out of town during Christmas.”
Willie’s eyes did not change. “What is it, Ben?”
“You know how I always wanted to go to Spain?”
“No, I didn’t know that. You never told me.”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to go there. I don’t know why. It just looks like a nice place to visit, especially during our winters here. So, I finally got some time off, and there’s a special on with one of the travel agencies. Trouble is, I’d be gone during Christmas. I wouldn’t be able to come and be here.”
“Well, you can come and see me before you leave. Take lots of pictures,” Willie smiled. “When you get back you can show ’em to me and tell me all about it.”
“Why, sure, Pop. I could do that, couldn’t I?”
Relief swept over Ben like a wave. “Well, that’s what I’ll do then. I wanted to talk to you about it first.”
“You remember,” Willie said, “what good Christmases we had when your mother was alive?”
“I sure do.”
“That woman loved Christmas. Sometimes she’d start in October getting ready for it. When we first got married I thought it was silly, but I got so I looked forward to it.”
Ben remembered the Christmases then. They had been bright spots in his life, and the two talked about those times.
“She believed in angels, too.”
“She sure did.”
“Well, I guess I do, too.”
Anxious to change the subject, Ben said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll have a special Christmas dinner, turkey and dressing and all the fixings, brought in just for you. I’ll have Clara bring it in. She’s always cooking for her family. She’d be glad to.”
Willie Raines looked up, and there was a gentle smile on his lips. He had never once complained about his condition in all the times that Ben could remember.
“Well, that’ll be fine, Son. You take lots of pictures of Spain, and when you come back, maybe there’ll be some turkey left for you.”
* * *
Whistling off-key as he always did, Ben went through the trash in his office. He hated to throw anything away, but now was the time, and his wastebasket was stuffed with old business and worthless mail that seemed to come more and more often.
Ben could hear the sound of Andy Williams singing Christmas carols from an office down the hall. Since his mother had died he had paid little attention to Christmas, but he always liked Andy Williams. At least he could carry a tune.
“Hello, Ben.”
“Hi, Sal. I just came to clear out a few things.”
“How’s your dad?”
“I was there this afternoon. He’s about the same.”
Sal Victorio, the editor of the paper, looked more like a Mafia hit man than an extremely able editor. He was literate to an incredible degree, but he always looked as if he were about to pull out a gun and shoot someone. He had mentioned once to Ben that his grandfather had been in the Mafia, but his father had gotten away from that life. He had sent Sal all the way to Harvard University and was as proud of his son as if he were the president.
Ben said, “I haven’t been on a trip in a long time. I’ve got to buy some new luggage.”
Sal removed the cigar from his mouth, stared at it for a moment, then jammed it back in. He always kept a cigar exactly in the center of his mouth, and it looked now like a gigantic fuse attached to some monstrous bomb. It also smelled like burning rope, since Sal did not believe in wasting money on good cigars. “You heard about Sam?”
“You mean our Sam?”
“That’s right. Sam Benton.”
“What about him?”
“He had a heart attack.”
For an instant Ben thought he had misunderstood his boss. “Was it serious?” he asked finally.
“It could have been worse.” Sal shrugged his beefy shoulders. “The doc says he’s going to be all right, except he’s gonna have to have a bypass.”
“But he always eats right, and he does those exercises. He’s a health nut.”
“Looks like that doesn’t make much difference. He didn’t even have a pain. He went in for an annual check-up, and the doc did an EKG. Told him he was either gonna have a heart attack or he was having one right then, and Sam never felt a thing. It made him kind of mad, but he’s got to have that surgery.”
“Sorry to hear about that. Right here at Christmas, too. Be tough on his family.”
“It’s gonna be tough on you, too, Ben.”
For a moment Ben stared at his boss, and then a suspicion began to rise in him. “Now wait a minute, Sal!”
“You’re the man.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re a smarter guy than that. You’ll have to fill in until Sam can come back.”
Disappointment mixed with anger began to stir in Ben Raines. “You’ve been promising me a vacation for two years, and I’ve got everything set up. I’ve even got the ticket.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. By the way, you’ll have to do the Christmas story.”
The paper had one big Christmas story as a tradition. It was something that Sam Benton usually did and that Ben had always said he couldn’t do.
“I’ve been looking forward to this vacation for six months.”
Sal took his cigar out then lifted his eyes toward Ben Raines. “Sam took over for you when you had mono for a month.”
There was no answer for that, Ben knew, nor was there any way out of this. He was going to have to stay in Chicago, and he was going to have to write the Christmas story, and he would have to put up with all of the phony Christmas trappings that went on every year, but there were some things a man had to do. He straightened up and tried to force a smile. “Why sure, Boss, I’ll take care of it.”