CHRIIIISTMAS EVE WILL find me . . . wherrrrrre the lovelight gleams . . . Oh, I’ll be home for Christmas . . . if only in my . . .
Henry’s eyes were still closed. Squeezed closed, actually—with the side of his face resting flat against the surface of an old desk.
It was precisely this kind of moment that the squeeze-the-eyes-tight-as-you-can trick was designed to remedy. Whenever a dream, or a nightmare—as was more often the case—got out of hand. It was a guarantee to wake Henry up.
Therrrrre ya go, he thought to himself. Back in bed.
Nope. Not in bed.
Where am I again? What day is it?
All right, squeeze the eyes a little more, little more, waking up, waking up, here we go. Can still hear the Christmas music downstairs . . .
Henry’s head popped up in a flash.
CHRISTMAS MUSIC! I HEAR CHRISTMAS MUSIC!
His eyes were now open wide and his hair matted so tight on his forehead that he had to give it a swipe or two before he could even see straight.
Christmas music. Downstairs. Chief’s and Gigi’s place!
Which should have been obvious, he now realized, being as he was sitting right there in . . .
Chief’s chair! I’m at his desk!
Henry pounded his hands on top of the old desk to make sure it was real and wouldn’t fade away to nothing. Smack! Smack! Thump! His palms sharply slapped against the deep, old, very, very, very familiar red mahogany surface.
“HA!” Henry laughed, unable to help himself. “Ha ha HAAAAA!” he shouted at the ceiling and then gave the room a quick once-over to make doubly sure of everything.
Okay. Let’s run through everything. Chief’s desk? Check.
Chair that disappeared and made me fall on my, well . . . Check.
Stack of old New York Times? Yankee Stadium first base? Yup.
His head was still fuzzy, but not so fuzzy that he would have questioned where he was . . . or when it was.
I’m home! I’m back!
He spun the chair around for a quick look out the window. A light snowfall was still coming down outside, easing a little, but falling all the same.
He whirled the chair around two or three times.
It’s Christmas in New York! It’s not July!
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
A pair of slippers scaled the stairs as a familiar voice called out to him:
“Well, it’s about time, sleepyhead. You have been OUT, OUT, OUT!”
MOM!!!!!
Henry’s mother whipped into the study with the brightest smile in the world on her face. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep in this much on Christmas morn . . . OH!”
She ran smack-dab into Henry’s embrace, the tightest he’d ever given her.
“Whoa, hey!” Eloise said. “I guess you did get some good sleep.” She hugged him back, kissing him on the top of his head. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” he said to her, hanging on longer than he could ever remember. “I love ya. Love ya a lot.”
“Well, I love you too, Awnray. Or should I say, Je t’aime?” she finally pulled away, with a hint of pleasant puzzlement in her eyes. “You feeling okay?” she had to ask.
Henry looked up at her, seeing what his father had seen the night she’d fallen asleep watching that old movie. She was beautiful then, and with her traditional green slippers and red Christmas robe, she was even more beautiful now.
“Yep, all good,” he assured her.
“All right, your grandfather’s a whirlwind this morning, I gotta warn ya.” She popped him another quick kiss. “I don’t know what he’s got up his sleeve, but I do know you’re not supposed to open that until later on.”
Eloise nodded toward a wrapped gift on the corner of Chief’s desk, before turning to go back downstairs. “I’ll tell him you’re up!” she shouted on her way down. “Breakfast in, like, five minutes, ’kay?!”
“’Kay,” Henry quietly replied and smiled, listening to her as she headed to the kitchen.
Gigi’s joyful voice pierced through a few seconds later. “HE’S UP?!” he heard her almost burst. “Finally! Henry Babbitt! Christmas breakfast will be served in FOUR MINUTES!”
Henry smiled. He turned and walked back, once again taking his seat—more accurately Chief’s seat—at the old desk.
Whew, okay. It’s like I read Dickens last night. That was the craziest thing ever! Skavenger, Jack, Five Points, the ledger . . .
Henry glanced toward the corner of his grandfather’s desk. Sure enough, there was a gift in a strangely familiar-sized box, wrapped in brilliant yellow paper.
Not just any yellow paper. That’s the Skavenger clue yellow paper. And check out that box. Same size, same shape, same . . .
Nahhhhhhhhhhhhh. It can’t be.
Henry looked at the gift for a good long moment, listening to the bustle and excitement percolating downstairs.
Gigi was still in the kitchen, he knew that. His mother was down there too. And there was no sign of Chief yet.
Ya still got three minutes till Gigi makes her big breakfast announcement. C’mon, it’s sittin’ right there. RIGHT THERE!
Henry smiled. His waking brain was still busy churning away, trying to convince him that his journey had been nothing more than only a vibrant, spectacular dream. And there was a good part of Henry that wanted to believe that.
Not because of Jack and Ernie. Or Mark Twain and Gustave Eiffel. Or meeting Skavenger. Or solving the puzzles and riddles that came with the greatest adventure ever.
Nope. Those things were all great.
It was because of Mattie. It was better that his adventure in 1885 was a dream because of what had happened to her.
Yup. A dream. Got it? Got it.
Except he didn’t get it.
Something felt different.
The hum of the holiday music took a break downstairs. The gift sat in front of him.
Beckoning him.
The yellow wrapping . . . it’s on the box and the lid! If you open it right now, you can whip the lid back on and Chief’ll never know. Not in a million years. C’mon, it’s like Dad said . . . never let an extraordinary moment wait.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. His grandfather’s grandfather clock seemed to be telling him that time was, as always, a-wastin’.
Henry quickly pulled the gift close to him and popped it open with an easy motion, waiting a second in case there was a new round of thumping coming up the stairs. He used the time, now having learned that every second of it is precious, to look at the gift’s tag.
To Henry—Love, Chief
Still, even then, Henry hesitated. A rush of certainty told him that whatever was underneath the bright yellow tissue paper would convince him of everything. One way or the other.
C’mon, get a grip. It’s prob’ly just a Giants jersey to go with the hoody you got last . . . wait . . . hold on here . . .
For the first time since waking up, he noticed he was once again wearing the New York Giants hoody that Gigi had given him the night before.
See? Stop. You can fold up a Giants jersey and fit it in a box that size just fine.
He couldn’t resist any longer. Henry pushed away the light tissue paper and discovered . . .
A large book stared up at him. Not the book, but a very old one nonetheless. A book that settled everything in a single Christmas Day second. Henry picked it up and read the title on the cover.
HUNTER OF SOULS
REVEREND ERNEST SAMUELS
Ernie wrote the book! The one his mom started!
Henry smiled at the mere sight of his good friend’s name. But there was another item now looking up at him from the box, resting just beneath where the good Reverend Ernie’s novel had been only a handful of seconds ago.
“Henry . . . when you get a little older, we’re gonna sail somewhere. We’ll climb the highest mountain we can find. And when we’re done with that adventure? We’ll find the next one. Okay?”
“Okay,” Henry Babbitt quietly said to himself as he looked down on the leather-bound book he’d seen only minutes ago in his great-great-grandfather Jackson’s hand.
The ledger.
The age-old book looked no different than it had in Five Points, either in the moment when Skavenger had pulled it out of his old satchel with such reverence, or the moment when Jack had held it tight under his arm during their good-byes.
“Two minutes!” Gigi called out from downstairs.
Henry moved his hand toward it ever so slowly, hesitating once more, the same as his great-great-grandfather had . . . then let his finger lightly brush against the cover.
A thin sparkle of soft blue light wrapped around the tip of his finger like the tendril of a vine. This time it was Henry’s quick breath that had to push its way through a tightening smile of pure wonder.
It’s meant for me! It is my time now!
He opened the old leather cover, seeing the words his heart hoped would be there . . .
The Adventures of Nathan Babbitt
And as Henry looked at his late father’s name, the letters began to fade. The twelve-year-old quickly turned to the first ledger page where all of his father’s early adventures were listed.
Dates. Destinations. Dreams. All fading to bright white, but for the reason Nathan Babbitt would have wanted most: a lifetime of adventure for his only son.
Henry turned back to where his father’s name had disappeared, and discovered that it now read . . .
The Adventures of Henry Babbitt
This time, there was no welling of tears as he took in the old ledger’s new title.
There were just tears.
Tears he needed to quickly wipe away, and a gift he had to just as quickly put back, as he heard Chief’s lumbering stride pounding up the stairs.
“Tell him Christmas breakfast is now SERVED!” Henry heard Gigi proudly proclaim as he scurried to get everything back into place.
“Oh, I will!” the old man called back to her.
“Henry Nathan Babbitt!” Chief’s voice brimmed with excitement as he bounced through the doorway, a pair of ice skates over his shoulder and another pair held tightly in his hand.
“Finally, there you are!” the old man said as he walked in and saw his grandson’s face. “You okay?” he asked, even though Henry thought he had wiped away the last tear.
“Yeah, fine,” Henry answered, faking a quick sniffle. “Just the last of that cold, I guess.” A cold that Henry realized he didn’t have this morning.
“Cold shmold, pffft,” Chief scoffed. “You and me, ice skating in the park after breakfast. You might be able to say no to Abigail Kentworth, but you can’t say no to ol’ Chiefy boy.”
The old man shot a suspicious glance at the reconstructed gift and asked, “You didn’t open that, did you?” Henry shook his head faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
“Good! Oh, and Merry Christmas,” his grandfather continued. “You and I have much, much, much to talk about later. Did I say ‘much’?”
“You did,” Henry answered with a nod and a smile. “Merry Christmas to you too, Chief.”
His grandfather had already thumped the frame of the door and was on his way downstairs. “Wait’ll you see this breakfast your grandmother constructed!” he called back. “It looks amazing!”
Henry stood up out of Chief’s chair and quickly dashed into the bedroom where he hadn’t been able to sleep the night before, grabbing his coat.
He whipped back into the hallway, cradled the box newel post as he leaned into the first stair, then finished the next few steps—
And came to a stop halfway down.
An old photograph, once again on the wall, had caught his eye: the one of Henry, Nathan, and Chief—taken under the elephant’s watchful eye at the museum. Henry’s favorite photo ever. The three of them all caught in that perfect moment of laughter, the kind that only comes once in a great while.
But just above it now was an even older photograph. One that Henry knew wasn’t there before.
In sharp, yet elegant black-and-white, three Babbitts laughed and smiled—long, long ago—in a photo that had been taken at the base of . . . the Eiffel Tower.
The youngest in this photo, though, wasn’t Henry. It was Chief. When he was maybe seven or eight years old. His father, Sam, stood next to him, an arm around his laughing son’s shoulder, while on the other side, proudly smiling with his thumbs inside a sharp new set of suspenders, stood Chief’s grandfather.
Jack. Looking proud, smart, and successful. Looking very much as if he’d made quite a life for himself, without the help of anyone else. Checkered past no more.
Eloise poked her head out from the kitchen and looked up the stairs. “Remember your coat and gloves, okay?” she reminded Henry with a smile. “And have fun, that’s the most important thing.”
Whoa. Where’d that come from?
“Let’s get goin’, Grandson!” he heard Chief call out from the dining room. “We gotta eat. This snow is officially beginning to STOP.”
There was a knock on the front door.
The same kind of knock Henry had heard the night before.
Daaaaaaaaang, I forgot. Abigail. Abigail Kentworth.
Only this time, the familiar rush of blood didn’t rush to his cheeks as much. “I got it!” he called out as he made his way down the last few stairs and reached for the doorknob . . .
. . . before stopping just short of it.
That same sliver of hesitation he’d felt the night before had suddenly decided to return. Again, not as much as he’d felt twelve hours and more than a century ago, but it was there all the same.
Oh, c’mon! You’re better than this! You can do this! You did it!
Yeah, but what do you tell her?
I’ll tell you what you tell her. You tell her your cold’s gone. You tell her you’re feelin’ better, and yes, you’d like to go skating in the park. Soon as you finish with Gigi’s legendary Christmas morning breakfast, which, if Abigail hasn’t eaten yet and wouldn’t mind joining them . . .
Henry smiled.
Small things. Inconsequential. Just like Skavenger had said.
Time isn’t about time. Time’s about the moment. The moment that was right there on the other side of this door probably wondering why he hadn’t opened it yet.
“Go ahead, Henry,” he whispered to himself as his hand wrapped around the doorknob. “Don’t wait.”
He opened the heavy walnut door.
Woooosh.
And she was there on his grandparents’ doorstep, as stunning as ever.
New coat, brand-new winter hat, curly hair tumbling down over her shoulders. Standing there at the very moment that two straight days of New York snowfall had finally decided to stop for good.
Henry couldn’t say a word. And there was a very good reason for that.
It was because it wasn’t Abigail Kentworth standing right there on his grandparents’ doorstep.
It was Mattie McGillin.
She looked at Henry with a smile he’d pictured every night since France. A smile he thought he’d never see again.
She held a single sheet of water-streaked paper. And he could tell, without really even looking, that every word was still right there. Central Park, the telephone exchange in Hell’s Kitchen, the Vanderbilt Mansion.
And yes, even the address and the date he’d written to remind himself of the very place and time where he’d wanted to get back to . . . and where she now stood.
“Merry Christmas, Henry.”
Mattie’s smile was brighter than the glowing sun behind her. She held out the ledger sheet.
“I think you might have lost something in Paris.”