Home for Christmas

Home for Christmas

By David Kostik

When strains of Bing Crosby crooning “I’ll be home for Christmas…” came through the tinny speaker of the car’s radio, tears formed in Paul’s eyes. He was determined to make it home.

Years ago he’d brag he’d driven the road to Peggy’s house so many times he could drive it blindfolded. Right now, he thought, that skill would come in handy. Iced wipers slapped back and forth, almost clearing enough of the windshield to see a small patch of road while the fan pumped tepid air against the inside, opening a hole in the frost. A dim glow from crusted headlights served only to highlight a wall of wind driven snow against a black background. He hoped following the tree line would somehow keep him out of the ditch.

Paul also carried many other hopes tonight. All of them centered on Peggy, who he hadn’t seen since he boarded the train for Brooklyn on January 2, 1942. We embraced on the platform, surrounded by dozens of other couples with goodbye hugs just like us. The Red Bull Division was heading to Britain.

Peggy wouldn’t let go even after Sarge hollered the third time. He pulled back to break her grip but held his hands on her shoulders while he burned the image of her face into his heart – tear-filled emerald eyes, and rosy cheeks framed by her auburn curls. “We’ll be married as soon as I’m home,” he whispered. Then he promised he wouldn’t be gone long.

That was ten years ago, ten lost years.

---

The car almost got away from Paul on the curve, but when he steered out of the skid, he saw her house. A trail of smoke leading from the chimney, a Christmas tree glowing in the front window, and a three-foot drift blocking the driveway. He nudged the car as far as he could off the road and sat, looking at the house.

For the first time since he returned to the States, Paul’s confidence abandoned him. Even this storm they were calling the blizzard of the century didn’t frighten him away from the three-hour drive. But now, fifty feet from Peggy’s front door, he started to think he was making a mistake. He should have written. He should have called. But he was sure a Christmas Eve surprise was best.

“Dammit I’m here. I’m going to do this!” he shouted to the steering wheel. He buttoned his coat, jammed his hat onto his head, and grabbed the bottle of champagne that had been chilling on the seat next to him. When he pulled the handle and pushed the door, he had to fight the drift to open it. He stepped out into snow over the top of his boots and trudged toward the house through the drift that topped his knees.

Paul made it to the front stoop, then hesitated again. He turned his head to look at his car, tempted to get back into it, start the engine and drive away. But his heart started beating wildly. He looked at the door, then knocked. He wasn’t ready for what happened next.

After what felt like an hour, the door creaked open two inches. A pair of emerald eyes peeked through the crack, but the crack disappeared. The door wasn’t slammed, but there was no mistaking the sound of a solid closure. He didn’t move. In a minute, she opened the door again.

Peggy’s eyes bulged, she threw her hands to her cheeks, her jaw dropped. Her face looked like she had seen a ghost. Paul saw a diamond ring on her left hand.

He heard a man’s voice in the background holler, “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” she replied, “I heard a noise, but it was just the wind.”

Peggy’s face calmed and she looked Paul in the eye.

“You’re dead…they told us you are dead. There’s a marker at the Fort Snelling Cemetery.”

In the moments of silence that filled the air, Paul began putting the pieces together in his head.

“But I’m here,” he said.

“Who are you talking to?” the voice from the other room demanded.

“It’s just some guy who knocked on the door,” Peggy sputtered. “He’s lost.”

“I know that voice. Is that my buddy George?” Paul was certain.

“You need to understand how it was, Paul. The war was over. The soldiers who survived came back and they printed lists of those who didn’t. The last I heard, the Army said you were missing. I didn’t know what that meant. Nobody knew. You were just gone. You didn’t write. You didn’t call. You disappeared.”

“I couldn’t write. I couldn’t call.”

“We waited and waited and worried. After three years, we got tired of worrying. After five years the Army told us you must be dead. It was time to stop waiting.”

“And my buddy George…he helped you stop worrying and waiting…”

“I don’t know what I would have done.”

Paul stood speechless, shifting from one foot to the other, looking anywhere but into Peggy’s eyes. His head slumped and he saw the bottle of champagne in his hand.

“I brought this for you…” He handed the bottle to Peggy, and her trembling hand took it.

“Merry Christmas!” he said with a forced smile, then turned, walked down the steps and headed toward the drifted driveway. He heard the door close behind him.

___

“Peggy, what’s going on in here?” George walked behind Peggy who stood staring at the closed door, shaking. “Who was that at the door? What’s wrong?”

“It was Paul.”

“Paul? Paul who? What’d he want?”

“Your friend Paul…Paul Thompson.”

“Impossible. Paul Thompson is dead.”

“Still, he was here.”

“Why didn’t you ask him in?”

“He just came to wish us a Merry Christmas.”

“How’d he get here? Let me go catch him and bring him back.”

“He’s gone.”

George reached around Peggy and pulled the door open. “Paul!” he shouted, then looked down the driveway across an unblemished snowdrift.

“Peggy, how’d he get here?”

“He said he left his car on the road and walked through the drift.”

“Nothing, nobody has touched that drift since it started snowing last night.”

“He just walked away from the door toward the driveway…I watched him,” Peggy explained.

“Look for yourself…Peggy, you must be imagining things.”

Peggy joined George on the stoop and looked at the undisturbed snow.

“But George, look…he gave me this bottle of champagne.”