Minutes tick by. The rain and chill do not bother me because I cannot feel either. In my pocket is the slip of paper. There is never more than one, but I know they will keep coming, especially tonight. Work has been busier than ever lately, and tonight is the busiest night of the year. I do not mind, though. Mine is the best kind of work.
The traffic has slowed to the occasional car. Across the street from me, tired-looking houses are squashed in a row. Most of the lights have gone out; bright reflections on the wet pavement are suddenly black as parents shoo their children to bed with promises of tomorrow.
I glance again at the slip of paper. The house is right, but the person is not here yet. I will wait. I've been here nearly half an hour, but it does not matter how busy we may get. Things worth doing right cannot be rushed.
Around the corner comes a man, medium height, medium build, medium brown coat. He has no umbrella, and his head is pulled into his shoulders in a feeble attempt to fend off the cold water trickling down his neck. He is walking quickly to get out of the rain, but heavily too, as though all he wants in the world is to sit and rest. I know as soon as I see him that he's the one on the slip, the one I've been waiting for.
Cars cannot harm me, but I still look both ways before crossing the street. I've never thought why I do that before, but tonight it occurs to me that it is a strange habit for me to have held on to. I catch up with the man as he reaches his door. He does not look up to see me, or notice as I slip in the door with him.
Inside the house does not seem to be much warmer than outside, but it is dry, and there is no wind. I remove my hat while the man peels off his coat and hangs it in the hallway closet. He takes off his sodden shoes and places them in the closet as well to keep from tracking water everywhere. Drops fall steadily from the drenched coat into his shoes, but there's not enough room in the closet to move them aside. The floor tiles show evidence of past water damage. Skirting the puddle that is already forming, I follow him into the kitchen.
His wife is sitting at the table, her head resting heavily on a hand as though she is trying to sleep sitting up. She is waiting for the baking to finish, the last tray of Christmas cookies. The oven is making a clicking noise as it cooks. The sound is so soft but steady, and each click is a tiny bit louder than the last. As we enter, she looks up, and says, “I'm glad you made it home, Paul.”
Paul crosses to her, and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I'm sorry I'm late, Melissa,” he says in a tired sigh. He pulls up the chair next to her. “How was your day?” Unnoticed by either of them, I take a seat opposite and place my hat on the well-worn table.
“It was good,” Melissa said. “The children made a special effort to be nice because Santa was watching, and they helped me get most of the chores done.”
“Santa,” Paul mutters darkly. “I wish there was a Santa who gave gifts to good children. When they wake up tomorrow, they won't have anything to celebrate.”
Curious, I scoot my chair back so I can look in to the living room. The walls are empty and the end of the couch that I can see is threadbare, but there is a Christmas tree, with a handful of presents and fallen needles beneath it. And after all, the presents are not what makes Christmas worth celebrating.
“At least there's something,” Melissa says. “And I even scraped together enough for an extra tray of cookies. They're just finishing now.”
Paul walks to the oven. I stand and follow him. He hears the clicking noise the oven is making. It's louder now, and faster than it was.
What's that sound?” Paul asks.
“I don't know,” Melissa says in a worried voice. “It's been doing that all day. I was waiting for you to come home and take a look at it.”
“If it's not one thing, it's another.” Paul sighs. “Have you check–”
His sentence hangs in the air as the oven explodes. Before he can realize what's happening, I shove him aside and catch most of the blast myself. I am unharmed, but Paul is crumpled on the floor. He has a cut on the back of his head where he hit the counter that is slowly oozing blood. His hands and face are covered with minor cuts and burns.
“Paul!” Melissa screams and hurries over to him. “Paul, are you all right?”
“I-I don't know,” he stammers. The blood is draining out of his face and his breathing quickens. He is going into shock. For all the notice that I get, I can never save a person gently. I can interfere directly so very little. My actions must be able to pass off as chance, or explainable in some other way.
People must choose whether to accept them or not.
While Melissa is tending to Paul, I stamp on a little fire that is smoldering idly on the tile. In the living room, I find a phone and call for an ambulance. Then I call the next-door neighbor to come stay with the children while their parents go to the hospital. It is not often that I am allowed to help beyond the actual accident, but tonight is a special night.
As I step back into the kitchen, Melissa looks up and seems vaguely to see me. I think that sometimes people can, after everything has happened. I never know that for sure because nobody has said anything yet.
“The ambulance and Mrs. Grady are on their way,” I say because she might be able to hear me now too. “He will be all right in a few days.” I pick up my hat from where I left it on the table. “And I believe Ben's Appliance Center is having a sale on ovens this week.”
She stares at me open-mouthed as I leave the room. Paul looks up to where she is looking but his eyes do not focus. Even if they can see me, I sometimes wonder what people think I am. People seem to try to believe that guardian angels are no more real than shaped pins or a nice sentiment in a card. Maybe it’s difficult for people to believe in us because we won’t save a person from every bad thing, or even from most of them.
I stop in the living room once more and look around. I do not decide when or how accidents happen or who lives through them. All I do is follow the instructions on my slip of paper, adding one miracle at a time to this world.
But because tonight is the night that we celebrate the arrival of Christ in our lives, I can do a little extra. As I touch the tree, it perks up slightly and the tinsel has an extra shine. Running my hand along the couch, it becomes less threadbare, and some of the small holes fix themselves. Nothing too noticeable, but a small difference for the better. Lastly, I pull from my trench coat four small presents wrapped in gold, one for each of the children, and a slightly larger present for their parents and place them gently beneath the tree. Let them realize that it's all right to believe in Santa. After all, Christmas is about celebrating the one who gave mankind everything.
In the hallway, I stop and look back. “Merry Christmas,” I say, knowing it would go unheard. Back outside in the rain I can hear the ambulance approaching. In my pocket, my fingers curl around the next slip of paper. I pull it out and read my next assignment.
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