Nick was engaged to Charlotte and was scheduled to meet her family in Minnesota. Finally, Audra was newly married and would be presiding over her first Christmas in her new home. Heath and Gene would go there, not at all reluctantly, since Don had two very pretty younger sisters.
So, Mother and Papa discussed things and decided to stay home that year. I was hoping for a pony for my birthday on the twenty-third, although things didn�t look favorable. Mother had said Royce in the way that meant no when I mentioned the pony. Of course, there was always the possibility that Santa would bring it�unless, of course, Mother had talked to him, too.
Once the decision to stay home was made, Mother began what Papa called turning the house upside down in preparation for the holidays. Elspeth, my nurse, had recently departed for another position, so I was now Mother�s shadow. My disappointment about not going to the ranch was soon dispelled in a flurry of decorating and baking and preparations for a dinner party which my parents would host�coincidentally on my birthday.
This year, Mother said, I would be allowed to sit at the table with the guests, and to that end she coached me daily on how well brought up little girls comported themselves when guests were present.
There were other preparations, too, not nearly so exciting. But because I sensed they were very important to my parents, I gave them my full attention. They were centered around the small church near the docks which we had attended for as long as I could remember. Pastor Ennis and his wife were good friends and often visited us in our home.
The church was plain�even drab�compared to the magnificent cathedral that my friend Mignon�s parents attended. It had no carpeted aisles, no stained glass windows, no tall spire ascending almost to Heaven, no white-robed choir. Instead, there were plain wooden pews set on stained, worn wooden floors, and the squat, flat-roofed building was stifling in summer and freezing in winter. It was, however, always full on Sunday morning.
I vaguely understood that we attended there because it was where Mother and Papa had been married�and because most of the people in New Orleans were Catholic, and we were not. Papa said that all churches were houses of God and should be respected as such�and that there were a great many because people worshipped in different ways.
Later, of course, I realized that the ugly little storefront chapel was a mission and that it ministered to people who would be unwelcome anywhere else. But when I was five, I took everything and everyone at face value. For instance, Mr. Frank was the man with shaky hands, and I frequently shared my hymnbook with him when he couldn�t hold his own. He didn�t smell nice like Papa, so sometimes I had to put my handkerchief over my nose and pretend to sniffle.
Mrs. Janet coughed a lot and seemed to grow thinner every week. She looked old, but I heard Mother say that she was only a little older than Audra. Miss Maggie was pretty in a tired sort of way. Her hands were always red and chapped because she had to work for Mr. Wang at the laundry to support her little boy. There was, I soon discovered, no Mr. Maggie to help take care of them.
Some of the younger women wore what Mother called face paint and party clothes and smelled strongly of perfume. There were very interesting to look at, but Mother told me firmly that well brought up little girls didn�t stare.
The congregants were, I realize now, an odd assortment: alcoholics, ex-prostitutes, saloon girls, drifters who slept in doorways or alleys�the unwashed and unwanted. But then I didn�t understand nor did I question. Papa said that we were all God�s children and, as such, should care for each other.
Because we�d always gone to California at Christmas, I�d never experienced that season at the little church. I was about to do so now, and the memory is, over half a century later, as clear as if it were yesterday.
**************
I didn�t mean to eavesdrop, but one night after dinner Mother and Papa forgot that I was playing behind the settee in the parlor.
�We�ll have to explain it to her in a way that she�ll understand,� Mother said.
�And accept. Are you having second thoughts?�
�No, I�m committed to the project.�
�It seems such a small thing in the face of all that we have. I know that we�ve provided the funds in the past, but it seems fitting that we provide ourselves also this year.�
�It�s Christmas Eve that concerns me. She can�t have more than the others, but then if she finds more at home. . .�
Something told me that I should make my presence known.
�Goodness, Kate, you startled me!� Mother said as I popped up with Antoinette, my favorite doll of the moment. She brushed my hair from my face, and then she looked at Papa�one of those long looks in which they seemed to communicate without words.
Papa held out his arms. �Come sit with me, Kate precious.�
�May Antoinette come, too?� It was a joke between us.
He winked. �Of course. Antoinette, too.� He lifted me into his lap and cuddled me warmly. �Your Mother and I have a few things to tell you about our at-home Christmas.�
I nodded trustingly.
�Well, you see, Kate, Santa is quite busy this year, and. . .�
�But he�ll come, won�t he, Papa? You said he�d know I was here and not at the ranch!�
�To be sure, precious! Santa knows that you�re here. It�s just that he�s had to change his plans a little. He�um�he�ll come to see you at the church on Christmas Eve instead.�
�Why?�
�Well, because there are so many children to see�especially where the church is�and if Santa stops at our house only for you, perhaps he won�t be able to be everywhere.�
�You mean he might not see all the children?�
�That�s right.�
I considered the gravity of the situation. �Then it will be all right if he comes to see me at the church, Papa.�
Mother and Papa exchanged another long look. �Another thing, Kate,� Mother began in her no-nonsense way, �with so many children, Santa won�t be able to bring as many toys this year.�
I considered that, too. I�d never really been overwhelmed with toys except for dolls. Papa brought those home all year, and my family numbered twenty-seven at last count. Still, it was pleasant to run downstairs at the ranch early on Christmas morning to see what Santa had left.
The room was perfectly silent as I mulled the meaning of Mother�s words. I thought of the glass cabinet in my bedroom where my twenty-seven dolls reposed. Then there was the wonderful dollhouse that Uncle Rand Vandemeer had crafted for me and a small table with four chairs where Mignon and I entertained using the blue-sprigged tea set and tiny linen napkins that Isabel had hemmed from some scraps. I was very happy with all those things, but I did so want that pony! I sighed deeply.
�Well, Kate?� Papa asked quietly.
�I�m thinking,� I said politely.
And I was. Suddenly I had a vision of the dozen or so ragged urchins who played in the filthy streets on Sunday mornings. Mother and Papa always spoke to them kindly, and more often than not, I saw Papa reach into his pocket for some coins to hand around. Were those the children Santa would come to see at the church on Christmas Eve? Except for Miss Maggie�s little boy and me, there weren�t any other children who attended regularly. I sighed again.
�What are you thinking, Kate?� Mother asked softly.
�I was thinking about all the children.�
She and Papa exchanged yet a third long look. �And?�
�I really, really only want a pony, but I suppose there�s no room in Santa�s sleigh�I mean, because of the toys for the other children.�
�I suppose not,� Mother said briskly. She stood up and held out her hand. �Come, Kate, it�s bedtime.�
�I�ll be up to say goodnight,� Papa said, dropping a kiss on my head as he set me on my feet.
As we walked upstairs, Mother said, �You know, Kate, more than one year Santa didn�t come to see me in the mining camp where I lived with my parents. And there were no birthday presents either. Papa�s family was very poor, too, so we both want you to have nice things and be happy. But there�s one thing we want even more than that.�
�What? What do you want more?�
�We want you to be a kind, loving little girl who shares with others.�
*************
My birthday�minus the pony, of course�and the dinner party were a complete success. I basked in the warm praise from my parents, who never mentioned the fact that I�d dropped my soup spoon and later crawled under the table to retrieve the napkin which had slipped from my small lap. The other guests had petted me, too, delighted with my fluent French (Isabel�s contribution to my up-bringing) and the fact that I spoke only when spoken to.
Early the next evening, we went to the church. A cheerful fire burned in the huge black stove in the middle of the room, and the pews had been pushed aside to accommodate a tall tree with gaily wrapped gifts piled high beneath it. The transformation made the room almost beautiful.
I recognized the neighborhood children huddled near the door, their eyes wide with wonder�and their hands and faces chapped from the cold, damp air outside. Even in my plain dark blue dress, I was vastly different from them. We never wore our best clothes to church. Mother said we were going to worship, not parade ourselves. She had, however, tied my hair back tonight with a bright red ribbon in honor of the occasion.
Mrs. Janet, coughing softly, smiled at me from behind her handkerchief. �Merry Christmas, Miss Kate.�
�Merry Christmas, Mrs. Janet,� I replied politely.
Mother slipped an arm around her thin shoulders. �Janet, it was too cold for you to come out tonight.�
�I wanted to see the children, and see�I wore the new shawl you gave me. It�s real warm.�
Mother smiled. �We�re all glad that you�re here, of course, but take care of yourself!�
When she went to speak to several others, I gravitated to where three of the saloon girls were chattering animatedly. They fell silent as I joined them. �Hi, kid,� one of them said finally. �You b�long to th� good-lookin� gent over there?�
I followed her pointing finger. �He�s my papa. My name is Kate.� I was riveted by the feathery scarf she had wrapped around her throat and shoulders.
�Don�t get many like him at the River Rose,� she laughed. �You like my scarf?�
�It�s very pretty.�
She whipped it off and draped it skillfully around my neck and shoulders. �There ya go!�
I was preening myself and enjoying the attention when Papa caught my eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Reluctantly, I unwound the wonderful scarf and handed it back. �Thank you very much for letting me wear it.�
�Sure, sweetums,� the girl laughed, tossing on the scarf again. �I wouldn�t mind havin� one like you�someday!� She glanced at her friends and laughed.
Mr. Frank was there, sitting in a corner, his hands shaking. �Merry Christmas, Mr. Frank,� I said, not standing too close to him.
�Merry Christmas, Miss.�
�There�re cookies on the table. Would you like one?�
�I guess not, Miss.�
�We�re going to sing Christmas carols after awhile.�
�That�ll be real nice, Miss.�
I glanced at his hands. �I�ll hold your book for you.�
His eyes grew very bright, and he swiped them with the sleeve of his tattered coat. �Thank you, Miss.�
Altogether, it was a pleasant evening. Pastor Ennis�s wife played the piano while we sang. I did hold Mr. Frank�s book for him, and I noticed for the first time that he had a nice deep voice much like Papa�s. Afterwards, Pastor handed out the gifts.
Everyone except me got a pair of new shoes and some stockings. I got a pair of felt slippers instead because, I realized, I didn�t need new shoes. I thought that Santa must be very smart to have known that. There were wool scarves and mittens and stockings, and each of us got a paper bag with an apple, an orange, some nuts, and a few wrapped chocolates. Though I was fond of chocolate, I forgot my bag entirely as I watched the amazed delight of the others who were already trying on their shoes and wrapping themselves in the brightly-colored scarves.
An odd feeling swept over me like a giant wave from the beach where we�d gone the previous summer. A lump rose in my throat, and tears welled in my eyes. I looked up at Mother in confusion. This was Christmas Eve�the most exciting night of the whole year! The other children weren�t crying�so why was I?
Mother understood immediately�though it took years for me to understand. She put her arms around me and held me tightly. �It�s all right,� she whispered. �It really is all right.�
**********
Papa was buttoning me into my warm coat when Mr. Frank approached us hesitantly, one hand in his torn pocket. �Mr. Wardell, sir, I�I�would it be all right if I gave the little girl�I made something. . .� His voice trailed off.
Papa straightened up and gave Mr. Frank his full attention, the way I�d seen him do with important people at his office. �Of course, Frank. That�s very thoughtful of you.�
Slowly Mr. Frank withdrew something from his pocket and held it out stiffly. The polished wood gleamed in the dying candlelight as he placed the carved figure in my hands. It was a pony, intricately crafted down to the smallest detail of its flowing mane and tiny saddle. My mouth dropped open as I turned it over and over, examining every perfect feature.
�Oh, Mr. Frank,� I managed to say, �how did you know? How did you know I wanted a pony for Christmas?�
He shuffled his feet nervously. �It�s not a real one, Miss.�
I was only five�my instincts and intuition not fully developed�so I know that the words I spoke then were placed on my tongue. �I�m glad it�s not real because�because I can keep it forever and ever and ever!� Then, without a thought of his strange, unpleasant odor, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his unshaven cheek. �Thank you! Oh, thank you, Mr. Frank!�
For a moment his trembling fingers touched my hair lightly. �I had a little girl like you once�a long time ago,� he murmured. Then his hands fell away, and he stepped back. Papa put out his hand, but Frank was already half-way to the door.
�Merry Christmas, Mr. Frank!� I called, clutching my pony. �Merry Christmas!�
**************
On Christmas Day, I looked in vain for him as I helped my parents and the volunteers they�d rounded up�including the Vandemeers and Uncle Rand�serve a traditional dinner to the hundred or so people who came to the church. But Mr. Frank never appeared.
As we were leaving, I patted the pocket of my coat where I�d tucked my pony, and thought of him again. �Mr. Frank didn�t come. I wanted to fix his plate myself.�
Mother and Papa were silent.
�I wish he�d come. He might be hungry, and I. . .�
Mother reached for my hand. �I don�t think he�s hungry, Kate darling.�
�How do you know?� I asked, not understanding.
She gave Papa one of those long looks. �There are a lot of ways a man can be hungry. Frank�Frank needed something more than food, and you gave it to him last night.� Her voice broke noticeably.
�I don�t understand, Papa,� I persisted.
�Frank isn�t hungry anymore, Kate precious,� he said softly. �I�m very sure he isn�t hungry anymore.�
I never saw Mr. Frank again. Papa said he�d gone away to a better place, and I thought of him living in a lovely little house somewhere instead of one of the dreary buildings near the docks. The little carved pony lived safely on top of my bureau in New Orleans and after we moved to Nashville three years later.
From the Journal of Dr. Katherine Barkley Wardell:
I was in medical school before Papa told me the whole story. In his youth, Mr. Frank had been a skilled cabinet and furniture-maker in Massachusetts. He was married with a child, a little girl who died while he was serving with the Union Army during the War. Unaware of her death, he had carved the pony for her one Christmas, but by the time he arrived home to deliver it, she was gone.
The horrors of war, combined with his insurmountable personal grief, took Frank�s life. He began to drink. Eventually, he lost his job. His wife told him he had to make a choice between his marriage and the bottle. He chose the latter. Sometime in the late 1870�s, he found himself in New Orleans where he took odd jobs to pay for a furnished room�and the liquor that numbed his heartache.
Pastor Ennis, concerned when Frank didn�t show up for Christmas dinner, went looking for him. Apparently, he�d died in his sleep. Papa paid for his burial and found among his meager possessions a daguerreotype of his lost little daughter and an address that turned out to belong to Frank�s wife. That�s how he learned what was behind the tragedy of Frank�s odyssey.
Though it had been almost twenty years, I wept for Frank that day, holding the little pony close to my cheek and remembering that long-ago Christmas Eve. Papa came into my room and sat beside me, stroking my hair in silent comfort. Finally he said, �Do you understand now why I told you that I was very sure that Frank wasn�t hungry anymore?�
�But you didn�t know that he was dead when you told me that.�
�That�s right, I didn�t. But I knew that Frank�s greatest hunger was of the soul, not the body. What you said to him�when you put your little arms around his neck and kissed him�ah, Kate precious, you filled him to overflowing.�
For I was hungry, and you gave me meat; I was thirsty, and you gave me drink; I was a stranger, and you took me in. . .Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me. Matthew 25:35,40