Two Christmas Miracles Read online

  The next morning Carolyn, excited, woke me. C’mon, Mommy, it’s Christmas. Get up.

  I had forgotten the gifts Hadry gave us until Carolyn mentioned them.

  Okay, we’ll open them, I said.

  Open yours first, Mommy.

  I unwrapped it and froze when I saw a pile of hundred dollar bills. There must be some mistake, I thought, my heart pounding. Hadry must have given this away by accident.

  Look, Mommy.

  I turned to see Carolyn holding up a man’s watch with an alligator strap and gold-plated numerals, just like the kind Steve wore.

  Mommy?

  What?

  How did she know?

  That was a good question. Honey, let’s go up to her place right now and find out.

  I knocked on the door several times. No answer.

  About to give up, I noticed Jacob nearby. He looked puzzled. What are you doing? he asked.

  What do you mean?

  This apartment’s empty. He opened the door. See for yourself.

  The room was vacant. No sofa. No chairs. No fancy drapes. No carpeting.

  But I don’t understand.

  Here, Mommy. You should read this. It was with my present.

  Carolyn handed me the note. It was a message from Hadry—

  “Merry Christmas, Carolyn! Your Daddy told me he hopes you like his watch.”

  # # #

  There is one more story I wrote that deals with the theme of Christmas. It’s actually a novel called Angels at Sunset, and it is the fictional life of woman named Jessica who, after witnessing Lincoln being shot at Ford’s Theater, goes on to fight for woman’s suffrage, unaware that Michael Alcott, a revengeful man is out to kill her. In the final chapter, Jessica’s son-law, Francesco, is conducting a music rehearsal with his students in a high school auditorium. Michael appears from the darkness in the back of the room to confront Francesco. Initially, Michael, a gifted violinist, had intended to seek revenge on Jessica by kidnapping Jessica’s granddaughter but he has a change of heart as he hears one of the high school students make mistakes in playing the violin. He decides to help as he approaches the stage:

  “Sir!” Michael said, trotting down the aisle toward the orchestra, “I know what she’s doing wrong.”

  Francesco’s eyes widened. “You! Michael Alcott! What you doing here?”

  “Mind if I give your violinist some pointers?”

  Francesco was both stunned and confused. He wondered if this was a ruse and looked carefully to see if Michael had a weapon. His heart raced. He ought to call the police. “Yeah, give pointers,” he said cautiously, “but I no want trouble. Understand? No trouble.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Francesco grumbled as he headed for a wall telephone. He dialed a number and asked for the police department, but Michael pressed down the receiver. “Please hang up, Mr. Bonelli.”

  “Why you here?” Francesco asked, his voice shaking as he replaced the phone on its receiver.

  “As I said, I just want to give your student violinist some help.” He turned his attention to Sandra and asked her to hand him her violin and bow. “You see,” he told her, pressing the chin rest of her violin under his neck, “you need to get softer sounds using lighter pressure on the bow.” He stroked the bow evenly against one of the strings. “You do this by drawing the bow closer to the fingerboard. Now you try it.”

  Sandra took the violin and bow and began playing.

  “That’s fine,” Michael said, his voice getting louder and more irritable, "but don’t grip the bow tightly like you have been doing. On your bow returns, you should—” He turned his frustrated face toward Francesco.

  “Mr. Bonelli, would you mind asking them to stop?”

  “Who?”

  “Your choir. Have them stop. I know they sing beautifully. In fact, I have never heard such a wonderful chorus in all my life. But I cannot talk to your student and listen to them caroling at the same time.”

  Francesco frowned. He looked at the students in the choir. Three of them were leafing through their songbooks. Two were whispering to one another. The rest were staring off into space.

  Snowflakes drifted across the high windows. Illuminated by the moon, they formed white triangles against the corners of the panes.

  Except for a few teachers sitting in the front row, the auditorium seats were empty, and those in the rear of the room were shaded in darkness. Francesco blinked at a curious pattern of light by the rear auditorium door. It was bright and had the shape of an angel. No, such foolishness. One of the ceiling lights is on, that’s all.

  He looked at the musicians who were engaged in silently reading their sheet music. Then he shifted his attention back to the students in the choir. They were just as quiet as everyone else in the room.

  “Don’t you hear them?” Michael asked, his face brightening. “They sound just like angels.”

  Francesco’s brow wrinkled as he paused to reflect. Many years ago, his father Enrico had told him about a certain theologian named Francis De Sales. According to Enrico, De Sales instructed us to “make ourselves familiar with the angels and behold them frequently in spirit, for without being seen, they are present with you.”

  Francesco still believed that somehow, in some mysterious way, angels had a positive influence on the development and performance of great music. How else could Beethoven have written his best music while he was totally deaf? How else could Mozart have composed symphonies as a mere child? Angels. Yes, angels. They had to be an influence. He was certain of it.

  Finally nodding in understanding, he gazed at Michael. “It has been a long time since you heard them, Mr. Alcott, hasn’t it?”

  Michael pressed his hand against his chin as he closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Yes. A very long time.”

  [To read the beginning of this powerful historical novel please search of Angels at Sunset by Tom Mach on the Amazon.com website]