This story was written for the 2017 Advent Calendar – Day 4

A continuation of A Cartwright Christmas Carol

So all went to be registered, everyone to his own city.

A Cartwright Christmas Carol – Part 2
~~by PSW

Stave 2

 The First of the Three Spirits

(continued)

“Adam!”

All three jumped when that bellow split the air—it was a tone all too well known to be ignored.  Adam focused then, and seemed for the first time to notice how the light had dimmed.  “We been out too long,” he hissed.  “I didn’t pay attention.”  Even at such a young age, Joe’s eldest brother seemed to take such a failing personally.  He grumbled, and waved his little brother back down their trail.  “You get going.  I’ll be right there.”

“What are ya gonna do?”

“Hoss!”  Adam’s dark brows dipped into a fair imitation of Ben Cartwright’s scowl.  “Never you mind, little nosey, you just go!”

Hoss pouted for moment, then decided it was not worth the effort.  He turned and went crunching back along the row of footprints, calling loudly, “Pa!  Pa, we’re here, Pa!”

Left alone, Adam scrambled to gather the box and bag which had held their ‘decorations’.  Joe expected him to follow immediately behind … but instead Little Joe’s eldest brother froze in his tracks, the easy merriment of the afternoon leaching from his face and stance.  For a moment Joe thought his brother had seen something to upset him, but when Adam’s young voice spoke, the words scattered such supposition to the winds.

“I miss you, Mama.”  The boy swiped at a tear, and Joe sucked in a breath.  Rarely, if ever, had he seen this brother cry.  “I miss you so bad.”  For a long moment Adam was silent, eyes dark and shoulders rigid, then the child added, “I’m doin’ the best I can.  Pa is too, but he’s gotta work hard and he’s tired a lot.  I … I take real good care of Hoss, though, and I try to tell him about you.”  A flicker of a smile touched the boy’s face.  “You’d be proud of Hoss, Mama.  He’s a real good boy.”

“Adam!”

Adam scrubbed his sleeve briskly across his face, mumbled, “Merry Christmas, Mama,” then hurried away after Hoss.  Little Joe stared at his retreating form.  He was barely aware of Marie’s presence, or of his mother’s hand in his own.

“I knew … I mean, I know he remembers Hoss’s ma, but I guess I never thought about how …”  Distress filled his countenance.  “I don’t think I coulda gone through losing you twice, Mama.”

Gentle fingers touched his cheek.  “You would have survived, mon petit, and flourished.  You are stronger than you know.”  Marie’s eyes drifted along the darkening path which had taken the two boys from their sight.  “Your brother has lived through much in his lifetime, has he not, and yet he has emerged whole and able to love.  You would do the same.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, though his tone lacked any ring of conviction.  Little Joe pondered briefly the sights he had seen this night, and found himself surprised (though perhaps he should not have been) by his conclusions.  “Mama, is all of this why Adam’s always so…”  Her brow lifted, and Joe fell silent.  His feelings toward his eldest brother had not been charitable as of late, and he did not (for any of their sakes) wish such complaints to intrude upon this time.  “The way he is?”

A faint smile crossed Marie’s lips, but regarding those queries she remained silent.  Instead, her cool grip tightened around his.  “Come, mon fils.”  She tugged gently.  “We have yet one place more to visit, before our time is through.”

“Mama …”  Joe sighed.  If his mother chose not to speak—or could not, for reasons he did not understand—he would never convince her.  That much he remembered well.  Instead, therefore, he spoke the other words upon his heart.  “I don’t want you to go.”

Marie’s laughter swirled around them.  “But I must!  I have done so.  The past has already been, mon cher—it may be viewed, as we are doing now, but it may not be changed.”  The snow-covered evergreens faded even as she spoke, and Little Joe found himself suddenly back in the great room at the Ponderosa—though not as it was in the current time.  Feminine touches scattered about the walls and the flat surfaces, vases of holly decorated the tables and the mantlepiece (the delicate one which he barely remembered—it had not yet been replaced by the longhorns, a story which still no one would share with him).  As Little Joe’s eyes fell upon the fire, however, he noted the three silver frames lining the mantle and his heart sank.

Ben Cartwright had never kept pictures of his other wives in evidence while Marie still lived.

His mother must have felt his hand tremble, for she clasped it tight between her own.  Before any words could be spoken, however, a figure stirred in the shadows.  Little Joe saw then that his father sat in the red leather chair, between the great tree and the low-burning fire.  He had no time to wonder what Ben might be doing here, however, alone in the night, for a quiet step sounded behind them.  Joe turned and saw his eldest brother descending the stairs, hair rumpled and nightshirt hanging about his knees.

It was Adam as Joe remembered him in those faint snatches of earliest memory—tall, slight, and with more hair than Ben Cartwright’s eldest could ever hope to see again.  His face, as he passed the fire, was the face Joe knew, though still hollow with youth.  Adam halted before the red chair and crouched before their father.

“Pa?”

Ben sighed, scrubbing a hand over one face.  “I thought I was doing so well.”

Adam’s tone was confused.  “You are, Pa.”

“I thought … but …”  The elder Cartwright waved a vague hand toward the tree, and suddenly a sob escaped into the darkness.

His pa was crying.  Little Joe felt his own answering tears rise, and wished briefly that Pa could have somebody more comforting than ol’ Adam at his side.  His brother leaned forward, however, curling a hand around their father’s nape and pulling the grey-shot head to rest against his shoulder.  “You’re doing fine, Pa.  It’s just Christmas, is all.”

The sobs burst forth then, no longer to be denied.  For a long moment father and son were still, Ben spending his grief upon his eldest’s shoulder and Adam rocking them both gently, murmuring words that Joe was unable to hear.  It was, he realized, just as well.  Though he might be privileged to view a few scenes from the past, some things were best kept between those for whom they were intended.

In truth, Joe was too busy being amazed by his brother’s actions to focus on such details.  Adam was, to be fair, usually there for him at need (with the exception of those few years his brother had been in college back East).  He was always ready with advice (even when Joe didn’t ask or want it), but he was also willing to just help Joe work through a difficult decision on his own.  He was soothing when Joe was ill or injured, and a good teacher of all things ranch-related (once he managed to drop his acerbic commentary for long enough to teach).  Adam had never been, to Joe’s memory, an especially comforting person, however, and an embrace was certainly never his first approach to … well, to anything.  Yet here he was, holding their weeping father with no sign of discomfort or impatience.

If Little Joe was learning anything from his adventures of this Christmas Eve night, it was that Adam was not entirely the person his youngest brother had always thought him.

Perhaps, he pondered, it was what he had been meant to learn.

Finally Ben drew away, wiping at his eyes and chuckling wryly through his remaining tears.  “Sorry about that, son.”

“Don’t be.”  Adam drew back and settled cross-legged before their pa’s chair, tugging the nightshirt over his knees.  “It’s …”  He shrugged. “Christmas is a hard time.”  There was a faint catch to his own voice and Ben looked at him sharply, but his son’s face was impassive as ever.  Ben nodded slowly then, and blew out a deep breath.

“I wanted … I thought that this time …”  He sighed heavily and shook his head, leaning his chin on one fisted hand.  “And I had hoped that at least one of my sons would have the childhood that you all deserved.”

Those words struck with the force of a blow.  Joe had never really thought to imagine his brothers’ childhoods, beyond a vague idea of much travel and smaller accommodations.  Had he not, though, seen the truth during the course of this night?  How often had he grumbled that Adam remembered nothing of being a kid, that he must have been born full-grown?  It seemed now those words were truer than he had ever imagined.  A great regret for the times he had flung such accusation in his elder brother’s face stirred in Little Joe’s breast.

One of Adam’s dark brows rose.  “Pa, Little Joe will have his childhood.  His mama’s … gone, but we’re all here for him, and we’ll make sure of it.  He’s got a family and a home.”  Adam reached out to squeeze their father’s knee.  “He’s got Hop Sing, and Mitch Devlin—those two’re gonna be thick as thieves, if I don’t miss my guess—and all the horses in that corral out there his little heart can stand.”

Ben’s rich chuckle lacked volume, but not humor.  “I’m not sure that corral will ever hold enough horses for Little Joe.”

Adam sat back and smiled—a wistful, faraway expression.  “It’s not the same as if … if Marie was still here, but … Pa, he’ll get to be a kid.  We all want that for him.”

Suddenly, Joe could stand no more.  “Can we leave now?”

“What troubles you, mon fils?”  His mother’s voice was gentle, if unsurprised.

“Them!”  Little Joe swung a wide hand at his father and brother, who continued their low-voiced conversation unaware that their audience had been lost.  “They … I never knew any of this!  Why did I never know any of this?”

Marie’s eyes and expression were calm, implacable.  “None of us can be privy to all that went before, nor should we be.  Is it not enough—has it not always beenenough—to know that your father and brothers love you, without knowing the pain which enriches that love?”

“But I …”  Joe took a shaky breath, watching as Adam gripped their pa’s hand and hauled Ben to his feet.  “I don’t … I didn’t appreciate them like I should.”

“Neither do we ever truly appreciate our loved ones as they deserve.  Is this your fault, mon petit, for straining to grow against the constraints of youth and family?  Is it their fault, for not divulging their innermost struggles to the one whom they would protect?”

“No, it’s …”  Little Joe groaned, and thrust his free hand deep in his pocket.  “It’s nobody’s fault.  I guess we just don’t … always understand each other.”

Her delicate lips curved into a smile, lighting her countenance with the gentle glow.  “Such realization is a valuable first step, mon cher.”

Joe basked in his mother’s approval, but a flash of the old impatience asserted itself.  “So I’m supposed to just let Adam go when he’s treating me like a kid that doesn’t know anything?  Because he didn’t have time to be a kid himself, I’m supposed to let him keep me there forever?”

“No!”  Marie laughed softly, and cupped Joe’s cheek.  “No, of course not.  Such a response would be terribly unwise—for both of you, I think.  No, your brother knows much more than you allow him credit for … but not all.”  She lifted a roguish brow, and Joe’s giggle matched her own.  “He has a sharp tongue he does not always use wisely, and his preference for solitude works often to his own detriment, though he does not see it.”  Her eyes caught Little Joe’s.  “None of us is perfect, mon petit.  That the two of you will argue is a certainty, with personalities such as yours.  But remember this—your brother loves you, and you love him.  Remember what you have seen this night, and keep always in your mind that he is more than you know—as you are more than he knows.”

“So … don’t make it so personal,” he murmured, eyes falling to his feet.  He had done so, he knew.  They had both done so …

“Oui.”  His mother’s smile turned melancholy.  “You see now, I think … and my time here is finished.”

Little Joe gripped her tightly, as if by doing so he could keep his mother close.  “No!  Don’t go.”

“But I must.”  Marie took both of his hands in both of hers.  “I love you, mon fils, and I am so proud.”

Behind them, Ben trudged up the last of the stairs and disappeared into the upper hallway.  Adam stood still for a long moment, staring at the three silver frames dimly outlined in the fire’s glow.  Then he sighed deeply, as if from the depths of his soul.  “Merry Christmas, ladies.”  He inclined his head toward each small frame, then turned and followed his father up the stairs.

Little Joe Cartwright released his mother’s hand.

In the great room, the grandfather clock struck two.

Stave 3

 The Second of the Three Spirits

Whether an hour had truly passed from when Little Joe had disappeared with his mother from their sight, neither Adam nor Hoss could say.  It seemed to them no time at all, however, before the grandfather clock struck the second hour—both still stood near the foot of the stairs, caught up in the awe and (to be entirely truthful) baffled confusion of what was this night occurring.  Barely had the second stroke faded when the brothers became aware of a voice raised in song, emanating from their kitchen.  The two exchanged a brief glance, and then as one crossed toward that corner to view this new apparition.

The song continued, in words neither brother understood, but suddenly Adam started and his eyes filled with wonder.  Then he grinned, as openly as Hoss had ever seen him do, and quickened his pace, ducking without fear through the wide doorway.  Hurrying along after his brother, Hoss stopped short to stare at the miracle which had overtaken their previously dark kitchen.

Every table, every surface was laden, fairly groaning beneath their burdens.  A large ham sat upon the sideboard, glazed with mustard and honey and strewn with breadcrumbs, and beside it a platter of succulent fish.  Crisp pork sausages were mounded upon another platter, and a pot of steaming meatballs sat behind.  On the adjoining table, a white star-shaped creation (it looked a bit like cheese, though Hoss thought he might be willing to attempt it) took up a large platter, scattered with raspberries and rich red jam.  Beside it, a great mound of pink salad rose from a crystal serving bowl, ringed with slices of boiled egg.  A skillet of creamy potatoes and onions sat still upon the stove, and a heap of mashed potatoes rose from a delicate china bowl.

Bread was heaped upon the center island—flat bread, cinnamon buns, rye loaves dusted white with flour, and golden yellow rolls glazed and stuffed with raisins.  Beside the bread stood great pitchers of dark red drink, soaking oranges and cinnamon sticks.  A round dish of rice pudding scattered with berries, oranges, and cinnamon graced the center of the island, and upon its near end were scores of flat brown cookies, shaped like men and women and hearts.

A woman stood at the table’s edge, rolling out more of the dark dough.  She was tall, with high full cheeks, sparkling blue eyes, and a wealth of blonde hair coiled about her head.  Her pert nose was dusted with flour, yet her crisp shirt-front and deep green skirt remained untouched.  It was she who had been singing, but when the brothers approached she broke off and turned to them, reaching forth her hands in welcome.

“God jul, mina söner!”

“Mama!”

Hoss had rarely heard such eagerness in Adam’s voice, nor seen such a sparkle in his brother’s eye.  He noted these things only briefly, however, for he was feasting his own eyes upon Inger Cartwright—his mother—of whom he had no memory but a picture in a silver frame.  Yet here she stood.  His greeting was softer, filled more with awe than exuberance, but no less eager.

“Mama …”

“My darling boys.”  Inger’s soft lilt embraced them, her smile lit them as with a dozen fires.  She turned back to gather two of the heart-shaped cookies, and offered one to each.  “Only one, though,” she laughed, and her merriment was such that her sons could not help but join in.  “Don’t spoil your Christmas breakfast.”

The cookies were real in their hands, smooth and soft and rich with the scent of spices.  Hoss’s eyes moistened as the flavors filled his mouth and his heart—he would have closed them against the tears, yet he could not turn his gaze from her.

From Inger.  His mama.

Adam’s breath was shaky.  “Mama, I’ve … we’ve missed you.  So much has happened …”

“I have seen, my son.”  Inger’s smile stretched wide and wistful as she gazed upon this child of her heart, drinking him in.  She reached for Adam’s cheek, yet stopped short of touching.  “I have seen, and have been so proud.”  Her eyes drifted to Hoss, and tears welled within them.  “So proud.”

“Mama …”  Speech seemed to have left him—he could think of nothing to say.

She smiled full upon him, and Hoss caught his breath at the love there.

His mama …

For a moment, Inger’s eyes returned to her eldest.  “Adam …”  She drew in a long breath then, and Hoss wondered if his mother was truly so calm as she appeared.  When she spoke next, however, her tone was brisk.  “Have another ginger snap.  You love them so.” Then, Inger spun and held out her hand to Hoss.  “Come, my darling boy.  We have little time, and much to see.”

He hesitated, eyeing the newly flour-free palm.  “Where are we … goin’?”

Her white teeth flashed.  “Come and see.”

Hoss glanced toward Adam, but his eldest brother still had eyes only for Inger.  Well … Little Joe had gone with Marie.  He supposed he couldn’t let ol’ short shanks outdo him—not when it came to trustin’ a person’s mama.  Taking a deep breath, gathering his courage, Hoss engulfed Inger’s hand within his own large one … and the kitchen with all its abundance was gone in an instant.

They stood instead against the wall of a finely decorated parlor.  The home itself was all beauty and grace—white and delicate with everything in its place.  Decorated for the holy season, it was a work of art.  Holly and mistletoe hung from mantle and window frames and chandelier, candles graced tables and sills, and a tree to rival that at the Ponderosa rose in the center of the room, bright with candles and shining golden ornaments.  A tray of cookies graced the coffee table, and mugs of cider.  Hoss grinned approvingly at the festive atmosphere, until a female voice spoke from behind the tree.

“Gerard, surely this can wait.  It’s Christmas!  The children will be—”

“Caroline, I’ve told you not to bother me when I have work.”

Hoss’s nose wrinkled, and he looked down upon Inger.  “The Reinholds?  Ain’t I had enough o’ her this month, we gotta see her again now?”

Inger frowned fiercely upon her giant of a son.  “Your generous spirit suffers of late, child.”

“Yeah.”  He sighed, hanging his head to acknowledge that truth.  “I reckon so.”

In fact, Hoss knew so.  He had known it already, even without this new affirmation.  His mood had been foul for weeks, in fact, an unusual occurrence for the good-natured man and doubly so during the festive season.  Hoss placed a good part of that upon the woman yet hidden by the Christmas tree—Caroline Reinhold.  Of course, she could not take the entire credit, but the thought of even another minute spent in a room with the woman was enough to drag the usually amiable features of Ben Cartwright’s middle son into a decided scowl.

If only he had never agreed to help out with the Virginia City Christmas Charity …

“Yes, but … but how long do you expect to be?”

“I don’t know!”  Gerard Reinhold’s response was testy, and muffled in some fashion.  Inger tugged upon Hoss’s hand and he followed her reluctantly around the tree.  The man stood beside the outer door, wrapping himself in coat and scarf.  “I expect to be home when I’m ready.”

“But …”  His wife cast an anxious glance toward the tree—no, the stairs beyond.  Caroline Reinhold was a handsome woman, no question.  Tall, stately, and dark haired, with stunning green eyes, she was indeed a site to behold.  Her features were clouded, however, and Hoss (even hard-hearted as he had been feeling toward the woman) could not help a touch of concern.  “Gerard, the children—”

“Can be patient until I’m back.”

“That’s hardly fair!  It’s Christmas morning.  They’ll want to open their gifts.”

“They can wait a while.  It isn’t as if they don’t have other things to keep them occupied.”

The door slammed against any further protest.  Caroline Reinhold stood quite still for a moment, staring at the white-painted wood mere inches from the tip of her delicate nose.  Then she took a long, quavering breath and moved away.  Hoss looked to his mother.

“How does a man speak ta his wife that way, and on Christmas?  And those kids o’ his …”

Inger’s eyes, as they looked upon him, were dark with affection.  “Many men do.  You know this.”

“Ain’t real men, not ta treat their family like that.”

His mother squeezed his hand gently, and the scene shifted.  A boy of about ten chased a younger girl round the tree, snatching at an embroidery hoop and sampler she kept clasped tightly to her.

“Mama!”

The girl’s shrieking—for this was no game, but a true sibling squabble—was finally rewarded, as Caroline hurried in from the next room.

“Gerry!” she scolded, catching her son’s arm.  “You leave her be!  I know your papa’s late, but—”

“Let go!”

Young Gerry jerked away.  His sister, having paused her flight with their mother’s arrival, had unfortunately stopped near enough that the boy was able to at last snatch her sewing from her hands.

“Mama!”

“Gerry!”  Caroline reached for the embroidery, but he pulled it away.  “Gerard Reinhold Junior, give your sister’s sewing back immediately!”  The boy glared, and Hoss was startled to see real, deep-seated resentment in those young eyes.  From any child that manner of feeling would be troubling, but directed from a boy toward his mother …

For a moment he thought Gerry would not comply, then the boy thrust the crumpled sampler toward his little sister, who snatched it and scurried to the sofa.  Caroline touched her son’s shoulder gently, but he pulled away.

“Gerry, be patient.  Your papa—”

“I’m gonna tell him you yelled at me.”

“Son …”  She reached out again, stopping short this time of actually touching him.

“Papa don’t like it when you yell at me!” the boy flung at her.  “He says I ain’t gotta answer ta no woman, and I’m gonna tell him you done it!”

“Gerry …”

The boy dodged her outstretched hand, darted around the tree, and pounded up the stairs.  Caroline stood staring after him, hand and lips trembling.  On the settee, her young daughter clutched her stitching silently, a tear tracking down one cheek and lower lip quivering.

“Mama, he … that ain’t right!”  Hoss was nearly too appalled for speech.  “No boy oughta—”

“He is a troubled child, my son, from a troubled home.”  Inger’s previously cheerful tone was weary.  Her hand pressed his.  “Not all men treat women—seewomen—as your father does.  You and your brothers have had the best of examples.  Be so grateful.”

The scene shifted again.  Caroline and Gerard Reinhold stood together beside the Christmas tree.  The house was still and quiet, the window dark.  Festive paper lay strewn beneath the tree and around the room, mute testament to the wealth of gifts which had graced the Reinhold home.  The fire burned low in the grate, reflecting dimly against her hair and the fob of his watch.

“I told you to wait, Caroline.”

She took a long breath.  “Gerard, supper was finished.  The day was nearly done.  And they had only opened a few when you—”

He seized her arm and pulled it around, eliciting a sharp cry from his wife.  “I told you to wait.”

“Dadburn it,” Hoss muttered, and started forward—having utterly forgotten that he and his mother were but spectators in the Reinhold home.  Inger tugged him back.

“We can do nothing, child.”

“But Mama …”

“They cannot see or hear us, Eric.  We can do nothing.”

It was almost more than Hoss could bear.  “He ain’t got no right, Mama!”

His mother’s work-hardened fingers gripped his own.

“Gerard!  They were so patient all day, I couldn’t keep them waiting any longer.  Surely your business could have waited until—”

Her husband squeezed her wrist, and Caroline broke off with a gasp.  Hoss could barely see past his fury.

“I told you to wait.”  Gerard’s voice dropped, its very softness adding an edge.  Caroline took a long breath and then nodded, her eyes seeking the floor.

“I am sorry, Gerard.”

He nodded, releasing her.  “Clean this up before you come to bed.”  The man turned then and climbed the stairs, sparing not a backward glance for his wife.  Caroline stood for a moment, rubbing at her injured wrist, then moved soundlessly to gather the discarded Christmas wrappings.

“Mama!”  Hoss turned toward her, finding Inger’s usually sunny countenance somber.  “Is this why … why she’s always tryin’ ta run everything?  Ta make ever’body do everything the way she wants it?  Cause she ain’t got no say in …”

He did not finish the thought.  In truth, he found that he could not.  It would have been too like prying into Caroline Reinhold’s personal sufferings.  Hoss could not take his eyes from her, however—the woman who had made his time with the Virginia City Christmas Charity a nightmare lived, it seemed, a nightmare of her own.  His mother’s hand tightened upon his and the Reinhold home melted from around them.  He found it difficult to focus upon the next scene, and only Inger’s gentle urging drew his attention to their new destination.

It was a little dark room, bare of Christmas cheer and lit only by the glow of a banked fire.  Hoss recognized the place—it was the front room of the Box C ranch house.  Jim Cobbin’s spread.  It seemed, then, that his time with his mother was to be spent touring the other Charity committee members’ Christmases.  Ben Cartwright’s middle son bit back a groan.  There was nothing he desired less … but Hoss was a practical man, and an honest one.  He had surely, he admitted, been in need of those last visions.  No doubt he would also find more than he had expected within the Cobbin home.

Or less.

The Box C was no large ranch, not like the Ponderosa.  It had always been prosperous one, however, and well-tended.  This was one reason (of several) Hoss regretted that Jim Cobbin had taken hard to the bottle after the death of his wife that previous spring.  The man had so much to lose.

The summer had been a busy one, and none of the Cartwrights had seen much of the little rancher during those months.  There had been snatches of rumor, of course.  Stories, though Hoss had paid those little mind.  Virginia City was a veritable breeding ground for gossip, and only a fool believed even half of what he heard there.  It was not until Hoss had agreed to join the Charity committee and found himself sitting across from a Jim Cobbin he’d never known—one who reeked of whiskey and stale, hand-rolled cigars—that he truly realized how bad things had become for the man.

The committee had allowed Cobbin back because he and his wife were founding members, and because Caroline Reinhold and Doris Parker had decided he surely couldn’t do any harm.  Hoss assumed (somewhat accurately) that both ladies were more interested in having a couple of strong backs on hand than any real input from the male committee members.  As the weeks before Christmas passed, however, it became sadly obvious that Jim Cobbin was no longer even that.  The rancher could barely keep himself upright many days.  Toting furniture and heavy boxes was beyond his reach, and no amount of encouragement or scolding or camaraderie from Hoss could induce Cobbin to put aside his bottle for even the mornings of their collections and deliveries.  Burdened by the bulk of the heavy lifting and frustrated with his inability to get through to the other man, Hoss had finally thrown up his hands in surrender—much as it went against his grain to do so.

He had a charity to aid.

Now, standing within Jim Cobbin’s front room on this Christmas day, Hoss was startled by its bleakness—the stark walls, the bare mantel, the empty chairs.  Empty all but one.  Jim Cobbin slumped within a tattered leather monstrosity before the hearth, whiskey bottle in one hand and framed portrait in the other.  Hoss did not need to cross behind the man to know that Cobbin’s wife smiled upon him from beneath that glass.

He shifted, glaring through an unwashed window at the grey world beyond.  “Why ain’t John or Carol out here with him?  It ain’t right ta leave a person’s pa alone on Christmas.”

Inger’s blue eyes were soft with compassion.  “His children have their own families.  You know them.  Both his daughter and son are much involved with the town celebrations, and with their spouse’s people.  Neither wish to bring their children on a long, cold drive to spend Christmas in such a small, cheerless place.”

Hoss growled his impatience with such negligence.  “It wouldn’t be so cheerless if somebody’d get out here and make it that way!”  His mouth tightened.  “Jim’s their pa!  He’s their pa, and he’s missin’ their mama!  It’s their business ta see he ain’t out here alone on Christmas—or any other day, fer that matter—drinkin’ hisself into an early grave!”  Loving soul that he was, Hoss could not fathom the thought of leaving his own father to the dubious mercies of a whiskey bottle in similar straights.  They had all so badly needed each other in the months following Marie’s death—they had all so desperately depended upon each other.  “Don’t they … well, they gotta be missin’ her too.  Don’t they …”  He broke off, unable to choose just one among his many indignant queries.

“Not all cope with grief in the same way, my son.  You know this.”  He did, but right now Hoss didn’t want to hear it.  Inger rubbed gently upon his arm.  “For his daughter to come to this place without her mother would surely bring a pain she does not wish to face.  His son … his boy has long given over loyalty to his wife, who does not wish her children involved with a drunkard.”

“But maybe he wouldn’t be, if they just—”

“So many ‘maybes’.  ‘What if’ can never be—only what is.”

“But …”  Hoss pinched at the bridge of his nose, struggling to calm himself.  “But why don’t his daughter bring him to their house then, if she don’t wanna come here?  It ain’t that much of a drive …”

“My son.”  His mother eyes were understanding, yet helpless.  “I cannot—”

“I know, Mama.”  Hoss halted his questions, venting his frustration with a mighty sigh.  “I know.  You can’t tell me all them things.”  His lifted brow asked for confirmation, and Inger agreed with a tiny shake of her head.  “And I know John and Carol are hurtin’ too, and people’s families ain’t always what they ought to be for each other.  I seen it, ain’t I?  I run across enough of ‘em in my time.”  He eyed little Jim Cobbin, the sorry crumpled form sliding farther down with each drink.  “And I guess I just … I wish I’d …”

Many were his wishes, but none aided this lonely man in his barren home.  Hoss squeezed his mother’s fingers instead, and Inger took his large hand between both of hers.  “Your heart is so big, my son.  So big.  You have such love for the poor and the outcast.”  Her lips tipped into a gentle smile.  “Only remember, perhaps, that the poor and outcast do not always wear such a face.”

Her son nodded, taking these words to heart.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I guess not.”  Without removing his eyes from the unfortunate man before him, Hoss asked, “We gonna go see Doris next?”

“Ja, we are.”

“Well then, let’s get at it.  I guess we … we ain’t got all night.”

“No.”  A shadow flitted briefly across Inger’s countenance, gone so quickly that Hoss was uncertain it had ever truly been there.  “We do not.”

The next scene to greet them was that of a cozy kitchen at dawn, warmed by a cheerful blaze and filled with the scent of coffee and cinnamon.  Doris Parker’s youngest daughter bustled about, stirring a pan of bubbling oats and removing fresh buns from the oven and pouring a rich brown brew into the waiting cups.  Her elder brother appeared in the doorway even as she finished, carrying an armful of wood for the bin, while another woman—the brother’s wife, Hoss thought—ushered in two small children and sat them around the table, moving with a spring in her step which belied her obvious condition.  Not that Hoss had been unaware of this coming addition—Doris had spent a great deal of their time together speaking of her family, and particularly this new bundle of blessing.  A boy, the Parkers’ youngest, stuck his head through the doorway, interrupting the general clamor.

“Ma’s comin’!”

This news occasioned a hasty shedding of the eldest brother’s outer coat, giggling from the children, and a quick check of the breakfast offerings by the daughter.  The younger brother scrambled for his seat, nearly knocking it upon its side and sending up a fresh round of merriment from his nephews, and had barely settled before Tom and Doris Parker appeared.

Hoss was unprepared for their arrival—for the slow and faltering steps of this woman who had shown such an ability to be everywhere at once (including places he wished most fervently she was not) over the past weeks.  Doris’s grip upon her husband was tight, and for himself, Tom Parker took obvious care not to move too quickly or make sudden changes of direction.  He settled his wife in the chair at the head of the table, over her protests.

“Tom, this is your seat.”

“The kitchen is your domain, my dear.  I would not presume to sit at the head of this table.”

Doris fluttered a hand, and Hoss saw that she was breathing heavily despite the slow pace and short distance they had come.  “Oh, silly man.  Very well, then.”  Smiling, she looked along the scrubbed tabletop at the gathered faces.  “Shall I stay here in your grandpa’s chair then, children?”

They giggled, though the younger of the little ones responded in some confusion.  “Grandpa’s chair is out by the tree, Grandma.”

This innocent misunderstanding produced another round of merriment and general chatter, which Hoss noted that Doris did not join.  Rather, she sat silent amid the cheerful chaos, looking upon them all with such love and heartache that he understood on the instant.

His tender heart fell within his breast.  Looking down upon his companion, Hoss asked, “Mama, what’s … I don’t understand.  She wasn’t like this when …”

Inger tightened her grip, but had no words to offer.  None were needed, for Tom Parker stood, holding his coffee cup aloft, and the buzz of conversation trailed away.

“Here we are this Christmas morn, together as we should be.”  Little cheers from the family greeted this proclamation, and though he nodded acknowledgement, he continued without pause.  “We gather in the kitchen this morning at the request of your mother and grandmother, who remembers a tradition of Christmas mornings in the kitchen from her own childhood and insists that it will be festive, rather than simply crowded.”  Her sons chuckled, and Doris thumped her husband lightly upon the leg.  Tom lifted his cup high.  “Yet wherever we celebrate, no matter how crowded” [‘or hot,’ their younger boy grumbled, scooting his chair away from the woodstove] “will be Christmas for us, because we’re together and Christ has come.  Raise your cups to Christmas, all.”

Mugs (cups of milk for the children) lifted in the air, and all drank with the gusto of those who have not yet had their first morning sip of coffee.  Tom looked upon his wife as he settled back in his chair, and Hoss saw the truth reflected in her husband’s eyes as well.  The family bowed their heads over the meal, and as Doris began to offer the blessing his mother’s hand tightened and the scene shifted.

The time was later, and the family had moved out to the main room.  A fire blazed, a small tree sparkled nearby, and paper lay strewn beneath chairs and feet.  The children were scurrying about, showing off and playing with their new gifts, and the adults drank coffee and brandy while discussing politics and whittling and Christmases past.  Doris moved busily among them all.  She was steadier now, her step lighter as she bustled here and there to examine a toy, sniff her daughter’s new satchet, exclaim over a handsome red shawl made by her daughter-in-law and inquire after the stitching.  She was everywhere and into everything, so much more like the woman Hoss had known—had bemoaned, in truth—these past weeks that he relaxed, even knowing nothing had changed.

Inger, standing arm in arm with her son, surely felt it.  She bent her head close, though the family could not hear their words.  “With so little time left, everything becomes precious.  Every laugh, every experience, every chance to make a memory—not for herself alone, but for her loved ones as well.  She wishes to live as much as she may, and she wishes them to remember her for who she truly is—not what she will be at the end.”

“Yeah, I …”  Hoss felt tears rise and he struggled to hold them, although there was no one but his mother to see.  It made sense now, so much more sense.  All the underfoot he’d put up with from Doris over these past weeks—the times he’d had to shoo her away while he moved furniture, the times he’d gone to gather donations from his assigned list and found Doris had been there already, the times she’d kept them all at the meetings far past their allotted time with her aimless chatter and stories.  “Yeah.  She was gettin’ her livin’ in,” he murmured, and Inger leaned her head against his broad shoulder.

The scene shifted again.  Tom and Doris stood in the doorway, watching as their eldest disappeared with his family down the walk and into the night.  Behind them, their two remaining children set about to tidy the room.  When Doris moved to help, however, they laughed and sent her away.

“We’ll be done in no time, Mama.  Sit down.”  Her daughter’s eyes were concerned even through the cheer.  “It’s been a long day.”

“It has at that,” she sighed.  Doris started toward the settee, but her husband caught her, pulling her with him to his own chair before the fire and down into his lap.  Their daughter, passing, dropped a knitted afghan upon them, and Doris laid her head upon her husband’s shoulder as he draped it over them.  There they sat, silent, gazing into the fire.  After a time the tidying was done, and without discussion both children disappeared from the room.  Doris’s hand reached up to cradle Tom’s face, and a single tear tracked down his cheek.  Hoss turned abruptly away.

“I can’t watch this, Mama.  It ain’t … it ain’t mine ta watch.”

Inger smiled tenderly upon him, and took both of his hands in her own.  “You see now, my son.”  It was not a question, nor was one necessary.  Ben Cartwright’s middle son was the most empathetic of men—he could not help but see.

“I … I guess ya never know, do ya Mama?  What people have got inside ‘em, what makes ‘em do the things they do?  I mean, some people make it obvious, sure, but some of ‘em …”

“No,” Inger agreed.  Her eyes shone as they rested upon this large son of hers.  “And we never will know, not all.”

“I guess …”  The big man hung his head.  “I been thinkin’ all this time ‘bout all that charity work I been doin’, but I ain’t been actin’ very charitable, toward any of ‘em.”

She laughed softly.  “That, my son, is a trap into which we have all been known to fall.”

“Well, I been grumpier than an ol’ bear woke in the winter, and not just with them.”  Hoss shook his head, casting his mind upon the past days.  “I let it get ta me, and I been gettin’ ta ever’body else.”

His mother’s dimples flashed, and she reached to cup his cheek.  “You are not alone.  Your brothers have been adding their own portion, ja?”

“Ja.”  He chuckled wryly at that, covering her hand with his own.  “Poor Pa.  He don’t deserve any o’ what we been givin’ him lately.”

“Your father loves you all.”  Inger smiled.  “But I do think Ben would perhaps like it more if his fine sons could manage to provide him some peace.”  She patted him gently.  “It is the season.”

“It is,” Hoss agreed, and smiled shyly down upon her.  “I’ll remember, Mama.”

“I know you will, my son.”

He looked back to the Parkers.  “And I’ll remember … all the rest, too.”  Standing with his lovely messenger on Christmas day, Hoss’s heart swelled in gratitude for the message—a gentle reminder that pain and joy, love and heartache lived behind every door and in every heart, in his own city and beyond.  His charity could not be offered only to some.  “I’ll remember, and I’ll try.”  Hoss’s gap-toothed grin flashed then.  “Cain’t always promise I’ll be good at it, or do it right—but I’ll do my best.”

Tears filled Inger’s blue eyes, spilled upon her rosy cheeks.  “Your best is more than enough, Eric.”  She drew him down and pressed her kiss to one cheek, then the other.  “I am so proud.”

Hoss knew the moment for what it was, and that nothing would change it.  In an instant, he gathered his mother in his arms, lifted her, twirled her about as though such a tall woman were but a child.  Inger’s merry laughter filled the air, dancing about them, and his tears mingled with her own.  Hoss Cartwright planted a rough kiss upon his mother’s cheek and then set her down, releasing her hand.

In the great room, the grandfather clock struck three.

To Be Continued on Day 13

Link to the 2017 Advent Calendar – Day 5 – Night of the Star by faust

Link to A Cartwright Christmas Carol – Part 3