book. The spine was brittle and cracked a little as it opened. I cleared my throat and started reading aloud.
The little girl came into her papa’s study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him . . .
“That’s like you, Dad. You’re real busy too,” Jenna observed.
I grinned at her. “Yeah, I guess so.” I continued reading.
“Well, once there was a little pig—” The little girl put her hand over his mouth and stopped him at the word. She said she had heard the pig stories till she was perfectly sick of them.
“Well, what kind of story shall I tell, then?”
“About Christmas. It’s getting to be the season, it’s past Thanksgiving already.”
“It seems to me,” argued her papa, “that I’ve told as often about Christmas as I have about little pigs.”
“No difference! Christmas is more interesting.”
Unlike her story’s counterpart, Jenna was long asleep before I finished the tale. Her delicate lips were drawn in a gentle smile, and I pulled the covers up tightly under her chin. Peace radiated from the tiny face. I lingered a moment, knelt down near her bed and kissed her on the cheek, then walked back down to finish my work.
I returned to the den to find the lavish drapes drawn tight, and the two women sitting together in the dim, flickering light of the fireplace talking peacefully. The soothing tones of Mary’s voice resonated calmly through the room. She looked up to acknowledge my entrance.
“Richard, your wife just asked the most intriguing question. She asked which of the senses I thought was most affected by Christmas.”
I sat down at the table.
“I love everything about this season,” she continued. “But I think what I love most about Christmas are its sounds. The bells of street-corner Santa Clauses, the familiar Christmas records on the phonograph, the sweet, untuned voices of Christmas carolers. And the bustling downtown noises. The crisp crinkle of wrapping paper and department store sacks and the cheerful Christmas greetings of strangers. And then there are the Christmas stories. The wisdom of Dickens and all Christmas storytellers.” She seemed to pause for emphasis. “I love the sounds of this season. Even the sounds of this old house take on a different character at Christmas. These Victorian ladies seem to have a spirit all their own.”
I heartily agreed but said nothing.
She reflected on the old home. “They don’t build homes like this anymore. You’ve noticed the double set of doors in the front entryway?”
We both nodded in confirmation.
“In the old days—before the advent of the telephone . . .” She winked. “I’m an old lady,” she confided, “I remember those days.”
We smiled.
“. . . Back in those days when people were receiving callers they would open the outer set of doors as a signal. And if the doors were closed it meant that they were not receiving callers. It seemed those doors were always open, all holiday long.” She smiled longingly. “It seems silly now. You can imagine that the foyer was absolutely chilly.” She glanced over to me. “Now I’m digressing. Tell us, Richard, which of the senses do you think are most affected by Christmas?”
I looked over at Keri. “The taste buds,” I said flippantly. Keri rolled her eyes.
“No. I take it back. I would say the sense of smell. The smells of Christmas. Not just the food, but everything. I remember once, in grade school, we made Christmas ornaments by poking whole cloves into an orange. I remember how wonderful it smelled for the entire season. I can still smell it. And then there’s the smell of perfumed candles, and hot wassail or creamy cocoa on a cold day. And the pungent smell of wet leather boots after my brothers and I had gone sledding. The smells of Christmas are the smells of childhood.” My words trailed off into silence as we all seemed to be caught in the sweet glaze of Christmastime memories, and Mary nodded slowly as if I had said something wise.
It was the sixth day of December. Christmas was only two and a half weeks away. I had already left for work and Keri had set about the rituals of the day. She stacked the breakfast dishes in the sink to soak, then descended the stairs to share in some conservation and tea with Mary. She entered the den where Mary read each morning. Mary