Cracks in the Sidewalk(89)

The partridge nodded as did two hens, one calling bird, and one turtle dove. The remainder shook their heads.

“Well,” she said, remembering how she’d once taught the refrain to Elizabeth, “this song is actually a story. It tells about all the wonderful Christmas presents a man bought for his true love. On each day of the Christmas season, he gave her a very special gift.”

“Was he a prince?” someone asked.

“He might have been,” Claire answered. “On the very first day, he gave his love a partridge in a pear tree. Sara, that’s you. The pageant opens with you sitting in the tree and you get to sing, ‘On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree.’”

“By myself?” a wide-eyed Sara asked.

“Yes, won’t that be fun?”

Sara twisted her face into displeasure.

“How about we’ll sing together until you get comfortable with doing it?”

“What if I never get comfortable?”

“Then the night of the pageant I’ll hide behind the tree and sing along with you.”

Sara smiled. “Really?”

“Cross my heart.”

Once Sara began singing things moved along smoothly. The two calling birds added some wing-flapping to their verse and one of the French hens got the hiccups, which caused a lot of giggling. After what seemed like minutes, Louise repeated her clapping routine and announced that the dress rehearsal would be at seven o’clock on Tuesday evening.

“You’ll need to try on your costumes, so be on time!” She turned to Claire. “You too.”

“Me? But I’m temporary. I’m only helping out.”

“You’re directing the first four days of Christmas.”

Claire hadn’t planned on directing anything, especially a bunch of kindergartners with stage fright, but when she looked down and saw Adam beaming up at her, she answered, “Okay.”

~

That afternoon Claire plopped down in Charlie’s recliner and gave a sigh of relief. “I’m glad this is temporary,” she said.

“Why?”

Claire thought about it but found she didn’t have an answer. True, the time flew by, which was generally a sign a person was enjoying themselves, but she’d come away with an odd sense of sadness. It felt as if the hole in her heart left by the loss of their grandchildren had somehow grown larger. And singing that song, turning it into a story as she had with Elizabeth, brought back so many memories.

After a long while she answered, “I really can’t say.”

That’s how it went for the next two days. One moment Claire would be troubled by the flood of memories pushing their way into her head, and the next she’d find herself wondering how to get Sara past her stage fright.

The children in the class were the same age as David and a number of boys also had dark hair and dark eyes, but Claire turned her attention to someone else. Adam had hair as light as corn silk and eyes the color of a cement walkway. He was timid and frail, nothing like her grandson. Yet something about the boy haunted Claire. She remembered him crouched under the table and sitting alone. There was a certain sadness in Adam’s eyes, one that Claire simply couldn’t forget. When she thought about how he’d sat with his head bowed as if the weight of the world pressed down on it, Claire could believe Adam’s heart hurt as much as hers.

The night of the dress rehearsal Adam cautiously peered into the room, but once he spotted Claire he ran to her and wrapped his skinny little arms around her knees. He was a child she could so easily love, but Claire’s heart warned, “He’s not yours.”

The funny thing about love is that sometimes it latches on to you when you’re looking to run the other way. And apparently Adam had decided to love Miss Claire whether she wanted him to or not.



The night of the pageant the temperature plummeted to ten degrees, and even though the furnace was fired to its maximum the church auditorium remained colder than cold—frosty. Teeth chattered, hands were pocketed, and overcoats remained buttoned.

“I’m freezing!” the partridge said.

“Leave both sweaters on under your costume,” Claire replied. “That will help.”

“I’m too cold to sing.”

“It’ll warm up when the furnace gets going.”

As she dabbed a bit of glue on the calling bird’s loose plume, a masculine voice called, “Are you Miss Claire?”

The sound of an adult in the midst of all those children caught her ear. “Yes, I am,” she answered as she turned toward him.

“I’m Dorothy’s dad,” he said. “Sorry, but Dorothy has the flu and can’t come tonight.” He handed Claire his daughter’s French hen costume. “Hopefully you can get someone else to fill in.”

“There is no one.”

“Sorry,” he repeated then left.

The partridge, who now had a stream of tears rolling down her face, repeated, “I’m still too cold to sing.”

Claire gathered the little girl into her arms. “Sara,” she whispered, “are you afraid you’ll forget the words if you have to sing alone?”

The girl nodded.

“Okay,” Claire said. “A promise is a promise. When the curtain opens and you’re sitting in the tree, I’ll be hiding behind it and I’ll sing with you. That way you won’t forget any of the words.”