The Christmas Truce Page 4

  Søren began to speak.

  “Lights, please?” Søren said.

  The congregation roared with laughter.

  “Dammit,” Kingsley sighed.

  “Why does that always work for Linus?” Søren said, playfully peering up at the balcony as if searching for his missing spotlight. “Not once has it ever worked for me.”

  Kingsley pulled out his wallet and counted ten Benjamin Franklins, which Nora merrily pocketed in her coat.

  “Merry Christmas,” Søren said.

  “Merry Christmas, Father,” the congregation responded in unison. Nora was grinning, basking in her victory.

  “It’s wonderful to see so many of you here,” he said. “And so many faces I haven’t seen since Easter.”

  The church rippled with chuckles and groans. Clergy humor.

  “I see Regina tapping her wristwatch to warn me to make this quick,” Søren said. “I’m allowed twenty minutes, Regina. What was that?”

  Søren leaned forward to listen to someone speaking from the front row.

  “Ten? I only have ten minutes?” Søren sounded aghast. “But this is my moment, Regina. Why are you trying to kill my moment?”

  The entire congregation laughed again. Kingsley felt it as much as heard it—the laughter of five-hundred people in a confined space could register on the Richter scale.

  “Who is this man?” Kingsley whispered to Nora. “They adore him.”

  “Kingsley Edge, meet Father Marcus Stearns.”

  “Oh, I can have thirty on Easter?” Søren said, still negotiating with an elderly woman in the front pew. “That’s fair. Thank you, Regina. May I begin now? I can? Good. Start your stopwatch.”

  How could it be that this gentle, playful charming Father Stearns was also Søren, the boy who’d taught Kingsley the meaning of the word pain?

  “Yes, I know it’s late,” Søren said. “And we all want to get home to our families or friends or, if you’re me, to bed. Some of us don’t get to take Christmas Day off.” He pointed at himself, playing the martyr.

  Kingsley grinned as two young women in front of him looked at each other and wagged their eyebrows. Undoubtedly, they were imagining their priest in bed. Welcome to the club, ladies.

  “I hear there is a War on Christmas. In fact, I hear it every year, but I have yet to see armed men using Christmas trees for target practice in the park. Very disappointing to find nothing but families with children walking around enjoying the lights and ornaments and not a grenade to be seen. Perhaps there is a War on Christmas, as in there are wars going on, and they don’t stop for Christmas Day. The war in Iraq, Darfur, Somalia…I could go on. And other wars, too. The eternal war between good and evil. The cold shoulder war between left and right in this country. The wars in our own lives and hearts. The war against our addictions, our illnesses, our rivals, ourselves.” He paused. “It may come as a shock to you that I have a habit of antagonizing those who are closest to me…”

  Another ripple of knowing laughter spread through the church. They loved their priest, that was clear, but they also had his number.

  “And once, a long time ago, I was in a cold war with someone I loved. This someone had the kindness to remind me of the Christmas Truce of 1914, when all through the trenches, peace broke out between the French and German soldiers who just the day before had been shooting at each other. We see the photographs reprinted in newspapers—soldiers lighting each other’s cigarettes, playing soccer, talking. The Christmas Truce also allowed each side to safely recover their fallen comrades. My friend who reminded me of the 1914 truce said something that’s always stayed with me. ‘Too bad it isn’t Christmas every day. Then nobody would ever have to fight stupid wars.’ ”

  Kingsley appreciated the sentiment but knew it was wishful thinking. Even as the truce broke out in patches along the fronts in World War I, it didn’t break out everywhere. The fighting went on. And by 1915, when the war had grown even more brutal and bitter, there were no more spontaneous truces, even on Christmas Day.

  And yet…here he was, a former captain in the French Foreign Legion, holding the hand of his Mistress, the great-granddaughter of one of Kaiser Wilhelm’s Rittmeisters. In 1915, an act of treason. Tonight, merely, as Nora said, a day ending in Y. Perhaps there was hope for mankind. A little anyway.

  “The more I think about the Christmas Truce of 1914, the more baffled I am by it,” Søren continued. “How did it happen? I’ve counseled people who haven’t seen close blood relatives in years because of a fight over politics or religion—a war merely of words—at some long-ago Thanksgiving dinner. But these men in the trenches had been killing each other—literally shooting at each other for months—when the truce broke out. How did it happen? Why? I may have a theory. Winter is cold and it is nowhere colder than in a trench in Europe in winter. The soldiers were as cold as they’d ever been and ever would be. But Christmas is warm. It’s hot cider and candles and the Yule log burning and too many people packed into a church.”

  More soft laughter.

  “The soldiers were blocks of ice by the time Christmas came around. And we know what happens when you drop ice into a hot drink? The ice cracks. This phenomenon is known as ‘differential expansion.’ The inner core of the ice cube stays cold and solid, but the outside of it that comes in contact with the heat, expands. And just like that, it cracks apart. Christmas came to those ice-cold soldiers, poured over them, and they cracked wide open. Maybe that’s why Christmas hurts so many of us. We feel that fissure, that broken place where Christmas has cracked us apart. I think that’s why at Christmas we feel so much of the cold, dark things inside us coming out—the anger at another year gone already, so much time wasted with so little to show for it, the loneliness of wanting to spend Christmas with someone who doesn’t want to spend Christmas with you. Or worse, the feeling we’ve simply been forgotten.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kingsley saw Nora surreptitiously wipe a tear away.

  “But…” Søren said, “perhaps there’s some good that comes out of that crack Christmas knocks in our hearts. It makes a place where the goods things can slip inside, the bright, warm things. The candlelight. The music. Old friends dropping by unannounced. And more…love? Hope? Forgiveness? It makes sense that Christmas makes us want to forgive each other, if only for a day. For Christmas, you see, is ultimately an act of forgiveness. In the beginning, God gave us all a gift—the world. And the world was pristine and beautiful and pure, and we broke it five minutes after he gave it to us. We were children in a China shop, and we broke the world without realizing we were breaking ourselves along with it. And yet instead of striking us all off His Christmas shopping list for eternity—as I would have done—God gave us another gift. In fact, God gave us the most precious thing in the universe to Him—His newborn infant son. And that gift, the gift of His child, couldn’t be broken. Although we tried, didn’t we? We did try.” Søren glanced meaningfully at the large crucifix on the wall.

  “However…” Søren said, smiling with priestly beneficence. “There is good news. God gave us His Son in an act of extravagant forgiveness. And we did try to break Him, and it looked like we had succeeded for a few days. Oh, but we didn’t break Him. Because Jesus is love and love, real love, can be dropped and kicked and knocked around, whipped and beaten and nailed to a cross. And yet, it lives. True love lives and it lives forever. So as I wish you all a Merry Christmas, I also wish our Lord a Happy Birthday, for He is reborn every year in our hearts. And that is the meaning of Emmanuel—God is with us. Christmas is with us as is the forgiveness it carries in its open hands.”

  The homily ended, and Nora tugged Kingsley’s hand, pulling him out of the sanctuary and into the narthex.

  “Are you all right?” Nora asked.

  “Me?”

  “You were squeezing my hand so hard I thought you’d break it.”

  “I was?” Kingsley asked. “Sorry.”

  “He got to you, didn’t he?” she asked,
smiling with sympathy.

  “A little,” Kingsley confessed.

  “Happens to the best of us.”

  The music had started up again in the sanctuary.

  “Do you want to leave?” she asked. “Or do you want to go to his house and wait for him?”

  “Just for a few minutes,” Kingsley said. “I can give him his socks.”

  “All right. Follow me,” she said.

  She led him out the front doors of the church and around the side. In the winter’s moonlight, they walked down the path that led from the side of the church to the thick copse of trees that shielded Søren’s small house from prying eyes. Nora walked right up to the door and turned the knob. Locked. She pulled her key ring out of her coat pocket.

  “This never happened,” she said and unlocked the door with her own personal key.

  The door opened into Søren’s kitchen. Nora switched on the light and Kingsley saw an old-fashioned cookie tin on the table.

  “Oh my God, Claire,” Nora said as she opened the lid of the cookie tin. “I love that girl. She always sends Søren two-dozen of the best frosted sugar cookies every Christmas.”

  “You’re eating his cookies?” Kingsley asked. “He didn’t say you could have any.”

  “If you’ve sucked a man’s cock, you get to eat his cookies. In perpetuity. That’s the law.” Nora unbuttoned his coat for him and pushed it off his shoulders.

  “Is it?” Kingsley asked, shrugging out of the coat.

  “It is.”

  “In that case,” Kingsley said, “give me one.”

  Nora laughed and popped a cookie in his mouth. It melted on his tongue like butter, which made sense, as it was approximately 78% butter.

  She hung his coat up and led him into the living room where he and Søren had gotten tipsy—well, drunk—so many times over the years. Kingsley treasured those nights, the nights Søren’s walls came down a little. Those drunken nights they spent talking until dawn. Sometimes Søren would lie on his back in front of the fireplace and let Kingsley lay his head on his stomach like old times. Sometimes Søren would even run his hands through Kingsley’s hair and tug it, but that wouldn’t happen tonight.

  Nora plugged in the Christmas tree, and Kingsley had to blink through the sudden dazzle of the lights.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one hosting a Santa Claus gangbang,” Nora said. She switched on the electric candles in the window. Even the fireplace mantel was decorated with candles—real ones, and she lit them one by one by one until the entire room glowed. On top of the grand piano sat Søren’s advent wreath. Nora lit all four candles inside the wreath while Kingsley started a small fire in the grate and found a beautiful scarlet poinsettia on the floor by the wood pile.

  “Bambi,” the card read. “I stole this off the altar of the Jesuit motherhouse. Love, Magdalena.” The inscription was written in Italian.

  Bambi?

  “Hey,” Nora said, flipping through a thick stack of cards she’d taken out of a basket. “I found the secret to getting a lot of Christmas cards. Join the clergy. There must be two-hundred cards here.”

  “Not worth it,” Kingsley said. “I can buy my own cards.”

  “Look, it’s us,” she said, holding up a Peanuts-themed Christmas card. On the front was the blond pianist Schroeder, the black-haired muckraker Lucy, and Snoopy.

  “I’m the fucking dog?” Kingsley asked.

  “You’ve humped your fair share of legs.”

  “Speaking of, how did you know he would make that Peanuts joke?” Kingsley asked.

  “I dared him a long time ago to say that when he got up to give his Christmas homily,” she said, still flipping through the cards. “I didn’t think he’d do it, but he did. Every few years he does it to get a good laugh.”

  “How did you know he would do it tonight?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know for sure,” she said. “But that bet got you to come with me, didn’t it?”

  “If you’d lost the bet, I would have taken you for a thousand dollars.”

  “Worth it to get you here,” she said. “I stuffed your grand in the church’s poor box. I’ll let you take the tax deduction.” She winked at him.

  Nora put the cards back in the basket and the second she turned around Kingsley took her by the waist, pulled her against him, and kissed her deeply. He tasted the sugar in her mouth, the warm butter of the cookies. He could spend all night kissing and tasting this woman who put a thousand dollars on the line just so he’d go to church with her.

  “Ahem?”

  They broke apart like two teenagers caught making out by a dad with a shotgun. Søren stood in the doorway between the kitchen and his living room, arms crossed over his chest with a look of amused annoyance stamped on his face.

  “Sorry. Mistletoe drill,” Nora said. “Gotta be ready. Mistletoe can strike at any moment. You walk very softly, by the way.”

  “I saw lights on in my house that were not on when I left. I thought I might have a very stupid thief in the house. Or…two stupid thieves.”

  Søren looked at them and they looked at him. Kingsley wasn’t sure what to say or do or how to explain their presence. Thank God for Nora.

  “Merry Christmas, Søren,” she said and walked over to him. He held out his arms immediately, without reservation or hesitation. Kingsley watched as she rested her head against Søren’s chest, and he rested his chin on her head.

  “Did you see your hart on your card?” he asked.

  “Kingsley saw it. I missed it. It made me happy.”

  “Diane thought I’d lost my mind. I kept drawing tiny harts on the draft of my Christmas homily.”

  “I heard it,” she said softly. “Your homily. I was in the back.”

  “Did you like it?” Søren asked.

  “You stole my line.”

  “Borrowed.”

  “I borrowed two of your Christmas cookies.”

  “Then we’re even,” he said and kissed the top of her head.

  Kingsley watched, amazed. All was forgiven, just like that. Neither of them apologized. No I’m sorry. No You’re forgiven. They simply held each other.

  Nora slowly disentangled herself from Søren’s embrace, but she kept his hand in hers.

  “Hope it’s okay I dragged King over here with me,” she said.

  “Merry Christmas,” Søren said.

  “Joyeux Noël,” Kingsley said.

  “I’m going to open some wine,” Nora said. She left them alone together.

  “She did drag me here,” Kingsley said. “If you want to be alone with her, I can take the car and go. I don’t want to ruin your Christmas with her.”

  Søren said nothing. Kingsley got the message.

  “I’ll leave your gift under the tree,” Kingsley said. “You can open it whenever you want. Or toss it in the fireplace.” He took the small gift of elegantly wrapped socks off the mantel and placed it under the tree. When Kingsley stood up again, Søren was there.

  Søren grabbed Kingsley by the back of the neck and hauled him into his arms. Kingsley was too shocked at first to even react. Standing there, Kingsley had one fleeting thought…if this rough embrace was all he got for Christmas, it would be enough. It would be more than enough.

  It would be an extravagance.

  Kingsley buried his head against Søren’s shoulder as Søren whispered in his ear.

  “The only way you could ruin my Christmas is by leaving now,” Søren said, his words tender but his tone steel-tipped. “Burn the tree down, burn the house down, I don’t care. But don’t leave.”

  Kingsley breathed in the scent of Søren. That night he smelled of fresh fallen snow, as always, but something more. In his clothes was the scent of the church’s incense. One thing Kingsley did recall from his Catholic school days—that the prayers of God’s people rose before His altar in the form of incense. That meant Søren smelled like a prayer.

  “I won’t,” Kingsley said, his eyes suddenly hot and hurting. “I
might eat all your cookies though.”

  Søren abruptly released him and pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  Kingsley laughed so hard he had to sit down. He collapsed into the armchair and kicked off his shoes like it was just another drinking night at Søren’s.

  “You bastard,” Kingsley said as Nora brought in three glasses of red wine, which took a great deal of careful balancing on her part. “I may burn your house down before the night is over.”

  “Ah…insults and threats of arson,” Nora said, grinning. “Now it really feels like Christmas.”

  Nora passed out the wine and sat on the arm of the sofa. Søren stood by the fireplace and pulled his white collar out of his shirt and undid the top button. An unconscious gesture, but Kingsley couldn’t quite stop staring at Søren’s bare throat.

  “Dare I ask what brings you two to my humble abode tonight?” Søren said.

  “It’s Christmas,” Nora said. “We thought we’d stop by, see if you wanted to hang out? Drink wine? Watch Rudolph?”

  “Fuck?” Kingsley said.

  Nora glared at him.

  “You’ll have to excuse my man-whore,” Nora said to Søren. “He’s gone thirty-six whole hours without getting laid. Hush, Kingsley, or Momma will take all your Christmas presents back to the store.” She looked at Søren and rolled her eyes. “Submissives—can’t live with them, can’t hang them from your dungeon ceiling and exsanguinate them, right?”

  “It’s not a bad suggestion actually,” Søren said.

  “Exsanguinating Kingsley?” Nora asked. “That’s more of a Valentine’s Day thing.”

  “No,” Søren said. “Fucking.”

  Kingsley made the mistake of attempting to swallow his wine while Søren was announcing his agreement with the fucking idea. It got caught in his throat and nearly came out of his nose before he managed to swallow it.

  “Did you expect me to say no?” Søren said. “It’s been considerably longer than thirty-six hours for me.”

  As Kingsley was recovering from nearly choking to death on a full-bodied Pinot Noir, Nora walked to Søren, placed her hands on his chest, and rose on her tiptoes to kiss him.