Ashton put the last of the Mr. Potato Head dolls on the shelf and turned to face his boss, Mr. Lytell. “Sir? Remember? I won’t be coming in tomorrow.”

Mr. Lytell, owner of a small store tucked just off of Glen Road about a mile away from Ten Acres Academy, where Ashton lived and attended school, frowned. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” he said, looking up from his ledger. The way he peered over his wire-rimmed spectacles reminded Ashton of a stern Billy goat.

Ashton plucked nervously at the bottom of his heavy sweater for a moment. “Uh, yes sir, it is.”

Mr. Lytell let out an audible sigh and closed his ledger with a snap. “Do you have any idea how much business I get on Christmas Eve? People are forever running in here for last minute stocking stuffers or ingredients they forgot to buy.”

Ashton shifted his weight to his other foot. “I have to do the play. I’m sorry, Mr. Lytell, but we have a final run-through and then our first performance.” In spite of himself, the young boy grinned. He’d never been in a play before and could hardly wait for tomorrow.

The entire school was involved in putting on Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’. The students had worked hard on everything from painting sets to making flyers for the local businessmen to display. Best of all, they had all decided that the money from the advanced ticket sales would go to Operation Santa Claus, a program created 70 years ago by the New York Post Office that provided underprivileged children with Christmas presents. Every single student at the school had personally answered a child’s letter to Santa, and bought him or her a gift. In private, they all discussed what a strange and wonderful thing it was to be in a position where they could help someone else.

“I hafta be there, Mr. Lytell,” the boy finished, picking up a broom and beginning to sweep the worn linoleum. “I play Bob Cratchet,” he added.

Mr. Lytell crossed his arms. “You ‘hafta’?”

Ashton stopped sweeping and looked apprehensive.

Mr. Lytell stood in front of him. “This is business, young man. When I agreed to give you an after-school job, it was with the understanding that you would perform your duties in a responsible way. If you don’t feel like you can…” he broke off and took the broom a bit roughly from the startled boy. Bad habits, once formed, often could never be broken. It was important that Ashton understand what was really important.

The bell tinkled, and they both turned to see a woman enter, holding a young girl on her hip.

“Is something wrong?” she inquired. She set the little girl down and removed her wet rain hat. “You can go pick out a candy. ONE,” she finished as the little girl scurried to the front counter where the chocolate bars were cleverly lined up at toddler level.

“This doesn’t concern you, Trixie,” Mr. Lytell said.

Trixie glanced at Ashton and back at Mr. Lytell. “Of course it does,” she said, her voice beginning to rise. “I could see the two of you arguing through the window.”

Mr. Lytell stiffened slightly. “We were not arguing. I was merely pointing out to the young man here…”

“Trixie! Mr. Lytell says I hafta go to work tomorrow!” Ashton interjected. His look plainly showed how relieved he was to see her.

Trixie put her arm around Ashton’s shoulders. “Mr. Lytell,” she began, involuntarily taking a deep breath. “Mr Lytell, you are aware of the play that Jim’s school is putting on.” She smiled sweetly. “I see you hung the flyer, and I know how important the community is to you...not to mention the play is raising money for a good cause.” A cause you haven’t donated to her gaze clearly indicated.

Mr. Lytell gave a stiff nod. “Certainly the community is important to me. But so is my store. So is my business. I need a stock boy I can rely on. Not everyone can afford to shut down for the night just to see a play, no matter what it’s raising money for.”

Trixie looked at the stricken boy. “Ashton, I want you to take Katy out to the car and wait for me, okay?” She turned to where Katy was engaged in one of the most important activities known to children. “Katy, come here. I want you to go out to the car with Ashton.”

“I’m not done yet, Mommy!”

“Now!”

The little girl ran up to her, a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in her hand. She squirmed away from Mr. Lytell as he reached out to rumple her hair.

“Hello, Katje,” Mr. Lytell said.

Trixie glanced down at her three-year-old daughter who was leaning into her hip. “Katy, say hello to Mr. Lytell.”

Katy normally climbed into people’s laps without reservation, or engaged them in whimsical conversation. “Hello,” she mumbled shyly.

Trixie put the little girl’s hat back on her head and lightly touched her cheek. “Go with Ashton.” She waited until they were gone before she turned to the shopkeeper. “Mr. Lytell, I always seem to start off on the wrong foot with you, and I’m sorry about that.”

Mr. Lytell merely grunted and began to sweep. Inside he was seething. What was it about this girl, no, woman that always made him feel so damn irritated? How was he going to instill a love of business that matched his own to the boy with her interfering?

Trixie drew her coat tighter around her; it was always uncomfortably chilly in Mr. Lytell’s store. “What about Ashton?” she finally asked.

Mr. Lytell looked steadily at her. “I believe I’ve already been clear about that.”

Trixie sighed and gave one last effort. “Look, Mr. Lytell, why don’t you come to the play tomorrow? A lot of business people from the town will be there, and Moms has made a bunch of pies.”

“I thank you, but no. I’ll be here. Where I belong.” Mr. Lytell was tired of this conversation, but he felt a slight pang at the stung look that crossed Trixie’s features. He suddenly found himself wondering if she was just as tired as he was at the same episode that seemed to play out again and again whenever they had dealings with each other.

“Fine. Be alone if it’s what you love!” Trixie reached into her purse and removed her wallet, extracting a one-dollar bill and letting it fall onto the floor. “For the candy.” She turned on her heel and rapidly left, the bell ringing sharply as she jerked her way through the door.

Mr. Lytell bent and slowly picked up the money, smoothing it absent-mindedly with his fingers. He shook his head, instantly forgetting his earlier thoughts. Marriage and motherhood obviously had not changed Trixie Belden. She was still undisciplined and noisy; she still stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong. He walked over to the cash register and methodically rang up the sale, carefully removing Trixie’s change before closing it down for the evening. Nobody could ever accuse him of not running a tight ship. Business was business.

He had just finished his supper and was settling into his easy chair when he heard it—the unmistakable rap rap rap of someone walking with a cane down below.

A thief! Mr. Lytell thought, galvanized. He grabbed his Remington double-barreled shotgun and crept down the stairs, the rasping of his red slippers along the wood grain making him wince. He slowly pushed open the door and crept through it.

“I’ve got a loaded shotgun and it’s aimed right at your head,” Mr. Lytell yelled in his best menacing tone. He cocked it, the threatening SCRITCH SCRITCH sound echoing in the empty store.

Mr. Lytell heard a laugh. “Wouldn’t do you any good. I’m already dead!”

He flicked on the light and gasped.

“Jim! Jim Frayne!”

***

Trixie flipped her pillow to the cool side and restlessly tried again to get back to sleep.

“Can’t you sleep?”

Trixie turned towards her husband, her face contrite. “I woke you? I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep either.” He laid a hand on the curve of her hip. “Are you still thinking about Ashton?”

She had told Jim all about Mr. Lytell’s treatment of Ashton, but hadn’t gone into their own angry exchange. She supposed that was keeping her from relaxing into sleep as well, but decided not to upset Jim with it. Ashton was who was important. And it certainly wasn’t the first time Mr. Lytell had treated her rudely and unfairly.

She remembered a time years ago when she had gone into his store for a pop. She and Honey had been riding all morning on one of the hottest days of summer.

She could still picture it so clearly—the way their eyes had to adjust to the dimness of the little store, the cool air blowing over them as they leaned, giggling, over the cooler. But she couldn’t find what she wanted…

“Do you have any strawberry pop, Mr. Lytell?”

“What I have is what’s right there in that cooler, young lady, and if that doesn’t suit you, you’ll just have to go somewhere else. I suppose if you had your way, I’d stock every kind of pop under the sun, just so it would be there if you wanted it. Makes no difference to you how high my electric bill is, either. You’ll just keep that cooler door open all day, while you try to find what you’re looking for.”

“Trix?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked you if you were still thinking about Ashton,” Jim repeated.

Trixie nodded in the darkness, pushing the memory away. “He was so upset about it. And who can blame him? Mr. Lytell basically fired him!”

Jim sighed. “I know he is. I had a long talk with him, and I told him that right now, his only real business is his education. And that the play is part of his school curriculum, so he shouldn’t feel like he’s let us down.” Jim pulled her towards him and settled her against his chest. “He’s such a good kid. He’ll be fine.”

Trixie sighed. “I know. But that mean old goat. He wouldn’t know what Christmas spirit was if it bit him on the ass!” She felt Jim’s laugh vibrate underneath her cheek and began to giggle herself in the darkness. “I mean,” she began to sputter, “he’s probably puttering around in the dark, checking his shelves and re-counting the money in his cash register as we speak!”

***

Re-counting his money was probably the furthest thing from Mr. Lytell’s mind. “Jim Frayne,” he whispered, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then he shook his head and let out a nervous laugh. “I must be dreaming.” He jumped when the old man in front of him rapped his cane loudly on the floor.

“This is no dream, Leonard.” The first James Winthrop Frayne looked at Mr. Lytell sternly. “I’ve been sent here to help you out. Before it’s too late.”

Mr. Lytell could feel a headache begin to form. “Obviously, I should lay off the microwave lasagna,” he muttered. He glanced at the tall, gray-haired man before him. “And anyway, I don’t need any help. I’m doing just fine.” Maybe if he played along with this, the dream would reach its conclusion and he could wake up and take some Alka-Seltzer. Conversing with dead, former neighbors was not Mr. Lytell’s idea of a swell evening.

James Frayne looked heavenward. “And you thought I was stubborn!” He rapped his cane again. “You don’t need any help? You fire that nice boy from my grand-nephew’s school for no reason, and you don’t think you need any help?”

Mr. Lytell drew himself up. “It was good business. I’m a businessman, Jim. I have a certain responsibility.”

“Your business is mankind!” James roared, making Mr. Lytell jump. “And if it were, you wouldn’t be hiding away here all alone.”

“I like being alone. I have my own ways. And I like my privacy.”

James Frayne looked at him, an expression of sadness filling in his craggy face. “Your own ways. I could tell you all about what living in your own way means. I could tell you plenty about pushing people away who only want to help you.” His voice dropped down to a whisper. “I could tell you plenty about the consequences of being alone.”

Mr. Lytell sighed noisily. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Before this night is over I’m to be visited by three spirits. Right?”

The sad expression dropped away and James suddenly laughed. “Nah. Do you have any idea how long this story would get?” He lay a hand on Mr. Lytell’s shoulder. “Come on, Len. What happened to that guy I used to play poker with, huh? I know having your own business means a lot to you, but since when did it become so all-fired important?”

Mr. Lytell glanced down at the hand on his shoulder, surprised at how warm it was, and suddenly gasped as they both began to shimmer out of sight. “What’s happening?” he cried.

In a blink, he was standing in a very familiar place. “What are we…how did we get in here?” Mr. Lytell demanded, looking around. They were in a very nicely furnished sitting room, the thick, pale-gold carpeting under their feet perfectly complimenting the rich cherrywood furnishings.

“Tell me, Leonard. Why did you and Margery break up?”

Mr. Lytell felt heat creep into his cheeks. “Why…we didn’t actually…it was never actually…” He cleared his throat. “She moved away. You’re a mighty spirit. You must know that already.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

James shook his head. “Moved away. Right. Clear away to New York, a forty-five minute train ride from Sleepyside; a place where she still has plenty of friends and frequently visits.”

Mr. Lytell was about to retort when a trim woman strode into the room. “Margery!” he gasped. He found himself overwhelmed with memories of good conversation, long walks and cozy meals eaten together. “Margery,” he almost whispered.

“She can’t hear you,” James said. “She can’t see you, either.”

The men watched as the woman stopped before a mirror and brushed a hand over her short, gray hair. She was dressed in a very attractive, forest green, wool dress.

The phone rang.

Miss Trask walked toward the small table and answered it. After greeting the caller, her calm, friendly face grew annoyed. “Leonard, this is getting ridiculous.”

Mr. Lytell started slightly when he heard his name.

Miss Trask continued, “It’s Christmas Eve, and we have tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet! We’ve had these tickets for ages. This is simply inexcusable.”

Mr. Lytell turned a stricken face to James Frayne. “I got this last minute shipment in, I had stuff to do at the store…”

Miss Trask’s head cocked slightly as she listened to the other end of the phone conversation. “Leonard, it isn’t just tonight. You’re always doing this. I appreciate the demands of owning your own business, but this is the last straw!” Her face suddenly went from annoyed to sad. “It’s a matter of priority, Leonard. It’s a matter of making the time for the important things in your life.” She listened for another moment, and then shook her head. “I have to go, Leonard.”

Mr. Lytell clenched his fists. “Tell her you’re on your way, you stupid jackass!” he found himself yelling towards the phone. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Margery Trask. How long had it been since he’d spoken to her? His stomach clenched when he realized how much time had gone by since that Christmas Eve. “ Take me home. I don’t want to see any more,” he pleaded, but James only shook his head.

“Goodbye, Leonard. Merry Christmas.” Miss Trask slowly hung up the phone and smoothed her dress. She removed her coat from a small closet by the door and left the room, softly closing the door behind her.

Mr. Lytell made as if to go after her and James gently restrained him. “She can’t see you,” he reminded her.

Mr. Lytell slowly sat down on a cream colored sofa. “I’d forgotten how pretty she is,” he mumbled. He sighed, remembering that long ago shipment. “I was so impatient—I couldn’t stand the thought of those boxes sitting in the back room.”

James sat next to him. “So you blew her off.”

Mr. Lytell sighed. “I guess so. I just didn’t see it that way, then.”

“Come on. I want you to see something else.”

Mr. Lytell again felt the warmth of James’ hand on his shoulder and the momentary dislocation as they shimmered out of Miss Trask's sitting room.

They shimmered into a bustling scene. Mr. Lytell immediately recognized several of the local business owners of Sleepyside milling around and realized that they were in the back section of the cafeteria at Jim’s school. Most of the tables had been folded and stored so that chairs could be set up in the remaining space in front of the stage at the other end. Many of them were filled, the murmuring chatter filling the air.

The remaining tables had obviously been filled with a variety of pies, the empty pans a testament to excellent baking. A few stragglers remained nearby, finishing up their pie.

“This pecan pie is fantastic,” he heard Earl Crimper, Jr. say to Evelyn Larson, the owner of the Cameo Movie Theatre.

“Mmmmm,” she mumbled back. “So is the crabapple.”

Mike, the owner of Wimpy’s Diner, joined them. “I’d be a rich man if Mrs. Belden would make these for my restaurant,” he agreed. He looked around and smiled. “Quite the turnout. Jim and Trixie must be thrilled.”

Evelyn Lawson swallowed the last of her pie. “You know, I have to admit, I wasn’t too sure I liked the idea of a school for underprivileged boys here in Sleepyside. I was worried about the kinds of kids that would live here, you know?” As both men nodded in understanding, she went on, “But everyone’s doing such a great job. There are some damn good kids here. My Jenny is playing some of the female roles in the play. She’s made some good friends and has had plenty of good things to say about the school, too.”

Earl Crimper nodded sagely. “I’m glad to support this school whenever I can.” In fact, he gave Jim a fifty percent discount for boy’s clothing through his store and insisted on it being kept secret. “The entire business community in Sleepyside is behind Ten Acres Academy, which I happen to think is great.”

“Almost the entire business community,” Mike put in, pulling a face. “Don’t forget about Mr. Lytell. God forbid Old Man Lytell should put in an appearance tonight!”

Mr. Lytell began to sputter as Evelyn and Earl laughed and nodded in agreement. “Why…why, nobody loves Sleepyside like I do! I grew up here! How dare he imply I’m not supportive of the community?”

James stroked his chin for a moment. “How can you claim to support a community when you won’t have much to do with anyone?”

Mr. Lytell’s face darkened. “Have I no right to any privacy?” he demanded

James shook his head. “There’s privacy and then there’s isolation, Leonard.” He took his arm and they reappeared in the kitchen, which was no less bustling than the scene they had just left.

Mr. Lytell couldn’t help admiring the well-shaped rear belonging to a blonde woman, who was reaching into the large oven.

Mrs. Belden took out a beautifully golden pie and carefully set it on the stainless steel counter. “There. That’s the last of them,” she said, brushing back the curls from her face. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, but her blue eyes were sparkling with warmth and good humor. “And this one is for us!”

“Moms, you rule,” Trixie said, throwing her arms around her and enthusiastically kissing her cheek. She then hugged her sister-in-law, Honey, who was covered with flour. “So do you.”

“Thanks, but it was all your mom, really. I just ‘holped’.” She turned to her mother-in-law with a smile. “Moms, you really should write your own cookbook. You’d make a fortune!”

Jim walked in carrying Katy, who had her arms familiarly wrapped around her father’s neck, her legs comfortably askew. “We want pie!” she announced without ceremony, causing the adults to laugh. The atmosphere in the kitchen was one charged with purpose, yet relaxed and happy.

Mrs. Belden smiled at her granddaughter. “Yes, I think it’s high time all the workers had their share. But we’ll have to make it quick. The play is due to begin in less than 30 minutes.”

Mr. Lytell watched enviously as the group sat around the large table. Their conversation was lively, and the pie looked temptingly juicy, the heavenly smell hanging heavily in the air.

He watched as Trixie placed a slice in front of her daughter, warning her to be careful, as it was hot. He wondered why little Katje always seemed so shy around him when she never seemed that way around anyone else. He voiced the thought aloud to James.

James nodded thoughtfully. “Little kids are a lot smarter than you think they are. She knows that you don’t like her mother, and it upsets her.”

Mr. Lytell was frankly shocked. “Why, that’s not true! Certainly we’ve had our differences, but I don’t dislike Trixie Belden. Not at all.”

James gave a short laugh. “Leonard, come on. You never speak ten words to the woman unless five of them are criticizing her!” He nudged him closer to Jim, Trixie and Katy where they sat at the end of the table.

Mr. Lytell silently watched as Jim reached over the top of Katy’s head and caressed the back of his wife’s neck. “Something bothering you, Shamus?”

Trixie’s mouth quirked. “No privacy. I’m telling ya, it ain’t fair!” She playfully broke off a piece of crust and threw it at him, ducking when he caught it and threw it back at her.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her.

Trixie audibly sighed. “I was just thinking about Mr. Lytell,” she finally admitted.

Katy’s little voice piped up. “I don’t like Mr. Lytell. He’s mean.”

Jim looked at her, surprise etched over his features. “Katy, he’s always been nice to you. Hasn’t he?”

She looked up at her father, her little face serious. “Yeah.”

Jim shook his head. “I don’t like you calling him mean, sweetie. He’s not mean. Sometimes older grown ups get very set in their ways, and they may act a little grumpy sometimes, but that doesn’t make them mean.”

Katy’s look became stubborn. “I don’t care! He doesn’t like Mommy. He’s mean to her. I don’t like him!” Her lower lip began to poke out a little, and her face began to get the slightly scrunched up look that meant tears were not far behind.

Mr. Lytell was struck dumb. He unconsciously lifted one hand towards the little girl, before letting his arm fall limply to his side. He watched as Jim lifted her into his lap and cuddled her close.

“Okay, now. It’s okay.” He heard him say.

Trixie reached over and began stroking her hair. “Don’t be upset, Angel. Mr. Lytell isn’t mean to me.”

Katy’s voice was muffled, as she buried her face into her father’s chest. “He is too. He was mean to you yesterday!”

Trixie sighed and looked helplessly at Jim before telling him about their conversation. “Oh, Jim, will I ever learn to act like a grown-up?” she asked, as she told him how she threw the dollar on the ground before leaving the store.

Mr. Lytell sat weakly down on a nearby chair. He looked pleadingly at James, but the spirit stonily ignored him. He went still at Jim’s reply.

“That does it. You know, I’ve never liked the way that man talks to you, but I just chalked it up to cranky old age.” Jim’s face was taut with anger that melted into a slightly stricken expression. “I had no idea it bothered you so much, Trix.”

Trixie shook her head. “That isn’t what’s bothering me. Oh, Jim, it isn’t how he talks to me. I mean, yes, he’s usually pretty rude—”

Mr. Lytell felt shame suffuse him. If there was anything he couldn’t abide, it was rudeness.

—“but that’s just Mr. Lytell. It’s what I said. You know, ‘be alone if that’s what you love’? That was terrible.”

“I don’t know; it doesn’t sound all that far from the truth to me,” Jim muttered.

Trixie smiled before frowning slightly. “He’s always alone, Jim. I’ve never heard him mention any family. Have you?” When Jim shook his head, she continued, “And ever since Miss Trask moved into that flat she inherited in New York City when her sister died, he’s never even dated anybody.”

She broke off and looked first at Katy, who was now sitting straight up in her father’s lap and calmly eating Jim’s untouched pie, then at her mother and sister-in-law, who had fallen silent and were unabashedly listening, then at Jim again. “I have so much. We have so much, and he has so little. Just the store. I could have just walked away.”

“Don’t worry about it, Trixie. Anybody would have gotten angry in that situation,” Honey interjected, smiling at her.

Mrs. Belden spoke up, “And you were only standing up for Ashton.”

Trixie smiled. “Thanks,” she said simply. Her smile turned into a grin. “Well, at least one good thing came out of all this.”

“What’s that?” Jim inquired, seating Katy back in her own chair and making her giggle by taking a large bite from her plate with a deliberately noisy gulp.

“He really makes me appreciate everything I have.” Trixie lifted her coffee mug. “To Mr. Lytell, long life and merry Christmas!”

Everyone lifted their mugs and echoed, “To Mr. Lytell!”

Jim frowned. “I still don’t like how he treated you, but I’ll drink to him for the sake of the day.” He took a sip and almost choked when Katy piped up “See, Daddy? You don’t like Mr. Lytell either!”

Mr. Lytell could still hear faint echoes of their laughter, as James again took a hold of his arm. When they reappeared next, they were standing backstage in a dim corner as kids of various sizes swarmed around them, most in costume.

A small boy, no older than six, ran by them, clumsily holding onto the crutch that turned him into Tiny Tim. The tip of it caught a nearby table, and there was suddenly chaos as it tipped and several hats and other props went flying into the air.

“Fifteen minutes!” he heard Diana Lynch-Belden call. Then, “Jacob, NOT AGAIN!”

Mr. Lytell couldn’t even smile. He looked wearily over at James. “Please. Please! I want to go home,” he pleaded wearily. He still felt chilled over the unmistakably hard tone he had heard in the younger Jim’s voice. But it was the words spoken by Trixie that were settling into his bones with their truth.

Could it be that he had always been secretly envious of the way life seemed to surround her with love and happiness, while he was always on the outskirts of the warmer side of life? He felt slightly ashamed now of their exchange from before. His mind swerved onto past encounters and quickly swung away.

James was firm. “Not yet, my old friend. Not yet. There’s somebody else you need to hear from.”

Mr. Lytell became aware of two young voices. They belonged to Ashton and his best friend Neil, who was a fairly new student at Ten Acres Academy.

“No, no, Ash—the next line’s ‘Tim was as good as gold’. What’s the matter with you? You knew this perfect before.”

Mr. Lytell turned and silently watched as the tall boy with brown hair falling onto his forehead gestured with a script in his hand.

Ashton looked slightly comical in his costume—and old brown suit that had been deliberately made to look slightly torn and grungy. “I know. I’ll get it.”

Neil grinned encouragingly at him. “Just forget about Mr. Lytell. Come to work with me in the stables.”

Ashton shook his head. “Nahhh…I don’t think I’d be very good at it. Horses make me kind of nervous. They’re so big. They could probably kill you if you’re not careful!”

Neil laughed. “You treat them right; they treat you right. And Regan’ll show you what to do. He’d never let anything happen. Not in a million years.”

Ashton looked thoughtful. “I ‘spose.” Then he straightened. “Yeah, I think I will. I don’t think I’d make a good businessman anyway. Seems like you have to be kind of jerky with people, ya know?” He shook his head, his dirty blonde hair falling down into his eyes. He flicked the pieces carelessly back. “And if that’s what it takes to be good at it then screw it. Business sucks!”

Mr. Lytell’s mouth dropped open. He turned to James and was almost crying. “I wanted him to understand! I wanted him to see how…beautiful it could be. If you take care of your business and you put yourself into it…why, it really means something! It takes care of you; it provides for you. It can give you what you want!” His failure with Ashton was almost choking him. “Where did I go wrong?” he cried out, anguished.

James looked at him, his face alive with compassion. “Leonard. Leonard. All of those things may be true, but in the end, it’s just a business. It’s not your life.” As Mr. Lytell began to speak, James cut him off. “It isn’t. And it shouldn’t be.”

“It makes me happy,” Mr. Lytell mumbled, but his chin was quivering. He had thought that he was part of the business community, but he suddenly realized that he literally couldn’t remember the last time he’d been involved in any kind of community project.

He had thought that the store should always come first and had lost a woman he truly cared for over it.

We have so much, and he has so little. Just the store...Trixie’s words reverberated in his skull, and their impact doubled as he thought about them. He closed his eyes and pictured the neat aisles lovingly arranged, the new glass refrigerated compartment that finally replaced the old cooler, the old countertop with the battered cash register atop it. It was a lovely little store, and he was proud of it.

But at the end of the day, he always had to shut out the lights and go upstairs to a lonely supper with only his three-legged tomcat to keep him company. There was nobody to ask him about his day, nobody who cared about what he thought or what he had to say, nobody to say ‘good night’ to, and nobody to wake up with.

And during the day, he viewed all who walked in his domain as a customer first, and a person second. Why hadn’t he noticed how the lonely years were just slipping away?

“I want out of here!” he wailed and almost wept with gratitude as he felt James take a hold of his sleeve. The gratitude was quickly replaced with fear as darkness surrounded him, and they seemed to be falling through space.

“What now? The future? Are you going to show me the future?” he asked, his voice tight with trepidation.

He heard a chuckle. “What’s to say? You die. Everybody dies sooner or later. Whether or not there’s anybody who’ll actually be sorry you’re gone, well, that’s up to you, Leonard.”

Mr. Lytell gasped, as he stopped falling with a rough jerk. He opened his eyes and stared in wonder at the walls of his own living room. He was back in his easy chair, an empty plate with a few remnants of lasagna sticking to it on the tray in front of him.

“James?” he queried. His voice sounded odd in the silence, and he suddenly began to laugh in great hitches and gulps. He swiped at his forehead, and his hand came away wet with sweat. He took several deep breaths and slowly rose, his knees making a loud pop.

He wandered downstairs and flicked on the lights, wanting to see what was real, what was tangible. He had woken from a dream, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was no dream; that it was as bona fide as the heart that was trying to beat out of his chest.

He stared at his store in silence for a long moment, his eyes sweeping from side to side, as his eyes lit on boxes of Cheerios, Fruit Loops and Corn Flakes, cans of soup, beans and vegetables. The unseasonable rain was streaming down the windows, filling Mr. Lytell with an unexpected depression. 

Where was the beautiful snow to softly fall and fill the world with a muffled beauty and quiet? When he was little, he thought that when it rained it meant that God was crying.

Mr. Lytell was crying too.

He wandered back upstairs and stood for a moment, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

Then he strode over to his phone, flipped rapidly through his address book and quickly punched in a number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is…”

“Mr. Lytell!”

Was it only his imagination, or did Trixie Belden sound a little guilty? Mr. Lytell cleared his throat. “Yes. Er…I was wondering. Are there still tickets for tomorrow night’s performance?”

“Actually, it’s sold out.”

His face fell at the reply. He absently twisted the telephone cord around his fingers and wondered if it was ever really possible to change the way your life was going.

“Mr. Lytell? I know somebody who has an extra ticket.”

Mr. Lytell listened intently as Trixie spoke, his serious face suddenly spreading with a hopeful smile that would have surprised Trixie very much had she seen it.

“Thank you, Trixie. And Trixie…” Mr. Lytell paused and cleared his throat for a moment. “About earlier...I wanted to apologize for my—” and here Mr. Lytell paused again, but it had to be said, and he’d better just say it quickly and have done with it—“rudeness.”

A silence stretched on so long in response that he thought they’d been disconnected. “I was very rude too,” Trixie finally replied, her voice low.

He smiled again. “We seem to have a history replete with rude moments, you and I. Shall we make a pact to say one nice thing every time we meet?” Trixie laughed when he added, “But only one. No sense in overdoing it, is there?”

“No, sir, there isn’t.”

There was one more thing to say. “And Trixie, I’d like it very much if Ashton returned to my employ. If he still wants to, that is.”

“You can ask him that yourself when you see him tomorrow.”

Mr. Lytell nodded. “Fair enough.”

They bid each other good night, and he hung up the receiver, his eyes distant and far away. Whether or not there’s anybody who’ll actually be sorry once you’re gone—he supposed that was one of the big questions.

He suddenly could no longer bear the silence filling the room again and turned on the radio. He adjusted the volume so that the Christmas carol softly played, the beautiful voice murmuring as if only for him.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining
'Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…

He glanced towards the window, and his heart swelled at the sight. He quickly turned out the lamp so that the gently falling snowflakes appeared to glow with luminosity against the inky blackness of the sky. He watched for several moments as the snow blurred and softened the harsh edges of the world with an ethereal grace.

He slowly walked back to the phone and dialed, waiting...waiting for his life to begin.

“Hello, Margery. It’s Leonard. Leonard Lytell.”

The End

Author’s notes: "Operation Santa Claus" is a program created 70 years ago by the New York post office. Every holiday season, letters addressed to the North Pole are distributed to anyone who wants to make someone's Christmas wishes come true. Most of the notes (they get about 300,000 per season) come from underprivileged children.

Operation Santa Claus letters are available at the main New York branch of the post office (421 Eighth Avenue, at 33rd Street; 212-967-8585) through December 22. Hours are Mon.-Wed. and Fri. 8 a.m.-4:30 p.m., Thurs. 8 a.m.-7 p.m., Sat. 9 a.m.-4 p.m.

The song used is O Holy Night, Music: Adolphe C. Adam (1803-1856), Words: Placide Clappeau, 1847; translated from French to English by John S. Dwight (1812-1893)

The flashback is from book #34 (The Mystery of the Missing Millionaire, or as I like to call it, “The Mystery of Pod Honey and Jim” *g*), and is used sans permission. But hey, it’s okay…I try to be nice to everybody!

Animation Wreath proved by:

Animation Factory

Note: Trixie Belden® is a registered trademark of Random House Books. These pages are not affiliated with Random House Books in any way. These pages are not for profit.   All stories copyright © Mary, 2007 - 2012 All rights reserved.