On this crisp December morning, blue-eyed, freckle-faced Willie MacCorkle went into the woods to search for mistletoe. For a few seasons now he had been gathering as much as he could for his parents to use in their small side business. Each year, he had to wander further to find any of worth. He had learned just this morning from Dad that mistletoe is not a fungus, as he had thought, but just an odd plant, its seeds spread by birds, that has to sink its roots into a tree limb in order to survive. Not that he had much fondness for the stuff. He just enjoyed making his parents happy. He watched his breath turn to steam. He loved being cold in the woods, especially in the merry days that lead up to Christmas.
Some of the best clumps he was finding were too dangerously high to be reached, causing him to wander still further. It happened this time that he wandered too far and lost his way. He carried a bag half full of mistletoe when he abruptly ran out of woods. There was a great meadow before him and a barbwire fence running between the two. It seemed to Willie he had gotten as much mistletoe as one could reasonably gather. He only wanted to go home now. Reasoning that the fence ought to lead somewhere - likely a road would appear if he followed it far enough - he worked his way to the meadow side of the wire, where the walking would be much easier. The meadow hosted a herd of about ten cows that grazed in the far distance. If they saw Willie, none paid attention. Once as he went along the way he saw a hare bound across his path, about four fence posts ahead.
The woods thinned until there were fewer trees, but now lots of poison ivy and thorny vines filled the gaps. The fenced-in land went on, with the terrain rolling enough that he could not see that far ahead. After twenty minutes his steps took him up a rise that revealed a narrow paved road. He felt pretty certain that the road would intersect Carter Lane, which in turn intersected Grace Avenue, his own street. Willie had never worried that he could stay lost for very long. Aware that dark clouds had been rolling in for a considerable time, his main concern resided in the menace driving those clouds.
Down the road a short way, he came to a house.
It was elegant and old, with split rails around the yard. From the back a persistent whacking sound let him know someone was hard at work around there. Willie went to investigate, in the hope he would be invited to shelter from the impending storm. He paused to behold a youth of his own age chopping firewood.
The boy, tall and graceful, with muscled arms, a handsome brown, almost black, face, sent the chips of wood flying at each stroke of the ax, working with an intensity that failed to acknowledge the stranger peeping from the corner of his house.
“Hello. Do you have a phone I can use?” Willie implored.
The boy let down the ax and for the first time looked directly at this stranger. “Are you walking? Way out here?”
Willie nodded. He came forward, encouraged that the boy’s demeanor had at this point shifted to a gentle manner.
“There is no phone. But you are welcome to stay here until my parents come. At least wait out the bad weather.”
“I can’t wait. Pop will kill me.”
“Have you looked at the sky? There might be tornadoes brewing.”
“It looks bad. But, tornadoes in December?” Willie protested.
The boy half-smiled. He extended a hand. “My name is Victor. Dad wanted to make it Victory, but Mom said ‘No’ to that. Victor Alexander, in full.”
Willie shook the hand, repeating his own name as the hands joined. He was grateful Victor did not use the event to prove the strength of his grip. “I guess I should stay here,” he said.
Victor began loading his arms with firewood. “Get a load and come with me, Willie.”
Willie clumsily managed the unfamiliar task of filling his arms with uncooperative chunks of firewood. He hurried to catch up with the longer-legged Victor, dropping a few pieces along the way. He just caught the door before it could swing shut and went behind Victor into the great family room. They carefully placed the rough chunks on a rack near the fireplace.
The family room proved large, but cozy, with beautiful rugs, fat stuffed chairs, filled bookcases, and shelves with lots of keepsakes and knick-knacks on them. For a moment Willie studied the portraits of Victor’s parents, in frames set to stand among a group of figurines.
After setting up the fireplace, tireless Victor was not ready to sit.
“Would you like to see my Christmas project? It‘s the best thing I‘ve ever done.”
“I certainly would.”
He ushered Willie into his Dad’s workshop inside the garage.
The garage was huge for a place just meant to be somewhere to park a few cars. There was lots of room to work on projects in one rear corner. Willie was impressed that Victor had the privilege to use a long workbench and an assortment of floor-mounted tools; band saw, table saw, drill press. Assorted hand tools cluttered the terrain surrounding Victor’s enterprise. Willie could not have prepared himself for what he saw in the middle of the workbench. It was an angel, made to hang on a Christmas tree. As he moved in for a closer inspection, Victor placed his creation in Willie’s hands. “I finished it this morning. I left it there while the paint dried.”
Willie received the wooden figure as carefully as if it might crumble in a too clumsy grip. It was almost six inches in height, intricately carved, beautifully finished. Willie was struck with admiration for a work the most accomplished artist could not have bettered. The flowing gown, unfolded wings, perfect hands, and bare feet, wise beautiful face, with eyes to tug the heartstrings. “It’s magnificent. I love it. Where did you learn to make these?”
It was not immodest of Victor to say, “I carved one last year, teaching myself. Dad helped me learn to use his tools. It was good; this one is special if I do say so.”
“Where is the other? I would like to see it.”
Before Victor could reply, they heard a rush of wind over the property and almost directly over the house a simultaneous crack of thunder. Through the garage door row of windows, the rain was visible, darkly, for the onset of the storm made it seem like night outside. “This is it,“ Victor said.
The boys took shelter in the main hallway, until the driving rain sounded less severe, waiting near a tree that Victor had earlier cut and dragged inside to be stood and decorated. Victor showed Willie that the trunk had already been prepared to fit in the stand, one his family had been using for as long as he could recall. The stand was special because it could hold up a ten-foot tall tree.
Victor sent Willie back to the family room, then followed, dragging the tree.
He didn’t need any help to ready his Christmas tree, nor did he ask Willie to lend a hand to stand it. He did ask his visitor to fill a kettle and pour the water into the stand, while he trimmed it. Then, using a step ladder when necessary, he hung red balls, leaving it bare in one area, which he reserved for the angels. A shiny yellow star topped it all. After affixing the angels he draped strands of icicles. It was a simple, beautiful effect. Willie told him how much he loved it. The angels were the undoubted stars that made an otherwise normal Christmas tree the most special one ever in Willie’s estimation.
After critically admiring his work for a time, Victor began repeatedly looking at the clock on the wall. “I thought my parents would get here before now,” he fretted.
He brightened and asked Willie if he could stand a mug of hot chocolate. Willie happily accepted. It began dawning on him as they neared the kitchen that he was hungry. Chocolate would make the hunger easier to bear.
“My parents have been at a business convention in Dallas. They should have left there over four hours ago. That’s why I expected them home by now,” Victor explained as he found the ingredients for chocolate and began making milk get hot on the stove.
He set out just one mug.
Willie replied that his own parents are both on vacation through Christmas.
Victor indicated his friend should seat himself on a silver-colored stool before the bar. Willie slipped onto the stool, putting his elbows on the glossy countertop while letting his shoe heels rest against the rung near the bottom.
“My Pop works in a machine shop in town,” Willie continued. “Every Christmas, he works with Mom to turn our house into a sort of Christmas Town, with lights and figures everywhere, both inside and out.”
He watched Victor, who was staring at the floor for a long moment. “Our Christmas is different this year,” Victor said. “Not much preparation being done. But we’re going to be happy.”
Outside, the rain continued to pound the house. It could be heard battering the roof and walls.
“I wouldn’t look for them just yet. It’s too dangerous to drive,” Willie noted.
“Yeah; they’re going to be very late.”
“Nobody knows where I am,” Willie said. “They are going to be worried. Dad has a way of getting pretty angry with me when I mess up.”
“We are going to let them know as soon as my folks come with a phone,” Victor said with a terse smile. “Soon you will be together. I no longer live with my family. Tomorrow will be the first time I have seen them in nearly a year. Which is why this is the most important Christmas ever for me. That is why I had to have everything just perfect for them. Look, I know your mom and dad are worried sick by now, not knowing if something’s happened to you, but, you will have a wonderful Christmas, I promise, and they will too.”
“I hope you are right. It wasn’t completely my fault I got lost, but Dad will tell me I ought to have used my head to make wiser choices. I am afraid he may be too angry to have a good holiday.”
“He loves you. If he reacts with anger, it is because he has not learned to reach out with his true feelings. Anger is quick. It allows one to hide, for he may himself be afraid of certain things.”
“Dad; afraid? I don’t see that.”
“Remember, grownups are people, nothing more, nothing less. They don’t know how to be perfect. No human’s perfect. They get afraid; they make mistakes. They are a lot like you.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“It may be their job to guide you, but they can’t know every single answer. Above all, they love you, even when they are angry or upset.”
Victor seemed to sink into private thoughts, the wooden angel being the focus of his gaze. It was something personal that Willie dared not interrupt.
When Victor broke from his reverie, he gave his guest an apologetic nod. “Would you like to sing?”
He began “The First Noel,” and Willie joined in.
After “Jingle Bells” and “Away in a Manger,” the boys were quiet. Willie, being tired and cozily warm, stretched out on the rug before the fireplace. In short order he became fast asleep, oblivious to the sounds of Victor bustling about, adding wood to the fire, cleaning up the day’s mess. Finally, Victor spread a thin cover over Willie and he settled in the great chair.
Sitting in the dark, he listened to the maple tree rubbing against the side of the house and the incessant pattering rain. Twice Victor got up to look outside, then to stoke the embers and to add a log. Around five, he looked outside again, to see if any rain lingered. This time he saw stars through a patchwork of clouds.
By the time Willie sat up yawning, Victor had gone in the kitchen to make his friend some breakfast. He came back, bearing a platter of eggs, sausage, and toast, with butter and jam on the side. Then went back for the hot chocolate. Willie could not believe his good fortune to be so well treated by his host. He set about devouring the meal as he watched Victor put on a jacket.
“I want to look for storm damage,” Victor explained.
Willie, in the act of setting aside the platter, said, “Let me go with you.”
“Finish eating,” replied Victor. “I can wait for you.”
Shortly, the boys, searching the trees for broken, dangerous limbs, found a single instance. A heavy limb had struck a fence rail, causing it to break in its center. After cutting away the limb with a bow saw, Victor found it easy to pull the rail ends from their mooring. “We saved an extra rail when Pop built this fence,” he told Willie. “While you pile the tree pieces in one spot, I will get it.”
Engrossed in his work, Willie didn’t notice when a stylish, somewhat older car rolled up near the house and stopped. He just happened to turn that way to discover that it had come.
“Victor,” he hollered.
“What?”
“They’re here.”
A slender woman, tall and beautiful, emerged from the car on the passenger’s side. A rather stout man with a thick mustache stepped out from the other. Their names were Mel and Helen Alexander. They eyed Willie with curiosity. What business had he on their premises?
Reading the question in their demeanor, Willie said, “I’m Willie MacCorkle.”
At the same moment, Victor came balancing the rail on a shoulder. He dropped it when he saw his Mom and Pop aiming quizzical looks at Willie. “Merry Christmas,” he shouted.
His Mom and Pop turned to Victor with greatly surprised expressions. Willie guessed that their son had not been expected to be home. “Victor,” his Mom cried. “Victor.”
Pop stepped around his wife and went to his son. “It’s really you.”
Victor shared a hug with his Pop, sliding from his grip to hug his Mom. By now there were tears on all of their faces. Willie had moved away to allow the family their moment in privacy.
Mom held her son at arm’s length, gazing at him in wonder. “But how -?” she said, sounding greatly puzzled. “It has been a year. We thought -”
Pop said, “I don’t know. But it’s a double miracle.”
“Wait until you see the Christmas tree,” Victor said. “I cut a really nice one. It has a special decoration on it.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” said his Mom.
“We are going to take a look at it right now,” said his Pop.
Mr. and Mrs. Alexander pushed both boys ahead of them inside the house right into the family room. They marveled and poured love on Victor’s magnificent angel.
Then Victor directed his parents’ attention to Willie to tell them they need to call the MacCorkles to come to pick up their son. He explained how Willie came to be here.
His Mom immediately took the number and made the call. She smiled at Willie. “Your Mom is on her way,” she said in her gentle voice. “With your Dad. She’s very relieved that you are okay.”
Willie thanked her. He considered waiting outside, to allow the Alexanders some privacy.
“Oh, no,” said Pop Alexander. “We wouldn’t hear of a guest not feeling welcome. Come sit with us. Would you like a drink or food?”
Willie said it was fine to simply sit with the family and wait; he needed nothing.
“I am afraid we are going to alarm you, Willie,” Mom Alexander said. “You may get afraid listening to our conversation. I feel we owe you an explanation. There is a surprise for Victor, too, a little later.”
“Yes,” Victor’s Pop said, nodding vigorously. He looked at his wife. “Tell him,” he urged.
She looked with her deep brown eyes into Victor‘s eyes. “Do you mind?” she asked.
Victor stared gravely at his mother and then he looked at Willie. “It’s okay. Willie is my friend.”
“Well,” began Mom Alexander, “For last Christmas, we found a rascally dog at the shelter, a real heart-stealer. Randy the part Lab and something else that couldn’t be determined. Probably a really mixed breed. He was eight months old. Victor of course immediately loved him. They ran together, wrestled together. There was just one thing. A dog like Randy chews things. One morning Victor came from his room, looking for his playmate. There was Randy, chewing to pieces one of his favorite running shoes.
“For the first time, Victor scolded the dog for his mischief. He made Randy feel unappreciated. Well, Randy skulked outside through the doggy door. When Victor went to find him to show he loved him still, the dog was nowhere to be found.”
Willie tried to avoid the tears that sprang to Victor’s eyes. He began to suspect he was not going to like the rest of the story.
Mom Alexander continued telling the tale. “As Victor walked around looking and calling out, he heard a commotion and knew from the sounds it was a likely dog fight. He came around a stand of scrubby trees and prickly cactus to the sight of Randy being mauled by five big dogs.
“My boy picked up a tree branch that had fallen off of an aging tree and charged into the fracas. His branch broke against the shoulder of one dog. The leader of the pack paused to look at Victor. Then he and two others attacked him.”
Here Helen Alexander’s voice broke. Mel Alexander stepped in. “Victor ought not to be here because of what happened there.”
Pop Alexander pulled Victor close. He buried his face against his son’s shoulder. His great head turned and he looked at Willie. “Victor was killed. We held his funeral in January. Why you see him here is a miracle I can’t explain.”
He turned back to Victor. “Son,” he said, “I don’t know how to let you know what the second miracle is. I feel it ought to be me doing the telling.”
Pop Alexander exchanged looks with Mom Alexander. Her face was solemn. But her eyes were burning like little stars. She gave him the nod to go ahead with telling the tale.
He began, sounding almost like a lecturing professor. “Last night, coming in on the freeway, it began to storm. The wind blew and the rain hit so hard we could not tell where the road was. It came about so quickly, I tried to pull over on the shoulder. We were slowing and should have been safe. But a big rig came over the rise sliding sideways until it demolished our car. We tumbled down an incline. All at once, we both were hovering, looking down at the scene, watching ourselves being pulled out of the wreckage. After a time, and as the rain ended, we floated to the pavement a little bit down the way. There was the car we drove home, with the engine running and the doors wide. It took us here on its own.”
Victor’s quick mind likely grasped that wherever his parents were headed in that car, he would be there with them. He threw an arm around Willie’s shoulders and hugged him. “Willie, I’ve got my parents back,” he gushed.
Willie did not fully comprehend what was taking place. But he was happy because the Alexander family was happy. He smiled watching their happiness until a knock sounded at the door. “It’s my folks,” he said, running to let them in.
There on the porch was Wallace MacCorkle with Lillie MacCorkle hovering slightly behind him. Willie’s parents. “My boy.”
Pop MacCorkle grinned with the whole of his great ruddy face. He stepped back to allow Mom MacCorkle to precede him into the foyer.
Willie tried apologizing for not getting home last night. His Pop shushed him. “I understand you wandered too far. That storm you were caught in was much wilder than the forecast predicted. I am grateful this family gave you shelter. No apology necessary. We are good as far as I am concerned.”
His Mom hugged him. “It’s just good to know you are okay,” she murmured.
“Let’s meet these wonderful people,” Pop MacCorkle said enthusiastically.
Willie led them into the family room.
His parents paused, looking around. “Are they hiding?” Pop said.
“Wait just a minute,” Willie said, equally mystified.
He went to the kitchen. Not feeling privileged to search beyond that, he returned to his parents. On a hunch, he asked, “Did you see their car outside?”
“You know,” Pop replied, “I almost thought I saw a fairly old sedan in the drive when we came in but decided I was mistaken.”
“I saw it,” Mom said. “Except it was not really there.”
“I guess they had to go,” Willie speculated. “You would have liked them as much as me. At least you can admire the Christmas tree before we go home.”
“Yes,” said Mom.
They turned their attention to Victor’s tree.
“Cute angels,” Pop observed.
To Willie’s shocked surprise, the wooden ornaments they studied were but two crudely shaped blocks one could make out to resemble angels.
Mom asked if they were Victor’s handiwork and Willie said they were. “I don’t understand it, Mom. Until a few minutes ago, these were the most beautiful things you will ever see.”
He studied the angels a few moments more. “I guess the magic went with them,” he concluded.
Pop looked upward. “Thank you for taking care of my son,” he said, just in case the Alexander family could hear him.
And they left the house to drive home.
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