The Christmas Child. Linda Goodnight
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she kept him too busy all day to think. Days were all right. Nights were killing him.
Sophie Bartholomew bebopped out the door of the Redemption Register, a happy tune on her lips and an order for six dozen cookies on her notepad. She stopped on the sidewalk and danced a little boogie to celebrate the sale. Her students would be pumped, too.
Sophie loved mornings, especially this time of year with Christmas right around the corner. Already, Redemption geared up for the monthlong celebration.
This crisp morning when the town was just awakening, the scent of fresh doughnuts tantalized the streets in front of the Sugar Shack bakery and café. Sophie headed there next to round up more orders for the annual fifth-grade charity cookie sale. Miriam, owner of the Sugar Shack, never minded, even though the sales cut into her business.
Down the block a city worker dangled from a bucket truck to lace white lights along the front of the town’s historic bank building. Sophie gave a little wave. Christmas was unofficially here, and no one was happier about that than Sophie.
She loved everything about Christmas, from the celebrations and festivities to church and decorated cookies and gaily wrapped gifts. Even the commercialism didn’t bother her. Christmas, she’d long ago decided, meant joy and love and Jesus, in whatever form it was celebrated.
Across the street on the town square, Ida June Click, octogenarian handywoman, pounded on a half-erected stable while a lean, dark man unloaded lumber from a truck, his navy plaid shirt open over a white T-shirt. Sophia recognized him as Kade McKendrick, Ida June’s nephew, although Sophie didn’t know him well. He was new in town, but her single friends and several not-so-singles noticed his comings and goings. He mostly stayed to himself. His quiet aloofness made everyone wonder, including her. But he was a looker, as her close friend Jilly Fairmont said. A mysterious looker. What could be more intriguing to a female? Not that Sophie thought all that much about her single status. She was too busy teaching kids and loving the life the Lord had given her.
She had one hand on the glass door of the Sugar Shack when she heard a shout. Over on the curb by the buff-brick municipal building, GI Jack, the eccentric old Dumpster diver who ran a recycling business and created junk art, waved his arms and yelled for help.
“Ida June,” he called to the twig of woman in bright red overalls and a man’s work jacket. “Get over here quick.”
“Here” was a spot right next to an industrial-size trash bin.
“Not another cat. My cup runneth over already.” But the feisty eightysomething woman hustled toward him just the same.
So did Sophie. GI Jack was not an alarmist, and one quick glance told her Popbottle Jones, the other eccentric Dumpster diver, was nowhere to be seen.
Traffic was slow this time of day, and Sophie darted across the street with barely a glance. Had something happened to Popbottle Jones?
“What can we do? Shall we call for an ambulance? I have my cell phone.” Ida June, still a little breathless from the jog, whipped a modern smartphone from the bib of her overalls. “We must get him out of that Dumpster ASAP. He who hesitates is lost.”
Confusion clouded GI Jack’s face. “Well, yes, ma’am, I reckon so, but we don’t need no ambulance.”
“If Popbottle is hurt—”
The funny old man blinked. “Popbottle ain’t hurt.”
“My friend is correct. I’ve suffered no ill effect.” Ulysses E. “Popbottle” Jones grasped the top of the heavy metal trash bin and peered over the edge, his red miner’s hat tipped to one eye. “But we do require assistance.”
Curiosity got the better of Sophie and she tiptoed up for a look. The sight she beheld chipped off a piece of her teacher’s heart. Cowering against the side of the bin and surrounded by trash, a young boy, maybe eight or nine, clutched a book against his chest and stared out with round blue eyes. Poorly dressed for the cold day, his shaggy blond hair hung limp and dirty around a pale, thin face smeared with something yellow, probably mustard from the piece of old hamburger gripped in his other hand.
“The small fellow won’t allow me near him,” Popbottle said with some chagrin as he hopped to the street. “Must be my unusual attire or perhaps the miner’s lamp. I thought one of you ladies would fare better.”
“Probably thought you were an alien from Jupiter,” Ida June grumbled. Barely tall enough to see inside, she chinned herself like a gymnast, peered in, then slithered back to earth, muttering. “My nephew will know what to do.” Whirling toward the town square she barked loud enough to be heard over the din of a city truck rattling past. “Kade, on the double! We need help.”
Sophie, too concerned with the child to wait, said, “GI, boost me up.”
The gentle old man, still strong as the soldier he’d been, patted his bent knee. “Foot here.”
She grabbed the top of the trash bin and vaulted up and in to slide unceremoniously onto a pile of damp newspapers. She rested there for a few seconds to study the little boy and gauge his reaction to her presence. Dampness soaked through the back of her sweater. She’d need a trip home before schooltime. Not that her clothes mattered at the moment.
When the little boy didn’t scramble away, she slowly moved toward him, picking her way across the junk, careful not to turn an ankle in the heeled boots.
“Hello, there,” she said in her kindest voice. “My name is Sophie. What’s your name?”
The question was met with a silent stare.
Sophie went into a crouch, inches from the child, but careful not to touch until he was ready. Holding back was hard. She was a toucher, a hugger, believing children needed physical connection. “I’m a nice person, honey. You can talk to me and I’ll help you.”
Still only that bleak stare.
“I’m a teacher here in Redemption. Fifth grade. What grade are you in?”
Nothing.
Outside the trash bin voices rose and fell—Ida June’s spit and vinegar, and a chorus of males. By now, someone had likely called the police station, and Sophie worried the sight of an officer might frighten the boy even more. He was like a wary, wild thing, cornered and ready to bolt at the first opportunity.
Metal scraped against the outer bin. Someone else was scrambling up the side. The boy’s gaze shifted to a spot behind Sophie just as that someone dropped to the surface with catlike quiet.
Sophie glanced over one shoulder to see the trim, lithe, dark-as-a-shadow nephew of Ida June Click. His eyes, the same espresso brown as his hair, met hers in a narrow squint. There was something lethal about Kade McKendrick, and she remembered the rumor that he’d been a big-city cop or in the DEA or some such. He looked more like a man who’d been on the wrong side of the law than a police officer.
“The cookie lady,” he said with an unsmiling nod.
Sophie offered a cheeky grin. “You’ll order some yet. It’s a great cause.” Every year she and her fifth graders baked and sold Christmas cookies and contributed the proceeds to charity.
He went to his heels beside her and hitched his chin toward the child. In the bin, large as it was, three was a crowd. “Who’s your friend?”
She tilted her face toward his, noticed the tense lines around his eyes and mouth. “One frightened boy.”
Kade turned a quiet look on the child. “Hey, buddy, what’s your name?”
Sophie waited, but when the child’s response was more silence, she said, “He’s not said a word to me, either.”
“What’s that he’s holding?” Kade gestured, stirring the scent of warm, working male and clean cotton shirt, a welcome respite from the stink of trash.
“A book.”
“Good work, Sherlock,”