Home for Christmas

Nicholas Natali did not like surprises, and Christmas was a time of surprises—the worst kind of surprises. So, Nick despised Christmas. While most people hurried home for the holidays, Nicholas Natali did his bit for the Christ child by heading for an island named for one of His saints and spent the holiday time relaxing on the beach. In fact, he would sooner sleep in a barn with the farm animals than be home for Christmas. Unless, of course, there was some kid sleeping in the manger. Such would be the fire instead of the frying pan. And the last five years, thanks to the miracle of modern transportation, Nick had managed to avoid being home. But would he manage it this year? There was cause for doubt. But sleeping in an airport should not be more uncomfortable than sleeping in a barn. If only he could avoid some annoying kid.

Nick glanced up at the kid rolling unattended on the airport carpet. Christmas was a time for family, something Nick had no interest in. Fathering a child, raising a child, attending to a wife and a child, the whole business of family—he shuddered. 

The kid met his eyes and smiled. Mary, the last woman he had allowed to knock at the door of his heart, would call this boy “cute,” and would coo and act in all those annoying ways women do in the presence of children. And that made children dangerous. That put ideas in a woman’s head, ideas Nick wanted no part of. The boy could not have been more than five years old, likely born around the time Nick had resolved never to be home at Christmas again. He rolled his eyes, then directed his attention to his phone. The weather radar showed the heart of the storm directly over the airport. Glancing out the large window, he watched the blowing drifting snow, a complete white-out. The airport, at least, would be a warmer place to sleep than a barn.

Christmas was a time of chatting and loose talk, loose talk and surprises, prying and revealing, and he had secrets best never shared—memories of Christmas past. But there would be no visitation of ghosts for Nick, only the beach. The ocean waves breaking gently on the shore, the warm, tropical air on his skin, the smell of the salt sea, even the smell of the rotting seaweed and the death of small sea creatures that had washed up on the shore, everything about it delighted and relaxed him. The sea was constant, no surprises. The tide came in and withdrew. Occasionally, there was a storm, but rarely without warning. The sea was manageable and kept its secrets. Even its dead were silent and unmarked, forgotten beneath its waves. The reliable sea would never let him down.

The kid spread his arms wide and made the sound of a jet coming in for a landing, only to crash and roll on the floor, laughing. Was he trying to catch Nick’s attention? How annoying. The very kind of thing he fled at the holidays. Were there any more unsanitary places to roll around on than an airport carpet? Where was this kid’s mother? Why did she not control him? Would some other woman be taken with the overwhelming urge to play with him and distract his attention from Nick? He could only hope.

Nick bit his lip and glanced around the airport. People went about their business ignoring the kid, who didn’t seem much to care about anyone else but Nick. A priest in his black clerics and Roman collar across the way smiled and nodded. A chill slithered up Nick’s spine. Nick zipped up his jacket. Why should the priest notice him? Nick didn’t like priests. Maybe the priest would take interest in the kid and distract him? But the priest just smiled and nodded. 

Most of the people attended to their own business, concerned with getting home and most would not make it home tonight. The atmosphere thickened with the stress of so many anxious and disappointed people who would not get what they wanted. No planes were going out or coming in for the rest of the night. Even those from the flights that had arrived would find it difficult to manage the roads. People scurried about, making arrangements for hotels or ground travel home. Some gave up and searched for places to sleep in the airport. There might be room at the places where travelers lodged, but getting to them would not be easy. Nick’s car, parked in long-term parking, was likely buried beneath a foot-and-a-half of snow, or more, depending on how the cold, white stuff had blown and drifted. What a chore it would be to dig it out, hopefully in three weeks, in a new year, and not to return home tonight, defeated by the weather, to be there, for Christmas, for the first time in five years. That wasn’t going to happen. He’d sooner sleep in a barn.

“Daddy, what will Santa bring me for Christmas this year?” The kid had snuck up on Nick and tugged on his arm.

“What?” Nick pulled his arm away. “I’m not your father, kid. Go bug someone else.”

The kid giggled, then went into his airplane routine again, crashed and rolled. He ran back to Nick. “Will you be home for Christmas?”

Nick ignored the kid and stared at his phone. Home for Christmas? Not a chance.

The kid tugged on his arm, again. “Daddy, will you be home for Christmas? I think you will.”

Nick sighed. “Look, kid. I’m not your father. I’m at the airport so I won’t be home for Christmas. The whole point is not to be home for Christmas. You shouldn’t be playing in the airport by yourself. It’s dangerous. Where’s your mother?”

The kid blinked a few times, then began to quake and sob. “Mommy’s not here…She died.”

Nick closed his eyes. He hated being human. The urge to console a crying child was almost irresistible, but he resisted. “Then, your father, kid. Where’s your father?”

The kid looked up at him with tear-filled brown eyes. “You’re my father!”

“Ugh! Kid, I’m not your father. I don’t have kids. I don’t have a wife or a family. I don’t like kids.” Nick could make no truer statement, but with these words he felt a cramping pain in his gut. He stood up and staggered to the men’s room. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He had no wife. He had no child. Why was there a question of it in his mind? Mary was not his wife and never would be. And there was no child. No more surprises. Just some crazy kid. He splashed cold water on his face.

The kid was waiting when Nick exited the men’s room. “Daddy? That man over there. I think he wants to help you.”

The kid pointed at the priest, who smiled and nodded. Now, that was just irritating, something Mary might say, hypocrite that she was. She certainly was no saint. But she had always tried to drag him to church—just the kind of memory he wished to bury in the sands of Saint…Wherever each Christmas. And now, some strange kid, some really strange kid, pointed out a priest to him. But the priest was inviting him. Maybe he could get the priest to occupy the kid and give him some peace?

Nick got up and crossed the terminal to where the priest sat. “Father, perhaps you could help me? This child seems to have no one to look after him?”

“Oh,” said the priest, “so where is his mother?”

“He claims she’s dead.”

“Oh, that’s sad. And the father?”

“He claims I’m his father. He seems quite confused.”

The priest peeped past Nick at the kid. Then, his eyes met Nick’s. “I’m not sure I can help the child, but perhaps I could help you? You seem troubled.”

Troubled? Sure. This crazy kid troubled him. Nick was not a father and never would be. Was there a deeper trouble? Sure. Secrets that must be kept nagged his soul. And Christmas prying, the spirit of the season, would they pry it out of him? The sea, the sea kept its secrets. The sea and the beach, where he was heading to forget all there was of Christmas, all there was of Christ, all there was of God, all there was of Mary. Could a priest keep such secrets? In confession, they were sworn to. But could he tell it? Could he not tell it? If he began, could he stop, take it back? “I’m sorry to bother you Father, but I can’t use your help, unless you will watch over this kid for me.”

The priest smiled and motioned with his head to the boy. “He seems to be watching over you.”

Nick turned to see the boy staring at him, worriedly. “It’s cold out, Daddy. Are you cold?”

Nick ignored the kid and stepped past him. What a crazy kid! He checked the departure board, but his flight was no longer on it. What the heck? He approached the counter. “I don’t see my flight on the board. Can you tell me the status of Flight 760, to St. Bart’s?”

The clerk looked up, puzzled. “Flight 760?”

“Yes, that’s my flight. Was it cancelled because of the snow?”

The clerked glanced out the window, then back at her terminal. “Uh, Flight 760 was scheduled to leave two hours ago. Looks like you, uh, missed it. Would you like me to book you on the next flight?”

“What? I’ve been waiting hours for Flight 760. How could I have missed it?”

The clerk glanced again out the window, then down again. Was she trying to recall her training? How to handle a crazy person or something? He wasn’t crazy.

“Well, sir, I think you are in luck. We can get you on the next flight, Flight 840 to St. Bart’s tomorrow at 8 am. I’m sure we can arrange for you to stay at a, uh, hotel. Let me see what I can do. Do you have your ticket?”

Nick reached into his jacket pocket for his ticket. It wasn’t there. What? Where was it? He frantically patted himself down, checking all his pockets. He could not find his wallet either. Nor anything else. Not even his phone. He must have been robbed. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to find my ticket. Nor my wallet. Someone must have stolen them.”

“Well, sir, that will make things difficult. We need your ticket and your identification to proceed. You say you were scheduled to be on, uh, Flight 760. Uh, let me check the manifest. What is your name?”

“Nick, that’s Nicholas, Natali.”

“Yes, I have it here. It says you boarded that flight, Mr. Natali! How is that possible?” She covered her mouth and glanced out the window. A glow of orange flickered in the distance, visible now that the snow had lessened.

The kid tugged on his arm. “Daddy? Will you be coming home, now?”

Flames leapt up, as if from hell, and the airport terminal dissolved away, leaving only the snowy night lit in an orange glow. Cold so cold—Nick gasped for a breath, sending a wave of pain through his broken body. The acrid scent of burning jet fuel and the fumes from the burning wreckage filled his nostrils. The wreckage of Flight 760 strewn around him, as he lay on the gurney, the flames a source of blessed warmth in the blizzarding snow. The priest anointed his forehead. He grabbed the priest’s arm. Gasping, pain shot through him with each breath, each word. “Father, Father…help me. Forgive me…I killed her. Mary…She was pregnant…My child. I killed them...She surprised me…wouldn’t give him up…Five years ago. At Christmas…I killed them...Forgive me.”