The Family Across The Way
This is what the Lord Almighty says: "Administer true justice;
show mercy and compassion to one another."
-Zechariah 7:9
When I was just starting life out on
my own, my first apartment was in a cheap complex full of college
kids and young working roommates. The one exception was a family who
lived across from me in an apartment not much bigger than my one-bedroom
place. My window faced their window, and neither of us had drapes.
I was busy waiting tables at night and taking classes at the local
community college during the day. My family was more than a little
upset that I had dropped out of the state university, and I was still
feeling guilty about wasting their money. We weren't exactly burning
up the phone lines between us.
I did a lot of vicarious living through the family across the way.
They were like a modern version of the Waltons. Really.
The kid would sit at the kitchen table drinking a glass of milk with
a plate of dollar store cookies beside him, coloring pictures. The
mom ran around with some sewing she took in, and around five o'clock
each evening the dad came in and tossed his thin jacket on the flimsy
coat rack. Mother and son jumped up from whatever they were doing
and hugged him as if he'd been gone for a week. I swear.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it
either.
The week before Christmas, I made a quick trip home to visit my family.
As a new waiter, I was scheduled to work straight through the holidays,
so I had to make it short. We opened a few gifts, hugged a lot, and
after two days I was right back in my apartment.
A few days later, I was watching the family across the way, as usual,
and I noticed that things looked different. The kid was at the table,
but there was no glass of milk. No plate of cookies. The mom was sewing,
but she could hardly hold her head up. Five o' clock came. Five o'
clock went. No dad. No jacket on the coat rack. I waited, holding
off my evening restaurant shift until the very last minute. By 5:50
there was still no sign of the dad.
I checked their front door on my way to work, hoping against hope
that my fears were unfounded. But there, large and round on their
solemn front door, hung a funeral wreath. It was still fresh.
I cried on the way to work, as if the man had been my own father.
I thought about their cheap apartment and cramped living space and
wondered how they would ever manage without him. Memories of their
smiles and laughter went through my head all night, and I don't know
how I ever made it through my shift.
On the way home, I thought about what I could do to help. I knew that
it was still too soon to offer condolences. And who was I to them,
anyway? What would they think if some college punk in a skinny goatee
and a tip apron knocked on their door and admitted that he'd been
a peeping Tom for the last six months?
Days went by and the family across the way grew more pitiful by the
hour. They sat. They stood. They came in and out of focus. Their grief
could be felt all the way to my side of our green and tan building.
Carols chimed over the radio, and garish red and green cartoons splashed
across the TV, yet nothing changed. For the first time in my life
I realized what was meant by the term "holiday blues."
That's it! I thought as I threw on my uniform for my Christmas Eve
shift. The family across the way hadn't hung a single string of tinsel
or bough of holly. I didn't think they'd even turned on a single light
since the man of the house had passed away. Maybe a Christmas tree
would help cheer them up.
I bustled through work, overflowing with false holiday cheer and pushing
my good graces to the limit all night so that my tables would be generous
with holiday tips. It worked, and I sped off after my shift to scout
for late-night tree lots.
Unfortunately, such things only exist in cheesy holiday specials on
TV. All of the tree stands were closed and the 24-hour mega-stores
were even out of the fake kind. I cursed myself for waiting until
the last minute to do something nice for those two lost souls across
the way. Still upset, I pulled into a gas station on the way home.
The least I could do was to bring them a care package of milk and
Christmas cookies for the little kid.
The wizened old lady behind the counter sucked on a cigarette and
watched carefully as I loaded a little red basket with cold cuts and
orange juice, candy canes and eggnog. As I made my way up to the counter
I spotted a tabletop tree beside the cash register.
"Is your tree for sale?" I asked around her halo of cigarette
smoke.
"It is now," she croaked when she saw the stack of ones
and fives in my eager hand. "30 bucks," she said without
flinching.
"30 bucks?" I said. "But... it's Christmas Eve!"
"I know," she said, smiling. "You should have heard
what I charged the last guy. You're getting a deal."
I bundled up the tree in one of her plastic sacks and brought it to
my place to air it out a little before I brought it to the family
across the way. I stacked a plate with cold cuts and cheese and another
with cookies and chocolates, and then covered them in plastic wrap.
I plugged the tree in to test the lights and burn off a little of
the nicotine smell from the old lady's ever-present cigarettes.
Then, just for a second, I sat down in my dilapidated, second-hand
easy chair to see how it would look to the family across the way.
A knock at the door woke me much later. I sprang to my feet, spying
the warm plates of food and brightly blazing tree still sitting on
my small dinner table. How long had I been asleep?
I opened the door to find the mother and son from across the way.
Their faces looked concerned and they pointed to the tree.
"We saw the tree lights still burning and you sleeping beside
it," they said shyly. "We were worried that you would burn
your apartment down."
I saw the little boy eyeing the chocolate and cookies so I quickly
invited them in. I sat them down and found a station playing carols
on the radio while they ate. I poured eggnog and orange juice and
sat down quietly beside them.
I sneaked a peek out of my window at their dark and dismal apartment.
How bright and alive my tree must have seemed to them as they whiled
away the lonely hours of their first Christmas Eve without the man
of the house. And how pitiful I must have looked beside the tree,
sitting there in my broken down chair, all alone on Christmas. How
incredible that in the depths of their despair, they could still feel
sorry for me.
I had been so eager to surprise them. To rush home and get everything
ready. To knock on their door and show them that the world was not
such a horrible place.
To offer them a miracle.
But in the end, the little family from across the way had brought
the miracle to me.
Rusty Fischer
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