Page 15 of The Christmas Box

And he kept it. All this time. He kept it.

I quit coming out here when he got mean, and the space holds both good memories and bad. But I can’t deny that this is where the magic happened.

Sure, I roll my eyes at talk of “Christmas magic”—magicisn’t a word usually in my vocabulary. But having learned how to take simple pieces of wood and turn them into something else—sometimes useful, sometimes beautiful, sometimes both…well maybe thatdoesfeel like a certain kind of magic.

I hadn’t thought for a long time about the fact that it was Dad who taught me. When Lexi brought it up that first morning, for some reason I balked. Now I can see it, though. My dad didn’t give me much, but he gave me a skill that has largely defined my life up to now. And it came with that means of escape, that way of shutting everything else out.

Not that I get tousethe skill as much as I like these days—ever since my job has evolved into more of a management position. The act of making this box has reminded me that I miss what it used to be. I think I’ll enjoy the cabinetry work in town in the coming weeks, too.

And Dad also gave me my truck, which I love. I coveted it growing up, and the day I got my license, he handed me the keys and said, “I know you’ll take good care of it.” By then, we were barely speaking and it shocked me.

“Don’t look so surprised, boy,” he said with a forced sort of laugh. “I know you’ve wanted it all your life—now it’s yours.”

I mumbled a stunned thanks and have been putting both heart and money into it ever since. While other guys I know take on huge car payments to own a Corvette or a Porsche, I wouldn’t want to be behind the wheel of anything but my ’48 Ford F-1. Another means of escape, this one more literal.

That’s never hit me before—that he gave me, wittingly or not, everything I needed to get away from him.

When I pull the pickup to the snowy curb in front of the Lucas Building that night after dark, snow is falling again on an otherwise still, quiet street. The first thing my eyes land on? A familiar white mutt huddled under the overhang again.Damn it, dog.

When I came home last night, he’d done okay in the shop and it seemed too heartless to put him back out in the cold, so I let him stay overnight. This morning, I found a big pile of thank you.

Not that I’m sure what I expected the dog to do. When ya gotta go and some idiot has trapped you inside a building, ya go. But I put him out this morning and had to drive away to the sounds of canine whimpering behind me.

Now I lean my face over into one hand. Do I not have enough on my mind without adding a stupid stray dog who can’t seem to find any better shelter than this completely open-to-the-elements storefront?

Letting out a sigh, I get out and slam the old truck’s door. I unlock the shop and carry Lexi’s “wishing box” inside, while, of course, the dog scrambles in around my feet, nearly tripping me.

“You’re lucky you didn’t make me drop this box, dog,” I mutter as I lower it to the counter in back.

Now what?

I could put his mangy carcass back outside, but it’s really coming down out there again. What’s with all this snow? While it’s not rare to get an early December snowfall here every now and again, this is starting to feel more like Chicago than Kentucky.

I look down at the mutt, both disgusted and sympathetic. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to feel abandoned and on your own. “But I knew where to go to the bathroom,” I tell him accusingly. Damn, I must be tired, talking to a dog like I think he understands me. But the poor thing has sad eyes that get me in the gut.

And what’s worse—I keep right on doing it. Though maybe I’m talking to myself now. If that’s any better. “Maybe if I take you upstairs, give you some dinner, and put out some paper, you’ll show your appreciation by poopingthere.” I saw an old pile of Winterberry Gazettes in the storage room in back.

A little while later, I’ve created a bathroom space for the mutt, and since I mostly stocked the small freezer with frozen microwave dinners, before I know it I’m heating him up his own chicken pot pie. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say—to both of us, I guess.

But when I lower it to the floor and he scarfs it down like a maniac, I’m glad I did.

After eating my own pot pie, I find an old blanket and lay it out on the floor near a heat register. “There ya go,” I say. “But don’t get too comfortable—it’s just for tonight.”

December 5

Lexi

The Christmas Box is quiet—too quiet—but after another two inches of snow overnight, what do I expect? “I never thought I’d be mad about snow at Christmastime,” I say to Dara, “but this needs to stop.”

We stand side by side behind the long mahogany counter, sprucing up some signs we’ve just made.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They’ve cleared the roads and it’s still early—business will pick up.” Then she motions to the sheet of white construction paper she’s written on in tidy blue print. “What do you think?”

I take a look.

Instructions:

1. Drop your wish inside our wishing box.

---