Author: Robert Ford

Central Park near 5th Avenue and 58th was relatively quiet that December evening.
The beam of light from the stars briefly illuminated a piece of grass beside a tree. After the flash there stood, on all fours, an alien. The metallic plates on his back rustled and the creature took in a deep breath. He had been expecting an argon-based atmosphere and was suitably surprised by a lung full of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide and lead.
“Urk,” said the alien.

A crazy person walking alone in Central Park ignored him.
The alien realised he was on the wrong planet. His environmental analyser scanned the area and he swiftly adapted his respiratory system.
“Where am I?” he thought. “I’ve never seen a planet like this before.”
He cursed the people operating the Transmat. He had an important mission. He had to catch a criminal. “Instead,” he thought, “they just merrily send me anywhere they feel like.”
He activated his navigation system and moved out from under the tree to look at the stars. It was cloudy, very cloudy. His navigation equipment wouldn’t function at all.
“Terrific,” he thought. “I can’t even figure out where I am!”

He scanned the park and determined that his current metal armadillo-like shape wasn’t going to match the general appearance of the natives. The alien modified his body to be roughly human, standing at about five foot ten. He modified more of his body’s molecules to create a trench coat for himself. This hid his not quite human-looking metal skin. To make himself more closely human, he would have to make contact. This could be dangerous as he had no idea what the natives were like. He walked out onto the road in Central Park and looked for a person walking alone. No one he could see was by themselves. How irritating. He decided to risk brighter street lights and he headed to Central Park Avenue.

A man in a hurry was walking toward 7th Avenue. He was grumbling. Dr. Cass was not a happy man. His mother-in-law, an irritating hypochondriac, had had one of her “fits” and had called her dutiful son-in-law over to help. She had called while he and his wife were finally getting down to some serious lovemaking after a dismal month of perfunctory interludes in the style of it’s-11pm-and-we-have-nothing-better-to-do. He had had it all set up. He had made his own pasta. The wine had been allowed to breathe. He had lit the scented candles. The lights had been dimmed. All ruined by that old bitch with a cold.

Dr. Cass did not see the alien reach out to touch his face.
There was a second of agonising pain and then:
“You must have tripped, doctor,” said a man who looked somehow familiar to the physician. It was hard to tell with the pathetic lighting on the street. The alien was holding up Dr. Cass by the elbow.
“I must have,” Cass said with some surprise.
“Merry Christmas,” said the alien, walking off.
Later, the physician wondered how the stranger had known he was a doctor. He checked for his wallet. It was still there. “Oh well,” the doctor thought, “one of life’s mysteries.”

It had worked. The alien was pleased. He now decided to refer to himself by the doctor’s middle name, Burton. He had quickly made a copy of every memory and experience in the good doctor’s brain and stored it in his own. The doctor would remain unaffected.

Now Burton could speak the language and understand the customs and behaviour of the natives. (Or so he thought.) He had also made himself look like the doctor. He decided that might not be completely wise. As Burton walked down 7th Avenue, he looked closely at people’s bodies and faces and incorporated changes into his own visage so that he looked essentially unique, but not outstanding in any way.

He looked into the sky. Still cloudy. He reasoned that there was no point in trying to travel to an area where there was clear sky as there was a good chance of it clouding over by the time he arrived. He might as well wait. And he had no money for bus, train or cab. As a police officer, albeit from another planet, he honoured the laws of any planet he visited. “Well,” he thought, “most of the time.”

Burton had to amuse himself until the sky cleared. What could he do in New York City for a few hours? Burton queried the information recorded from Dr. Cass’ brain. What to do? The answers came back:
• go to a movie
• go to a show
• go to dinner
• go to dinner and a show or movie

These all cost money. Burton could easily manufacture money, but that was counterfeiting and illegal. He queried the doctor’s brain again. What could you do in New York that didn’t cost money? At this time of night. The doctor’s brain was stumped. It could only come up with:
• take a very long walk
• crash a party and don’t offer to buy anyone drinks

Burton didn’t feel like a walk, so he decided to stroll past hotels and see if any Christmas parties were going on that he could gate crash.
At The New York Hilton on Avenue of the Americas many cars and limos were pulling up to the front gate. Elegant women in expensive dresses emerged, accompanied by men in tuxedoes. Burton queried the doctor’s brain as to the nature of the party. The response was a guess that a large bank was having a Christmas party. Since it was a formal affair, it probably was for staff and clients.

Burton walked through the main doors and wandered toward the ballroom. He looked out of place in a trench coat. At the door to the ballroom a member of the hotel staff stopped him. “By invitation only, sir.”

“I was wondering,” said Burton, “could I just take a look at an invitation? I don’t have to touch it. Just see it.”
The hotel man looked sceptical. What did this guy want? But he couldn’t see a problem, so he held up one invitation and showed it to Burton. The alien blinked and thanked him. Burton walked to a bathroom. In a stall, he assumed a different face and changed his clothes into a tuxedo. He modified the molecules of some toilet paper and manufactured an invitation. Since it was a party thrown by a financial institution, he decided to pose as a client. He called himself Burton Cummings, President of Transit Materials, Inc.

He left the washroom and showed his invitation to the hotel worker. The man frowned at the alien. Something was incorrectly here … this guy looked like the one asking about the invitation. Except the first man had been black and this one was white.

Burton smiled.

The alien mingled with people and was startled by the hypocrisy. People were being perfectly pleasant to other people they loathed. There was a total lack of sincerity. The happiness of the festive season was mostly a mask. Using the doctor’s knowledge, Burton scanned numerous people and found them to be radically unhealthy, both mentally and physically.

The cause was mostly stress-related and it was a result of seeming self-abuse. Most of the people there were doing tasks and jobs that they thought were either being implemented wrong or were basically immoral. But they refused to state their opinion because of fear of losing their jobs. Burton noted that fear and constant aggravation was a deadly combination.

One couple stood out as two who did not fit the pattern. Burton sensed them right away. The wife was due to have a baby anytime. Carmela was wearing a beautiful maternity dress that was styled better than most normal dresses. She radiated a sense of beauty and fulfilment. Although she wouldn’t admit it, she was feeling smug. Everyone said she was looking marvellous. She tried to keep a sense of reality by telling herself she looked like a blimp.

Her pregnancy had been a nuisance only in the first couple of months. It was turning out to be easier than she thought, considering this was her first child. The other women at the party who were already mothers silently thought: “wait till the labour pains, kiddo.”

Carmela worked for the bank while her husband, Christian, did not. She was responsible for public relations until she took her leave about two weeks ago. When she saw Burton and could not place him as either a staff member or as a client, she approached him and introduced herself.

Burton had hoped she would do this as he wanted to talk to her. His lies were all ready. He was a new client and he said his account manager from the bank was Davis, a man unable to attend the party and consequently unable to call Burton a liar. “I decided to come anyway. It was all worth it just to meet you.” “I’m being drowned in flattery tonight!”

“As well you should.”
Christian had long ago been able to sense when his wife was being hit on, so he politely left his conversation to join his wife.
“Hi.”
“Mr. Cummings, this is my husband Chris.”
They shook hands. “Call me Burton,” said the alien.
“Burton Cummings?” said Chris. “Any relation?”
“To whom?” asked Burton.
“Burton Cummings. Lead singer of The Guess Who.”
“Sorry …”

The conversation picked up from there. Carmela and Chris were astounded by the observations Burton was making about the people in the room. Considering he claimed to have met virtually none of them, his assumptions about each person’s trials in life were frighteningly accurate.

“I need a drink, darling,” said Christian. “Can I get you a juice or something? Burton … Anything?”
“Whatever you’re having,” said the alien.
“Get me an orange juice,” said Carmela. “I’ll be glad when this baby comes so I can drink again. Eventually.” She had momentarily forgotten about needing a clean blood stream for breast-feeding.
By the time Christian got back with the drinks, Carmela was beginning her labour pains. Burton was helping her to a cab and calling for Chris.
“Famous last words,” said Burton.
Carmela laughed. “I guess I shouldn’t have said the bit about alcohol.”
When they got to the front doors, a cab squealed eagerly to the front of the line to pick them up. The trio did not notice the cab had cut in front of other cabs specifically to take them. They all piled into the cab. The driver pulled away abruptly, not waiting for directions.
“You don’t have to come,” Carmela said to Burton.
“Why not? This is exciting.”
“Cabbie. Nearest hospital,” said Chris.
The cab driver sped on, but stopped at a nearby intersection to let someone into the front passenger seat.
“What are you doing?” said Christian.
The new passenger looked crazed. To reinforce this he pulled a gun, saying: “The woman bears a son of God. We must kill that child!”
Burton looked confused.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” said Chris. The cab sped through the streets, heading to a destination other than a hospital.
“Satan showed us the way to the Christ-child! We do his bidding. The child must die!”

Burton queried the doctor’s brain. Dr. Cass had limited experience with Satanists. Burton derived from the good doctor’s memories that, regardless of the veracity of Satan’s existence, devil worshippers were dangerous. Burton was not about to let these fools hurt his new friends. After all, the alien was a police officer, charged to protect the innocent. Carmela’s baby was as innocent as they came.

The cab ride seemed to last forever. Each of the two men held one of Carmela’s hands. Chris hoped it was comforting her. He needed to hold her hand just to keep himself from freaking out.

Burton took a moment to analyse the data. Dr. Cass knew all about Christ and the miraculous birth. But the concept this couple could have produced a second Christ seemed absurd. “But,” Burton reasoned, “how did these alleged devil worshippers know Carmela was going into labour at that hotel at that time? Had they been following her diligently for weeks? Unlikely, as New Yorkers are a suspicious lot and would notice people following them. Especially loony-tunes like these.” A Dr. Cass expression had slipped into Burton’s own thinking.

The alien then had another worry. What if the misdirection of the teleporter was not an accident? “No,” he said to himself. “Impossible.” He refused to believe in higher beings with power like that. He ascribed his strange thoughts to not having a clue where he was in the galaxy. Being lost was documented as having disorienting effects on a person. The cab finally stopped in front of an old run down building.

Carmela’s contractions were progressing quite well.
When the cab stopped, two other men emerged from the shadows carrying guns. Burton analysed the situation. He could not act here. To much room for stray fire. The three were taken up two flights of stairs into a room that had a pentagram on the floor. A variety of animal heads hanging on the walls. It smelt bad. “The woman must give birth to the child lying on the pentagram so that when we cut out its heart, Satan will have it’s soul.”

Burton saw his opportunity. Two of the four Satanists were just outside the door and two had just stepped inside the room. He gestured at the door and caused it to slam shut, breaking two noses. The two remaining Satanists raised their guns, but Burton pointed at their faces and bluish lightning sparked into their eyes. Their now-unconscious bodies rose into the air and sailed across the room into a closet. That door slammed and Burton transformed the door into a wall. The Satanists were blocked in. It would be hours before they woke and more hours before they could break out.

The two outside the room wiped blood from their noses and charged the door. Burton transformed the wood into mildly electrified steel and the men were jolted into unconsciousness.
Chris looked baffled.
“This is weird shit,” thought Carmela.

Burton pulled all the data from Dr. Cass’s brain on births. There was no way they were going to make it to a hospital now. Sterile conditions were important, Burton noted. He raised his hands and the blue lightning emerged, striking the walls, floor and ceiling. Burton took all the matter in the room and rearranged the molecules to meet the standards of a hospital room. The men’s tuxedos vanished and were replaced by surgeons’ gowns. Carmela now wore a hospital smock. All the proper equipment appeared in the room. Burton took all the skill, experience and knowledge from Dr. Cass and delivered a healthy baby boy.

Dr. Cass was at home finally getting it on with his wife and had no idea a copy of his brain was delivering a baby.
The landlord of the building was later mystified by the way the room had been renovated.
Carmela held her son and tears streamed down her face. “I feel like an idiot,” she said, “I’ve never cried for joy before.”
“You’re wonderful,” said Christian, hugging his wife and baby. “But, Burton. How did you do those things? Don’t say your an angel of God or anything, please.”

“Hardly, I’m a lost space-travelling policeman. You see I was on my way to apprehend a criminal and I landed in Central Park instead of …” The alien trailed off. Not because Chris was looking at him with total disbelief, but because he realised he wouldn’t have been able to help deliver Carmela’s child if he hadn’t made a copy of a physician’s brain. There were millions of people living in New York City. How did he happen to pick a doctor? How did he happen to choose to crash a party at the New York Hilton? How did he get here in the first place?

“Burton?” asked Carmela. “You look upset …”
“Well … I … there’s a bit of a problem with probability here.” He decided not to pursue that line of thought. “I assure you,” he continued, “I am an alien. I took a human shape to fit into society while I waited to contact my home base so they could re-route me to my real destination. I need a clear sky, you see.” The couple were a little too stunned to intellectually deal with this.

“Shall we get you, dear Carmela, to a real hospital?” said the alien.
They wrapped the baby in many small blankets and Burton produced for Carmela a coat with a baby pouch.
They decided to borrow the cab that had been used to kidnap them. Chris drove.
Shortly, the sky cleared. And it looked totally unfamiliar to Burton. His navigation equipment, which fit into a watch, took several seconds rather than fractions of one second to orient itself.

“400,000 light years off course? That’s impossible! I was only making a 200 light year jump!” Burton had yelled and consequently frightened the couple, but not the baby. He wasn’t surprised at all.

It took Burton a while to determine at what angle he should fire his message beam. When his communication was received, and return message sent, they had the gall to accuse him of tampering the teleport machinery. Burton sent a rude message back to his home base and told them to fix it.

The cab pulled in front of the hospital.
“I must go now,” said Burton.
“Come here and get kissed,” said Carmela. Burton enjoyed the kiss. He shook hands with Christian.
“Promise you’ll visit,” demanded Chris. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not human or weird or anything. You’re a great guy. Thank you.”
Burton smiled and looked at the baby. The little boy was awake and eyed Burton happily.
“I may not have much choice,” said Burton, scrutinising the baby.
There was a flash of light and he was gone.

Thomas David George looked at the Social Committee Memo and blinked. Had autumn passed already? It was time for the company’s annual Christmas party. He stared at the flickering computer terminal and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. Tom faced the dilemma all company social events posed. He did not want to go because he hated parties and dancing and smoking and drinking. Not only that, he hated not being able to talk to all the beautiful women because they were all married to arrogant men that bought them the best dresses at the most outrageous prices.

But of course he had to go. Not going would be politically unsound. He wished he had a date. Going to such events solo was always a depressing prospect.

The party was on a cold evening. Steam flowed from pedestrians’ mouths and from cars’ exhausts. A layer of crusty snow blanketed the city. Tom had taken the TTC and scurried from the subway to the hotel. He found the hotel ballroom. It was very posh and all the tables were prepared with elegant place settings. Christmas wreaths and garlands were attached to the walls. Tom walked to the cloakroom to dispose of his coat for the evening. The old woman at the coat check gave him his ticket and smiled. He looked at her and noticed that her neck had a scar as if, long ago, someone had tried to cut her throat with a hunting knife. Startled, Tom stepped back. The old woman looked at him and continued to smile.

As soon as he entered the ballroom, he looked for a corner in which to hide. He began to make for a table near the back of the room. On the way he wished Merry Christmas, as sincerely as he could, to the handful of people he knew, including his boss. Many of his fellow programmers had wives who wore newly manipulated hair styles and exquisitely expensive dresses.

Tom analysed the outfits. Each attempted to show off the individual woman’s best physical feature, be it her breasts, legs or, in one case, her shoulder blades. Backless dresses seemed to be the rage this year, striking Tom as an illogical style for winter. His glasses began to fall off his nose again.

Dinner began with the president saying pithy sorts of things about how well the company was doing this year and asking everyone to enjoy the party. Tom wondered what he would say if the company were losing money.

Tom sat with people from his work group. All were married except him. Tom felt like a charity case. He tried to make kind-hearted jokes about employees in other divisions, with the manager’s wife who was a hefty woman with an ample bosom that jiggled when she laughed. Tom tried not to stare.

The meal was awful. To Tom, the food tasted as if it had been replicated from one model meal. There was an absence of compliments on the meal.

The dance music began with Lionel Ritchie, and Tom tried not to gag. The first few songs were slime and Tom sat and watched his co-workers move to the music. Sipping at the glass of red wine, which he had been toying with all through dinner, Tom allowed the music and the gyrating bodies to hypnotise him. His brain began to go numb; he refused to make himself aware of anything. The room was a flow of indistinguishable noises and movements.

He abruptly snapped out of this coma when he saw Marion. She wore a black low cut gown and as she danced, loose fabric swirled around her, enveloping her in a protective field. Tom stared at her short black hair and her sharp features. Tom had had a fixation on Marion of Payroll Systems for many months. They had actually spoken a total of two times — he was more comfortable with e-mail. Of all the women in the room, Tom felt her to be the most personable, but, because of that, the most unreachable. He watched her finish a dance and return to her table. Perhaps the evening would not be a total waste if he could dance with her just once. Her date looked like the jock Tom had expected. The man had an arrogant paunch. Tom guessed he spent Sundays watching football and putting back a few beers.

The DJ continued to spin sludge.

Please, a good song — even a mediocre song, Tom thought. Optimistically he rose from his table and worked his way to a table closer to Marion. The DJ began a 60s set, with Twist and Shout recorded by The Beatles. Tom was fortified. He walked toward her and asked.

On the dance floor he found himself moving like a wooden stick. Marion smiled, aware of his discomfort and began to show him some of the dance steps.
“Move your hips!” He tried.
“Take your glasses off,” she said. Tom had been pushing them onto his face every five seconds or so.

Satisfaction, by the Stones burst from the speakers and something in Tom snapped. His body began unaccustomed thrusts; first he held Marion close to him, then virtually flung her away. He stuffed his glasses deep into a pocket. People the dance floor gave them room. Whenever he could, he pressed his body close to hers, feeling the warmth of her pelvis and breasts. His body jerked and spasmed to every drumbeat. Marion laughed and helped him to twirl her about. The dance progressed in decadence, at least by the standards of the company personnel. As Tom was trying to think of a way to sneak in a kiss, he felt a change. Marion’s boyfriend was cutting in. Tom glowered at him, imagining his death. Marion’s date was not entirely unkind; he had brought with him a member of Accounting to be Tom’s dance partner.

Tom stayed at the party only another hour. He was ashamed of himself for dancing with Marion. And angry that he had allowed himself to need the approval of his co-workers. He decided to walk home. It was about an hour’s walk from the hotel. He slipped away from the party without saying goodbye to anyone. It had become colder outside; the cutting feeling of the crisp air was heightened by a light wind. Tom pulled up his collar and walked faster.

He was red-faced and feeling much more at peace with himself when he reached his neighbourhood. The streets were empty and quiet. He neared the large Catholic church that annually displayed a nativity scene featuring life-sized figurines. He decided to give it a close look. It was odd; he had lived in this area for years, but had never deliberately stopped to admire the figures. As he approached the wood frame hut that held the scene, he noticed that two youths were already visiting. What struck him as odd was that while on appeared to be a Yuppie-child dressed in an expensive wool coat over a suit, and sporting a dignified haircut, the other was a punk, wearing all leather with a band’s death head on the back of the jacket. The punk’s hair was long and blue, with two bald streaks reaching from the back of the head, tapering to a halt at the top of the skull. Tom approached silently.

The punker produced a small canister of spray paint and handed it to the Yup-boy. The figure of Joseph received a blast of red spray paint in the face. Tom had just moved sufficiently close to witness the vandalism.

“What was that supposed to prove?” he asked.
He had expected them to be startled. They turned slowly toward Tom, their movements synchronised. Tom remained still as they approached.
“Nothing,” the punk said. “It means nothing.”

The leather-jacketed one handed a hunting knife to the Yup look-alike. Tom began to step back, but the punk grabbed Tom and held him in a modified headlock. The young man with the knife approached. “You mean nothing.” He raised the knife. Tom bit into the punk’s hand and tried to wrench himself out of harm’s way. The Yup plunged the knife into Tom’s side and twisted the blade. Tom howled and the Yup pulled the knife out and pushed Tom onto the snow covered ground. A pool of red steam spread out, staining the snow.

Tom saw movement from the hut. The Yup was looking down at Tom, hoping to catch a look of horror — or death — from his eyes. But the wounded programmer looked past his attacker at Joseph. The figure was wiping red paint from its face. The Virgin was standing behind Joseph at the entrance to the hut. Confused by a lack of attention the Yup looked over his shoulder and felt a stone fist plunge into his face. The boy’s flesh and bone collapsed. By the time Joseph was done, the punk was fleeing the scene.

It was Christmas Eve. Tom had been out of intensive care for a couple of days, but had not been awake very often for very long.

Tom started dreaming. In his reverie Joseph and Mary lifted him from the snow and brought him close to the warmth of the stable. He could smell the odours of the animals. There were many people around, all quite surprised at how cold it was. The Virgin looked down at him. She looked somewhat fatigued. Then her face began to change …

Tom sat straight up in the hospital bed and screamed. There was incredible pain in his side.
Marion looked a little more than simply startled. “It’s all right,” she said.
The nurse entered the room. “Mr. George, please relax.” The nurse eased him back into a lying position.
Tom was staring at Marion. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
“I brought you a Christmas present … I’m the office volunteer,” she said shyly. In his hands he found a Rolling Stones’ album wtih a recording Satisfaction.

Winston S. Planworthy left his house that morning as he typically did. For work.

It was snowing, but because it was 7:30 AM Christmas Eve, it didn’t matter. He enjoyed this particular time of year. Winston attempted to impose serenity on himself regardless of the general horrors of the world around him. The light snowfall assisted his calmness as he walked to work.

He always walked; he had played on all the sports teams at school and habitually challenged one of his parents to a tennis match when he had returned home. Driving made him anxious, so he only did it when necessary. Desk jobs like his made him restless. His brisk strolls always did his nerves good.

Until this morning.

The wine glass stood, perfectly crystal clean, in the snow. It was directly in his path on the sidewalk. The glass was neither particularly ornate nor very large (six imperial ounces at the maximum). Winston stared at it. A car whizzed by, causing slush to slop onto the sidewalk and one leg of his recently dry-cleaned pants. The glass remained undirtied. Several times Winston frowned alternately at his pant leg and at the mystery glass.

Abruptly it contained wine, red wine.
“Sure. Fine. I believe this,” Winston said aloud.

At the bottom of the glass there appeared a large Christmas tag that had a rather attractive winter scene of a horse drawn sled. On it was written in very neat, if ostentatious, hand writing: “To Winston: please drink this.”

“Uh-huh. Yep. That’s done it. I’ve lost my mind. Too many hours in front of a computer screen. All that green glare has poisoned my mind. And so young too.” As Winston thought this, he felt an urge to pick up the glass and drink from it. His mother’s training was screaming otherwise, but the glass was irresistible. I’m finding this hard to cope with, he mused, as he picked the glass up. It smelt just like red wine. Close to French, as opposed to Spanish. As he sipped it he was certain it was not Italian either. He didn’t know what it was.

Winston dodged the horse and cart. Dust caught in his throat. The middle of the road was a dangerous place. People were moving and screaming. He felt like he was in an extreme exaggeration of Kensington Market. But in a desert.

“What happened to the snow and wine glass?”

His winter long coat was becoming rather warm. The snow on his shoulders and boots had melted, leaving wet patches. He fled the roadway after managing to avoid more crazy people in ramshackle horse-drawn carriages.

Once at the side of the road, he noticed that the people selling varieties of ill-smelling food out of makeshift tents were staring at him. This was no surprise, considering he was over-dressed for an arid environment, as well as a foot and a half taller than anyone around. Some of the people looked awed while many laughed quite loudly.

“Just precisely where the hell am I?”

He decided to walk. Everything around him smelled bad and he wanted fresh air. He proceeded to step into a mound of donkey droppings. There was no clean air to be found. Everyone was scrambling to try to find a place to settle down for the evening. Winston felt confused. To him it was about eight in the morning.

So far he had not heard one word of English. People were still staring at him despite the fact he had taken his coat off and was now carrying it. The tie drew quite a bit of attention. Two Roman-looking soldiers disturbed him. They wore bits of armour, looked very professional and quite potentially violent. They asked him twice, once in Latin and again in Hebrew, who and from where he was. When he could not answer, the shorter and broader of the men attempted to detain him. Winston planted one foot firmly on the ground and tripped him up, causing him to eat a little dust. The other drew a sword and Winston ran away. The soldiers could not keep pace with his long legs. Winston carried a winter coat, but the Romans were supporting weighty armour.

He took to scurrying between tents. From the shadows a leper begged for money and Winston recoiled with horror, bolting down another path. He ran smack into a man with a beard. The man swore at Winston in Hebrew as they both tumbled to the ground. “I’m sorry.” Despite the smell, Winston helped the man stand up and offered to help carry his and his pregnant wife’s considerable baggage. The man grabbed one sack away from him, refusing help. Winston asserted his desire to help by standing his full height and bellowing, “Let me help you, damn it!” Joseph didn’t understand a word but let Winston carry the bags.

Winston looked at Mary and noticed she was not just mildly pregnant. Looking at Joseph, he saw lines of concern twisting the shape of his beard. Three successive inns turned them down. At the fourth, Winston convinced the innkeeper to let them stay by putting him in a headlock. When the innkeeper led the trio to the stable, Winston got suspicious. And then frantic.

He looked at the conditions under which a miraculous birth was supposed to take place and was offended. He started cleaning up the stable. But there was nothing to use for cleaning. He spent twenty minutes scrounging for several dirty lengths of cloth. He began a fire and boiled clean a dirty pot. Then be boiled some clean water. Not unpredictably, the manger was the only possible substitute for a crib. He scrubbed it down.

Mary and Joseph looked at him as if he were insane. Joseph was scolded for letting such an odd man join them. The husband retaliated by asked her if she felt like engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a giant. At this point Mary went into labour.

Winston panicked. He hadn’t finished cleaning.

Joseph did most of the work, guided by Winston’s miming of what Joseph should be doing. Winston’s first aid courses were more schooling than Joseph had ever had. The baby was placed in an exceptionally clean manger.

The Christ child looked like any normal new-born baby — kind of small and shrivelled. But the birth had been particularly simple, even by Winston’s twentieth century standards. Also, the child didn’t howl much. In fact, Jesus was so quiet that for a moment Winston thought he might be dead.

When the wise men and all the shepherds arrived, things really livened up. It was indeed a celebration. Winston looked up at the sky and sure enough the star hung like a beacon over their heads. His mind went so numb with shock he decided to complement the feeling by getting drunk. A member of one of the Wise Men’s entourage had several huge wineskins. Winston sucked a large swig of red wine and proceeded to vanish.

It was cold in the snow without a coat. The flakes whirled around and Winston was feeling the effects of hot-cold shock. He started to run in order to keep warm. He furiously flagged down a cab. Once in the taxi he was certain he had left his wallet in his coat in Bethlehem, but he found it uncomfortably wedged in his hay and dung covered dress pants. Thank God for small mercies, he thought.

With a wrinkled nose, the cab driver said, “Whew! Have you been to a horse show or something?”
“No, actually, it was more of a Christmas party.”

The expensive car coasted down the hill and made the right hand turn. Andrew gazed at the lights on the numerous outdoor trees used to accent the large homes. One tree was the height of its accompanying three story house and was completely covered with blue, green and red lights. A star rested at the top, blinking steadily.

“Look at that tree, Mum … it must’ve been a pain to put all those lights on a tree that size.”
“They probably hired someone to do it,” Mother responded from the front seat.

Andrew thought that was most likely true and marvelled at the affluence. More houses brought more lights. As they drove south the neighbourhood changed. Andrew observed the Chinese lettering on the signs and then focused on the people in the street, hunched over, pulling their coats close to their bodies. Andrew shifted in the back seat, abruptly uncomfortable in his good clothes and winter coat.

Once near the Concert Hall, Andrew once again found a moneyed environment. The long shiny cars oozed into the parking lot, all striving for the places close to the door to the Hall. Father found a place reasonably close, but not in a place where either an inattentive or a tipsy driver could scrape his car’s finish. It seemed that the truly expensive cars parked in the most precarious places.

“That’s a pretty dumb place to park such a nice car, eh Dad?”
“A good way to get parking lot rash.”
The three walked to the doors. There was no snow, sadly. Nor was it chilly, considering it was the twentieth of December. Mother looked quite fine in her dark fur coat and Father held her arm as usual, proud of her.
“Do you think it’ll snow before Christmas?”
“Oh Andy, I hope so. But not too much.”

Andrew did not like being called Andy but mothers were the hardest to convert and besides it was Christmas and she’d just frown at him if he started nit-picking about his name. Just as long as none of his friends were around.

In the Concert Hall, they took their seats and looked at the stage. All the chairs and stands and music were neatly arranged for the orchestra. On both sides of the stage, someone had placed very silver Christmas trees with large red balls. They looked ghastly.

Even when the performance was underway, the trees irked Andrew but he forced himself to concentrate on the percussion section. The timpani and cymbals pounded and crashed in his head, making a joyous, reverberating sound as they complemented the strains of the other sections. The glitter of the stage and opulence of the audience would alternately excite and dishearten him. The stress made him hold his temples for a moment. Mother frowned at this behaviour, but lost interest when he stopped.

At intermission, Andrew’s parents went downstairs to get a drink. He had desired nothing, preferring to look directly down at the stage from his front row lower balcony seat. Their seats did not allow a full view of the stage; the bass section was hidden.

Andrew stayed up near their seats and walked down the aisle, looking at the coats that lay empty on other concert-goers’ seats. Some were furs, but many were heavy cloth coats. There was a lingering smell of various perfumes. Andrew again put his hand to his temple and went to the balcony and looked over the railing. Everything was clear to him. He looked down and determined where there was the least clutter on the stage and, as if he were vaulting a fence on a fresh spring day, he jumped deftly over the railing.

He awoke four days later.

Andrew shared a room with two other people, both in comas. At first his mind was slow in perceiving the surroundings. Once the sterile cleanliness and the hospital beds became clear in his vision, his mind started to work extremely fast. Where was the nurse? I guess people in comas take less effort as they don’t talk much. Come on! Do the bloody round.

In a few minutes, the nurse arrived. She was short and her features were small except for her mouth which bore a large smile. As soon as he entered, Andrew said, “I’m awake now … could you get the doctor — I’m sure he’d want to see me.”

“I wish all patients were as cheeky as you when they recovered from comas! Most just groan. She picked up the phone and dialled. “Dr. Swensen? Andrew Barton is awake … yes, quite fine … very good, doctor.”
“He’ll be here in about five minutes, then?”
She assumed that he had heard the doctor’s voice from the phone.
“Yes.”
“I was wondering if it’s possible to get the chaplain to come see me?”
“That’s possible Andrew, but it’s very busy …”
He cut in: “Yes I know … it’s Christmas Eve.”
She did not respond, but smiled and updated his chart. The nurse decided to phone the chaplain from her station and said to Andrew, “Dr. Swensen will be here in a few minutes; I’ve got to make some rounds — I’ll call the chaplain in about ten minutes, OK?”
“Sure.”

The interval between the departure of the nurse and the arrival of Dr. Swensen was the first time that Andrew assessed his damage. His right arm was in a cast that kept his elbow bent and his right leg was in a full straight cast. There was pain in his limbs and head, but it did not bother him. While straining his neck to attempt to look out the window, the doctor entered the room.

“Hello, what’ s with the neck twisting?”
“Hi doctor, just trying to see if it’s really snowing.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Not bad. How should I be feeling?”
“You’ve got two clean breaks in you arm and leg and a rather bad concussion.”
“It could be worse … I could still be in a coma!”
The doctor smiled, and Andrew asked: “Are you going to phone my parents this evening?”
“I had planned to … they wanted to know the moment you regained consciousness.”
“I don’t want them to drag themselves out here tonight because I’m starting to feel sleepy and I’ll be gone when they get here. And I bet you’re not sending me home tonight.”
“That’s correct,” laughed the doctor.
“In that case, could you give them a message for me?”
“Certainly.”
Andrew dictated: “Mom, Dad and Sue, I feel quite well and make sure that Sue puts the star on the tree at 11 o’clock. Love Andrew.”
“Is this in aid of a family tradition?”
“Yes. Each year my younger sister and I fight over who puts the star on the top of the tree. This year was my year, but since I’m not well I want Sue to put the star on.”
“Makes sense to me,” said the doctor.
At that moment Father Callaghan arrived. “Hello Father,” said Dr. Swensen.
“Hi, how’s our young gentleman this evening?”
“Much more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed that most ex-coma patients.”
Andrew grinned.
“Well done — must be the superior medical staff.”
“You bet,” replied the doctor, “and you must be Father Superior.”
“Touché.”
“Don’t keep him long, Father. I’d like him to get some real sleep.”
“You’ll give my message to my family?” Andrew asked.
“Without fail … see you later.”
Father Callaghan pulled a chair up to Andrew’s bed, saying, “Any non-physical things you want to talk about?”
“I met God when I was asleep.”
“You didn’t!”
“I don’t mind you thinking it’s a silly idea, but I understood something important.”
“What was that?”
“There is an infinity of things to understand.”
“I agree.”
“But do you — and other people — feel it? At a gut level? I had that idea on the balcony. My fall allowed me to perceive all the things that no one can possibly understand.” Father Callaghan worried that Andrew was going to need considerable therapy.
“Hey, Father, you get to be the first to sign my casts.” As the priest was signing, Andrew insisted he put a signature on both the arm and the leg casts and asked: “Do you believe all the stories of Christ’s healing?”
“The spiritual healing in particular.”
“Good,” replied the boy.

It was about nine-thirty that Christmas Eve when Andrew woke from his first coma-less nap. It was all quiet in his ward. The other two coma victims were still. Andrew spent a moment hoping for their recovery.

He freed his right arm and its bent-elbow cast from the bed sheets. Andrew put his left hand against the right and started to push. He strained to straighten the arm. After a few moments, there was a resounding crunch of plaster. It took some time for Andrew to claw the rest of the plaster off his arm. Once done, he spent time massaging the stiffness out of the limb and wiggling his fingers to get rid of the feeling of pins and needles.

The leg cast was a bigger problem. Andrew knew he had little time before the return of the nurse. Swinging himself fully out of bed, Andrew hobbled over to the closet to see if Mother had left clothes for him. Happily she had and in his usual pocket was his trusty Swiss-made knife. “I wonder if they thought one of their knives would be used to remove a cast?” Between the various cutting and clawing blades, he managed to remove the cast piece by piece. The pins-and-needles were worse this time, but by the time he put on his clothes the discomfort had subsided.

Andrew peeked out the door of his room and saw the nurse talking animatedly into the phone. For an instant she glanced fully down the hall in the other direction and Andrew skipped across the well-waxed floor to a nearby stairwell. He had difficulty with the stairs and the leg wasn’t quite right yet. But by the time he reached the outside, he was walking with only a slight limp.

It was clear and cold. The stars did not shine; they blazed. The snow, which had fallen in the earlier part of the day, was now powder. When Andrew kicked it, clouds of while fluff cascaded all over everywhere. He picked up great armfuls and flung the snow at trees, hedges and onto the road. Home was not far from the hospital, and so Andrew walked.
The Christmas lights in the streets were beautiful. The snow had fallen onto many of the bulbs and the light refracted in a sparkling manner. He inspected the decorations on each house. Andrew enjoyed his walk immensely.

As he walked up his own street and approached the house he heard a distant clock toll eleven. He scampered up to his home just in time to see through the window. Sue was on the footstool and had put the star on the top of the tree. Immediately it began to shine. The little girl smiled with pleasure and laughed at Daddy who was making sure she did not fall.

Andrew got out his house key and entered. It was warmer inside.