DISCLAIMER: Adam-12 is the property of MarkVII/Universal and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this piece. I also don't own any of the songs I've paraphrased herein, most are traditional Christmas carols in the public domain. Cover photo is courtesy of Open Photo Project. ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.*This story may contain graphic language or depictions of potentially upsetting situations, therefore reader discretion is advised.* For plot purposes, intentional liberties may be taken with the depiction of any real life protocols and creative license taken with the portrayals of canon elements, including characters. Feedback is always welcomed and thank you for reading!
In writing this piece, I mean no disrespect to anyone's religion or holiday beliefs and I couldn't resist a few slight homages to my favorite Christmas specials and movies over the years, so again no copyright infringement intended towards any of them. And whatever it is that you believe in, sometimes we ALL need a miracle or two (or three, or four) to remind us of the true meaning of Christmas: LOVE.
THE GRINCH AND THE AMAZING CHRISTMAS MIRACLE
CHAPTER ONE:
AWAY IN A MANGER
"Peter, do you remember the Christmas Eve when…?"
"One-Adam-12, PM watch clear," Jim Reed says into the mike. As the dispatcher acknowledges him, he replaces the mike in the holder with a thunk. "And thus beginith our Christmas Eve watch," he says brightly. "I wonder what this year's watch holds in store for us? This is only the second I've ever worked as a cop, you know," he says. "Remember last year's Christmas Eve watch, Pete?"
"You mean the one where the poor lady had her car stolen, along with the donated Christmas presents we'd given her for her kids that she'd stashed in the trunk?" I ask as I pull out of the station parking lot. "Where we arrested the guy who was so drunk he nearly creamed us while running a stop sign, then crashed into a tree after we gave chase? And we had the domestic call at the battling Beuhlers over a ham, a wassail bowl, and a fake Christmas tree? Is that the one you're talking about? How could I forget it, Reed." My voice is heavy with sarcasm. "About the only GOOD thing that came out of that night was the fact that Harvey got his yellow dump truck at the end…AFTER we convinced Jerry Miller that the stolen toys weren't evidence."
"Yeah, that was the best thing," he says agreeably. "But the rest of the night wasn't so bad, at least it wasn't like what I thought it would be. The drunk we arrested was a happy drunk, and went willingly with us to jail, instead of fighting us like they sometimes do. And the battling Beuhlers made up in the end, after a couple of false starts."
"Yeah, after we threatened to arrest both of them," I say rather dryly. "Ain't nothin' like that magic word 'jail' to make somebody shape their act up, and fast. And as far as the happy drunk we hauled down, if you remember correctly, he was STILL trying to lead the rest of the happy drunks in a happy drunk chorus of 'Deck The Halls' when we left the station."
"Now THERE'S a Christmas album I'd pass on," he says. "The Central Division Happy Drunk Chorus Sings The Magic Of Christmas." He looks over at me, grinning. "Don'tcha think, Pete?"
"Think what?" I ask.
"That that would be a Christmas album to pass on getting," he says.
"Right now I'd pass on all Christmas albums," I tell him. "I'm sick of Christmas music. I have been since after Thanksgiving. In fact, I'm sick of Christmas, period. I'll be glad when it's over with."
He looks over at me. "Somebody's not in the Christmas spirit, methinks," he observes.
"Youthinks right," I reply.
"That's okay," he says happily. "I've got more than enough Christmas spirit to share, Pete. And I'll be happy to give you some."
"Thanks, but no," I say. "I'll pass."
"You know, we had a great time last night," he says. "Jean and I watched Christmas specials on tv with Jimmy…"
"Wait a sec," I interrupt. "Isn't Jimmy a little too young yet to enjoy Christmas specials on tv? I mean, he's only a few months old."
Reed shrugs. "He likes the colors and the movements he sees on the screen," he says. "Anyway, after we put him to bed, we had a little bit of a Christmas special ourselves."
"Spare me, please," I say, holding my hand up. "I don't wanna hear about your love life, Jim."
"Oh no, it wasn't that," he says. "We put together his new playpen and finished wrapping his gifts." He shoots me a devilish grin. "No, the uh…ADULT Christmas special didn't come until after we'd gotten everything done. And if LAST night is any indication of what TONIGHT'S Christmas special is gonna be, all I can say is, 'Santa' is gonna hafta eat ALL the cookies and milk Jimmy leaves out for him tonight." He chortles wickedly at his own innuendo.
I roll my eyes in disgust. "One more crack about your 'Christmas special,' as you call it, and I swear, I'll toss my OWN cookies." I look over at him. "And Jimmy's too young to understand the concept of leaving milk and cookies out for Santa yet. And what was wrong with the old playpen you guys had for him?"
"Well, Jean decided she didn't really like it all that well, it didn't have enough 'busy' toys in it to amuse him. It's the one that she got at a garage sale before he was born. I think she wanted a new one, since we would likely get more use out of it in the future." He waggles his eyebrows. "You know, for when the next baby comes along?"
I shake my head. "I can't believe you're even discussing having another kid so soon after having Jimmy. I mean, for God's sake, give poor Jean a break before you saddle her with another kid."
"Hey, it's not me who's discussing another baby so soon, it's Jean," he says. "The first kid is a test kid, you know."
I raise an eyebrow. "No, I don't know. And I think I kinda resent my godson being called a test kid."
"No, the first kid is always kind of a litmus test to see how well you handle parenthood. If the kid survives the first year or so without either parent having dropped it on its head, and the parents survive the first year without going completely berserk, then it's a safe bet that you can handle having a second kid sometime down the road." He nods knowingly. "Just wait until you have kids of your own, Pete, then you'll know what I'm talking about."
"I seriously doubt that the possibility of me having kids is going to happen any time within this decade," I tell him somewhat sourly.
"I take it your dinner date with Angie the other night didn't go over so well," he says.
"You'd be taking it right," I tell him, setting my mouth in a grim line.
"What happened?" he asks. "I thought you two were getting along pretty good, after the turkey incident at Macy's. You said she'd forgiven you for crashing her Halloween party."
"I'm not discussing it," I tell him firmly. "And that's final."
"Not even one little eensy bit?" he wheedles. "A teeny tiny hint?"
"No," I tell him. "No hint. Nothing. Nada. No words about my date the other night shall pass my lips tonight." I shoot him a warning look. "And don't beg and bug me anymore about it, got it? Because if you're gonna harass me all night about how my date went, I'll take you back to the station, give you to someone else, and ask Mac to assign me into an L-car."
"Fine," he says. "I'll worm it out of you before the night's over anyway, you wait and see." He looks over at me. "You still coming over tomorrow for Christmas dinner?"
"Nope," I say. "Thanks for the invite, Jim, but I'm staying home."
"Why?" he asks with dismay. "You can't spend Christmas alone in your silent apartment, it's just not right."
"I can and I will," I tell him. "You need to spend Christmas with your family, Jim, without me intruding in on it. This is Jimmy's first Christmas, so enjoy it while you can. You don't get special occasions like this more than once or twice in a lifetime."
"But, Pete, you ARE our family," he protests. "If we hadn't of wanted you there, we wouldn't have invited you. So don't feel like you're intruding or anything, you're not, I assure you."
"Look," I tell him with a sigh. "It's what I want to do, Jim. It's how I want to spend Christmas this year. By myself, alone, with no one but me, myself, and I. Okay?"
"No, it's NOT okay," he says. "You're coming over for Christmas if I hafta drag you, Pete."
I give him a dark look. "You're not dragging me anywhere, Reed. I'm staying home and enjoying a quiet holiday by myself. In fact, I'm looking forward to it. A LOT."
"But what will you eat?" he asks. "Jean's making a fabulous dinner for you, Pete, and you can't disappoint her. And Jimmy is looking forward to spending Christmas Day with his Uncle Pete, playing with his new toys. You aren't gonna let your godson down, are you?"
"Forget it, Jim, you're not guilt-tripping me into coming to your family Christmas," I tell him. "Jimmy's too young to know whether I'm there or not, and I'm sure that between your family and Jean's, you won't even miss me. Before you go home tonight, I'll give you the gifts I've gotten for Jimmy, plus the ones I got for you and Jean. They're in the trunk of my car. And as far as dinner, I won't starve. I've got stuff in the freezer I can heat up."
"Oh yeah," he says sarcastically. "TV dinners, pot pies, pizza. What a lovely Christmas dinner that will be for you, Pete. A Swanson's turkey dinner with cardboard turkey, cardboard mashed potatoes, and cardboard dessert."
"You forgot the cardboard peas and carrots," I tell him.
"Oh, is THAT what those things are?" he asks dryly. "Coulda fooled me. If you won't come for the dinner, at least come over to watch Jimmy open his presents from you."
I pretend to think about it, just so I don't hurt his feelings. Then I speak. "No, Jim, I'll pass. I really appreciate the invitation to spend Christmas with you and your family, but I'm just not up to it, okay?"
He looks at me with a sharp frown. "What is with you, anyway? Are you being some sort of Scrooge or Grinch this year?"
I sigh heavily. "No, I'm just not in the Christmas spirit this year, Reed."
"Are you having trouble with something?" he asks. "Maybe I can help."
"I'm not having trouble with anything," I tell him. "Now just drop it, because I'm not talking about it anymore."
He snaps his fingers. "I know what will cheer you up!" he says brightly.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "I'm ain't even biting, pal, so don't try to bait me."
"Christmas carols!" he says with obvious delight. Then he begins singing, very badly off-key. "Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg! The Batmobile lost a wheel, the Joker got away, HEY!"
"Reed, please stop," I moan. "I don't need a migraine on top of the rest of my holiday woes." And as soon as I've said it, I realize my verbal error, and feel myself blanch in horror.
He stops singing and looks at me with concern. "What holiday woes, Pete?" he asks with interest.
I shake my head. "Forget I said anything, okay? I have no holiday woes, it was just a figure of speech," I lie.
"I don't believe you," he says. "And trust me, I'll find out what's bugging you before the watch is through." He studies me contemplatively. "You know what you need, Pete?" he asks.
"Ear plugs?"
"No, what you need is a good old-fashioned Christmas miracle," he tells me. "Maybe that'll bring you out of your funk."
"I don't believe in miracles," I reply. "And I'm not in a funk, Reed, I'm just not feeling very Christmas-y right now."
"You don't believe in miracles?" he asks. "How can you not?"
I shrug. "I just don't, Reed. Usually what passes for miracles can be explained in some way or another."
"What about the story of Christmas?" he asks. "Of Jesus' birth and all that."
"The Bible was written thousands of years ago," I tell him. "Who's to say that it didn't lose a lot in translation over the last few millenium?"
"That's pretty jaded," he says. "Even for you."
"Not jaded," I tell him. "Practical."
"You don't believe in miracles at all?" he asks.
"No," I tell him with irritation. "And so what if I don't? I'm not the only one, you know." I hold my hand up, stopping him. "And before you begin to harp on me over that subject, drop it."
He studies me for a moment, then he looks out the passenger side window of the squad car. "You know, they were saying on the radio that it could snow tonight," he says, changing the subject. "Wouldn't that be kinda neat? If it snowed in Los Angeles? Maybe that's what you need, Pete, is snow."
"I lived in Seattle during my younger years," I tell him. "I had plenty of snow then. I don't need it now."
"What?" he gasps in mock horror. "You mean to tell me you had younger years, Pete?"
I frown. "Of course I had younger years, you idiot. What'd you think my childhood and young adult years were?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. I guess I always kinda figured you were…uh…hatched into your older years or something."
Giving him a dirty look, I start to reply, but the dispatcher interrupts me.
"One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, found child, St. Patrick's Catholic Church, 1225 Peace Lane. Handle code two."
"One-Adam-12, roger," Reed says into the mike. "And our Christmas Eve shift is starting off with a whimper instead of a bang," he says. "Probably some little tyke is lost, and by the time we get there, his parents will have found him."
"Maybe," I say.
He glances over at me. "Huh, you must really be in a funk. Usually you'd have some sort of pithy remark to say. Something very sarcastic, yet funny. It livens the shift up, you know?"
"I'm all out of funny, Reed," I tell him. "Sorry to disappoint you."
…Peter, do you remember the Christmas Eve when you, Joey Donnelly, and Tony DiAmato were the three Wise Men in the church's Christmas pageant? And you all got to squabbling over who had the more important gift for baby Jesus; the gold, the frankincense, or the myrrh? And instead of singing 'We Three Kings', the three of you proceeded to get into a nasty fist fight, right in the middle of the pageant, and you ended up knocking poor Virgin Mary, her Holy Infant, and one of the sheep off of the stage? And the Holy Infant's head popped off and rolled around on the ground, at which point you stopped fighting long enough to look at what you'd done, and then you said to the audience, 'Uh-oh, I think we just crucified Jesus LONG before he was supposed to die!" And the pageant had to end there, because three of the shepherds, most of the livestock, and Sister Marguerite were all crying, while everyone else was laughing? That was certainly the Christmas pageant to remember, since after it was all said and done, you'd bloodied Tony DiAmato's nose, busted Joey Donnelly's lip, gotten a black eye yourself, and pretty much ruined the whole thing with that fight.
…Yes, Mom, I remember that Christmas Eve and the pageant that we ruined. And I remember seeing you and Dad sitting in the pew, watching, a horrified look on your face, while Dad's face was boiling hot with anger. And he took the belt to me when we got home, whipping me and cussing me out good, leaving welts so bad on my backside that I couldn't sit down for nearly two days afterwards. And I remember him telling me I must have bad blood inside of me, since no son of his would've acted that way in church in front of all those people. But yet when he retold the story to his drinking buddies, he sounded downright proud that his son had kicked the snot out of Joey Donnelly and Tony DiAmato. And I remember him taking away all my presents from under the tree for extra punishment, so I wouldn't have anything to open on Christmas Day. He wasn't going to let me have them back, either, until you interceded. I always wondered what that cost you, Mom. Because I know what it cost me: my trust in him that he wasn't going to give me something that he couldn't take away from me whenever he felt like it. Yeah, Mom, I remember that Christmas Eve all too well…
"Are you going to Christmas Eve services tonight, Pete?" Reed asks on the way over to the church.
"No, I'm not," I tell him.
"You wanna come with us? We're going to the midnight service at our church, providing that we finish our watch in time."
"No thanks," I tell him.
"You should go to SOME sort of service, Pete, it's not right to skip church on Christmas Eve," he tells me.
"What are you, my mother?" I ask a bit snidely. "I haven't been to church in years, Reed, let alone Christmas Eve services. And I'm not about to start now."
"But still, even if you haven't been to church in years, your faith should hold some sort of meaning for you," he says. "Maybe you just need to rediscover it."
"My faith is my business," I tell him. "For me, religion is a bunch of empty rituals designed to comfort its followers, lulling them into a false sense of security and complacency that when they die, they will be whisked off to Heaven, where they will spend the rest of Eternity floating among clouds and strumming harps."
He looks at me in surprise. "Whoa, you sound pretty bitter, Pete."
"I'm entitled to it," I tell him. "I have yet to witness anything to make me believe otherwise."
"But faith is what gets us through the bad times," he says. "It's there when we need it, Pete, even if it's hidden away sometimes."
"Look, I lost my faith a looong time ago," I tell him. "And once lost, it's pretty hard to find again."
"Have you tried looking for it?" he asks.
"Reed, it's not like it's a lost pair of socks or a missing hat. It's not gonna turn up in a lost-and-found box somewhere, nor is it going to magically reappear in the bottom of your sock drawer," I tell him. "It's gone, it's not coming back, and I really don't care."
"You should," he says. "You should care, Pete."
"Why?" I ask. "Do I look like someone who is going to be kneeling by my bedside every night, counting on my rosary beads and praying to God to shed a beacon of light in order to help me find my lost faith?" I look over at him. "Do I?"
"No, but what will you depend on when you need it the most?" he asks. "When you need your faith to guide you through a crisis?"
"I'll depend on the same thing I've always depended on: myself," I tell him.
"But you need something stronger, Pete," he protests. "For when the times really get tough."
"Jim," I sigh. "I've been through a LOT of tough times over the years. And trust me, it hasn't been my faith that's kept me going, it's been my determination and strength. I don't need faith, religion, or a bunch of ritualistic mumbo-jumbo to tell me how to live my life. Got it?"
"But…"
"Drop it," I command. "No more religious discussion, okay? You believe what you wanna believe and I'll believe what I wanna believe."
He stares at me for a moment, then he sighs. "Fine. I still say you need a miracle or two to make you see the light."
"I don't need a miracle or two, I don't need anything," I tell him. "I just want to get through this watch without having any problems." I give him a pointed look. "Or lectures."
"So tell me," he says. "Is it just Christmas that makes you this grumpy, or will you be irritable around Easter, too?"
"Why?"
"Because if you're gonna be grouchy over Easter, I'm taking my vacation that week," he says. "I'm not gonna have you ruin that holiday for me."
"I'm not trying to ruin any holiday for you, Reed," I tell him as I pull into the parking lot of St. Patrick's Catholic Church.
"Coulda fooled me," he says. "But you know, I'm not letting your pissy mood get me down. No sirree. Misery may love company, but your misery is gonna have to be miserable all by its lonesome."
As we get out of the squad car and walk up to the church, the icy wind nips sharply at our ears. I glance up at the grey clouds scudding by overhead, and wonder if Reed's prediction of snow might indeed come true. I flip the collar of my coat up to keep the wind from chasing down my neck. The atmosphere has the peculiar tang of metal in the air, and as we climb the steps to the church, I'm reminded of the winter days of my childhood in Seattle. I tug on the massive heavy oak doors of the church, welcoming the warmth as we step inside.
Incense and stale perfume, along with the smell of crisply starched linens and candle wax greet us as we stop inside the vestibule, taking off our caps respectfully. Various ladies from the church's societies bustle about, preparing the church for its candlelight Mass at midnight. I peer through the doors to the sanctuary, where at the front, a Christmas pageant involving kids from the parochial school is going through its dress rehearsal, while a choir dressed in street clothes run through their songs one last time. The sanctuary is brightly lit from the inside, the pale watery light from outside doing little justice to the ornate stained glass windows. Several of the society ladies are whisking about in the pews, cleaning the wooden seats off and restocking hymnals and Bibles in the holders at the backs of each pew. Candles flicker brightly on the penny candle stand, and the golden candelabra on the altar fairly glows in the effervescent light.
"Gives me goosebumps," Reed says, as he shivers next to me. "I'll bet this place is gorgeous when it's lit up with just candles."
"Most churches are," I tell him. "And it's not all candlelight, Reed. They do leave some lights on, they're just dimmed down."
"I've never been in a Catholic church," he says.
"It's the same as every other church," I say. "We just have more doodads and geegaws than most."
"Isn't that a bit sacrilegious?" he asks. "Calling the articles of your faith doodads and geegaws?"
I shoot him a dark look. "It's not anything, Reed. Now let's find out where this kid is at." I approach a matronly looking woman in a red pantsuit who is putting the church Christmas programs into a basket. "Excuse me, ma'am," I say. "We got a call to this address for a found child. Is the child still here?"
She turns to us, smiling. "Oh yes, Officer, you need to go right through those doors there," she says, pointing to a set of double doors off to our right. "That's where Father Vincente is at with the baby."
"Thank you," I tell her.
"You're very welcome," she says brightly. "And you two Officers have a merry Christmas now, okay?"
"We certainly will," Reed advises her, as he follows me through the double doors. "At least I will," he says, but only I hear it.
The church priest is sitting behind a dark wooden desk, while a pretty, black-haired young woman in her mid-twenties is sitting on a nearby chair, a small bundle wrapped in blue blankets cuddled in her arms. Both look up as we enter. "Hello, Officers," Father Vincente says, standing up and coming around the edge of the desk to shake our hands. "I'm Father Vincente and this is Mrs. Eileen Kelly. I'm glad you got here so quickly. It seems that we have had a living addition to our outdoor crèche on the front lawn of our church this afternoon."
"I'm Officer Malloy and this is my partner, Officer Reed," I tell him. "What exactly happened here?" I pull my notebook out of my uniform pocket.
"Well, as you can see, we're in the process of getting the church ready for the pageant and the Midnight Mass tonight," he says. "I was in here putting the finishing touches on my sermon, when Mrs. Kelly came in and asked me to come outside and look at something in the crèche. I was afraid that the crèche had been vandalized, like it has been in the past, but instead, where the plastic Baby Jesus should have been at, there was this baby." He gestures to the tiny bundle in Mrs. Kelly's arms. "Of course, we brought the little tyke in right away, but there wasn't anything with him to identify him, or who even left him there in the first place."
"He's not very old," Mrs. Kelly tells us, smiling a bit sadly. "Poor little thing. All he has with him is his blanket and his little footie pajamas. Nothing else."
"Have you spoken with any of the church members who are here?" I ask. "See if any of them witnessed anything out of the ordinary before the baby was found?"
"I've spoken with the ladies who've been present getting the church ready for tonight," he says. "And none of them have seen anything."
"How about any of the ones who attended the noon Mass?" I ask.
"I've spoken with a couple of them," he says. "According to them, the crèche was in its normal state, with the plastic Jesus in the manger, when they arrived before Mass, and it was in the same state when they left. One of the ladies, Beatrice McCallum, is quite sure of it. She and her husband donated parts of the crèche a couple of years ago, and ever since it was vandalized last year, she keeps a pretty close eye on it. So the baby had to be placed in the manger after the noon Mass, but before we started getting the church ready for tonight."
"I know this is going to sound like a prying question, but do you have any pregnant mothers in the parish who might have recently given birth, and placed the baby in the manger because they couldn't care for him?" I ask.
Father Vincente shakes his head. "No, we have a few expectant mothers, yes, but none that would do anything like that," he says.
"This is another prying question, I know, but I need to ask it," I tell him. "Have you counselled any unwed and pregnant mothers in the last few months?"
He shakes his head again. "No, I'm sorry, but I haven't. Our parish is affiliated with Sacred Heart Outreach, and we refer any member, or even non-member who might come to us seeking help, to that program. They're better equipped to guide frightened mothers-to-be in the right direction when it comes to deciding what to do with their babies."
"Poor little thing," Mrs. Kelly coos. "He's been such a good baby. Not a peep since we brought him inside."
"And there wasn't anything at all with him, other than the blanket and pajamas?" I ask.
"No, nothing," she says. "Both Father and I looked all around, thinking that maybe the wind might have blown any kind of a note off of him, but there was nothing."
"I'll call for the detectives," Reed says. "Get them en route out here. I'll also call Juvenile division and have them send someone out to pick the baby up." He looks at Father Vincente. "May I please use your phone?"
"Sure, go ahead," Father Vincente tells Reed.
"There's nothing else that either of you can tell me?" I ask. "Anything that you can think of that might help us find out who he is and who his parents are?"
Both Mrs. Kelly and Father Vincente shake their heads. "I'm really sorry, Officer, that we can't be of more help," Father Vincente says. "But it's just like he dropped into that crèche out of the blue, you know? Like he fell from Heaven."
"He was probably put there by a young mother who was frightened and didn't know what else to do," I tell him, tucking my notebook away. "At least he wasn't dumped into a garbage dumpster. Or worse yet, killed."
"What will happen to him?" Mrs. Kelly asks.
"Well, an officer from our Juvenile Division will be out to pick him up. He'll be taken to a hospital, where he'll be checked over for any injuries or illnesses, and if he's okay, he'll likely be taken to McLaren Hall, until either his parents can be found or he's identified."
"What's McLaren Hall?" Mrs. Kelly asks. "Is that some sort of orphanage?"
"No, it's a facility that takes in abandoned, abused, and neglected children," I tell her. "They're cared for at McLaren Hall until the courts can decide what to do with them. Usually from there, they go into a system of foster care, if they can't be returned to their parents, or their parents give up their rights to their children."
"Is it a nice place?" she asks hopefully, since most people don't like to think that a juvenile facility is usually a cold and austere place for kids.
"It's a place for kids to go when they don't have anywhere else," I tell her. "Admittedly, it's not a cozy, happy place, but at least the children are well-cared for. They're fed and clothed, they have a bed to sleep in at night, they receive their education. It's better than nothing."
"I suppose," she says. "But you know, this little guy looks like he was well-cared for before he was abandoned," she says. "His blanket was clean, and so were his pajamas. Someone must have cared at least a little bit about him."
Reed comes back over. "The detectives are on their way," he says. "Along with Juvenile. Mac wants us to wait until Juvenile shows up to take custody of the baby."
"What will the detectives do?" asks Father Vincente.
"They'll interview the church members who were here for the noon Mass," he says. "They'll also probably conduct a canvass of the area to see if any of the neighbors saw anything out of the ordinary." He looks over at Mrs. Kelly. "About how old do you think he is?" he asks.
"Not more than a couple of months," she says. She stands up, carrying the bundled baby over to Reed. "Would you like to see him?" she asks, smiling.
"Sure," Reed replies.
She flips the edge of the blanket down to reveal the infant tucked inside. "He's such a tiny little thing. So quiet, like a little mouse." She offers him to Reed. "Would you like to hold him?"
"Definitely!" Reed tells her, a high-voltage grin plastered on his face. "I have a little boy of my own at home."
She carefully hands him off to Reed. "How old is your little boy?" she asks.
"Six months," Reed tells her proudly. "Hey little guy," he coos at the baby. "You're kind of a little mystery baby, aren't you? Your name wouldn't happen to be Jesus, would it?"
"That's what we were joking about earlier," Father Vincente says with a laugh.
Reed brings the baby over to me, turning him so that I can see the little bundle. "Would you like to hold him, Pete?" he asks. "He's pretty cute."
I gaze down at the baby in my partner's arms. He lies there quietly, eyeing me with a lazy contentment, a lock of downy blonde hair curled upon his forehead. His eyes are a piercing dark blue, the pupils nearly invisible in the indigo color. He holds my gaze without any fear, and staring at this small baby wrapped in a blue flannel blanket, I feel a sense of strange awe, as if his spirit is tugging at mine. He gives me a calm smile. I feel like he can see within the depths of my soul, and it frightens me a bit, for some strange reason. Suddenly I feel a little trapped, and I need to get out of this room, with its crucifixes on the wall depicting Christ's suffering, with the friendly priest, with the young woman who could be a dark-haired Madonna figure, and my partner, who is holding the unearthly child in his arms. "No thanks," I tell Reed. "I'm going out and get the report book out of the car." And I turn on my heel and flee, shoving the heavy oaken doors open to the outside, breathing a sigh of relief as the icy wind stings my face, cooling me, calming me. I walk slowly to the squad car, my feet crunching on the gravel. I retrieve the black report book from the car, and start reluctantly back towards the church. Just relax, Pete, it's only a baby. A poor little baby that no one wanted and decided to dump here. It's not a sign from God or anything outlandish like that. And it sure as hell ain't the Baby Jesus, because there's no Wise Men, no barnyard animals, and no Mary and Joseph. Not to mention you're missing the Star of the East. And besides, you're the one who doesn't have faith, who doesn't believe in miracles, I tell myself.
Traffic whizzes by on the street, and out of curiosity, I make my way over to the crèche the child was found in, looking around for anything that would give some sort of clue as to who he is and how he wound up there. I find nothing in the dried brown grass, or around the plastic light-up figures of the Nativity scene. I study the scene for a moment, the icy wind chilling me, then I return to the church, climbing the steps once more and pulling open the heavy oak door. I start to go back to the office, but I hesitate. I don't want to go back in there, for a reason I can't begin to explain to myself, so I slip into the sanctuary instead, sliding into one of the back pews. I really should go tell Reed where I'm at, but I open the report book instead, propping it up on my knee. I begin to write out the tale of the abandoned baby. I try to concentrate on getting the report filled out, but my attention wanders from my handwriting on the page, to the activity at the front of the sanctuary. Losing focus on the words before me, I give up, my scribbling a blur on the white page. Setting the report book on the pew next to me, I watch the pageant rehearsal instead, as the choir begins to practice Handel's "The Hallelujah Chorus," the choir director tapping his stand with his baton, and the organist launching into the beginning of the song.
…Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!…the choir begins.
Under a cardboard overhang painted as realistically as possible to look like a rustic stable, the stage is completely set up as a life-size nativity scene, complete with bales of hay, three Wise Men in bathrobes, camels, sheep, a donkey, a cow, shepherds, Joseph, and of course, the stars of the show, Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ. Hanging from the cardboard stable, a bright tinfoil star is the Star of the East, while below, there is dissention among the ranks. The contingent of children in the pageant is giving the directing nun fits.
"Sister Agnetha, I don't wanna be Mary With The Cherry," wails a little girl of about ten in pigtails and a blue nightgown and matching bathrobe.
"Now Donna, you're not Mary With The Cherry, you're VIRGIN Mary,"the nun scolds. "Who told you that nonsense?"
The little girl points to a boy dressed as a shepherd. "Matt Guiness told me that," she said.
The shepherd shrugs. "It's what my older brother calls her," he says. "What's so wrong about that? It's just a hipper name for Virgin Mary."
"It's NOT a hipper name for our Blessed Virgin," the nun snaps. "It's a vulgar, filthy name, and I will not have you, or any of the rest of you, using it!"
…For the Lord God omnipotent reignith…the choir continues.
"I don't wanna hold this stupid doll anymore," the mini-Mary says, stamping her foot. She holds the Holy Infant upside down by his foot and shakes him vigorously. "His head falls off. And when I tried to get him to drink water from my doll bottle, he peed out of his leg holes." She whacks him quite soundly against her leg, causing his head to indeed, fall off and roll around on the floor. "See?" she says. "Plus he's butt nekkid, Sister Agnetha."
The shepherds have spotted the Holy Infant's head rolling about and decide to play a rousing game of stickball with it. Using their shepherd's crooks as sticks, they engage in a rather lively game of whacking baby Jesus' head around the floor in the front of the sanctuary. "He shoots, he scores!" one of them yells when Jesus' head hits the penny candle stand.
"Hey, I wanna try!" one of what I assume to be a Wise Man says.
"Children, PLEASE!" Sister Agnetha tells them. "Let's not use our Saviour's head as a ball!" She grabs the head of Jesus as it rolls past her. "Now stop that this instant and get back to your places immediately!" Sheepishly, the shepherds return to the stage.
…And of His Christ, and of His Christ; He shall reign forever and ever…the choir sings on.
"Sister, my robe REALLY itches," complains one of the Wise Men, and proceeds to vigorously scratch himself in a rather private place.
"Kenny's got cooties!" one of the sheep cries, eliciting a chorus of "EWWW's" from the other children.
"I don't wanna be the one to bring Frankenberry to Baby Jesus," says one of the other Wise Men. "How about if I bring him a Hot Wheels instead?"
"Stop whacking me with your stupid wings!" whines one of the angels, giving the offending whacking angel a healthy shove.
"Sister, tell the donkey not to blow his nose on my robe, it's really icky," complains a wee angel.
"Why can't my Mrs. Beasley doll be Baby Jesus?" asks Mary. "If you pull her string, she talks."
"Oh, my Chatty Cathy does that, too," remarks one of the angels.
"My Betsy Wetsy pees when you feed her water," says another angel.
"Hey Sister Agnetha, are we Wise MEN or Wise GUYS?" asks one of the other Wise Men. He jabs the third Wise Man. "Ooh, wise guy, eh?" he says, launching into a Three Stooges routine. "Nyuck nyuck nyuck."
"Sister Agnetha, I need to make tinkle," says one of the tiniest angels.
"I don't wanna be Joseph anymore, he's stupid," says Joseph. "I wanna be Spiderman instead."
BLAAT! farts a rather flat-sounding horn. "Oh Angel Gabriel, come blow your horn, the sheep's in the meadow, the cows in the corn," sings Angel Gabriel.
"I'm not in the meadow, I'm right here," says the cow. "MOOOO!"
…King of kings, and Lord of lords, King of kings, and Lord of lords…the choir sings, launching into the final chorus, fairly drowning out the voices from the kids on the stage. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!...
"What are you doing sitting in here, Pete?" Reed asks, his sudden appearance causing me to jump a bit with startlement. He slides into the pew next to me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," I say hastily. "I just got sidetracked, that's all."
"You were watching that pageant rehearsal like you were lost in a memory," he says. "Did you play in the Christmas pageant as a kid?"
I nod. "Yeah, I was a sheep first, then a shepherd, then a Wise Man. Then I quit being in the pageant," I tell him.
"Why?" he asks.
Because I got into a fight with the other two Wise Men and ruined the pageant, thus earning myself a whipping so fierce that I couldn't sit down for two days, I think. "I got too old for it," I tell Reed, lying to him.
"I was always a shepherd, until I got to be Joseph one year," he says. "After that, I retired on my laurels." He nods to the kids on the stage. "They're sure giving that poor nun trouble, aren't they?"
The choir segues into "Silent Night." …Silent night, holy night…
"Yeah," I say. "Has Juvenile showed up yet to take the baby?"
He shakes his head. "No, they haven't. Neither have the detectives."
"Oh, Officer Reed, there you are," says Mrs. Kelly, coming down the red aisle runner to where we're seated at. She's still holding the baby in her arms. "Could you please take him for me for just a few moments? I need to use the restroom and then call my husband, let him know I might be late getting home. The detectives have arrived and Father Vincente is speaking with them now. I thought I'd give them a bit of privacy."
"Sure," Reed says, holding his hands out for the little blue bundle. "We'll be right here."
"Thank you so much," she says gratefully, handing the baby over to Reed, then she hurries off.
"I can't imagine why anyone would dump a cute little guy like this," Reed says, gazing rapturously at the tiny infant. He rubs a gentle thumb across the baby's forehead. "I look at him and I'm reminded of Jimmy so much," he says quietly. "I can't picture just dumping my child like he was nothing more than a sack of garbage. I love him too much to do that tho him, Pete." His voice holds a twinge of choked emotion in it.
I keep my eyes focused on the pageant and the choir. If I can't see his emotions, he can't see mine. "It's your paternal instinct," I tell him. "But some parents don't have that. That's why we have so many abused and neglected kids in the system now." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the back of the pew in front of me. I put my chin atop them.
…All is calm, all is bright…
"Yeah, but if the mother and father didn't want him, why didn't they take him to an orphanage or something?" Reed asks. "Why dump him in the cold, outside a church, in a Nativity scene? That seems like a really cruel and callous thing to do to a helpless child." He smiles down at the little boy. "Isn't it?" he coos, getting a happy gurgle in response.
"Maybe it's the only thing the parents could think to do," I say. "Maybe they were desperate and afraid, and didn't know where to turn or to go with him, so they just put him there, in the manger, hoping that someone would notice him and rescue him."
"What if they hadn't noticed him? What if they hadn't rescued him in time, Pete?" Reed asks.
"I don't wanna think of that," I say, sitting back in the pew.
…'Round yon Virgin Mother and Child…
"Me neither," Reed says softly, gazing at the baby. "Here, Pete, you take him for a bit," he says.
"Uh…no," I say hastily. "He's happy in your arms, Jim, leave him be."
"Pete, please," Reed says, and there's something in his tone of voice that pricks at me, drawing me in against my will. "Just hold him for a moment, okay?"
"Fine," I sigh, holding my arms out as Reed settles the tiny bundle into them. I look down at the baby, who gazes back at me with those piercing blue eyes. "Hey there," I murmur gently to him.
…Holy Infant, so tender and mild…
"See?" Reed asks. "He's not so bad now, is he?"
"No," I tell him. "He's not." I stroke an index finger across his downy cheek and over his delicate fist. His tiny hand opens and he grasps my finger with a surprisingly strong grip in his wee fingers. Never taking his gaze from mine, he offers me that strange, knowing smile again. I feel a tugging deep within my soul once more, and there's a buzzing sensation in my brain. It feels like electricity is coursing and tingling through my body, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A heavy lassitude seeps through my blood, and I feel warm, feverish, as if I'm coming down with something. I cannot pull my eyes away from the baby's, nor can I take my finger from his grasp. He and I are locked together in some strange form of communion.
…Sleep in heavenly peace; sleep in heavenly peace…
"Hey Pete," Reed says, his voice sounding as if he's far away. "Maybe this is your miracle, huh?" he asks. Then I hear nothing else, other than the choir singing through the roaring in my ears.
…Silent night, holy night,
Shepherds quake, at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven a-far,
Heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah;
Christ the Savior is born;
Christ the Savior is born…
"Pete!" Reed shakes me gently by the shoulder, abruptly bringing me out of the odd spell. "Are you alright?" He's looking at me with concern.
"Huh?" I ask, blinking. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm okay," I tell him, my blood and bones still filled with that heavy lassitude. My voice sounds hollow, tinny.
"Are you sure?" he asks, bending forward and peering into my face. "You looked really weird there for a moment." He holds his arms out. "Maybe you'd better give the baby back to me, okay?"
"Nuh-uh," I murmur, still gazing at the baby. "I've got him. He's fine."
"Is this the little one that was found abandoned?" asks our Juvenile officer, Liz Grant, striding up the aisle towards us. She's a cheerful blonde woman with a decidedly motherly air. We've worked with her before, and she's really good with kids.
Reed slides out, grabbing the report book. "Hi Liz," he says. "It's a sad situation that we had to call you out on here this afternoon. Poor little guy was dumped in the church nativity scene out front. One of the parish ladies found him and informed the priest, who called us." Reed looks down at me, still sitting in the pew with the baby in my arms. "I think you're gonna have a hard time getting him away from Pete here," he says, laughing. "I think he's gotten attached to the little guy pretty fast."
Carefully, I slide out of the pew so as not to jostle the baby, who now has his eyes closed and appears to be sleeping. "He does grow on you," I tell them.
"Well, I'll take him now, Pete," Liz tells me, holding her hands out for the baby. "We've got a spot already lined up for him at McLaren Hall if he checks out okay at the hospital. Hopefully his parents can be located soon. If not, the court will make him a temporary ward of the state until they can decide what to do with him."
"Won't they place him up for adoption?" Reed asks.
She nods. "Yes, most likely," she says.
"Pete, give her the baby," Reed says, nudging me. "So we can get back on the air."
Reluctantly, I hand the tiny bundle over to Liz Grant. As the baby leaves my arms, he opens his eyes once more and fixes me with that piercing gaze. I feel a lump come into my throat. "Take good care of him, okay?" I ask, my voice a bit raspy. "I have a feeling he's kind of a special kid or something."
"Pete, you know he'll get the best care possible at McLaren," Liz assures me.
"Yeah, but McLaren Hall is no match for caring parents," I tell her, my voice tinged with bitterness.
"There isn't anywhere else he can go, Pete," Reed tells me gently. "This is for the best."
"Tell you what, Pete, why don't you call McLaren in a day or so and check up on him, if you're that concerned?" Liz offers. "You could even stop by, if you wanted to." The baby begins to fuss a bit in her arms.
"Yeah, maybe," I say. "I'll see."
"Well, you two have a merry Christmas," she tells us as she starts towards the vestibule with the baby in her arms. He begins to wail, his cries echoing throughout the church sanctuary, bringing a halt to the activity at the front of the church. Liz coos reassuringly to him as she leaves, but the sounds of his wails resound long after the heavy oak doors swing shut behind her. The sound stabs through my heart like a razor-sharp knife dipped in acid. I close my eyes briefly, willing the strange ache in my chest to go away, then I open them, determined to shake off this weird mood that has settled over me.
"That was sure something," Reed comments, as the activity on the stage resumes. The choir takes a break, watching the kids on the stage run through their rehearsal. "You and that baby."
"What do you mean?" I ask. I start walking up the red aisle runner towards the oak doors.
"I dunno, it's hard to describe," he says. "You had this really strange look on your face while you were holding that baby, like you and he were the only two beings on this planet or something."
"I guess I was thinking how sad it was that no one wanted him," I say, truly unable and unwilling to describe my experience to Jim Reed. "And how lucky he was that someone found him in time. That's all."
"Yeah, maybe," he says, a note of skepticism in his voice.
"Do the dicks need us for anything further?" I ask, my hand on the handle of the heavy oak door.
He shakes his head. "Nah, they said we could go back in service."
"Good," I say, shoving the door open and stepping out into the chilly metallic air. "Let's blow this pop stand."
"You want me to finish the report or do you wanna do it?" he asks as we get into the squad car.
"You can do it," I tell him. "Consider it my Christmas gift to you."
"Gee, thanks," he says sarcastically. He flips open the report book. "Uh…hey, Pete?" he asks hesitantly.
"What?" I ask, getting ready to back the squad car out.
"You ruined this report," he says.
"Huh?" I ask, putting the car back into park. "Whaddaya mean I ruined the report? I started it, I just didn't finish it."
He gazes at the report in front of him. "I dunno exactly WHAT it was you started, but it sure wasn't a report, Pete." He thrusts the report book at me. "Take a look for yourself."
I take it from him, scanning the pages of the report. Male infant, approx. 2 mos. old, found outside in church nativity scene at St. Patrick's Catholic Church. PR states child was evidently placed into the manger sometime after noon Mass. PR is Father Vincente, parish priest, and Mrs. Eileen Kelly… The report stops at that point, and only three words follow afterwards: BELIEVE IN MIRACLES. The words are written in my handwriting, but I don't remember writing them at all. "I don't get it," I say, staring at the words before me. "I don't remember writing those words, Jim."
"But you had to, Pete, it's your handwriting," he says.
I look up at him, my uneasy gaze meeting his. "It must be a fluke," I say, handing him the report book. "Maybe I wasn't paying attention to what I was writing, and incorporated some of the song lyrics that the choir was singing into the report or something."
"Maybe," he says skeptically. "And maybe it was a tiny miracle of sorts."
Sighing, I shake my head. I put the car into reverse. "Reed, trust me, there's no such thing as miracles." And as I tell him that, I can't get rid of the hinky feeling that I'm wrong, and that fact is going to be proven to me sometime yet tonight.
