A/N A little holiday tale for your Christmas stocking.
It wasn't the money that decided him. He had no need for more of it. Arriving in America six months ago, he had sufficient funds to start over, albeit modestly. Which was fine with him. He searched for a place to live, moving about mostly when the shadows grew long, and curious stares were kept to a minimum. He spread out from the seedy hotel he called home, and looked diligently for a permanent place to hang his hat.
After much deliberation, and countless cab rides, he settled on a tenement flat in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, seemingly light years from the teeming city. The squalor and poverty of the area didn't bother him at all; on the contrary, he preferred it. It was much easier to blend when one was surrounded by a crowd, especially those scrabbling just to live. He was situated on the third floor of his building, and the only thing he required for his subsistence in the decrepit firetrap, was the petite grand piano he paid a small fortune to have hauled very carefully, the three stories to his apartment.
That day was memorable for the small crowd of sight-seers which had congregated nearby. They watched with keen interest as the large, mysterious object, cloth-covered and well padded, was manhandled by the burly men up three flights of narrow, rickety stairs. Their avid curiosity was well distributed between the awkward thing swathed in yards of canvas, the imaginative cursing from the beleaguered movers, and the other worldliness of its equally mysterious owner. One old granny in the knot of people, made the sign to ward off evil. Katie Barrister had stopped her scrubbing to watch with the others, and couldn't take her eyes off of the tall, thin man who all by himself, had managed to upset their dreary lives for a few precious minutes, and inject it with some excitement.
"Ya best give the sign too, gal. He's a sprite or divil if I ever seen one. E's trouble, no doubt. Covers his daemon face, but 'e carn't get shut of them daemon eyes. Don' look into 'em or e'll steal yer very soul!" and she forked her gnarled old fingers in Erik's direction.
Katie snorted, never looking away from the daemon in question. "He'll have to search high and low for it then. It's shriveled away to almost nothing."
"It'll git inside ya if yer not careful, child. It has its ways. It surely does, and yer ripe fer the pluckin'."
She glared at Mrs. Crabtree, a superstitious, gossipy old woman if ever there was one. "He's just different, that's all." As a girl growing up in the little town of Manchester, New York, she went with her mother and younger brother one fall afternoon to gather walnuts in the woods behind their house. Between the three of them they collected two large pails, and when her mother showed her the brown shell of the walnut, Katie made a sour face.
"It's hard and ugly, mam! How can anything taste so good when it looks like that?"
Her mother smiled and cracked one open, giving the nut meat to her daughter. "This is your first lesson in what the eye perceives as worthless. Just because it's not pretty and wrapped up with a red bow doesn't mean it hasn't any value, Katie. Sometimes the best part is hidden from view, and it's just waiting for us to find it."
She remembered her mama's words now, as she watched the man stride forward to direct the movers on placement of the piano. For she knew that's what it was, and felt a frisson of pleasure at the thought of music in the building again, instead of the cries of a sick baby, or the Markowitzes screaming at each other in impotent rage. Katie thoughtfully observed the man, and said the first thing that came to mind about him. "He moves like a king," she said softly. She started as he turned to shut his door against the gawkers, and their gaze met briefly. She felt a jolt go through her looking into those tragic eyes. "Oh, yes, he's a king all right, but a haunted one." The matinée show finished with the closing of the door, and the crowd broke up, the skeins of their drab lives taken up once again.
He had ignored them all, except for terse comments directed to the men struggling with his piano. One look at the imposing dark figure, and any loud utterances by the coarse men, were kept to themselves until they quit work for the day, and downed a pint at Donovan's Saloon. Then and only then, did they raise their voices about the rude son of a bitch who regardless of his quelling personality, tipped them very well for their pains. "If I find one scratch on it, you will not get paid. Deliver it safely, and I will make it worth your while," he had said pleasantly. Pleasant or not, they knew trouble when they looked into its implacable eyes, and they did their utmost to make certain the piano got the care it deserved. Money aside, they wanted to remain healthy to spend it.
His one wish was to be left alone. Misery did not love company, as the saying went. It wanted only to thrive in its isolation, and hold sway on the fragile heart.
The piano movers wrestled with the gleaming beauty he had purchased from Steinway and Bros. on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Once the dust settled, he sat before the instrument which oftentimes felt like an extension of his own body, and played literally for hours, channeling hurt and sorrow through his very fingertips. Awash in feelings of loss, he played on, until heart aching, he abandoned the beautiful piano, and staunchly promised himself that music no longer had a hold on his life- would no longer be a part of it.
But the next day, he returned to the one thing which fed his spirit in a world where he would have starved. He played his solitary music and lived his solitary life...
Until the widow one floor below him, began her unwitting campaign to have him teach her two children the rudiments of music. And on that day, everything he thought he wanted- everything he felt he had needed- changed.
The boy went by the name of Albert and he was eight years old; a quiet child, at least for one of his ilk. Erik avoided children as he would a deadly disease. No better than the adults which had plagued him at one time or another throughout his life; a small gang of them would often follow him home from the market, or when he was on one of his nocturnal ramblings, simply to harass and jeer at him. He put up with it just barely, and it only served to prove to him that children were no better behaved here than in France. But to physically assault them, would be the height of stupidity- even for him.
One late afternoon, leaning more toward dusk, he turned the corner of the street, only two blocks from the tenement he now called home. The neighborhood swarmed with immigrants of every nationality; Poles, Italians, and the many Irish leaving the potato farms en masse for the siren call of America. Add to the mix, one hideous Frenchman, Erik thought wryly. He wasn't brought to these shores by the promise of a better life; he merely wanted to escape the old one and put a vast ocean between him and the nightmare that it had been thus far. He kept himself apart here as well, but for the rest, they lived cheek by jowl among their brethren- everyone fighting for space and a little dignity. Gangs of boys ranged up and down the streets, brutal in their ignorance, and left on their own by parents struggling to make ends meet. Banding together, they held safety in their numbers, and preyed on the unwary for anything they thought of value, whether it was food or in some instances, money.
"Hand it over, ya liddle shit!"
Erik paused under one of the weedy trees that grew up through the cracks in the pavement, and provided its meager shade to the city streets. He took in the sight of three much larger boys ganging up on his young neighbor. He had seen the boy and his sister from time to time, as well as their slender mother as she struggled each and every day with a bucket of hot lye water, rags, and a mop nearly as tall as her. She scrubbed down the hallways on a regular basis, doing what she could to feed her family. He had never seen a man associated with the woman or her children.
The child had a small paper sack clutched tightly in one fist, loath to give it up. Albert screamed when the largest and meanest of the three began bending his fingers backward, "Ya want ta leave here with your fingers intact, then I reckon ya better let go," the bully said importantly, but the matter was settled when the sack ripped, and bright, red and white striped peppermint sticks spilled out onto the ground. Albert's mother had parted with a hard earned penny for the sole purpose of cheering up his little sister who was ill with a head cold. And it would all be for naught if these goons took it away from him.
Erik didn't even stop to think what lunacy propelled him forward. It wasn't his fight; no one had ever stepped in and aided him when he was outnumbered and on the losing end of things. He had the scars to prove it. But those very same memories triggered a sense of outrage that a child should be tormented for a few measly pieces of candy.
The boys were so intent on their plunder, picking up the candy and shoving it into their hungry mouths, they were completely taken by surprise. "That doesn't belong to you," the man intoned, and with bony fingers, grabbed the brat's hand, plucking the candy neatly from it. He gave the boy a firm shove, knocking him off of his feet and he fell ignominiously backward, skidding on his behind. One look at the menacing figure in black, and the bully scrambled hastily to his feet, taking off before the thing in the Hallo'een mask caught up with him.
Erik went after the next one, who looked into that blank visage, and saw awful eyes which appeared red and glowing in the dying light. He gave a frightened yell and took off running as fast as his legs would go. Albert, not pausing to acknowledge his savior, pulled his arm back and punched the third boy soundly in the face. Holding a hand to his streaming nose, the pint-sized tyrant threw caution to the winds, and joined his pals, his feet kicking up little puffs of dust as he outdistanced his chums and passed them as though standing still.
Albert watched them leave with self-righteous satisfaction, then turned to the tall man. "Guess we showed them! The candy was for my sister. She's not feeling good."
"Indeed."
He nodded solemnly, and proceeded to pick up the remnants of peppermint sticks, carefully wiping off the dirt and re-wrapping them in the torn bag. Erik said nothing, but turned and continued on his way home.
He heard the boy's running feet as he strove to catch up with him. "You live in the apartment above us, don't you?" he said, looking up at the gaunt man, and at first he thought he wouldn't get a reply.
"Yes." Erik glanced down at the boy's thin, narrow face, lit by pale blue eyes, and topped with a shock of light brown hair.
"My mama cleans the hallways, and she always looks forward to the day she does yours. She said you play the piano for her while she works. It makes her day go faster. She said she wishes we knew how to play like that. It's...it's...um...civil..."
"Civilized is the word you are floundering around for, child."
"Yes, sir. That would be the one. My papa played the piano, I remember. Carrie doesn't. She was just a kid when he died. She's only five. My father was a fireman and the best ever! He died when a roof fell on him." The boy worked his much smaller legs, trying mightily to keep up with the longer strides of his new hero.
He looked up at Erik in innocent curiosity. "Why do you wear that mask?"
"None of your damned business," he replied mildly. He must be getting mellow in his old age- the question no longer had the sharp teeth it once had. They reached the dirty brick edifice they both called home, and Erik continued on up the stairs to his apartment without stopping.
"My name is Albert, mister. Albert Barrister. What's yours?"
He barely paused, but flung back over his shoulder, "Erik."
"See you around, Erik!" and received a grunt in reply. "Wait till I tell my mother I met the piano man in 3C!"
And thus began the campaign to enlist him as a teacher once again.
Late morning of the next day found him at the grand, only this time he was working on an adagio melody, instead of old sorrows. Upon his arrival in New York, he had visited a music publisher, and shown him some of his work, mostly trivial songs that didn't require a great deal of thought from him, but would be loved for their sentimental simplicity. He had discovered an interesting truth about those who had traveled thousands of miles to reach American shores. Leaving the Old World behind for the New, had brought out their nostalgia for those days; the very same ones which had driven them away in the first place. It amused him no end, but it helped sell his music which made Erik grateful for their sloppy sentimentality. The publisher, Herbert Frome, was interested enough to buy all five of the initial pieces, with a promise from the composer to produce more. To corner his discovery of the odd man's considerable talent, Frome signed him to a lucrative contract which benefited them both, and Erik was assured of a nice income indefinitely.
A hesitant tap on the door snapped his head up in surprise. No one ever came near his apartment. The other inhabitants of the building, gave him a wide berth. In fact, the only one who had spoken at any length with him had been the boy, Albert.
Engrossed in his notes and pitches, he ignored it- until it came again, but with more insistence. "Ah, Mr...Erik? It's Katie Barrister from 2C. He heard a dainty clearing of the throat. "May I please have a moment of your time? If...if it isn't any bother, that is."
He ran a pale hand through his dark hair and sighed. One wish. Why all of a sudden after a lifetime of isolation, was it so damned difficult to be left alone? Was he to be introduced to the whole family in the space of a week? He got reluctantly to his feet and opened the door a crack. He saw one blue eye, and wisps of light brown hair escaping a flowered kerchief. "Is this part of your employment, madame? Annoying the tenants when your cleaning duties are out of the way?" he said impatiently, refusing to open the door any wider.
She gasped at his rudeness, but nevertheless, soldiered on. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you. Please, m-might I have a moment of your time, sir?"
It hovered on the tip of his tongue to refuse her and slam the door in her face. If this was about her son and his damned candy mission gone awry, he would damned well remember to let the little beasts help themselves the next time. He didn't require a pretty thank you. But his latent decency over-rode the curmudgeon in him, and he reluctantly opened the door wider. He held up one hand, splaying out the long fingers. "Five minutes, madame. That is what you will get of my time, so be quick," and he imperiously waited for her to step inside.
Nervously, she wrung her hands; hands, Erik noticed, that were red and chapped from washing everything with lye water. She looked up at the mask, searching for his humanity- for something with which she could connect. Her shy gaze took in a slender man with long limbs and a graceful bearing. She wasn't afraid of him like the others in the building; Mrs. Klimek thought he was the ax murderer the police were searching for in Yonkers. He was like some kind of exotic bird, albeit one with very dark plumage. She found his pale, elegant hands and fluid movements fascinating. A walking, talking dark melody that she found refreshingly different, and she barely questioned the strange tug and pull toward him every time she watched the man moving about the building with his unapproachable demeanor. The times they actually met on the stairs or in the hallway, he gave her a slight bow and continued on his way. And that wasn't enough for her. A man with music in his clever hands and heart. She wanted that talent for her children- to have the beauty of music in their lives permanently, and what better way than to be taught by a master? For that is what this man was- an uncommonly fine pianist.
Katie was a gentle soul, but she possessed a fine layer of steel beneath the gentleness; it was a must, living in this city with no man, and children to feed. After two years of struggling on her own, she missed her husband sometimes with a fierce ache- missed his arms around her in the privacy of their bed at night. But aside from her loneliness, she was the only one with the power to provide something better for her children. When she first heard the splendid, angry music from 3C, she felt a rush of hope, and started to desire something as she had never desired anything before. She could be forthright and to the point, which is what she was now. "I would like you to teach my children to play the piano."
His eyes widened fractionally, not expecting this."No. Now, if you don't..."
"Please. Just hear me out, I beg of you! My children are the most important thing in the world to me. They h-have no future as it is, unless they can strive for something better. Having the gift of m-music will bring them that much closer to the finer things in life, I believe. I can pay you something for their lessons, and c-clean your apartment if you wish it."
She watched his oddly colored eyes in the dimness of the neat parlor, trying to gauge his interest. His next words dashed her hopes. "I have absolutely no inclination to teach anyone, let alone children," he said with finality. His gaze flickered over her, noting her wide blue eyes and full lower lip. It was a nice face, he admitted to himself, and he was certain that at one time she had laughed a lot, for there were faint lines at the corners of her eyes where they had crinkled in merriment. Now there was merely a shadow of that one-time exuberance. Hard work and worry had dimmed most of it.
Still, she wrung her work roughened hands and stared up at him with a plea in her eyes. He shook his head and opened the door. "If your children wish for it hard enough, music will find them. Good day, madame," he said as gently as he was able.
Defeated, she at last accepted his decision as final. "Thank you for hearing me out then," she said stiffly, and left him. For a time, he simply stood and stared down the hall, feeling slightly disappointed as she walked away. With a sigh, he firmly closed the door.
He next met the young girl, Carrie. And once again, he was cast in the unlikely role of White Knight. Late morning found him on his way to the cellar with trash for the incinerator. Much of the paper was sheet music overloaded with hasty scribbles in his customary red ink. After the departure of Madame Barrister the day before, he sat down again at the piano, but his muse had deserted him. Try as he might, his ideas had dried up. But his mind, nimble monkey that it was, turned to soft cheeks and thick, dark lashes framing eyes the color of an autumn sky.
"Bah! Silly woman," he said in disgust, and at dusk, he had climbed to his feet, grabbing his hat and cloak, and went for a walk to clear his head.
Carrying the bag of trash to the cellar the next morning, he was startled when a child darted through the outside door, and ran smack dab into his knee caps. His bony knee caps. The girl in pig tails and a faded blue dress, clapped her grubby hands over her forehead, when she bounced painfully off of Erik. "Ow! Ow, ow!" she cried as she danced around in pain.
He dropped his bag of papers and approached the girl carefully, waiting for her to panic at his nearness. It wouldn't be at all surprising. Grown men had been known to shy away from him. When she didn't, he felt brave enough to drop to his knees in front of her. "Here, let me see the damage." He slowly reached out to her and tugged gently at her hands. Her only reaction was to jump when she felt the cold touch of his hand, but other than that, she complied with his request as her eyes welled with tears. Blue eyes again, he snorted. Just like mama's.
"You have a nasty bump there, but with some ice we can get the swelling down, and you will survive to run into me another day, no?" he said dryly. "Where's your mother, child?"
"On the third floor cleanin'."
"Very well. We shall see to your head, and then we will look for her."
"My name is Carrie and I'm five years old." To clarify her age for him, she held up five chubby fingers. "Albert said you saved his life. He told me not to look at your mask, cause it's none of my...my dam bizniss."
He rolled his eyes at this second bit of nonsense and ignored it. "Yes, if not for me, your brother would have lost all of your candy. Therefore, your teeth will still manage to fall out."
Despite the pain of her bump, which was rapidly receding, she giggled. "You talk funny."
He looked at her indignantly. "I assure you, child, I speak in a civilized manner. It is you who does not."
He proceeded to lead her to his apartment, where he took some ice from the icebox, wrapped it in a towel, and held it to the little girl's head. He lifted her hand and put it to the ice pack, then sat back on his heels. "That should help with the swelling."
She nodded and cut her eyes up at him. "My name is Carrie. And yours is Erik."
"We have already established your name, and I am quite aware of my own, thank you. How do you feel?"
"Better. I'm thirsty."
He snorted and put his hands on his long thighs and rose to his feet. "A little prima donna, aren't you? Are you certain your name isn't Carlotta?" She took the glass of water he held out to her, and her eyes followed him curiously as he went to the grand piano and sat down.
"You talk nice."
He swung his head toward her, surprised that she didn't seem frightened by him. "Make up your mind, girl. I either sound ridiculous to you or I do not. Can't have it both ways, even though you are fickle like all of your sex."
"Mama says you play like a virtuo...a...a virtuawosa...um..."
"Virtuoso, ingenious child," and began to play a soft melody. He lost himself in the notes of a well-loved piece, and Carrie, fascinated by the sound, joined him at the piano.
The towel-wrapped ice was melting on the carpet as she stood near his leg and watched his hands on the keys. She was pulled effortlessly into the music. Her mother found them there a half hour later, as Erik patiently showed the little girl the notes and corresponding keys on the piano. She had set her bucket down in the hallway and peeked through the open door, listening to the man as he spoke slowly and clearly to her daughter, and sounded the notes out on the keyboard. As Carrie watched, he performed a simple melody, glancing at her as he played, and he felt his mouth stretching into a smile at her slack-jawed reaction.
Slowly, Katie wandered to the beautiful piano near the grimy window overlooking another tenement building, stark and ugly as it squatted in the harsh light of a noonday sun. Rows of washing hung festooned on every fire escape, flapping in the intermittent breeze as though the clothes themselves were trying to escape their grim surroundings. She stared at his two hands creating magic from bits of ivory, wood, and steel and was humbled. The man should be living a far grander life than what was found in Williamsburg; he should be playing on a majestic stage, or entertaining royalty. She sighed in quiet pleasure. Inside this room was a pure, shining moment wrested from the drudgery of another hard day of back-breaking work.
Erik finally looked up at her as he brought the piece to a close, and said simply, "Yes."
Lessons were at six o'clock in the evening for one hour, three times a week. He agreed to give them on the old upright in the Barrister apartment- after he tuned it for free. Seeing the pride in her bearing, and the way she held out his first payment, he knew she would not take no for an answer. He didn't want her money. But two months after he had begun the lessons, he knew what his forty-six year old heart yearned for and desired. Frightened of her reaction to any declaration from him, he hid his love.
But he showed it in other ways- safer ways. He bought more food at the market than he could eat in a week, and made sure to give it to Albert or the girl. That way, their mother couldn't turn it down. He had the satisfaction of watching their pinched faces fill out with a better diet than they'd been accustomed to. And he was helping her. He admired her spirit and the way she held his gaze, never flinching. She was nice to him, offering a cup of her strong, black coffee after lessons were through, or in her quiet manner, asking him about his past. He never fully opened up to her- he couldn't. There was so much that was wrong with his prior life. How could he make her understand the despotic rule of a vengeful opera ghost? Persia and the rosy hours? He was a man desperate once more for an understanding ear...a compatriot. Someone to love and be loved in return. But these things were, and always had been out of his reach. To feel his heart beating again for another, would in the end only lead to more madness and death- his own. But despite his fears, his love for her continued to grow.
Teaching the children was like falling into a beloved habit again, only this time it didn't involve a frightened young woman honing her voice for the stage, while fighting off the advances of a deformed madman. He felt only a brief twinge of heartache this time. After two years of carrying grief around in his heart, he was vastly relieved to discover that life did indeed go on. Unrequited love had consumed him for far too long, its flames burning so intense, that like any fire left with no fuel, it eventually consumes itself, leaving behind nothing but ashes. Christine was happily married with a child of her own, and he felt only gratefulness now, that this was so.
Lesson over for the evening, he slowly stood up and shuffled his music together, preparing to leave, when Katie approached him, wiping her hands on a towel. "They have improved a lot, Erik. Especially Albert. In four months time, they have learned so much from you."
He surveyed her cheeks, flushed from standing at the stove, then dropped his gaze to her lips. He found himself spending whole minutes thinking of nothing but that plump lower lip- what it would feel like pressed against his. "I'm very grateful," she said softly.
He raised his eyes to hers, and managed to shake his head. "I am the grateful one. I have enjoyed this," he replied, indicating the piano and the cozy little parlor- the entrance into his lonely life of people who genuinely seemed to like him.
"Stay for dinner. There's plenty, and we would be honored if you would."
She had asked him often, and every time he had wanted to say yes. He was tempted. So very tempted. But he was frightened by his feelings for her, and the chance that she could never return them. He had desperately grabbed for love once before, and it had left him broken and despairing. Katie and her children had burrowed into his life, filling all the hollow spaces in a life barren of tenderness. But in that moment, he decided his fate, and again reached out for something more.
"I would be delighted."
As night advanced, he sat at the dinner table and pretended while he ate her rich Irish stew, that Katie and the children were his. They accepted him as no others ever had; looked to him for guidance, asked his opinion on things as though it mattered. And when he looked into her guileless blue eyes, he swore he saw his future looking back at him. The tiny bud of hope resting in the center of his chest, which had never truly withered and died, unfurled a little more. The children sent to bed for the night, Erik grabbed a towel and proceeded to dry the dishes. She washed slowly, happy in his company, wanting only to drop the play-acting and launch herself at him. She did her utmost to stretch out these moments so he would stay longer.
He was never quite certain how she ended up in his arms, but he thought it may have been a mutual need at long last asserting itself.
He had reached carefully around her for another dish, feeling the thrum of his nerves wound tight from her nearness. She chose that moment to turn, and her arms were suddenly around him. Just like that. She must have realized his inexperience in such matters, for he had frozen in shock, a temporary paralysis keeping his arms at his sides when all he wanted was to cling tightly to her and never let go. Bless her, but she took the lead, looping her arms around his neck, and pulling his head ever closer to hers, until with the first tentative touch of her lips, he was lost. His eyes closed in bliss- that bottom lip tasted just as good as it looked.
He pressed his mouth firmly to hers, and his now eager arms obeyed his command, and tugged her close. He felt at that moment, extreme happiness and wanted nothing more than to shout it from the rooftops- this rapture which bubbled through his veins, and poured healing light into his darkened soul. And he would, he promised himself, once he got his fill of her lips, and the soft curves pressed so sweetly against his spindly length.
He pulled reluctantly away, coming up and gasping for air, feeling drunk on love- happy and terrified at once. "Katie," he whispered. "I am not a handsome man." He reached for the words wanting her to be certain she knew what she was getting, for if she promised him heaven, and later reneged, it would surely kill him this time. There would be no starting over again. The hellish words left his mouth even as he wanted nothing more than to call them back. "I have a severe deformity- f-from birth. Oh, Katie," he moaned.
He never had the chance to finish, for she pressed her lips to his again, relishing his taste, his eagerness awakening an excitement in her that had lain dormant for years. He deepened the kiss, learning on the fly, and she thought he was a very quick study. "It doesn't matter. Not to me," she whispered, and spread her hand on his thin chest- over his heart. "I want this. What is hidden inside."
"It is yours. Forever." He gathered his courage, ignoring the hope which was threatening to burst into full bloom. Now or never. Swallowing his terror, he took the plunge, and said those three lovely and frightening words. "I love you."
She grabbed his hand and held it snugly between her breasts. "I love you too, Erik," she whispered. And he closed his eyes, his knees weak with relief.
Their wedding night, he lay in the circle of her arms, finally at peace with himself after a life of misery and strife. That he had held on to his humanity through it all, with the capacity to still be able to love, was a testament to his great heart. He had bared his soul to her before the wedding, explaining to her what he had once been, and the harm he at one time caused others.
He had cried when she accepted all of him, including his horrendous time spent in Persia. He left nothing out, and at the end of it all, there was still the warm light of love shining from her eyes. Katie cried with him, holding him close, and declared that the man who had terrorized others, bending them to his iron will, was dead and gone. What she held in her arms now was the essence of the man, distilled down to his purest form to the man he had kept locked away; the one forged through the fires of redemption, and emerging at last to be loved for himself, able to return it tenfold.
He became that man on the glorious night his body and soul merged with another. In the drowsy aftermath of their lovemaking, he remembered his wish from over a year ago and his eyes filled with tears. It had gone unfulfilled, he realized. He thanked God for small and tender mercies.
On the day they moved their family to a new home in upstate New York, Katie whispered softly in his ear. And his joy was complete.
Holding his black-haired daughter now, he approached the enormous Christmas tree which had center stage in their parlor. Snow drifted in lazy circles from the night sky while his two ladies talked and laughed, stringing popcorn and bright red cranberries into a long garland. Albert sat at the piano working on the Bach piece set for him by Erik. He hit a sour note and winced, but recovered smoothly and moved into the next measure with barely a pause. He looked at his stepfather with a grin. "How was that, Pop?"
Erik winked at his wife. "An excellent bit of salvaging."
Albert preened. That was high praise indeed, coming from his father.
The scent of pine filled the air as he held the fuzzy haired baby up to the golden star perched at the very top of the tree. She instead wrapped a hand in his carefully arranged cravat, finding its silky folds very interesting. He reached for her tiny fingers and kissed them softly. "No, love. Look at the pretty tree." Her blue eyes catching the glitter of the shiny star, she goggled at it, her mouth open with wonder. He placed a masked cheek on top of his daughter's downy head and nodded at it.
"Make a wish on it, Kathryn. Someday if you're lucky like me, it might not come true."
Peace, everyone.