A Christmas Story (The Conclusion)

By Marc-Yves Tumin

At home, the Big Man's wife, Kitty, had waited up for him and set out some cold cuts. He kissed her and went directly to his study, where his tomcat rubbed against his trousers and showed great interest in the paper bag.

Big Jack set the bag down on his roll top desk, found a teaspoon, and fed the mouse some branch water. After Brendan had taken a few sips, the Big Man scrutinized the glue trap. The label said, "Abandon All Hope! No Escape! Death Guaranteed Or Your Money Back!" Impressive: It might have been written by the bottom-line men themselves.

Big Jack heard his wife calling him as he balanced on a swivel chair and uncovered a bottle wedged behind some books. He squinted at the label, frowned, and put it back. "I'll be right there!" he sang out. Another flask brought another frown. He rummaged some more, found the Paddy Irish Whiskey, and smiled. He didn't realize that his wife was watching him, but, then again, she always had been. The Big Man clambered down, took up the trap, spoke encouragingly to Brendan, and splashed a bit of the rare potion on his fur, where it was stuck to the cardboard. Brendan squirmed.

Big Jack splashed some more and poked him gently. Brendan half-turned his head and gave a hopeful chirr. The Big Man then directed a goodly dose of the lustrous liquor at Brendan and kept dousing and poking him until the tortured ounceling was quite free.

Whether from baptism in the formidable Cork distillation or from his terrible trial or from both, Brendan was unable to stand properly at first.

His coat was plastered down, but, thanks be to God, his little black eye nearest the grasping glue was unscathed.

Big Jack then coaxed him into a shoebox with a cookie from a tin sequestered under his club chair for emergencies, some more branch water from a carafe tucked inside his bowling ball case, and some imported sweets from an enamel box lodged behind his Webcor Fonograf. Then the Big Man padded out through the darkened living room, past the Christmas tree, awash in lights and presents, and to the kitchen, where he ate his supper, saving a leaf of lettuce for the wee laddie.

When done, he looked in at the shoebox, and retired to his study to watch the end of an old war movie about the Yanks returning to Bataan. Before turning in, he snuck a last peek at Brendan. The feisty critter was recovering rapidly, cleaning himself, and munching his lettuce.

The next day, before dawn, Big Jack awakened and peered in at the fuzzywuzzy. Brendan was inspecting his cozy new quarters. His biscuit had vanished. When he saw the Big Man's smiling face, he sat up.

Big Jack gave him some more sweets and went to take a glass of steaming tea, which, miraculously, had appeared in the kitchen. Then he dressed and donned his tweed greatcoat and Donegal cap, took up the shoebox with little Brendan, and ambled to the park.

The streets were well nigh deserted, save for a newsvendor setting out the papers. The Big Man purchased his regular batch, approached the park, and descended the long flight of stone steps. Deep within its precincts, on the far side of the lake, Big Jack spotted a pleasant ravine. At the bottom, a wire fence protected a tree within an ivy-carpeted glade, as if an island in the stream.

The Big Man set the box down inside the fence and lifted the lid. He summoned Brendan but the mouse stayed put. He called him again. The creature wouldn't budge.

He encouraged him once more and Brendan hopped out.

"Safe home, ya' little bum," Big Jack said softly.

Brendan sat up and studied him. He sniffed the air. He looked around. It was a clear, crisp morning. The world was all before him. And he seized his chance at life and scampered into the sea of emerald foliage.

The park was empty as the Big Man started for home. Then, suddenly, he was tired and crumpled to a bench. The wind was rising. He turned up his collar, pulled his cap low, put his hands inside his coat pockets, and closed his eyes.

He envisioned a poster, tied to an elm, with a description of the lost beastie. Time passed and he awakened to a fanfare of laughing voices. The sound of distant carolers wafted over the park. Across the drive, some parents were pushing their children on the playground swings. Big Jack stood up and stretched. The tiny tots were waving to him.

The Big Man watched them and waved back. Then he noticed that his newspapers had drifted to the ground and scattered. He thought of little Brendan, but he'd look him up later.

Meanwhile, he sauntered after the fallen leaves, smiling to himself as he gathered them up along the winding footpath and faded quietly into the trees.