A Multicultural Christmas: A Novel About Broadening One's Horizons

CHAPTER 1

TIME OF THE SEASON

(Friday late afternoon, November 25th; the day after Thanksgiving)

Mychal got out of the elevator, then stopped and rechecked the apartment number on the small card he was holding in his right hand: #305, it read. This is it, he thought as he walked down the hall, carrying the small bouquet of flowers in his left hand. When he found the right door, he knocked three times, softly. After a few moments, he heard sounds from inside the apartment, indicating that someone was home; no one answered the door, however, so he knocked again, more insistently.

Yes? came the cautious voice of an elderly woman from inside the apartment.

Good afternoon, ma’am, Mychal said pleasantly. I’m Mychal from River City Florist; I’ve got a delivery. He waited for her to open the door, but instead he heard the voice saying, Just leave it outside the door.

So no tip, huh? he thought, as he knelt down and carefully laid the flowers on the rug just outside the door, placing on top the card that read, Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. Sorry I missed the High Holy Days again; got tied up at work, as usual. Next year for sure. Mychal straightened up and said, They’re right outside the door, ma’am; we hope you enjoy them. Thanks for using River City Florist. He walked back down the hall to the elevator, and pressed the call button. When the elevator arrived, he stepped inside, and turned around. While he waited for the elevator door to close, he saw the door of the elderly woman’s apartment opening, as she cautiously peeked out into the hall, looking both ways. Seeing Mychal in the elevator, she immediately grabbed the flowers and disappeared into her apartment again, slamming the door quickly behind her.

Paranoid old Jewish woman, Mychal thought. I’m just doin’ my job, lady; I ain’t gonna kill nobody. He punched the 1 button again, and the elevator doors finally closed.

The elevator stopped on the second floor. The doors opened to reveal an elderly Asian man with gray hair and thick glasses, who moved forward to enter the car until he saw Mychal, which caused him to stop suddenly. He quickly stepped back, and said apologetically, Sorry; wrong direction. The elderly man took another step back, his eyes focused down on the ground.

Angrily, Mychal punched the button to shut the elevator doors, and the car proceeded downward again. Mychal stared at his reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator: blue baseball cap (with the River City Florist logo) turned around backwards on his head, covering a blue do-rag tied over his very close-cut (nearly shaved) hair; long white t-shirt hanging over his baggy bluejeans, and sneakers. Just ‘cuz I’m black, everybody think I got to be some kind of thug, or banger, he thought, with burning resentment.

When the elevator stopped on the first floor, Mychal stormed out of it (drawing nervous attention from the security guard at the entrance to the apartment building) and headed outside. He unlocked his bike from the fence outside the apartments, and debated about whether he should stop off at the apartment he and his mother shared and use the bathroom (their apartment complex was directly across the street), or go back to the flower shop first. He decided to return to the shop, thinking, Bert probably ain’t got no more deliveries for today, anyway. Mychal climbed on his bike and swiftly rode the six blocks back to a small building with the cheerful sign out front, River City Florist. As he approached the entrance, he quickly pulled the blue do-rag off his head and stuffed it in his hip pocket, and turned his baseball cap around facing forward on his head, then braked to a stop, and climbed down from the bike. He walked his bike inside the shop, nodding at the shop owner Roland Bertolucci (who was sitting in front of his computer), and set the bike’s kickstand, placing it out of the way against the wall. All done, Bert, Mychal said, walking over to mark his time card.

Any problems? Bert (as the owner preferred to be called) asked routinely, and Mychal shook his head. Tapping a few keys on the keyboard and consulting his computer screen, Bert announced, That’s it for today; how soon can you get here tomorrow?

I can skip 7th period, Mychal replied. So I’ll get here by 2:00.

That would be great, Bert replied. With the holidays coming up, it’s crunch time, so I’ll use you as much as you can get off from school over the next month. Smiling, he added, I’d rather use you than my drivers for the small deliveries; I know I can count on you.

I can use the money; see you tomorrow, Mychal replied, retrieving his bike and starting to head to the door, but Bert got up quickly and walked over to stop him, putting his hand gently on Mychal’s shoulder. Bert was a short squat Italian with graying hair, and Mychal towered above him.

Have you given any more thought to working here full-time? Bert asked. I could really use you for the day deliveries. You’re graduating in January, right?

Nodding his head, Mychal replied, I just got to take that stupid Exit Exam. Changing the subject casually, Mychal asked, What kinda raise would I get?

Sixty cents an hour, Bert replied, confidently. You’d be working full-time, plus as much overtime as you want. You’d be making enough so that you can get your own place downtown, maybe even buy a car. You’re eighteen, right?

I turn eighteen in January, Mychal replied. But I’m definitely lookin’ to get my own place soon; I ain’t gonna be livin’ with my Momma forever.

Thinking out loud, Bert said, Then if you got a commercial class license, I could move you up to drive one of the trucks. Then after a few years, I could put you in charge of my scheduling and dispatches, and get rid of these bozos I’m paying too much to do it now. He eyed Mychal slyly, and added, You could end up as Shop Supervisor here in a couple of years, if you play your cards right. I’m getting too old to run this whole thing myself, and it’d get you out of riding up and down the streets in all kinds of weather.

That’d be cool, Mychal said appreciatively, opening the door for his bicycle, But I like workin’ outside.

At least think about it, Bert replied. You’re my best employee, and the only one I’d really trust with more responsibility. He followed Mychal outside, then shook his head at the cold and said, Beats me how you can ride around in this kind of weather wearing only a t-shirt.

This ain’t nothin’, Mychal scoffed. It don’t get really cold ‘til January.

It’s Friday; do you want to wait to get your check tonight, or pick it up tomorrow? Bert asked. I can write it out as soon as I total up your hours.

Tomorrow is cool, Mychal replied, getting on his bike. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ tonight.

Be here as early as you can tomorrow, Bert requested. We’re going to have a lot of deliveries, now that the Christmas season is officially here.

No problem. See ya then, Bert; peace out, Mychal said, moving his bike into the heavy day-after-Thanksgiving evening traffic. Weaving in-between cars stopped at red lights, he observed that most of the downtown stores and shops he passed had colorful Christmas lights and displays up. Time to make that big holiday money, he thought cynically, as he arrived at his apartment complex, riding past the parking lot and then up on the sidewalk, hopping off the bike and carrying it up the steps to his upstairs apartment.

Opening the door with his key, he called out, Momma? but there was no answer. He put the bike in the corner of his room, and then went to the refrigerator. There was a note from his mother on it, saying, Switch shifts at work; back late. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk, then placed it on the kitchen counter. He swept the empty trays from the two Turkey and Gravy TV dinners they’d had for dinner yesterday into the trash can, and poured himself a glass of milk. He took out a chicken pot pie from the freezer and placed it in the microwave, then turned on the television, flipping through the channels until he found a basketball game just beginning. The microwave buzzed, so he took out his dinner, and picked up his glass of milk and a half-empty bag of corn chips and placed them all on the coffee table, then flopped down on the couch, rejoicing when the point guard of his favorite team hit a three-point shot. Yess!! he said, pumping his fist.

*** (Saturday morning, November 26th)

Mychal yawned and swung his legs down from the bed, then stood up and yawned again. He opened the door of his room, and entered the hall. The door to his mother’s room was still closed, and he walked into the kitchen, tying up the bag of garbage, so that he could throw it away.

Mych? That you? You up already? His mother’s sleepy voice came from behind her closed door.

It’s me, Momma, he replied, walking over to open her door and greet her when he heard a man’s muffled voice from behind the door. Not another one, he thought disgustedly, and turned to walk back to the bag of garbage.

Mychal’s mother suddenly appeared at the door to her room, quickly pulling her robe around her. She was in her early thirties, and (despite the early hour) very attractive. You goin’ to work? she asked.

Pretty soon, Mychal replied, heading to the door with the garbage.

Wait! his mother requested, turning back inside her bedroom and asking the unseen visitor, Brice, honey; can I borrow a couple dollars to give my son for lunch?

Hell, no! came a sleepy male voice from inside the bedroom. "He’s your kid; you give him money!"

Mychal turned and said angrily to the unseen voice, I don’t need nothin’ from you! I got a job! He walked out the door, slamming it behind him, dragging the bag of garbage to the steps.

I don’t know why we got to live in these stupid apartments, he thought with fury, as he carried the bag to the large garbage bin in the parking lot. We’re the only black people in the whole complex; they ain’t even nobody else my age here. He tossed the bag into the garbage bin, and then headed back to his apartment.

As he rounded the corner, he was surprised to see a white kid sitting at the foot of the steps. The kid looked startled as Mychal approached the steps to walk upstairs, and Mychal thought, Here we go again; another white person who thinks I’m gonna stab him.

Wow, you’re tall! the kid said, almost in awe.

Not that tall, Mychal replied, shrugging his shoulders. Only 6’ 4."

Do you play basketball? the kid asked, sliding over to let Mychal onto the stairs.

Nah, Mychal said, trying to ignore the kid, as he squeezed past him on the stairs.

Why not? the kid asked, standing up and looking after Mychal as he climbed the steps.

"Why don’t you play basketball?" Mychal said, turning around and starting to get irritated. He headed back up the stairs.

I don’t know how, the kid replied. I mean, I watch it on TV a lot, but I can’t play.

Oh, come on, Mychal called back from the top of the stairs. Can’t your Dad show you how to shoot a few hoops?

I don’t ever see my Dad, the kid replied softly. He left us when I was three. He’s got another family now.

Mychal stopped, suddenly sympathetic, and said quietly, I know how you feel, kid. He asked, What’s your name?

My name’s Jonathan, the kid offered enthusiastically, But everyone except my Mom calls me Jon; that’s spelled J—O—N.

Hey, Jon, Mychal replied, walking down the stairs, and extending his hand to shake. The kid looked confused by Mychal’s half-cupped hand, and after a moment of fumbling, they settled on a conventional handshake. My name’s Mychal; that’s spelled M-Y-C-H-A-L. Mychal looked at the apartment directly below his and asked Jon, You moving in below us?

Yeah, Jonathan replied.

You’ll hate it here—it’s boring; there’s hardly no other kids here, Mychal said. How come you out here by yourself?

I’m just waiting for my Mom to come back from the office, Jonathan replied. She’s getting the keys.

Just then a woman in her mid-thirties with long, curly blond hair wearing a sweat suit came from around the corner, and said apologetically, Sorry it took so long, Jonathan. She jingled the keys in her hand as she walked up, then saw Mychal standing next to Jonathan. She smiled at him broadly and said, Good morning; do you live here?

Yep, Mychal replied. Me and my Momma live right above you.

She held out her hand to Mychal, and after they shook hands, she said, I’m Rosemary St. Nichols, and this guy blocking the stairway is…

Jon, Mychal replied swiftly. We already done that bit. I’m Mychal Johnson—Mychal with a ‘Y.’

It’s nice to meet you, Mychal, Rosemary said. I’ll look forward to meeting your mother. And if we ever disturb you, please just let me know. Rosemary tousled Jonathan’s hair and added with a smile, This boy turns up the volume on his computer games too loud, sometimes. Looking at her son, Rosemary sighed and said, We need to start unpacking. She tied up her hair behind her head with a rubber band.

See you later; peace out, Jon, Mychal said, as he turned and bounded up the stairs. Entering his own apartment again, he switched on the TV, and lay down on the couch. No college basketball games were on yet, so he flipped through the channels idly. About five minutes later, he heard some strange scraping sounds outside, so he got up and looked out the front window, and saw Rosemary struggling to drag a sofa across the grass to her apartment. Jonathan was trying to assist her, but he was too small to be of much help.

"Ah, hell, no," Mychal said, heading quickly for the door and opening it. Stupid lady, he thought, Tryin’ to move a couch all by herself. Standing at the top of the stairs, he called down to her, Hey…you need a hand?

Rosemary looked up to Mychal and wiped sweat from her forehead with a sleeve, then said, Well.if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Mychal; I’d be glad to pay you for doing it.

Pay? Mychal said, with a grin. "Now you talkin’ my language, and he came quickly down the stairs. Looking at the couch that Rosemary had managed to get from the parking lot to the grass, he asked in wonderment, How’d you get this thing so far?"

Rosemary pointed to a large section of cardboard that one end of the couch was resting on. I put one end on that cardboard, so I can pick up the other end and just slide it across the sidewalk and the grass.

That’s pretty smart, Mychal said, nodding appreciatively, as he went to pick up the other end of the couch.

You have to learn a few tricks, to survive as a single Mom, she replied with a smile, before adding with a grimace, I have to admit that I was wondering if I was going to be able to get this thing into the apartment by myself, though. She nodded at Jonathan and said in a teasing voice, Jonathan’s eleven years old, but he’s better on his computer than he is at manual labor.

Let’s do it, Mychal commanded, and the two of them picked up the couch, and Mychal backed up with it until they had it inside the apartment, putting it down against the wall that Rosemary indicated.

That’s the heaviest thing, she said with relief. I’m feeling better about this already. For the next hour, they transferred all the furniture and boxes from the moving van into the apartment. That’s enough, Rosemary said to Mychal, puffing and sitting down on a box to catch her breath. We can rearrange everything by ourselves; I was only worried about getting everything inside so I can get the van back to Oakland before they charge me for an extra day. Jonathan had disappeared into his room, and Rosemary said to Mychal with genuine appreciation, "Mychal, thank you so much for your help; it would have taken us all day to do it by ourselves. Sheepishly, she said as she opened her purse, I need to run to the ATM machine, because I used the last of my cash to buy us breakfast this morning. Is twenty dollars enough for now? she said, handing him a bill. Apologetically, she added, I’ll give you more after I get paid next Friday, and…"

Ahh, don’t sweat it; you don’t owe me nothin’—we neighbors, Mychal said generously. It only took a hour; I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ anyway.

Have you eaten? Rosemary asked. I was going to make some hot dogs, or I can fix you a bologna and cheese sandwich.

Mychal shrugged his shoulders and said, That’d be cool; either one.

Then please, sit down; I’ll have brunch ready in just a minute, she said, pleased, bringing him a can of soda and handing him the television remote control. We don’t have cable, I’m afraid.

We don’t, neither, Mychal replied, turning on the set and sitting down on the couch.

Jonathan came running into the room, saying in a frantic tone, Mom, I can’t connect to the Internet; it says there’s no dial tone.

I told you the phone won’t be turned on until Monday, she said patiently.

Oh, yeah, he replied, disappointed, and went over to sit on the couch next to Mychal to watch TV.

Rosemary shook her head as she continued making their sandwiches, and said to Mychal with a smile, He thinks he can’t do without his computer games for 48 hours. Do you play computer games, Mychal?

I ain’t got no computer.

Well, I’m sure that Jonathan will be glad to share his with you, she replied. He hasn’t had a ‘live’ person to play games with for quite a while.

Mychal suddenly realized from the television program coming on that it was 10:00, and he exclaimed, Oh, shoot; I got to go to work—I’m late! He jumped up from the couch.

Wait! Rosemary called out, quickly wrapping up Mychal’s two sandwiches in wax paper, and placing them in a plastic bag along with another can of soda. Here, take this with you, she said, as she handed it to him.

Thanks, he said, as he headed out the door and to the stairs.

"No, thank you, she said, calling out the door after him. I’ll look forward to meeting your mother."

A minute later, Mychal came racing down the steps carrying his bike and his bag of sandwiches. He put the bike on the ground, then he hopped on it and began to ride off, calling back to the two people waving goodbye to him, See you later, Rosemary; peace out, Jon-Jon.

See you later, Mychal—peace out! Jonathan replied, as Mychal disappeared around the corner.

Rosemary put her arm around her son’s shoulder, and they returned inside. As Jonathan turned off the TV, she went back into the kitchen and put their sandwiches on plates, and they went and sat on the steps outside the apartment, and looked around at their new neighborhood. It was one of River City’s older apartment complexes (well-established, the advertisement had put it; but at least Rosemary could afford a 2-bedroom unit here), but was maintained very well. There were two rows of two-story apartments facing each other, four apartments on each level, with a grassy courtyard in the middle, and a wide stairway at either end, leading up to the walkway connecting all the upstairs apartments. She asked Jonathan, It’s not too bad, is it? I know it’s a lot smaller than Dad and Mom’s place.

It looks neat, Mom, Jonathan replied. I like it.

Rosemary looked at her watch, and said to Jonathan, We’ve got an hour before we need to take the moving van back to Oakland and get our car to drive back here in time to beat the traffic. So that gives us just enough time for one more thing, and she stood up, and led Jonathan back into the apartment. Opening a box that she had carefully placed next to the front window, she began pulling out strings of Christmas lights from it. Calling out to Jonathan, she said, You can give me a hand putting up these lights.

Jonathan objected, Mom, you can’t hang up Christmas lights in the window here—we’re in an apartment! He picked up their plates, and put them in the dishwasher.

I’m not using any nails, she countered. Your grandparents were Irish, and putting up Christmas lights in the window is an old Irish tradition. Families would put lights in the window at night to show the parish priest the way to their houses, hoping he would pay them a visit on the holy night. Patting Jonathan’s arm, she said, In our family, we’ve always put lights up in our window the weekend after Thanksgiving, and this year will be no exception.

Yeah, I know, Jonathan said quietly. "But it seems…well, different this year."

Putting her arm around Jonathan’s shoulder, she hugged him and said gently, I know it does, honey; this is our first year without Grandma and Grandpa, and we’re not living in their nice, big house anymore. Patting him on the arm reassuringly, she said in a bright tone, But you know as well as I do that Grandma and Grandpa would want us to keep up our family tradition! Rosemary showed Jonathan a series of suction cups she had bought to fasten the lights to the window, and said, With these, we don’t need any nails—the lights stick directly to the window.

Jonathan fingered one of the suction cups, and said respectfully, That’s a pretty neat idea.

Thanks, she replied with a smile, as she began running the string of colorful lights around the interior of their front window, attaching them to the window with the suction cups. Hand me that string over there, will you? Showing a little bit of enthusiasm for the first time, Jonathan complied, and they soon had all the lights up.

How are you going to get the Santa and the Christmas Star in the window? We can’t hang them up, Jonathan asked, holding these two plug-in displays in his hands.

Rosemary answered him by using a pair ofpliers to bend some clothes hangers so that the displays could stand up supported by them in the window sill. Voila! she said, triumphantly, as she adjusted their angle. Let’s go check them out, she said, as she plugged the lights in.

It’s not dark yet, Jonathan observed.

We can still see how they look, Rosemary replied, and they went outside and stood looking appreciatively for a minute at the colorful display in their front window.

It looks good, Mom, Jonathan admitted. Rosemary nodded, then looked around at the rest of the sixteen units in the apartment complex, and observed, Looks like we’re the first ones to get their lights up.

Mom, we’re always the first ones to put lights up, Jonathan said, rolling his eyes. Hardly anyone else even bothers to put up Christmas lights these days.

Standing behind her son and hugging him with both arms, she said as she stared proudly at the lights in their own window, Well, we like to keep worthwhile traditions alive in the St. Nichols household. She patted Jonathan’s shoulder and added meaningfully, We’re both making a fresh start here in River City, and the Christmas season is as good a time as any to do it!

CHAPTER 2

AND THERE WAS LIGHT

(Saturday mid-afternoon, November 26th)

Later that day, Rosemary and Jonathan were walking back to their apartment after having returned the moving van and driving back from Oakland. They went inside, and Rosemary turned on the Christmas lights in the front window, and then returned outside to inspect their arrangement again for a moment. She then saw a black man emerge from the apartment directly above theirs, who began to walk down the steps.

Good afternoon, Rosemary said brightly. You must be Mychal’s father. We just moved in downstairs, and.

The man looked at her insolently as he reached the bottom of the steps, and said, Lady, I ain’t nobody’s nothin’! He laughed and walked away from her, toward the parking lot.

Embarrassed, Rosemary called after him, My mistake; sorry to bother you.

A few moments later, a young black woman (Mychal’s mother, presumably) also emerged from the upstairs apartment. She stood looking out over the balcony and lit a cigarette.

Hi, Rosemary called up to her. My name is Rosemary St. Nichols; my son Jonathan and I just moved in downstairs.

The woman on the balcony nodded and said disinterestedly, How you doin’? She took another drag of her cigarette, then impatiently ground it out on the railing, tossed the butt into a nearby ashtray, and turned around to go back inside her apartment.

It was nice to meet you, Rosemary called out. See you later.

*         *         *         *

Ten minutes later, Rosemary was carrying a plastic bag of garbage outside and looking confused, when Mychal came riding up on his bike.

Hey, Rosemary, he called out to her, getting off his bike and walking with it up to her.

Hey, Mychal, she replied. Where do we go to throw garbage away?

I’ll show you, he said, leading her to where the trash bins were. He lifted the lid up, and waited for her to toss the bag in.

You just throw it in here? she asked, doubtfully. You don’t have to lock it up, or anything?

Nope; just toss it in, he replied. Ain’t nobody gonna steal no garbage, anyway.

Rosemary heaved the bag into the bin, and then said, Thanks, Mychal, as she dusted off her hands. Sheepishly, she said, I’ve never lived in an apartment before. Even in college, I shared a rental house with three girls.

Where you use to live? Mychal asked, as they walked back to their apartments.

In Oakland, she replied. We were living with my folks, until they passed away this last year—within three months of each other.

How’d they die? Mychal asked bluntly.

Cancer, she said, shrugging her shoulders. They were both in their sixties and lifelong heavy smokers, so it wasn’t unexpected. They were both pretty far advanced when the doctors caught it, and they passed away after just a few months, which I suppose is kind of a blessing—cancer patients sometimes linger on for years, suffering terribly. With a weak smile, she added, I just wish we could have afforded to keep the house; but we had to sell it to pay off their medical bills. They arrived at the steps leading up to Mychal’s apartment, and stopped.

Pointing at the River City Florist logo on Mychal’s cap, Rosemary asked, You just getting off work?

Yeah, he admitted. I deliver for a flower shop just down the street.

That makes it convenient, she replied. So you’re out of high school?

Yeah, he replied. I mean, no, but almost. I’m still goin’, kind of, but it’s not like all the time, or anything. Seeing her puzzled expression, he added with a touch of pride, I turn eighteen in January, and I got a full-time job at the shop all lined up.

Rosemary considered asking another question, then thought better of it and said, I met your Mom earlier. She seems nice.

She OK, Mychal said noncommittally. He then noticed the colorful Christmas lights in her front window. Pleased by his attention, she asked, Do you like them?

They cool, he said with a nod.

"Does