Her name was Jennifer
Madrid.
This kind of story could
happen anywhere, especially in this world, and most especially within our fair
nation. Jennifer was a young woman of
about seventeen, just short of her eighteenth birthday. She had loving parents, a good home, a kitty
she always loved, and she’d always been surrounded by friends. But despite all that, she’d always thought
her life was hollow, and too demanding.
She wanted her freedom.
And so, now she walks the
cold streets of the city alone, late at night, after having just run away from
home three days ago and a hundred miles away.
It was that time of year
now, practically Christmas, and in a northern city where it snowed. As it was now, it was very cold outside, and
Jennifer’s limited winter clothing wasn’t keeping her nearly warm enough.
She needed shelter, food,
water, something… and soon, and so it came as a matter of a blessing when she
stopped on the sidewalk and turned, only to see a homeless shelter before her.
Is that what I am now? She asked
herself. Homeless?
Swallowing her pride, she
stepped forward and pushed the door open.
A blast of blessed warm heat
greeted her immediately as she stepped into the great hall that occupied the
inside of the dilapidated old building.
There was evidence that it had been a converted catholic chapel; like
old religious icons that were still remarkably shiny. Everything else was very clean, and it was still quite warm.
Despite the chill outside,
despite the time of night, and despite the time of year, there were few people
here; most of them bundled up on cots, or being administered to by the
occasional kind soul. Jennifer guessed
that homeless didn’t remain homeless for long during the winter in the north. They were either dead homeless people or had
managed to move south.
Jennifer bit her lower lip
for a moment, considering her options; and it was her pride that rose again
that forced her to turn around toward the door. But even as she turned, there was a tall man standing there,
wearing old clothes that looked thread-bare and worn; as if they were all a
hundred years old. An old vest, with a
pocket watch hanging from the pocket, a cardigan, and a pair of pants that
looked as if they had been tailored specifically for him. But even those had been worn, and there were
patches on the knees.
“Out from the cold?” he
asked, his eyes looking at her most thoughtfully. Most probingly.
He had a deep, solid English
accent, but there was something different about it. She’d heard English accents before, and she had learned to
differentiate between and uneducated accent, and an educated one. His was educated, and sounded as if he were
lord of the manor somewhere.
“I-I guess,” she managed.
He smiled in turn, and
placed a hand on her shoulder to lead her back into the shelter.
“Have you nowhere to go?” he
asked as he led her to a cot.
This time she simply shook
her head.
“Good, for neither do
I. You just sit yourself right here and
I’ll go get you some soup. Made it
myself… it was me nanny’s ole’ recipe.
Nice and hearty… guaranteed to fill you up.”
Unbidden, her knees bent and
she found herself sitting upon the cot, the weight of her bag unfolding to rest
upon it beside her, and her hands lifted to remove her hat and scarf. The old Englishman retreated and then
returned with a bowl of soup large enough to practically mix dough in, and a
big spoon that would get the chunks out.
He placed it in her hands once she had gotten her coat off, and she took
a bite. And then another and another…
before she knew it she was asking for seconds and thirds.
“That’s a rather hearty
appetite you got there.” English asked, cocking his head inquisitively to one
side while a tiny little smile split his age-old features. “Where are you from
young maiden?”
She looked at him. His face was young, but those eyes told of
wisdom that was older than he looked.
“A million miles from here,
I guess…” she answered instead of the actual truth.
Englishman’s smile faded
slightly.
“A runaway… aren’t you?” he
said quietly, and when she looked up at him, she saw only the deeply fixed gaze
that seemed to be looking straight into her head as well as her heart.
She lowered her head, and
then nodded.
There was a pause and then a
warm smile crossed his face, and he reached out to pat Jen’s shoulder.
“Then before you continue
being a runaway, why don’t you stay here and celebrate Christmas with us.” His
smile broadened. “It’s quite cold outside, and I’m sure you don’t want to do
the usual thing and find a gutter to lay on for the night.”
Jen nodded, and then felt a
light tap on her shoulder. Someone, an
old, practically toothless woman, was offering a big loaf of unsliced Italian
bread to her, along with a plate of cheeses.
Jennifer accepted it with a
nod of thanks and then turned to face English again, but he had stood up and
was attending to the Christmas tree that was nearby. Taking a break of the bread, she rose to go talk to him while he
hung some of the most humble of decorations onto a tree that was rather full of
thick, green foliage.
“Cut it out of the woods
today.” English said. “Do you know of the symbolism of Christmas my young
friend?” he asked, looking down at her as he finished hanging one of the
ornaments.
Jen shook her head no.
“Practically two thousand
years ago to our best guesses, a child was born, and laid within a manger. One could not ask for a more humble
beginning than that. To be lain within
a feed trough, with only a swaddling cloth for a blanket.
“Despite his humble
beginnings, he was always filled with love, always filled with forgiveness,
even up to his death, when after having been tortured and nailed to his cross,
he begged the Creator to look kindly upon them.”
“’Forgive them Father, for
they know not what they do…’” Jennifer stated, finding a seat on yet another
empty cot.
English nodded.
“Every December
twenty-fifth, we celebrate his birth.
I, on the other hand, go so far as to celebrate his life… especially
after I think about my past.” He looked down at his left hand for a moment, and
then reached down and picked up another ornament to place on the tree. “A
Christmas tree is more that a thing to put presents under, it represents
eternal life, growth and renewal.
Especially with the evergreen tree such as this pine, whose needles
forever point heavenward.
“They can live for thousands
of years, y’know.”
Jen shook her head to
reflect that she indeed did not know, and marveled at how full this particular
tree seemed to be despite how poor everyone around them was. Her family used a fake tree, one that was
eight feet tall, and fit nicely within the open space of their family room.
But then she blinked and
watched as English took a small angel out of a cardboard box, unwrapping it
carefully from its newspaper, and then lifted it to the top of the tree. It was
missing its wings, but it had a trump lifted to its mouth. It was also of a bright, bright gold color;
well tended and immaculate despite the loss of its wings.
“On that night,” he
continued. “An angel went forth to give good tidings of great joy, lifting up
his trump while the host of heaven sang and celebrated the coming of the Lord
of the Universe. It was an angel that
guided the shepherds to Christ’s makeshift cradle, and it was an angel, that lifted
aloft his trump, and proudly proclaimed the day.”
He made a minute adjustment
to be sure that it was straight, and then opened a box of old candy canes and
began placing them on the tree.
“For a very long time, these
were thought of just as treats. But a
cane in some cultures stands for wisdom, but it was also the tool that the
shepherds used to bring back lost sheep.
Every sheep was precious to the shepherd, no matter the color of their
wool. The shepherd would leave the
entire flock to go get just the one lost lamb.”
Jennifer took a bite from
her bread, watching the tall Englishman, forgetting about her troubles for the
moment as she learned about the true
meaning of Christmas.
“Those lambs, each unto the
very last, carried with them a bell.” He said and five small tinkle bells were
pulled out of the box and placed onto the tree with care. “They ring so that no
matter where that sheep is, the shepherd could find it, and bring it back to be
among the others.”
Then he lifted a star – a
Star of David – from within the box, and hung it just below the angel.
“As the shepherds gathered,
within the heavens shone forth a new star, brighter and more beautiful than any
other star within the firmament, to point as if with the finger of God as to
where his Only Begotten Son lay. Three
wise men, each from a different corner of the world, followed that star to give
presents of great worth to the Virgin Mary and to her husband.
“Christ gave back a gift,
however, whose worth was worth more than all of creation: Redemption. Here, we are meager and humble people, with
little money. So we share our gifts,
with food enough for all, and kindness and love. This is a holy place despite that the church it had been so long
ago is no longer. For here, all are
equal. Here, no mater what your crime,
you are capable of forgiveness and being forgiven.”
For the second time he
looked at his left hand, and this time he clenched it into a fist so tight,
that Jennifer thought that she could see the knuckles turn white and hear the
knuckles crack. Then he looked at her
again and his fingers unclenched, and his smile returned.
“I have something for you.”
He said, and from within his pocket he pulled out a neatly folded red ribbon
made of silk. Then taking her hand
gently within his own, he tied it delicately about her wrist.
“What’s this…?” she began.
“A red bow, tied
together. Red, to signify the sacrifice
of a lamb without blemish. A bow, to be
as a promise that no matter what your past has been, you may always be forgiven.
“A man named John gave this
ribbon to me a long time ago. I’ve not
seen him for awhile, but I keep hoping he’ll come back here.”
Jen looked at the bow,
feeling strangely numb as she swallowed the last bit of the bread that she had
had in her mouth when English had presented her with her gift. Somehow, it felt more precious that any
other gift she’d ever had before.
“Now,” he grinned rather
boyishly. “For the last touch.” He reached into the cardboard box of newspapers
one last time and removed a candle in its holder, and a wreathe of holly.
He then stepped agilely over
to a small table by the door, placed the candle and holder on the table with
the wreathed over and then around it so that it surrounded the candle’s
base. Then with a deft movement of his
hand, like a magicians pass, he lit the wick.
Jen didn’t even see the match he had used.
“A candle flame is the
reflection of a star.” He stated sagely. “In many times it is the only thing
between the light and the darkness. For
as long as mankind had used ships to sail the sea, even now in this age of
computers and satellites, they could look up into the stars and navigate their
way to where ever they were going.
“Especially on their way
home.
“And finally, the wreathe… a
symbol of everlasting love. Eternal,
without a beginning or and end. God had
loved us all so much, that he had sent his son to die for us. And the son loved us so much, that he
suffered through nothing less than ultimate suffering, taking our sins with him
when he died.”
Jennifer watched him for a
moment, and then turned her head away in shame.
“The love of our Father in
Heaven… it is much like the love of one’s parents, is it not young one? Is there no one who would miss you tonight,
no one who cares for you?” she remained motionless. “No parents?”
Jen felt her jaw set, and
then she rounded on English.
“What do I need parents for?” she asked hotly,
lifting her head to meet his gaze with a heated one of her own. “They treat me
like a child, don’t listen to what I say, don’t care what I think. I never want to go back there again!”
“Ah, the wonders of
post-pubescent cruelty of the child from the parents.” He turned and gestured to the people
gathered in the hall about him. “What corner of this world does such… cruelty…
not happen?”
Jennifer looked to the
others around her, and she rose to get a better look.
English led her to where an
old man, a wino, was curled up on a cot.
He repositioned the blanket on top of him.
“J.J. here ran away from
home when he was twelve. Over fifty
years ago. He tried to return home when
he was sixteen, but it appears both of his parents were killed shortly after he
had left. He was an orphan for a few
years, ran away from the orphanage, and has lived on the streets for the rest
of his life. The only decent meal he
ever gets comes from when someone is kind enough to give him a few dollars for
it. He doesn’t have much longer to
live.
“Cancer you see.”
Jennifer swallowed as she
looked down at the old man, and felt her heart sink into the acidic pit of her
stomach as he coughed. It was a ragged,
strained cough, the kind of cough usually heard in the terminal wards of
hospitals. English straightened and then
gestured toward the old woman who had given Jen the gift of bread earlier.
“They call her Great
Mama. She was born in the gutter
because of the Great Depression. Her
mother never knew who the father was, and even the mother didn’t live past
Mama’s eighth birthday. Mama’s been
living here out of the kindness of the owner’s heart and it’s because of her
that this place is always so clean. Her
biggest regret was that she never knew her parents as much as she wished.”
And then English placed his
hand upon Jennifer’s shoulders and turned her one last time to where a young
woman sat eating some of the stew/soup he had made. “Angelica ‘Angel’
Malloy. Once a… a ‘lady of negotiable
affection.’”
“A prostitute.” Jen
corrected, noticing how he stumbled around calling her that.
“Not any more.” English
said. “She’s contracted aids, the plague if this century. The doctors have given her less than four
more months to live.”
“So… So what’re you
saying? That I’m gonna wind up like
Angel there?”
English looked at her for
the longest time before finally answering. “Perhaps. I’ve seen it happen before my eyes millions of times before. Even the woman I’d loved once upon a time
ago, despite that I had offered to care for her, begged her to marry me, still
sold her body for money. Needless to
say, it drove me mad. She…” he choked.
“Died too. In the most horrible of
ways: in the dark, betrayed, alone and by the cut of a knife.
“That was a long time ago.”
Jen stared at him. He was crying.
“I’m sorry.” She said,
lowering her head and sitting down on her original cot again beside her bag.
“All of us here have sinned
in one way or another… some of us more so than others. We all come here, year after year, hoping to
see the man that had saved us all.”
“Who… Christ?” Jennifer
asked, looking up at English again. All
of a sudden, looking up into this man’s face, she suddenly wanted to go home.
“No. But someone who is very close to him.”
He sat down before her on
another cot, smiling at her bewildered look.
“Do you believe in
miracles?” he asked, and she slowly nodded. “That is good. Then the story I’m about to tell you, you’ll
find as truth.
“Christ was followed by many people, but his twelve apostles were the closest ever to him. One of those men, a man called John, John the Beloved, asked for immortality to do the Lord’s work until he came again onto the Earth.
“In a single person’s life
time, they touch countless lives. John,
never able to taste death, has touched millions of lives, including all of
ours. Especially mine.”
“Why especially yours?”
Jennifer asked, looking excitedly at him.
“To believe in miracles, one
must also believe in curses. Unlike the
others here, I have been cursed… and blessed.
Would you care to hazard a guess at how old I am?”
Jennifer looked at him, her
mind clicking and whirling, settling on the odd sensation as to what he was
getting at. He was actually saying that
he was an immortal. But a cursed
immortal?!
English continued, but
looked at the Christmas tree instead of her.
“John came for me during the
start of winter. I had to escape, and
it took me two whole months to get here, to the United States. And here, within this very church,” he
looked up and splayed his hands to the old architecture that he held with such
reverence. “Here, he found me, and healed me by showing me my sins, showing me
what I’d done, and then telling me that I was forgiven of them.”
His eyes lowered to his left
hand, Jen saw, which was shaking, and he was blinking back tears.
“I was forgiven of them!” a
tear traced its way from the corner of his one visible eye to his jaw. “Every
night, I pray for those women to forgive me for what I’d done.”
“What could you have
possibly done that was so bad?” Jennifer asked, feeling a little scared now.
“Something so bad, that I
have lived for over two hundred years in my search for penance. Two hundred years!” He paused, seeing her
confusion. “I have blood on my hands, young maiden. Five maidens – prostitutes just like Angel over there was – are
dead because of me. And since I had met
John, I’ve not been able to hold or even touch a knife or anything even
resembling a knife in… in such a long time.
“I use forks to cut my meat
and to butter my bread.
“London. It seems like such a long time ago.
“The police had been on my
trail, and I eluded them, went home, took what I could, and headed for
America. Here, in this tiny town, in
this very church, I met John. I’d still
been filled with hate and loathing, I felt betrayed by the world for
persecuting me instead of raising me up.
Then John showed me what I had done, and for three days, I wept and
begged Christ for forgiveness. John
came to me again then, and gave me a choice:
“‘Penance you must give for
your sins.’ He had said. ‘So I give you a choice. You may remain as you are, and die, and pay for your sins for the
rest of eternity, or you may live for until Christ comes again, and seek your
penance until that time.’
“Back then I thought that I
was a savior, that I was brining release to the world, of removing the taint
from it, by making it pure. I had
illusions of becoming a great man, of being remembered as a saint by my fellow
man. But instead of being revered, I
was talked about with fear and distaste.
I’d been a lord in England, but no longer. I’d had wealth and everything that my heart could desire. All gone.
“Instead of being remembered
by my true name… as a savior and a saint, the world would only know me as…” he
turned to look at her then, ever so slowly, so that she could see the pain in
his eyes. And then he spoke a name, a name
that was indeed struck her with fear. “Jack.”
******
The bus ride home was filled
with silence. From his own pocket, Jack
had fed her, brought her to the bus depot, and then sent her home after calling
her parents that she was coming home.
All she could remember is of how kind a soul that man had been, and how
unfair it was to bear such a name remembered with only distaste, loathing and
fear.
‘His curse,’ as he explained
it, was to feel that sting each time someone called him by his world proclaimed
name. Over, and over, and over again. Perhaps in this day an age where the sins of
Jack the Ripper had been forgotten was perhaps some reward for the work he was
doing. That he was definitely earning
his penance. For those she had spent
that Christmas night with had revered him as much as they did John. Though they called him Jack, it wasn’t with
any of the dread she had thought of with that name before meeting him in
person. Jennifer even called him Jack,
and he smiled at her whenever she did, though there was still a hurt look in
the back of his eyes.
He said he didn’t remember
his true name.
For eight hours she sat
unmoving, thinking about Jack, and hating herself how she had screamed when she
realized who he was, moving only when the bus stopped and everyone else had
pilled out, and then only after the driver nudged her out of her daze.
Gathering up her things, she
left the bus, and was swept up by both of her parents, and the three of them
weeping together. Jack had shown her
what she had done, and she had made her penance, and had gone home. Her parents were so happy that she was back
that they didn’t have the heart to punish her.
Jennifer made over a hundred
dollars in money sent to her from her many relatives that Christmas
morning. Taking it all, she bundled it
up in an envelope, and put it in a cardboard box, filled with a evergreen
sprig, a candle, a holly wreathe, a star, an angel, five bells, a candy cane,
and a new, red ribbon. She then sent it
as fast as she could back to that tiny homeless shelter, addressing simply: