The Needy Tree
By Jack Donovan
Libra Wilhoite shuddered, meeting the cold December air as she neared the glass doors. Automatically, she stroked the icy switches that darkened the church. Snow and carpet became one as light bounced through the glass. Balking at the prospect of leaving, she massaged her scarf one more time, glancing back over her shoulder at the moonlit trimmed boxes stacked beneath the dark tree. Cleaning the church today, as she did every Wednesday, painfully reminded her of her obligations to the “Needy Tree.” She couldn’t miss all those gifts waiting to be distributed—hadn’t forgotten, even though that was the story she told herself. Feeling ill, she shivered again, praying it was the cold, not the guilt that troubled her huge frame.
Money was tighter this year than usual. Now, the angels were cleaning for Ms. Hedy since cancer took her in October. As well, the Fosters were doing their own cleaning since Mr. Herb had retired. That only gave her more time to spend at the Goodwill store, sorting and tagging, but no extra money; and more time to take care of Nettie. In fact that was where she was going now.
Libra had no income except her shrinking cleaning money, so she had procrastinated about the gift for the tree until tonight. Now it was too late. Tomorrow the gifts were to be carried by the youth group to the needy folk of the community so it was too late. Too late, after all she wouldn’t even be paid until next week. Truthfully, she didn’t even know how she was going to make it to pay day, but even so, she knew she had it good compared Nettie.
Libra’s heart ached for Nettie, tied to the bed, knowing she was dying, confined to the “compartment.” That was always their private joke because her place was too small to be an apartment. Nettie usually slapped limply at her thigh, and softly chuckled, forgetting her pain for a moment. Nettie loved and at the same time, needed Libra who had been doing for her for years without pay. Tears came to Libra’s eyes as she pushed her fur-topped boots through the snow. The tears, now, were not for herself, but as moist testament to the pain she felt realizing obligations shirked. Jesus would forgive her, she knew that, but it wouldn’t be easy—never was—to forgive herself. Right now she had to at least forget it, as there was shopping to do for Nettie’s dinner.
* * * * * * * *
Billy Ray Williams had done little illegal in his 38 years—and he believed, or at least told himself, that his plans now weren’t illegal. This year had been tough for Billy. Ace Realty hadn’t come through with a raise, but Celestine had come through with number 5. The apartment they gave him, as janitor/manager of the complex, was a real plus, but with five kids and one set of parents, in a two bedroom apartment was hardly living high. Luck turned bad in July, the side job at the car wash ended. And then there was the uncomfortable repayment to Percy for Tammy’s tonsils. As well, the payments on the car were breaking his back. By Thanksgiving, he actually got sick to his stomach worrying about Christmas. He couldn’t put any more on credit, and he couldn’t eat thinking about it.
That’s when the idea hit him. He’d been talking to Libra Wilhoite—apartment 3A—and it was as if God had answered his needs. There were 2-3 dozen gifts laying in a church, waiting to be distributed to the needy. The key he copied from Libra’s original, while she was at Nettie’s, was hot in his hand as he waited in the cold. At first, the idea kept him hot in spite of the snow, but he began to get cold as he waited for Libra to finish. The longer he sat in the cold, on top of the trash barrels, the more determined he became in his rationalization; the more scared he got.
The lights in the church went out, but it was long moments later, that the doors opened. Libra locked the church, then launched out through the snow. Billy Ray waited until she was out of sight before he moved. Snow had begun to fall again. In the dim silence, he could hear the large flakes land on the can lids. The crocheted veil of snowflakes hid his movements, as he applied the key. Moments later—he was inside.
There were gifts, just as Libra had said—actually more than she said. He was pleased with himself that he brought an extra trash bag; three were filled before he felt the fear. It wasn’t from exertion that he began to sweat. With breathing accelerating to deep rasping snorts, he approached the doors with his heavy sacks. Almost falling through the doors—one sack tumbling to the ground—Billy looked as if he was being chased by God Himself.
The cold revived his determination, but energy was still shy, as he trotted—sacks bumping against his legs—heading for his car down the street. Once the gifts were safe in the trunk, Billy Ray sat puffing and wheezing behind the wheel for a full five minutes before he felt capable of driving home.
Later that night, after Celestine and the kids were fast asleep, Billy Ray brought the gifts in to look them over. Brief identifying notes on the gifts suggested the general characters of the needy.
Working with only a splash of a street light coming through the front window, Billy quickly added names to the packages as he removed the notes. A couple of the nieces and nephews would have to accept adult gifts, but at least they were getting something from “Santa Bill.” He polished the story he had ready for Celestine, about winning big on a bet—she’d buy that—when his thoughts hooked on Libra. If it hadn’t been for her, none of this would have been possible. So that deserved a reward, Billy decided. He selected one of the thin heavy gifts and wrote on it: To Libra from “Santa Claus,” and then propped it against her door. Carefully, he refolded the trash bags before slipping into bed next to little Eddie, Tammy and Celestine. The cottony snow was still falling, covering almost all of the basement windows.
* * * * * * * *
Libra was tired, but mostly cold and hungry, as she slouched down the stairs to her apartment. She carried Nettie’s dirty laundry, piled high in a plastic basket that kept her from seeing Billy’s gift. She even missed the noise it made hitting the floor as she snapped the light, but there was no avoiding it, wedged on the jamb, preventing the door from reclosing. Dropping the laundry basket, she paused for a moment in consternation, unsure of reality, in her blurred sight. Finally, she bent painfully to retrieve the colorful box, carried it to the kitchen, fished in her purse for her glasses, and read the simple salutation: “Santa Clause?” She laughed, “Will wonders never cease?” Carefully, so as to save the ribbon and the expensive silver paper, Libra removed the wrappings. Though the white ripple finish box gave no clue to the contents, she knew it was too heavy to be a blouse, stocking or underwear. Fully revealed, it turned out to be something she had always wanted, but could never seriously consider. The combs, brushes, and hand mirror were antique in appearance, tarnished silver with pearlescent inlay. Gazing at herself in the mirror, she picked absently at her hair, as tears backed out of the corners of her eyes, and fell tumbling to the sweaty breasts below.
Libra allowed herself five full minutes of reverie, before she replaced the marvelous tools and rewrapped the box. She knew, automatically, what she had to—wanted to do—would do.
* * * * * * * *
Father Stanley was the first one to notice the loss when he entered the church early on Christmas Eve day. He quickly retraced his footsteps to the rectory next door to share surprise and pain with the Pastor, who at that moment, was heavily involved with his cinnamon oatmeal.
“What?” Father Pat growled through his gruel. “Gone? How could they be gone—I’ve heard of God providing surprise gifts, but stealing them? You must be daft, man. Maybe John and his lads already picked up the lot to deliver. . .
Father Stan said that couldn’t be true because he, Stanley, had the list of needy in his pocket, to give as instructions to John. So together they bustled to the scene of the crime, where they spent several minutes pacing and hand wringing to no avail.
“Well, they’re gone,” the Pastor announced to Stan, who was already aware. Stanley nodded.
“Whoever took them, needed them more than our needy,” the Pastor continued. “Maybe it’s God’s will—obviously, God’s will—but how come He left one single gift?”
Stanley’s shoulders and eyebrows rose, sharing the question. “What shall we do with this one?” Stanley squeaked.
“Can we tell who it‘s for?” Pat requested.
“I’ve got the list.”
“Then look it up.”
“Right”. Father Pat started pacing again as Stanley unfolded the list and bent to check the numbered clue on the bottom of the silver wrapped box, where Billy Ray had missed it. The list said, “Nettie Bingham, adult female.
* * * * * * * *
Libra was surprised on Christmas evening when she took food to Nettie’s, for there, next to the stove, where Nettie knew Libra would find it, was a silvery box, with a little note, written with an unsteady hand—Merry Christmas to Libra, signed: God
