The Third Candle: Christmas Tableau at the Opera House – Chapter 1

The Third Candle:

Christmas Tableau at the Opera House

A Sewing Box Mystery

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Chapter 1

Monday, December 8, 1986, 3:33 am
Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary – Solemnity

Jean woke with a start.

She was safe, curled up in her husband’s old armchair, snug and warm in her worn flannel nightie with a knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

Another night of dreams.

She’d moved from her bed to the living room, thinking they wouldn’t find her, that they wouldn’t follow.

But they did.

Every night?

It seemed so.

She couldn’t remember the last time she got a full night’s sleep. No doubt, that was why she was always so tired, especially by the end of the day. She’d thought about asking her doctor to prescribe something that might help, but she doubted she could afford it, not without medical insurance. Was sleep really a luxury?

As it was, things were stretched so tight, she turned the thermostat down to 62 degrees at night. Extra blankets would have to keep them warm as they slept, blankets being much cheaper than the ransom Minnegasco was demanding these days. While the house still had good bones, it was old, with the original windows still in place. No doubt much of the heat escaped between the woodwork around the windows and the walls. Last year she’d purchased a new product from 3M, and covered the windows in a clear plastic. But it left her feeling walled in and claustrophobic all winter, and in the spring, upon removing the plastic, each window was left with a sticky frame of adhesive surrounding it which looked like hell. On top of all that, she was never sure it had actually made a difference, for the gas bill seemed as high as ever – an expense one could not escape this time of year.

And then there was Christmas coming up.

Jean looked over at the pitiful artificial tree propped up on her old hope chest in front of the big bay window. It had seen better days, most of its wire branches had been bent so many different directions over the years that it looked like it didn’t know if it was coming or going. Still, wrapped with a garland of silver tinsel and a string of lights, and with years and years worth of homemade decorations courtesy of her girls and the public school system filling in the blank spots, it still looked good from the street.

At its base sat the family creche, handed down from her mother. It was made of thick paperboard, with each figure fitting into its assigned slot. In their youth, the girls had acted out the story of Mary and Joseph coming to the inn with no room – a manger in a stable for His bed. Playing in such a way, the two-dimensional figures had taken a bit of a beating, but they still managed to convey the season, withstanding the test of time. Somehow, it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.

 If only that were enough. But, no. There were presents to be bought: things needed (clothes, mittens, boots), things wanted (a Cabbage Patch Doll, a talking bear named Teddy something or other), and things soon to be used and forgotten (Shrinkie Dinks, a fingernail salon set). Ever since Missy started kindergarten last fall, the list of things required to be a successful five-year-old girl had grown exponentially. And it was all on Jean’s shoulders to supply.

Dorie? Missy’s mother? Not only didn’t she have a job, but half the time Jean had no idea where her youngest was, staying out all night, running around with who knows what kind of people. And Helen, of course, had her own young family to contend with. At least her eldest had married well. And Jeanette?

Well, to be honest, Jean wasn’t sure what was going on with her middle daughter these days. She sensed something had happened – a bad break-up? She couldn’t be sure because Jeanette had curled up inside herself and stopped confiding in her after Jean let her know that she didn’t approve of her latest boyfriend; a man too old for her with a motorcycle and a bad attitude. He frightened Jean, so full of himself she couldn’t imagine what Jeanette saw in him. He was a bully. She let Jeanette know that she didn’t like the way he treated her – he was so gruff and bossed Jeanette around like a servant. Jean hated to see Jeanette behave that way, kowtowing to a man’s needs. It was so unlike her. Jeanette had always been headstrong and independent… and proud. Jean hated to think she’d raised that girl to end up being little more than someone who fetched beer for a lout like that.

No, the girls were no help at all this year. If Christmas was to happen, Jean would have to take care of it herself.

But where would that money come from?

She wished she qualified for a credit card. But Jean also knew, based on the troubles of some of the folks at church, that depending on credit was merely borrowing trouble down the line. She’d get a part time job – wrapping presents at one of the department stores, but who would look after Missy? Plus Jean’s energy felt so limited already – doing so was something she couldn’t physically afford to do.

If only she could sleep.

A sleep without dreams.

Had there ever been a time?

Even as a child, bits and pieces, shards of an image, would fly at her in the night, moving out of the darkness and presenting themselves like pieces of a puzzle meant to tell a story – like a movie, or a play. They’d visit her night after night, filling in more details over time. Sometimes she inhabited the dreams, which allowed her to discover more about the story. At first, she found it entertaining, but as she grew older, they began to consume more and more of her nights, until sleep itself became the rarest of things.

This time of year, year after year, her nights were filled with the same recurring nightmare.

An angelic presence, descending from the heavens. A beautiful face, surrounded in diaphanous splendor. Lit from within, a gift to the world, the herald of great joy, the figure seemed to hold all the promise of a new year. Voices abounded, a choir, grandly accompanying her gradual descent. Such jubilation present, that tears fall from the angel’s eyes, as candles are lit, one by one…

But the third candle.

There is trouble.

Heavenly voices cry out, now in pain.

A foreboding weight fills the air, as the world is set afire.

All around the angelic figure, stars fall from the sky.

Screams fill the air.

 As the sky itself is set aflame, all hope vanishes, and the angel’s tears turn to…

Blood.

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Coming October 2024

The Third Candle:

Christmas Tableau at the Opera House

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