Eighty-five-year-old novelist Max McKay pulled back the red taffeta drapes and looked out through the windows of their 400 square foot apartment. The landscape with its frosted fir trees and bright snow banks was magical, just like a Christmas card. Kathy approached from behind and wrapped her arms around her husband of sixty years to share the view.
“It’s our own personal snow globe,” she whispered.
Their old three-story Queen Anne style home was much too large for them to navigate and required a great amount of work to maintain, too much for a mature couple. So, two top floor rooms in the south-east front corner tower were converted into a cozy space that suited them perfectly. It was complete with a small kitchen and attached bathroom-laundry. The rest of their small flat held their comfortable queen-sized bed, dining table and loveseat in front of the gas fireplace. And of course, there was Max’s desk where he did most of his writing and an adjacent area in front of the east facing window for Kathy’s art and painting easel. The two remaining floors below were essentially left unused. Furniture was covered over with sheets, dust and spider webs. The dining room and kitchen were cordoned off since it was increasingly difficult for them to go up and down flights of stairs many times a day.
Adjacent to the house on the east side was St. Thomas More Catholic Church and School, K-8. Its patron saint was Chancellor of England and a man of integrity that could not condone the actions of Henry VIII in setting himself up as head of the Church. Once a trusted confidant of the King, but for his defiance, he was beheaded in 1535. To the local kids, this fact added to the neighborhood mystique.
From their top floor view was the school sports field. On many days during the year, it would be full of children laughing and playing with the occasional baseball hit over the fence and through one of the tower windows. Watching the children scatter like guilty cockroaches under a switched-on kitchen light always brought a smile to his face.
Down from the field were the classroom and convent buildings with years of ivy climbing upwards against the red brick walls. Finally, the rectory and the old church itself flanked by a large parking lot with a small adjacent cemetery filled out the fir tree lined parish campus. One block down was the Kory-Mart, a mom-and-pop grocery store and two pump gas station. It was owned by Jimmy and Kory Lee who lived above the store. Once a week they would come over loaded down with Kory’s amazing Korean dishes. Aromas from homemade bulgogi, budae jjgae stew and kimchi filled the house. After dinner, a spirited game of Ma-Jong rounded out the evening. Their store carried everything Max and Kathy needed. Bread, milk, coffee and basic groceries conveniently within walking distance since their advanced age and poor health forced them to give up their car years ago. Come rain or shine, ice or snow, their home, the church and the little grocery store on the corner was all the elderly couple needed to sustain themselves in their very quiet and happy world.
It was two days before Christmas at 7:00 in the evening. Kathy was dozing on the couch in front of the fire. With reading glasses resting on her nose and a closed book laying on top of the holiday quilt, she looked like an angel. One of her many quirks that took Max years to get used to was that she started celebrating Christmas on Labor Day with the festivities continuing through New Year’s. She had already decorated with a small Christmas tree next to the fireplace and hung colorful lights, holly and ribbons. Pine scented candles were scattered about the room adding to the Holiday ambience.
So, he tried to work quietly at the desk, but that was easier said than done. She understood that working as a novelist he had to write when the inspiration would strike, no matter what time of day or night. Max insisted on writing on his tried-and-true vintage 1954 Corona manual typewriter. It was the one his first novel was written on. The striking of the manual keys and the bell ring at the carriage return, to him, sounded like progress. They were married in 1961 and in all those years together, the sound of the typewriter was soothing music to his wife’s ears. The harsh snow and wind storm caused the lights to flicker and finally go out, leaving the gentle glow dancing from the fireplace as the only illumination.
“Humbug . . Merry Christmas,” Max muttered under his breath. Suddenly, Kathy was startled awake by the pounding downstairs . . . , on the front door.
to be continued