I Sing Noel

James Kenneth was not a miser. He was rather well-off financially, but money was not the driving force of his life. In his business dealings, he was fair and honest and--if anything--inclined to be overly generous. He tithed regularly to the small church he attended and subscribed heavily to a number of charities.

He was not a misanthrope. Few had ever heard him raise his voice and fewer could remember hearing him say a harsh word to anyone. He was always polite to those he came in contact with and always had a smile (admittedly, a small, rather reserved smile) for stranger and friend alike. Those who crossed his path could expect to find a listening ear and a firm hand. He was always kind though never demonstrative. Since his wife died, nine years before, he had had fewer social interactions, but he did keep up close contact with several friends.

He was not crank. He was always neatly and respectably dressed; always even-tempered and mild-mannered in his speech. He was, in several senses of the word, a gentleman.

But, for all that, when Clinton Meredith leaned back in his chair and commented, “You're quite the Scrooge, aren't you?” James could only smile a little self-consciously and return, “Well, I don't know that I'd say that.”

Meredith made a non-committal grunt and took a sip of his coffee. “So have you done anything for Christmas?” he asked, bringing the front legs of his chair back down onto the ground with a click. “You know, put up any decorations? A tree? Lights? Anything?”

James sighed. “No.”

“Hence the term 'Scrooge.'” Meredith poured a little more cream into his cup (by this point, James suspected there was more cream and sugar than coffee) and stirred it abstractedly. “You know, because you don't celebrate Christmas.”

James shook his head. “Have you ever even read A Christmas Carol? Anyway, it's not that I have anything against Christmas. I'll go to our Christmas service at church. Maybe play a little Christmas music for the holiday. And if that's all I do, well, whose business is that?”

“Nobody's; certainly not mine. But when has that ever stopped me?”

James smiled just a little grimly. He and Meredith had been friends almost since boyhood, though Meredith was a few years younger. He was probably the closest friend James had. But he could sometimes be a little trying. He never left a thing alone once it caught his mind.

Clinton Meredith had the body of a prize-fighter, the face of a scientist, the hair of a mad scientist, the mind of a private detective, and he spent his life behind a desk somewhere in the State Department, though occasionally he would get out of Washington long enough to come back to his hometown for a lunch with James.

James glanced around the small restaurant where he had met Meredith. It was a quiet day for business and the two of them had the place basically to themselves. He took a sip of his own coffee (he drank it black) and then leaned forward. “Look, Meredith. Christmas is a time for families. 'Christmas was Made for Children', that's even a song. I don't begrudge other people their Christmases, but what point is there in an old widower like me in decorating his whole house just to look at it himself?”

“Well, I suppose that's all in your perspective, isn't it?”

James set his cup down, making sure that it sat at the exact center of the saucer. “Since when did you become such a champion of the holidays, anyway? Are you doing anything special for Christmas?”

Now it was Meredith's turn to sigh and his face took on a more serious expression. “Not much, I'm afraid. Things are in such a state at the Department, I'll be lucky if I make it to Christmas.”

“Because of the Santa Barbara situation?”

James didn't like having to mention Santa Barbara.

His wife's brother had been a missionary to the small Caribbean nation, and he and his family had been killed when a revolution overthrew its fragile government and set up a belligerent military regime. James had never been that close to his brother-in-law, but the tragedy had had a deep effect on both him and his wife. He could never quite shake off the thought that the shock had helped weaken his wife's health and had led eventually to her death. Even though that had all happened ten years ago, he still could not hear the name of Santa Barbara without something of a grimace.

And he couldn't help hearing about it a lot. It had been a major topic of conversation for years in America. Despite its small size, its new leader had been ambitious and had several times almost precipitated war with the US. Of course, now that was all in the past. But because America had (somewhat unofficially) been involved in overthrowing the regime, the whole thing became the headache of the State Department, though most of the issues would be handled by people deeper in the labyrinth than Meredith.

“Yeah; and the more we unravel it, the nastier everything gets. Specifically, we've found out that the Regime had about a hundred American kids--children of Americans who had been Santa Barbara before the Regime took over--in some kind of concentration camp.”

“That's terrible.” James stared into his coffee as if he could see dark images forming within its depths.

“Fortunately, they weren't treated too badly. Rather surprising given everything else the Regime did—but I think they were planning to use them as hostages in case of war. But, anyway, it's now my problem; trying to find homes for them back here in the States. And that's actually why I'm here.”

James picked up his coffee again and gave a short, mirthless laugh. “What? You want me to adopt one of your refugee kids?”

Meredith let out a long expulsion of breath. “Well, that was easier than I thought it would be.”

“I was joking, Meredith. I certainly can't--”

“I know, I know. You can't take responsibility for a hundred refugee children. That's what you were going to say, isn't it?”

“What makes you think that?”

“That's what the last ninety-nine people told me.”

James set his coffee down and stared quizzically across the table. The momentary somber mood which had come over him had passed and now he was just confused. “What would make you think of me, of all the people in the world? Why would I—”

“Just look at the dossier, would you?” Meredith interrupted, tossing a folder across the table.

James took it automatically and opened it, though without any interest. And then his face blanched and the folder slipped from his hands, hitting the table with a dull thud. His eyes seemed to be starting almost out of his head. “That's not possible...” He picked up the folder again and reread the name at the top once more, just to make sure he hadn't imagined it. Not that it was the sort of thing he would have imagined. Joshua Sveltasha.

Meredith leaned back and linked his hands behind his neck. “I thought that would get a reaction out of you. Sveltasha isn't exactly a common last name, is it?”

“But it can't really be—Joshua and his family were--”

“Yes. He and his wife were killed in the revolution. That much was true. But their son wasn't killed—he was one of those the regime was holding--and here we are.”

James was still staring at the paper. It felt somehow like looking at a ghost. The tragedy that had happened to his brother-in-law's family had become so much a part of his consciousness over the last ten years that it was as if he had witnessed their death himself. And now to realize that anyone from the family was still alive... Little Joshua had been born on the field and had only been about one at the time of the revolution; James had never seen him in person, but he had seen some pictures. And now, the thought of his still being alive after all this time...

“Soooo,” commented Meredith after a long pause.

Suddenly, James was back in the present. He closed the folder and stared at across the table. “So?”

“So this is your nephew. Your own flesh-and-blood.”

“That's not how the phrase 'flesh-and-blood' works, Meredith.” James spoke sharply and somewhat testily, rather to his own surprise.

“Come on, James.” Meredith leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “You're this kid's only relative, at least the only one I've been able to track down. That's why I want you--”

“Meredith, I'm not going take in and adopt a child. Not at my age.”

“You're not old; you're only a few years older than me.”

“You're not exactly young yourself.” After he said the words, James rather regretted them, since for an instant Meredith looked legitimately hurt. “What would I do with an eleven-year-old boy, Meredith? What kind of parent would I be?”

“Well, I can't imagine he would be really picky, all things considered.”

For just a moment, James tried to imagine it. And then he shook his head resolutely and pushed the folder back across the table. “It's simply out of the question. Of course, I'll take responsibility for him financially. Whatever money can help with--”

Meredith picked up the folder slowly. “Well, if that's your answer, I can't argue with you. And if you're willing to sponsor him, I'll probably be able to find someplace for him. Though the way things are going right now, it could still be a while.”

“Just call me if there's anything I can do. And you know my lawyer's number, of course.”

“Right.” Meredith, still moving slowly, almost unwillingly, dropped the folder back into his backpack which leaned against his chair.

The two men talked for a few minutes over the last sips of their coffee, but the serious topic had broken the mood and neither seemed in the mood to talk.

Though he had taken it in a good spirit, maybe the “Scrooge” comment had bothered James a bit. On his way home after the conversation, he stopped at a small store and, after an unusual amount of indecision, picked up a freshly-cut evergreen wreath. After he reached his house he stared at it doubtfully for a few minutes and then hung it on the front door. After all, it was Christmas time.

James lived in a house just outside of town, in an area that seemed country but was within easy driving distance of everywhere he needed to go. It was not a large house, but for one man it sometimes seemed a little too big. James had occasionally considered trying to sell it and buy something smaller, but he had lived in this house all his life and he was able to afford the upkeep on it so he saw no reason to leave. He had hired a couple from his church who would come in every Monday and clean the house; aside from that, he was the only one who was ever there. Really, he thought as he walked in, maybe it was finally time to consider selling it. It did seem too big and empty sometimes.

James was a man of habit. He had a routine for everything. He was by no means OCD and could vary from his habit when there was a reason, but there seldom was a reason. He had always been that way to some extent, but since his wife died he had fallen more and more into rigid habits. But that day—that day was different. Usually on Saturday, after lunch, he would sit down and go over all his financial records for the week and take care of a few odds and ends which had accumulated. But that day, he just wandered around the house aimlessly for a few minutes.

The house really did seem rather barren. He walked upstairs and went to the storage closet and pulled out an old box. These were some of their old Christmas decorations. There was certainly no point in putting out many decorations, but maybe one or two would help to brighten the place up a little. After all, it was just once a year.

He took the box into his study and set it on the desk. These were the decorations for the side tables—his wife had always been very organized and kept each set of decorations in a different box based on where she wanted them. He picked up a snowglobe and shook it once with a rather grim smile. A couple of carolers trapped forever in an unending snowstorm, unchanged and unchanging except for a slight ripple whenever someone shook the globe. He had given it as a present to his wife on their first Christmas, just a few weeks after their marriage. At the time, he had subconsciously thought that their life would be like the snowglobe—unchanging and predictable, with only the occasional temporary shaking. The rational part of him had always known better, of course, but somehow he had never really expected that tragedy would break in and shatter everything from the outside.

He put the snowglobe back in the box and pulled out a handful of old Christmas cards. His wife had always saved every single card they received. There was another box somewhere entirely filled with cards. But these had been more special—they were cards from their closest friends and family. One of them still had its envelope—a yellowed envelope with a strange, foreign stamp and the postmark of Santa Barbara. This had been the last card they received from his brother-in-law. Almost against his will he picked it up and opened it. It still had a picture inside. He had forgotten this picture. Joshua and Serena and little Joshua—a baby of seven or eight months in the picture.

He still couldn't quite believe that the boy was still alive. He turned the picture over in his hands. Again, for just a moment, he wondered if he had made the right decision.

His wife had always been saddened by the fact that they were unable to have any children. He had shared her sorrow but part of him had always been a little relieved. He had never been good with children and was by no means sure he would have been up to the task of raising one. And certainly not on his own. And to take in a stranger—for even if Joshua was his nephew he hadn't even known he was still alive until an hour before, making him a stranger—it was simply out of the question. What on earth could he do for a child like that? What could he give him except money, which he could give anyway?

He put the picture back in the card and put the card back in the box and put the whole box back in the closet. Let the dead bury their dead, he quoted in his mind with another grim smile. No good could come about by rummaging in the past.

He sat down at his desk and started going over some receipts, but for once his mind seemed unfocused. After a few minutes, he pushed the papers aside. Maybe he needed a little music to help him concentrate. And, after all, it was Christmas time and he did like to listen to a little Christmas music to set the mood for the season. There was an old radio on the shelf by his desk and he switched it on. (He knew this could all be done with an app now, but he was somewhat old-fashioned.)

He sat back down and began to work but was still listening to the radio with one ear. On the radio, Bing Crosby was singing: 

I sing Noel, I sing Noel for children 

For all little children who have no Christmas tree; 

Let's all sing Noel, ring the bells of Christmas 

For all lonely children wherever they may be. 

Noel, 

Noel, 

Come spend Christmas with me!

He turned off the radio. 

*

That Sunday, James's church had its Christmas program. It wasn't anything very elaborate; a simple pageant with cardboard houses and an angel who had to be forcibly restrained by the pastor's wife to keep him from throwing his halo at Mary during the opening scene. James found the whole thing a trifle silly, but, of course, he sat through it anyway.

Most of the actors in the pageant were very young, with the older children and adults providing the music. The only person in the play who seemed to have any degree of competency in playing his part was Joseph, who was the oldest of the group and was in his early teens. Not that one goes to a Christmas pageant for the sake of entertainment, but James could appreciate the fact that the boy was at least trying and could deliver his lines clearly and with appropriate expression. If anything, he was too good--he was a little too much at ease and had too clear an idea of what was going on to represent how Joseph probably really felt during the first Christmas.

Definitely, his shining moment was when he was trying to convince the innkeeper to let them stay at the inn. He made such a good plea that James half-expected the innkeeper to break from script and give them a room.

“If she were your wife, would you want her to give birth out in the cold?” he finished. “If he was your son, would you want him to be born in a manger?”

If he was your son, would you want him to be born in a manger? James repeated the words in his mind and then let out a long, quiet sigh. He got up, slipped out of his pew, and walked quietly but quickly out of the church. Standing in the shadows of the front porch, he pulled out his cellphone.

“Meredith, did you find a home for Joshua's son?”

“No. I still haven't found a home for half of them and I wasn't making him a priority since I figured you'd come around eventually. I'm assuming that's why you're calling, right? You have come around? I can't imagine any other reason you'd call me at this time on a Sunday.”

“I have not 'come around,'” replied James a little impatiently. “I just have been considering the situation and I realized that it would probably be best if I took responsibility for him since we are technically family.”

“I would call that 'coming around.'”

“At the very least, it would be a temporary arrangement until something better can be worked out. I have no desire to leave my nephew at the tender mercy of the State Department.”

“Um-hm. I'll start working on the paperwork first thing tomorrow. It'll take a few days to clear everything.”

“Will he be here in time for Christmas?”

“Oh, so you've come around on that too?”

James sighed and decided that there was no use in arguing the point. “I just wanted to know. After all, I suppose it would be his first real Christmas.”

“Yes, everything should be cleared by then. I'll call you as soon as I have exact details.”

“Thank you.”

James hung up the call and walked back into the church just in time to see the wise men begin their trip to Bethlehem. His mind was racing but somehow he felt more comfortable and at ease than he had before. 

*

Enrico and Judith Cueva were the couple from James's church whom he had hired to clean and help upkeep his house after his wife died. Every Monday at eight o'clock they would arrive at his house, and he would give them a few parting instructions before leaving for his office. There was never much variety from week to week and both of them were used to the predictability of the job.

And so they were little surprised to arrive at James's house that Monday to find him sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room, surrounded by open boxes and piles of loose Christmas decorations, in the process of assembling an old artificial Christmas tree.

“Are you—are you decorating for Christmas?” asked Judith stopping short at the side of the room. It seemed a very unnecessary question, but since she had never seen him do such a thing in the last nine years, she couldn't help but think there must be some alternative explanation.

“I'm glad you're here,” said James calmly, looking up. “Could you give me a hand with this tree?”

Almost automatically, Enrico moved to help in the assembly of the tree.

“You see,” James continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “my nephew is coming to stay with me and so I wanted to decorate the house for him.”

Both Enrico and Judith stopped dead in their movements and stared at him. “Your—nephew?” asked Judith in a faint voice.

“Yes, my brother-in-law's son.” James spoke as if the whole thing were the most ordinary thing in the world. “We believed he had been killed in the Santa Barbaran revolution, but I recently found out that he is still alive and he's going to be coming here later this week. I wanted to make sure his first Christmas in the states was a positive experience. That's why, if it would be possible, I'll need some extra help this week. Besides the Christmas decorations, we need to fit up the spare room and there are some other practical considerations to take care of.”

Both of the Cuevas had been staring at James open-mouthed. Finally, Judith closed her mouth with a snap and moved forward. “Of course, Brother Kenneth. We'll be glad to help. It's just a little—sudden.”

James stood up and brushed some artificial pine needles off his clothes. “Yes, it is a little. I would have preferred having more time to prepare. But I couldn't leave my nephew alone at Christmas.”

   

And so for the first time in years, the Kenneth house was decorated for Christmas. As soon as the initial shock wore off, Judith took charge of the situation. She was a practical, efficient woman who understood how to organize and delegate expertly and was able to put the preparations on an orderly footing. And with three boys of her own, she had a much better idea of how to prepare for a child than James did. Before long, there was a flurry of activity as the three of them worked on the Christmas decorations as well as all the other more practical considerations involved in Joshua coming to live there.

The Cuevas might have resented all this extra work just before Christmas, but James made it easy, and not merely because he was more than usually generous. At first, they had almost felt sorry for him because he seemed so lost in this new enterprise. But the more the preparations rolled along, the more it became clear that behind his impassive, reserved mannerism, there was a growing excitement that was, perhaps, completely hidden even to himself. Indeed, after a certain point in the preparations, Judith found that rather than having to come up with ideas, she more had to curb back James's ideas.

“You'd think he was a boy himself,” remarked Enrico, during a slight lull in the preparations. “He's a little young to be going into his second childhood.”

“You were exactly the same way when our first was going to be born,” Judith reminded him. “Anyway, he's been stuck in a rut for so long, naturally something like this is going to shake him up.”

Late Monday evening, Meredith had called with the news that James would be able to meet his young charge on Christmas Eve. “Not optimal, I know, but it's the absolute earliest I could manage.”

James said he understood and by the time Christmas Eve had arrived, the house had been transformed. Not that it was really all that much, compared to what some people did for Christmas—compared to what James might have done if he'd had another two weeks to prepare. But there were lights around the outside and inside of the house, a large tree (that you couldn't even tell was artificial unless you looked closely) decked out in bells, balls, and tinsel. Various other Christmas decorations were crowded upon the shelves and under the three were a small assortment of presents. Mostly of a more practical variety—as Judith said, they didn't want to overwhelm the boy—but all calculated to please the fancy of a boy. Aside from the Christmas decorations, they had fitted out the spare room (which had become a storeroom, since James never had house guests) for its new occupant.

James knew there were still practical problems to be solved, but he felt as if, for the moment, he was ready when Christmas Eve arrived. The Cuevas had left him to attend to their own Christmas, leaving him alone with his reflections as he waited. For once, he couldn't seem to settle down; he moved around the house with a strange impatience as he checked and rechecked everything. It was an unusual state of mind for him and he felt almost equal parts relieved, excited, and unnerved when he heard the sound of tires crunching on the drive.

He was already at the door and had it open before the car had come to a full stop. Standing in the open doorway (quite unconcerned with the chilly breeze that was now blowing into the house), he watched as Meredith hopped from the car and, after a moment, produced from inside it a small suitcase and a small boy. Carrying the one under his right arm and holding onto the other with his left, he came up the walk to the door.

Eleven? If James hadn't known his age, he would have guessed the boy was several years younger than that. He was short and of such a slight frame it looked as if Meredith could have easily carried him under one arm like the suitcase. His hair was jet black, as were his eyes which seemed too big for his otherwise small size.

“Well, here we are,” remarked Meredith (who never objected to stating the obvious). “Can we come in out of the cold?”

“Of course.” James stepped back out of the doorway.

The next moment they were inside and Meredith had released his two burdens. “All right, then. James, this is Joshua. Joshua, this is your uncle James.”

The boy stood uncertainly, with his hands hanging limply at his side, staring up at James. “H-hello,” he finally managed in a low voice.

“You two are going to get along great,” said Meredith, picking up the suitcase again. “You're both quiet and reserved.” He handed the suitcase to James. “What few effects he had plus some odds and ends from the department. Nothing much but I had to bring it along.”

“Thank you,” said James in a rather flat voice.

“Joshua, you stand right there for a minute.”

The boy nodded without speaking.

Meredith pulled James across the room and spoke in a low voice. “Are you sure you are okay with this? You seem a little--”

“There will be adjustments, of course,” answered James, in an equally low but more composed voice. “And I'm still working on the necessary long-term arrangements, but I think I'm ready for the moment.”

“Just making sure. Fortunately, he's a quiet kid. Ignorant as a savage but better behaved than one. Can't imagine you'll have any trouble with him.”

“Yes, well, we all cause some trouble when we're children. I remember some of the stories your father told me--”

Meredith shook his head. “Let's not get into those, shall we? By the way, nice work on the house. I take back the Scrooge comment of the other day.”

“Thank-you. I had some help, of course.”

Meredith picked up one of the decorations from the side table. It was a Christmas-themed picture frame in which James had placed the picture from the old Christmas card. “So this is your brother-in-law and his wife? I don't think I ever met them.”

“Probably not. They weren't in this area for very long and that was after you had moved to Washington.”

Meredith stared at the picture for a long moment and then set it down. “Well, speaking of Washington, I have the cabbie still waiting in the driveway and I have just enough time to get back to the airport and catch my plane. I've still got a couple of things I have to do in my office before Christmas.” He walked quickly back across the room to the spot where he had left his young charge waiting. With a movement that was firm, though not rough, he grasped the boy's chin and raised his head to look him in the face, with a stare that seemed too intense given the situation. “All right, Joshua. From now on, your uncle here is your guardian. Listen to whatever he says and if you need anything, talk to him.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the boy stammered.

Meredith let go of him and glanced over at James. “And if you need anything, you know how to get a hold of me.”

“I can't imagine you are who I would go to with questions about parenting,” answered James with a sardonic smile.

“You'd be surprised the things you learn in Washington. Half the people there are basically little kids anyway. But I have a meter running. Merry Christmas, to the both of you.”

And with that, he was out of the door and into his taxi and James found himself alone with his nephew.

James had been worried about trying to deal with a young child. He had seen some boys of this age who could be barely be held down to one place by brute force and who could not be kept quiet by any means. He had braced himself to deal with absolute chaos. But he found his problem was almost exactly the opposite. Joshua seemed incapable of saying more than two words at a time and that with a deal of stammering; he didn't even seem as if he would move from one spot unless somebody directly told him to. James had been a quiet and even slightly shy boy himself but nothing like this. He wasn't sure whether this was because of his natural disposition, whether it was a result of his past life, or whether it just came with the strangeness of the present situation. (Or, most likely, a combination of all three.)

For the first fifteen minutes or so, things were extremely awkward and James, while he didn't exactly regret his decision to take the boy in, rather wished he could have arranged things a little differently. But fortunately, he thought of the one thing which unites all people of every background and disposition: food.

Once he got Joshua at a table with food on it, the boy at least seemed more at ease and even positively eager. James wondered how seldom the boy had actually had a real, square meal. Given the way he gobbled down the food, he guessed not often. His table manners certainly lacked refinement, though they weren't as bad as James had feared.

But the meal definitely broke the ice. Afterward, when the two of them were sitting in the living room, the boy actually spoke a complete sentence. “T-thank you for the food, M-mr. James.”

James smiled at him encouragingly. “'Mr. James seems a little too formal. I'm your uncle. Call me--” He had been going to say 'Uncle James' but after he thought of it, that seemed almost too formal too-- “Uncle Jim.”

“O-okay.” There was a long pause and then he actually spoke again. “Uncle Jim--”

It felt so odd hearing that. Nobody had called him Jim since his wife died. “What?”

“Why do you—have a tree growing in your house?”

James almost laughed, though there was something of sorrow and pity mixed with his amusement. “It's not a real tree,” he explained. “But it's a tradition at Christmas.”

“Christmas?” repeated the boy questioningly. “What's that?”

Of course, James shouldn't have been surprised. The government of Santa Barbara had largely tried to suppress whatever Christianity had ever existed in the country, so it made sense that the boy, having lived most of his life under that regime, wouldn't be familiar with the holiday. But he still found it a shock. He had never been that much of a celebrator, but he couldn't imagine not even knowing what Christmas was.

“Christmas is--” he began uncertainly. Really, as he thought about it, it wasn't that easy of a thing to explain. “It's a holiday, a celebration,” he began, realizing that those words probably wouldn't explain that much either. “It's a time when people put special decorations on their houses and put up lights and a tree and have special food and presents.” 

And then James found himself sliding into storytelling. He realized he could never simply explain the celebration, and so he tried to describe it, drawing pictures of Christmases he had known as a boy—of how the whole house had smelled of ginger and cinnamon as his mother baked cookies—of going out with his father bundled up against the cold to chop down a Christmas tree—of waking up early on Christmas morning to run down and look at the presents under the tree—of gathering around a laden table with his cousins and grandparents. He knew almost everything he said was like a foreign language to this boy, but he tried to choose his words carefully and filled them with emotions—emotions he had almost forgotten—which carried with them the scent and atmosphere and warmth of Christmas. He tried to use his words and stories as brushes to try to paint the feeling of joy and thankfulness and wonder and belongingness which were all entangled together to create the feeling of Christmas.

His stories were somewhat disjointed, especially as halfway through the talk, he received a phone call. He went into the other room to answer it, but it wasn't a long call and he was soon back and once again lost among the ghosts of Christmas past. And through it all, Joshua watched and listened in silence, as if bound in wonder by this glimpse into a world he had never known.

“Of course,” said James finally, glancing out the windows at the starlit darkness (it was evening by now), “it won't be like that this year—with just the two of us. Honestly, before I knew you were coming, I wasn't planning on celebrating Christmas at all. But when I knew you would be here, I tried to capture something of the atmosphere of Christmas.”

“So—I---I will be here for it?” asked the boy uncertainly.

“Of course.” James leaned forward in hihs chair so he could look Joshua in the face. “This is your home now. You'll live here until you grow up and perhaps even then. We're family. This is where you belong now.”

“Family,” repeated the boy in a strange voice, almost as if the word hurt him to say.

“I know this will be an adjustment for both of us,” continued James in a calm voice. “It's strange to you and believe me when I say it's strange for me. But we'll make it work.”

Joshua wouldn't meet James' eyes and was staring fixedly at the Christmas tree.

“Now, it's probably time for you to go to bed. This has been a big day and tomorrow is Christmas.”

The boy didn't move. He was still staring at the tree. And then, suddenly and without any warning, he buried his head in his arms and began crying uncontrollably.

James moved slightly in his chair, trying to decide whether he should let him cry or try to comfort him. He knew the outlet of emotion was to be expected, given everything the boy had gone through.

James stood up and moved towards the boy, but as he did, Joshua raised his arms over his head, as if trying to ward off a blow. “Please—I'm sorry--” he managed between his sobs.

James stood still. “Sorry?”

The boy squared his shoulders as if coming to a decision, though he was still sobbing. “I'm—I'm—I'm not your nephew.”

James cocked his head and looked at him, but didn't say anything.

“I knew him. The other Joshua. Him and me were bunkmates in the camp. And we were friends because we were both named Joshua. But he got sick a couple years ago and died.” The boy's voice grew firmer now though he still didn't look up. “He had some papers and I kept them after he was gone—because they were his. I couldn't read them and I didn't know what they meant. But when they brought us out of the camp, someone looked at the papers and asked if I was Joshua, and I was, and I didn't even realize what it all meant until later. And then Mr. Meredith said I had an uncle and that I was going to live with him—I realized the truth, but I didn't want to say anything and ruin it because I really wanted somewhere to live. But I wasn't expecting you to be like this—to do all this--”

James still didn't say anything.

Joshua wiped his face with his sleeve and glanced up, seeming surprised at the calm and impassive face of the other. Clearly, he had expected his revelation to cause more of a reaction. “Do you—do you understand? I'm not--”

“I understand perfectly,” said James calmly. “Meredith explained it all to me.”

“What?” The boy shook his head and dropped both arms to his sides.

“That call I got while we were talking earlier. That was Meredith. He saw that picture of my brother-in-law and it made him think. That's why he was looking so closely at you before he left. Something about your eye color and the shape of your earlobes. So he did some more research and figured out the truth and called me to tell me.”

“A-a-and what did you tell him?”

“I told him to mind his own business and stop wasting the taxpayer's money with unimportant things.”

“Huh?” Joshua was too young and had lived too long out of the country to understand political satire.

“I mean,” explained James placidly, “I told him not to worry about it.”

“But--”

James looked up at the star on his tree but didn't see it. “My brother-in-law may not have been your father, but somebody was. And I'm sure whoever he was, he wouldn't have wanted you to spend Christmas alone. If you had been my son or even my nephew, I wouldn't have wanted you to spend Christmas in a stable.”

“A stable?” repeated Joshua blankly.

And then James dropped down to the floor beside the boy and did what he now realized he should have done to begin with while trying to explain Christmas. He pulled out the manger scene set in the middle of the Christmas decorations and began to tell him the story of that first Christmas and of the child in the manger for whom the world had no room. And as he sat there cross-legged on the floor, his hair almost buried in the needles of his tree and the light of an artificial star glowing on hair like some kind of halo, the words of a scripture verse repeated itself through his mind:

Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.