When he carried her to bed, neither of them thought of Andrew, or the train, or Christmas. But later, deep in the night, Karen stirred and whispered against his shoulder, "What was that?"
"Hmm," Tony murmured, "what was what?"
"Didn't you hear that? I heard… bells."
He chuckled. "Not me. I was too busy feeling the earth move."
Her arms tightened around him, and for a minute or two they didn't say anything more. But presently she murmured, "I'm sure I heard something. Don't laugh, but it sounded just like sleigh bells."
"Well," Tony said, laughing, "it is Christmas." And then, seriously, "Do you think it could be Andy? Maybe I'd better go."
"No!" Her arms tightened again. "Please, stay a little longer. Just a little longer… "
"As long as you want me to," he said, and kissed her again.
"What's that?"
"Oh no," Tony groaned, "not again."
"No-listen," Karen insisted. "There it goes again. It sounds like-but it can't be!"
"It is," Tony said, sitting up in Karen's bed and dragging a hand through his hair. They looked at each other and said it together, joyously, incredulously. "The train!"
"It can't be," Karen was muttering as she scrambled out of bed and began opening dresser drawers.
"It's morning, Christmas morning. I don't believe this." Tony was pulling on his clothes, looking for his shoes. "I didn't mean to stay. God, Karen, I'm sorry. What's he going to think? Is that really the train?"
It was. They stumbled out of the bedroom, tousled but fully dressed, to find Andrew kneeling in front of the Christmas tree with his stocking across his lap. The train was chugging merrily around the Christmas tree, around Andrew, its whistle shrill and joyful in the coolness of the morning.
"Look!" Andrew said when he saw them. "It works, just like you said it would. I knew you could do it, Tony- I knew it!" He looked about as happy as it was possible for a kid to look and still stay anchored to the ground. Reserved, Tony thought, his heart just about full to bursting with his own emotions. Just like his mother.
"Merry Christmas," Karen whispered, slipping her hand into Tony's. "I guess… miracles do happen sometimes, don't they?"
All Tony could do was shake his head.
Andrew glanced at them, at their clasped hands, and asked in his direct, matter-of-fact way, "Are you going to get married?"
Tony opened his mouth and closed it again. Karen burst out laughing. "Yeah," Tony said gruffly, "I guess we are. Is that okay with you?"
Andrew shrugged. "Sure." He was suddenly very busy with the train, so his voice was muffled when he asked, "So… are you going to be my dad?"
The little boy's head was bowed; his neck looked slender and vulnerable. Tony put his hand on it and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Yeah," he said, "I am."
"Cool," said Andrew. He suddenly gave the locomotive a push and turned in a rush. Tony caught him in a quick, hard hug. Over the boy's head he sought Karen's eyes and found them resting on him, shimmering with love, reflecting the soft Christmas lights.
Epilogue
"Guess what," Andrew said as he sat down to breakfast on the day after Christmas. "Mr. Clausen's gone."
"Gone?" Karen picked up the box of Crispy Oats, looked at the new mouse-nibble on the corner, sighed and set it down. "Has he gone somewhere for the holidays? Do you know when he's coming back?"
Andrew shook his head. "I think he's moved away."
"Strange," Karen murmured. "How do you know? Did Mrs. Goldrich tell you?"
Again Andrew shook his head; his mouth was full of cereal. "Nope. This morning I went to see him. I knocked, and the door opened. So I peeked in."
"Andrew!"
"Well, he was gone, anyway. All his stuff's gone, too." He shrugged. "I'm pretty sure he's moved away."
Karen gave him a long, searching look, thinking it odd that he didn't seem upset, or even very surprised. She was sure Andrew had been genuinely fond of the old man.
"Maybe I ought to go and see," she said, worried now. All sorts of possibilities presented themselves. Mr. Clausen was old-what if he'd had a heart attack, or a fall? What if he were lying helpless and ill-or worse? "I'll go check," she said decisively. "Just to be sure. You stay here."
Andrew just looked at her over the tops of his glasses. "I told you-he's gone."
Andrew was right; the tiny garret apartment was cold and empty. From where Karen stood in the middle of it, she could look out the dormer window at the backyard, where patches of snow still clung to the shady places under the sycamores and along the north sides of fences. No longer lovely, pristine white, it now seemed gray and lifeless-abandoned, like the apartment.
"I wonder why," she said aloud, rubbing at the goose bumps on her arms. "Why would he leave like that, without a word to anybody?"
"Maybe," Andrew said, coming quietly behind her, "he left because it was time."
"Andrew, I told you-" She stopped herself. "What do you mean, 'it was time'?"
"Christmas is over," he said with a shrug. "Maybe it was time to go home."
"Oh… Andrew." Karen sighed and put her hands on her son's small shoulders. "Darling, you don't really believe that Mr. Clausen is Santa Claus, do you?"
"Tony believes in Santa Claus." Andrew's chin was up; his face had that set, stubborn look Karen knew so well. "He told me."
"Honey, listen-"
"And anyway, if he's not Santa Claus, then how come he gave me exactly what I wanted? It has to be him, Mom, he's the only one I told. It must be him." He looked so earnest, so grave, so young…
"You mean you told Mr. Clausen what you wanted for Christmas?" Karen said carefully. Understanding was dawning, revelation coming like a sunrise.
Andrew nodded.
Karen took a deep breath; it seemed that the train mystery was solved at last. And she'd been wrong. "But, darling," she said gently, "why didn't you tell me?"
"Because," he said with heart-wrenching simplicity, "I knew you couldn't get it for me."
"But, sweetheart, if I'd had any idea how much you wanted a train, I would have found some way-"
"Train?" Andrew's voice was puzzled.
"Well… yes," Karen said, taken aback by the bewilderment in her son's face. "Isn't that what you asked Santa- I mean Mr. Clausen-for? The train?"
Andrew shrugged. There was an enigmatic smile-a secret smile-on his lips, and an unreadable look in his eyes. "Of course not," he said. "I asked him for a new dad."
Author's Note
The Christmases of my childhood and young adulthood were always spent at my grandparents' house. A few days before Christmas, we'd pile into my grandfather's old pickup-Mom and my Aunt Mary and Uncle Russell and any cousins and friends who wanted to come along-and drive up the canyon to cut a tree. We'd find a nice, hardy little piñon and Papa would chop it down, and we'd take turns dragging it back to the pickup. The tree would be installed in the living room on a base made from an old tire. It was Mary's job to decorate it, because she was the only one who could put the tinsel on right. In the later years, we had electric lights, but when I was very small, I remember, we still used candles. They were only lit once, on Christmas Night.
On Christmas Day, the family would gather for dinner. If the weather was nice-and it usually was at that time of the year in that lovely little valley tucked between the arid Tehachapi Mountains and the southernmost tip of the Sierra Nevada-the children would sit out on the porch. The grown-ups sat at the big dining room table, expanded for the occasion so that it stuck out into the living room, with Papa in his overalls presiding at the head and Grandmother flitting back and forth between the table and the kitchen, ignoring everyone's pleas to "Sit down, Mama, please!"