In observance of the Christmas season St. Brigid’s church traditionally displayed a miniature crib, or manger, simulating the scene of the Nativity. Statuettes representing the participants in the momentous event were grouped strategically in the stable. And to enhance the setting, boughs of fir, pine, and holly were placed around the simple structure.
So while Father Crumlish was pleased by Emma’s attention to the crib’s appearance, he also understood the full meaning of her report. It was sad but true that each year, on more than one occasion, some of the statuettes would be missing. But, unlike Emma, Father refused to think of the deed as “stealing.” From past experience (sometimes from a sobbing whisper in the Confessional), he knew that some curious child had knelt in front of the crib, stretched out an eager hand, perhaps to caress the Infant, and then…
“What’s missing this time?” the priest asked tiredly.
“The Infant, the First Wise Man, and a lamb.”
“Well, no harm done. I’ll step around to Herbie’s and buy some more.”
“It would be cheaper if you preached a sermon on stealing.”
“ ‘They know not what they do,’ ” the old priest murmured as he adjusted his collar and his bifocals, shrugged himself into his shabby overcoat, quietly closed the rectory door behind him, and walked out into the gently falling snow.
Minutes later he opened the door of Herbie’s Doll House, a toy and novelty store which had occupied the street floor of an aged three-story frame building on Broad Street as long as the pastor could remember. As usual at this time of the year, the store was alive with the shrill voices of excited youngsters as they examined trains, wagons, flaxen-haired dolls, and every imaginable type of Christmas decoration. Presiding over the din was the proprietor, Herbie Morris, a shy, slight man in his late sixties.
Father Crumlish began to wend his way through the crowd, reflecting sadly that most of his young parishioners would be doomed to disappointment on Christmas Day. But in a moment Herbie Morris caught sight of the priest, quickly elbowed a path to his side, and eagerly shook Father’s outstretched hand.
“I can see that the Christmas spirit has caught hold of you again this year,” Father Crumlish said with a chuckle. “You’re a changed man.” It was quite true. Herbie Morris’ normally pale cheeks were rosy with excitement, and his usually dull eyes were shining.
“I know you and all the storekeepers in the parish think I’m a fool to let the kids take over in here like this every Christmas,” Herbie said sheepishly but smiling broadly. “You think they rob me blind.” He sighed. “You’re right. But it’s worth it just to see them enjoying themselves-” He broke off, and a momentary shadow crossed his face. “When you have no one-no real home to go to-it gets lonely-” His voice faltered. “Especially at Christmas.”
Father Crumlish put an arm around the man’s thin shoulder. “It’s time you had a paying customer,” he said heartily. “I need a few replacements for the crib.”
Nodding, Morris drew him aside to a counter filled with statuettes for the manger, and Father quickly made his selections. The priest was about to leave, when Herbie clasped his arm.
“Father,” he said, “I’ve been hearing a lot about Charley Abbott’s trouble. I room with the Swansons.”
“I know you do,” Father said, “I’m on my way now to see Annie and Steve.”
“George says Charley had been acting funny lately.”
“George?”
“George Floss. He rooms there too.”
The same fellow who’s the superintendent of the Liberty Office Building?” Father was surprised.
“That’s him. Charley’s boss.”
Thoughtfully the priest tucked the box of statuettes under his arm and departed. Although his destination was only a few minutes’ walk, it was all of half an hour before he arrived. He’d been detained on the way in order to halt a fist fight or two, admire a new engagement ring, console a recently bereaved widow, and steer homeward a parishioner who’d been trying to drain dry the beer tap in McCaffery’s Tavern. But finally he mounted the steps of a battered house with a sign on the door reading: Rooms.
He had little relish for his task. Annie and Steve were a disagreeable, quarrelsome pair, and the pastor knew very well that they considered his interest in Charley’s welfare all through the years as “meddling.” Therefore he wasn’t surprised at the look of annoyance of Steve’s face when he opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you, Father,” Steve said ungraciously. “C’mon in. Annie’s in the kitchen.”
Silently Father followed the short, barrel-chested man, who was clad in winter underwear and a pair of soiled trousers, down a musty hallway. Annie was seated at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes. She was a scrawny, pallid-complexioned woman who, Father knew, was only in her mid-forties. But stringy gray hair and deep lines of discontent crisscrossing her face made her appear to be much older. Now, seeing her visitor, she started to wipe her hands on her stained apron and get to her feet. A word from the pastor deterred her.
“I suppose you’ve come about Charley,” she said sulkily.
“Ain’t nothing you can do for him this time, Father,” Steve said with a smirk. “This time they got him for good-and good riddance.”
“Shut up,” Annie snapped, shooting her husband a baleful glance.
“First time the crazy fool ever had a decent-paying job,” Steve continued, ignoring her. “And what does he do?” He cocked his thumb and forefinger. “Gets a gun and-”
“Shut up, I said!” Annie’s face flamed angrily.
“Hiya, Father,” a jovial voice interrupted from the doorway. “You here to referee?”
Father turned and saw that the tall burly man entering the kitchen was one of the stray lambs in his flock-George Floss. Murmuring a greeting, the priest noticed that Floss was attired in a bathrobe and slippers.
“It’s my day off,” George volunteered, aware of Father’s scrutiny. He yawned widely before his heavy-jowled face settled into a grin. “So I went out on the town last night.”
“That explains your high color,” Father remarked dryly. He turned back to the table, where Annie and Steve sat glowering at each other. “Now, if you can spare a moment from your bickering,” he suggested, “maybe you can tell me what happened to set Charley off again.”
Steve pointed a finger at Floss. “He’ll tell you.”
“Charley was doing fine,” George said as he poured a cup of coffee from a pot on the stove. “Didn’t even seem to take it too hard-at least, not at first-when I told him he was going to be out of a job.”
“You told him?” the priest said sharply.
“Why, sure,” Floss replied with an important air. “I’m the super at the Liberty Building. Soon as I knew the old dump was going to be torn down, I told everybody on the maintenance crew that they’d be getting the ax. Me too.” He scowled and his face darkened. “A stinking break. There aren’t too many good super jobs around town.”
He gulped some coffee and then brightened. “Of course it won’t be for some time yet. That’s what I kept telling Charley. But I guess it didn’t sink in. He started worrying and acting funny-” He broke off with a shrug.
“You haven’t heard the latest, George,” Steve said. “That cop-Casey-was here nosing around Charley’s room. Found a gun and the Everett guy’s wallet.”
“No kidding!” Floss’s eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head and whistled.
“Gun, wallet, no matter what that cop found,” Annie shrilled, waving the paring knife in her hand for emphasis, “I don’t believe it. Charley may be a little feebleminded, but he’s no murderer-”
The air was suddenly pierced by a loud and penetrating wail. In an upstairs bedroom a child was crying.
“Now see what you’ve done,” Steve said disgustedly. “Started the brat bawling.”