A Chicago Carol
written by: Nathan Perrin
@nperrin_writer
The Gift Bestowed
Chicago
December 15, 1967
Stanley Redlaw, mid-sixties, close to retirement. Woke up to his phone ringing loudly. He picked it up from his nightstand, turned on the lamp. He checked his watch: 3:34 AM.
He picked it up, “Hello?”
Raspy breaths.
Stanley sighed, “Is this some sort of perv call? One of my students, maybe? How did you get this number?”
More raspy breaths.
“If you don’t say something soon, I’ll – ”
“Fifty-five.”
Stanley paused.
“Fifty-five will die, Stanley. Fifty-five. Remember that.”
Stanley sat upright, heartbeat faster.
“What did you say?”
Long raspy breathing, followed by a chuckle.
“I have what you want, Stanley. I have it all.”
Click.
Stanley hung up the phone. For a few seconds, he wondered if he should call the police or if he should dismiss it as another student prank. What could the police even do with information like that, though? Vague threats meant nothing.
And besides, this wouldn’t be the first time Stanley was the victim of a prank call.
“Nonsense,” he whispered as he turned off his light. “Complete nonsense.”
***
Stanley sat across from his soon-to-be ex-wife Ashley at a restaurant.
“Did you have to leave me for Jason?” Stanley asked. “I mean, my best friend? You didn’t have to be so stereotypical about it. We’re not in a romance novel for God’s sake.”
“He provided for me when no one else could,” Ashley bit her lip.
Stanley finished signing the divorce papers and sighed, “You know, it’s expected that when a guy’s sister dies suddenly that he’s a little off.”
“Off? Is that what you call it? I’ve never seen someone so bitter and angry towards the world in my life. You’re no longer the man I married. I can’t be around it any more, I’m sorry.”
“I loved you,” Stanley mumbled. “And I still do.”
Ashley gathered up the papers, “Thank you for signing them finally.”
Stanley forced a smile as she walked away.
In the distance, the radio reported about a bridge collapsing in West Virginia. Fifty-five casualties, three hundred injured.
Stanley’s heart skipped a beat when he heard that. The raspy voice came back to him: “Fifty-five will die, Stanley. Fifty-five. Remember that.”
***
Stanley sat impatiently in the police station across from a police officer taking notes.
“So fifty-five is all he said?” the police woman raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Stanley replied.
“You’re a famous writer?”
“I wouldn’t say famous. I’ve won a few awards, but nothing that makes me well-known. Truman Capote has my number, although I regret that sometimes. Why?”
“It’s normal for weirdos to be attracted to people they really like and admire. This bridge didn’t explode due to bombs or anything. Foul play isn’t suspected yet. But, I’d say keep an eye on the phones and if you hear anything more let us know.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You don’t think it’s a little strange?”
“Not much we can do now. The fella didn’t leave a name or number, or anything beyond just saying how many people will die..”
Stanley sighed, “Alright, I may be in touch.”
As he stood up, the officer smiled: “Try to have a merry Christmas.”
Stanley rolled his eyes, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
***
Professor Ronald Swidger raised his brandy glass. Eighty-seven years old, finally about to retire. Stanley nodded and smiled forcefully. He looked at the fireplace behind Ronald as it danced and flickered. He thought in between crackles of flames he could see distant figures beckoning him from beyond.
“I’ve known plenty of sorrow in this life,” Ronald explained, “but I’ve known so much more joy. Ah, yes. Joy. Theology is considered a softer silence in our world, but I can no longer consider it soft as I approach the end of my life. It takes a strong man to reflect on his life and pray gratefully.
“This is such an exciting time! Theology can do the world a lot of good! But as for me, as I’m nearing the end of it all, I keep praying one thing that I learned from a British friend some time back. ‘Lord, keep my memory green.’ Let everything stay fresh as it is now. Real. Like this moment, with you and me.”
Another professor raised a glass, “Hear, hear!”
Stanley rolled his eyes and sipped his champagne.
***
Stanley stopped Ronald on his way out after the party.
“You really believe all that, Ron?” Stanley laughed.
“What do you mean?” Ronald raised his eyebrows.
“You’ve had far more joy in this life than sorrow?”
“Why, yes!”
“You served in World War 1. You saw all the terrible things. Most of your friends are dead. How can you be grateful?”
Ronald put his hand on Stanley’s shoulder, “I hope you get it someday. Joy can be known too.”
Stanley nodded his head. He knew there was no point in a literature professor arguing with a now-former theology professor over the meaning of life.
“Can you do me a favor, Stan?”
“Of course,” Stanley smiled.
“Can you host my nephew and his wife for Christmas? Problems have come up in their plans and I’ll be out of the country.”
“William and Milly? Sure! I’d be glad to help.”
“Did you have Christmas plans anyway?”
“You know me, Ron. Just a pile of Christmas cheer over here.”
Ronald laughed.
***
As Stanley started to walk out, he heard a gentle voice behind him: “Stan?”
He turned around and saw Lana Hardy, the math professor. Stanley always found her attractive. Lana was sweet, full of humanity and humor. She looked at him and smiled.
“Look up,” she laughed.
Stanley looked up and saw mistletoe.
“Oh,” Stanley said flatly.
Lana held it above him and kissed his lips deeply.
Memories of Ashley flashed in front of Stanley’s mind. All the joy and laughter they shared, the wedding. Then came the pain, the fights, the grieving over Charlene’s death.
Stanley jolted back.
“Oh…” Lana’s eyes were wide.
“No, no, it’s not…” Stanley sighed and touched his forehead. “It’s not you. I’m in a weird space. You know the year I’ve had.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lana brushed Stanley’s hair back. “I thought I’d might as well give it a try, you know? You’re a really good man. Handsome.”
“Thanks,” Stanley took her hand away from his hair. “I need some time.”
“Let’s pick this up later?”
“Yeah.”
“Merry Christmas, Stan,” Lana kissed his cheek.
“Same to you,” he mumbled.
December 21
The phone rang again in the middle of the night.
Stanley picked up, voice groggy: “Hello?”
Raspy breathing.
Stanley’s heart skipped a beat.
“Who are you?”
More raspy breathing.
“I’m gonna call the cops on you if – ”
“What are you wearing?”
Stanley raised an eyebrow, “What?”
“What are you wearing, Professor Redlaw?”
In the background on the other end, he could hear giggles from other students. This wasn’t the same guy that called him a few nights ago.
Stanley sighed and hung up.
“Can’t catch a break worth a damn,” he mumbled.
December 23
Stanley woke up early in the morning, brewed his coffee, and sat at the kitchen table. On the table was the latest hot manuscript for him to preview for a publishing company, as well as a few student pieces he delayed reading.
He looked at his wedding band for a minute or two, and played with it. He still kept it on, as if wearing it would bring his marriage back. He knew what Ashley said was true though. Whatever goodness or kindness had been in Stanley’s heart was extinguished. He no longer saw the point in even trying to connect.
Stanley shook his head, cursed softly, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
***
The class was full and anxious that morning. Students were ready to go home to see their families, and Stanley was stuck teaching them about literary theory. On a nearby student’s desk was a copy of Jurgen Moltmann’s Theology of Hope.
“Theology in a literature class?” Stanley asked amused.
The student smiled sheepishly, “He’s saying a lot of great things. It’s helping people make sense of the world. It’s a really good book. I’m not ashamed to say either that it’s helped me too.”
“Like what kind of helpful things?”
“Like the importance of looking forward to the future, that there is some sort of divine hand at work in the universe. Hope is what inspires people to want to change the world.”
Stanley rolled his eyes, “It is not hope that inspires change. It is hopelessness. It is when things are at their absolute worst. We must be realists. We can’t be foolish optimists in the nuclear era.”
“I know what your take is. I’ve read your fiction, Professor. You seem to have such a pessimistic view of the world. Like nothing matters. It makes Philip Roth look like Santa Claus.”
“I’m merely mirroring the worst parts of the world back to people. We are living in a world without empathy. People are starving and dying. Vietnam, JFK… all these negative things. I can’t believe in hope because it is too costly for the world around me. Religion won’t do us any good either. I admire much of Moltmann’s work, but I’m afraid Jesus belongs squarely back on the cross – dead and gone for the good of the world, like Thomas Altizer says in his work.”
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- A Chicago Carol - December 24, 2024
