THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREE 

… a short story by Lin Stepp

Harmon spotted the Christmas tree sticking out of a dumpster on patrol. In past he loved his drives along the Pigeon River through the mountains, happy to get away from his desk indoors at the police department and out into the sunshine. Until Hurricane Helene hit. Now driving the ravaged road, past downed trees, flooded fields, piles of debris from mudslides, and battered and broken homes, nearly broke his heart.

He pulled up at his own house, miraculously spared when so many nearby lay in ruins. Carrying the tree inside, Harmon stood it in the spot by the window where they’d always placed their tree, plugged up the lights—the pre-strung kind—and grinned to see the tree light up.

“Well, where’d you get that tree?” his mother asked, coming into the room. “It ain’t much, but it’s cheerful to see one on Christmas eve after all we’ve passed through.”

“I found it in a dumpster, sticking out. I know we weren’t going to do much this Christmas with all our losses …” His voice choked on the words as those losses hit his heart.

“Well, perhaps this tree is God’s gift to cheer us, Harmon, and I imagine my Riley, your sweet wife Dora Lee, and your daughter Kelsey are smiling down from heaven to see us going on with life. We’re not the only ones who’ve suffered loss from the devastation of this hurricane. It roared through our Appalachian mountains like the devil himself riding the waves and floods of it. Still, here we are, spared, and we have each other. With Riley’s and my old place flooded out, everything gone but the land, I’m grateful to be here under a roof with heat, water, food, and even with a little Christmas tree now.”

She smiled and patted his arm. “I’ll see if I can’t find a few trinkets packed away we can hang on the tree to cheer it, and I might even string some berries.”

Harmon’s phone rang. He answered, soon frowning over the words he heard.

“Do you have to go out again?” his mother asked as he tucked his phone in his duty belt. “It’s dark now and the roads are hard to get around on when you can’t see. There’s so much mud and debris everywhere and any bridges left are not as stable as you’d like.”

“The call was about the church,” he told her. “The security showed shadows of someone trying to break in, they think. The department called me because they knew it was dad’s church.”

She nodded. “Well, the drive to the church ain’t far, and you know we’ve used that old church as a base of help for folks since Helene.”

“I imagine I won’t be long,” he assured her, catching the scent of dinner on the air.

“Everybody calls it a miracle Grace Church survived intact on its little hillside when everything around it was torn apart by the floods, winds, and rains,” she added. “You know we’ve used it as a distribution center, as well as a place to worship, since the hurricane. I’d hate to think folks broke in and did damage at Christmas time. I’m glad you’ll be checking on it.”

She paused as he put his jacket back on. “You take care now, son,” she said, following him to the door. “The dinner I’ve been working on will hold. I’ve baked that ham the church gave us, and I’m working on sides and baking those yeast rolls you like.”

Harmon gave her a hug. “I’m grateful for you, Ma. I shouldn’t be long.”

Driving up the winding, hillside road to the little church a short time later, Harmon could see the security lights still on and the church’s nativity scene, lit up by lights, too. Grace Church always put out the nativity scene every year with its life-size figures made from store mannequins, all arranged in a rustic stable around the old manger that some woodcrafters in the church had created. It was tradition they set it up every year, visible from the road—a reminder this year that the little church had been spared destruction and still stood.

Harmon didn’t see any vehicles at the church, no lights on inside, no broken locks on the doors as he walked around the building. Perhaps the shadows showing on the security camera were critters, looking for food. The devastation had been hard on wildlife, too.

As he headed around the church, he heard a cry, not like a critter but like a baby. Glancing toward the nativity scene, the glow from the lights shone directly on the manger, causing him to pause a minute.  Startled, Harmon saw the manger baby move and heard that soft cry again.

Stunned, he put a hand to his heart. He knew that baby in the manger only a doll wrapped in cloths. What should he do? Drop to his knees? Was this some Christmas Eve miracle? He glanced toward the manger again and saw a foot kicking now.

Calming, he walked closer and could see the baby clearly then, a real one, tucked deep in the hay and wrapped in blankets this cold night.

“Don’t you be a hurting him,” a small voice said, from behind the nativity angel at the back of the shed.

Harmon felt his heart skip another beat when the angel statue moved, until he saw a girl, bundled in winter clothes, step out of the darkness from behind it, holding a rifle pointed at him.

He studied her, seeing her bravado mixed with fear, her stance determined. She didn’t seem much older than eleven or so.  Plucky kid.

“I mean you no harm girl,” he said at last, finding his voice. “This is my church. What are you doing here?”

She hung her head, dropping the rifle a little. “We ran out of food and I heard there was some here for folks in need, so I came here for Branton.” Her eyes moved to the baby. “I’ve got no milk but the last I just gave him.”

“Where are your people? Where do you live?” he asked.

“I’ve got no people. Our place is about three miles down the river and up the mountain, off to itself where a bad mudslide came. It took out our only bridge. My mama was killed and my daddy’s been working to try to fix up our place. He used to walk out to get supplies, as he could, but then he fell through the barn roof yesterday trying to fix it.” Her voice broke, and Harmon saw tears then. “I tried to help him but I couldn’t, so now he’s gone, too. We got no close neighbors with everybody’s places all washed out below ours. So I came hoping to get some help for Branton. He can’t eat stuff on hand like I can. He needs milk. He isn’t even five months yet.”

“You walked all the way here?”

“Yes sir.” Her eyes teared. “But I got here too late to find anybody at the church so I thought we could shelter overnight until someone came to open the church in the morning.”

Harmon nodded, watching the girl’s determined face, feeling blessed again to be alive, to have a home.

“Do you have family around here, even if not close?”

She shook her head. “None I know of.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mary Carmady. My dad was Jack Carmady.”

Searching his mind, Harmon couldn’t think of any Carmadys in the area, but he knew many in Appalachia had come to these hills from far away and didn’t have people here.”

As he walked closer into the light, her eyes widened. “You’re police.” She raised the rifle again. “You’re not going to turn us in to that government foster care are you? I promised daddy I’d take care of Branton. Those government people will separate us.”

She looked around in panic. “If it isn’t okay to wait here for help tomorrow, I can go on off. You don’t have to say you saw me. If this is your church maybe you could get me some milk inside for Branton before I go.”

Harmon took a few steps closer to look down at the baby and then lifted his gaze to the girl’s face again. ”I can open the church for you so we can get some milk for Branton. I have keys, but I think you ought to come home with me to my mother’s and my house, at least for tonight. It’s cold out.”

He watched her study him and consider it. “My daddy said to be careful about men I don’t know.”

Harmon thought for a minute and then pulled out his billfold. “This here is my mother. Her name’s Olivia Reaves.” He showed her a picture. “I’m Harmon Reaves. You can call her if you like. She lives at my house. She’s home cooking supper, ham and sides and rolls, and I know she made a pecan pie. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

“I forgot it’s Christmas Eve.” She sighed, looking at the picture of his mother. Touching the photo next to it, she asked, “Who’s this?”

He glanced down. “That’s my wife and my girl, both gone like your father.” He knew his voice broke at the words. “I’ve known loss, too.”

She gave him a small look of sympathy. “All right,” she said after a minute, reaching into the manger to gather up the sleeping baby in her arms.

He watched her, how gentle she was with the child. “Things will be okay, Mary Carmady.”

“Maybe. I hope so.” She shook her head.

He started toward the church door leading into the fellowship hall. He glanced behind him, glad to see the girl following him, after she’d retrieved a backpack from behind the nativity angel.

“I can change the baby before we go to your place if there’s a bathroom I can use in here,” she told him.

“There is,” he said, remembering some donated children’s toys and clothes still in the storage room, too. Perhaps he’d put a few things in a sack to put out for Christmas morning while she was tending the baby.

As they stepped inside the church, she spotted the church’s big Christmas tree. “It seems sad to think Christmas is tomorrow. I didn’t even get to put up a Christmas tree for Branton this year.”

Harmon smiled, remembering the discarded tree he’d brought home from the dumpster. “We’ve got a little Christmas tree. It isn’t much but it’s a tree.”

She smiled back at him for the first time then, shifting the sleeping baby in her arms. “Well, when you’ve got nothing, even a little tree seems like a lot.”

“Yep, that it does,” he agreed.

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Note: All photos my own, from royalty free sites, or used only as a part of my author repurposed storyboards shown only for educational and illustrative purposes, acc to the Fair Use Copyright law, Section 107 of the Copyright Act.