Maggie’s Dream

Chapter 1

Maggie’s sleep is shattered as the alarm clock on the nightstand jars her awake. Her arm snakes out from under the covers and strikes at the noisy intruder in several flailing attacks before slithering back to it’s warm hiding place. She lies there in the new silence for several long moments rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"It can’t be that time already," she hears her mind mutter.

Yawning, she gets her thoughts straight in her mind and with a tired sigh, folds the quilt and blanket back. Swinging her legs over the side she rises to sit on the edge of the bed, the chill of this winter morning wrapping it’s arms around her in the darkness. Steadied by her hands on the mattress on either side of her bottom, her feet search and find her slippers and slide into them; her wiggling toes moved by muscles that still ache from yesterday. Rocking forward, she stands. The momentum carries her towards the familiar path that leads to the bathroom down the hall

. . . . . .

The light over the stove throws soft shadows around the room as she bends to place the bowl of Little Friskies on the floor beside the waste can. The furry ball that has been running circles around her ankles quickly moves to it and begins to eat. She pauses long enough to stroke its back, causing it to arch up in that timeless feline bow. The small animal cannot see the twinkle in her eyes or the smile on her lips, but senses them somehow in an knowing way. It’s tiny face lifts from the bowl, eyes closed tightly, a muffled purr coming from that secret place deep in its throat. Silently they share a moment that only the lonely know and understand

. . . . . .

One last look in the full-length mirror on back of the bathroom door and she decides that this is as good as it gets today. As she stares at the reflection of her pin-stripped uniform dress, she wonders where her life has gone. The days, weeks, months and years that it took to bring her to this place in time. She looks into the pale blue eyes that look back at her with the same unanswered question. Her fingertips gently touch her cheekbone.

"Laugh lines, they call them. I guess it sounds better than wrinkles," she scoffs to herself.

She notices too, that the gray hairs are gaining daily on the light brown ones. Well, it is what it is, she thinks. With a step backward she pulls open the door in front of her. Her hand slips from the light switch as she steps out of the room leaving the darkness of her thoughts behind her

. . . . . .

She finishes rubbing some lotion into her chapped hands before taking a final sip of stale coffee. Buttoning up her heavy overcoat she performs one last look-around before picking up her purse and moving to the door. Stepping outside into the cold darkness, she pauses long enough to poke her head back inside and say,

"You be good now, Precious and Mama will see you this evening. It’s Christmas Eve, I’ll bring you something special!"

Her words are captured and locked behind the closed door before she turns to walk to the little compact car warming in the drive

. . . . . .

The headlights of the little Toyota cut through the thick darkness as Maggie winds her way down the mountain to the oasis of lights below. She always likes this drive, even though she has made it a few thousand times over the last thirty years or so. The mountain on the left stands there as always; quiet and faithful like an old friend. The valley on the right lays asleep except for a few speckles of light from the occasional house. At the far end of the valley softly glowing in the distance, sits the little town of Candler. Just beyond the town, going in both directions as far as the eye can see, runs Interstate 40. Its outline is made visible by the ribbon of pale yellow headlights traveling it. It is a sight that always causes Maggie’s spirits to rise with each click of the odometer. It is there that Maggie is headed. It is there that Maggie has lived out the better part of her life, waiting tables and pouring coffee for truckers and travelers alike. It is there, on the worn linoleum floors of the Café Carolina that Maggie acts out the play of her life.

. . . . .

The sign in front of the First National Bank of Candler flashes 4:47 and 23 degrees in bright red numbers, first one and then the other, as Maggie hurries by. She is pleased with her time as she passes out of town and travels the last quarter of a mile to the diner. Turning into the gravel parking lot she notices that the frost has settled the dust there and the crunch of the frozen gravel is sharper than usual. She maneuvers the little car to its permanent parking spot beside the Dumpster at the end of the building.

Turning the engine off, she takes her keys from the ignition, picks up her purse and steps from the vehicle into the brisk morning air. The sights, sounds and smells of her world go almost unnoticed as she quickly walks to the side door and unlocks it. She is vaguely aware of the low roar of the fifty-some tractors idling in the parking lot to the rear of the diner. Drivers there are quickly checking tires and tarps before their workday begins. The smell of diesel smoke, burned brakes and baking biscuits fill her nostrils as she steps inside.

. . . . .

"Mornin’ Cliff," she calls out in a voice loud enough to be heard over the radio announcer reading the local obituaries. Cliff jumps, visually startled, from his place leaning over the large stove stirring a pot of milk gravy.

"Dammit, Maggie! One of these days you’re gonna strike me dead sneakin’ in here on me like that! Feller on the radio talkin’ about dead people and you do that to me. Lord!" Cliff squalls out at her.

Then with a sheepish grin he says, "Mornin’, yourself."

With her best straight face Maggie says, "Well Cliff, it’s like Mama always said. If you weren’t so mean, you wouldn’t be so scared about dyin’."

She tries to hide her laughter by turning her back to him as she takes her coat off and hangs it and her purse on the pegs by the scrub sink. She stays facing that way until her frame stops shaking with laughter and turns back to look at Cliff. He had not always been that way, jumpy like that. The war had done that to him. He had always been a good brother to her though and simply put, she adored him. He had stepped in like a big brother was supposed to do and helped raise her after Daddy died. Since Mama died 12 years ago, he was all the family she really had left.

He and Betty Ann had married right after high school and started raising a family of their own. They moved to town and bought a small place close to the diner. Maggie was only eleven when Cliff was drafted and called away. She will never forget the way she hurt inside that day at the bus station in Asheville when he gave her, Mama and Betty Ann a final kiss, shook Daddy’s hand and disappeared up the steps of that Greyhound in his Marine dress uniform. She was sure her heart was broken. When Daddy died, he came home from the service on a hardship discharge and took over for Daddy: both here at the diner and in Maggie’s life. It was only natural for her to stay near him after high school and help him with the diner. And so she did.

Maggie watches Cliff pull sheets of biscuits from the oven and place them on the cooling rack. Even with his silver crewcut shining and his belly pushing tightly against the confines of his stained white t-shirt, she thinks he is the finest image of a man she has ever known. Besides Daddy, of course.

Breaking her gaze, she picks up the tray of pies on the table and walks through the door to the display case on the counter beside the cash register.

. . . . .

Maggie ties the apron stings behind her back; her fingers long experienced at the task. She walks around the counter and out into the dining area. Several of the lights she has just turned on hum and flicker in that rolling pulse so common to fluorescent lights until they warm. She walks over to the back corner of the dining room, passing the four booths along the windowed wall. Kneeling down, she finds the two cords lying on the floor there and plugs them into the wall socket behind the last booth.

The diner is instantly lit up in a rainbow of colored lights as the little Christmas tree comes to life back in this dark corner of the room. All around the café, hanging in the windows wrapped in strings of garland, little colored lights begin to twinkle as well. She glances under the tree at the array of packages there in the flashing lights, noting that most of them are for her and Jessie along with several for Teddy too. She feels a little smile wrinkle at the corner of her eyes as she sees that one special package for her under the tree. As her fingers reach out and trace the ribbon on it, she feels her eyes begin to mist up as she reads the tag on it. "For: Aunt Maggie, From: Sarah and Little Cliff."

. . . . .

Maggie remembers the day each of them was born like it was yesterday. Cliff was strutting around like a proud old rooster and Betty Ann was holding a newborn to her breast, quietly glowing in that hospital room. She remembers how she felt when she first laid eyes on the little pink and wiggling forms. How precious they were. How she felt a love for them almost as if they were her own. How she longed to be Betty Ann.

It is the only two times in her life that she ever felt envious of her sister-in-law. She remembers thinking:

"Someday that will be me. I will be the one holding my baby while my husband struts and laughs and shakes hands with all the visitors. Someday that will be me getting that look like Betty Ann is getting from Cliff. The look that says I love you and that baby more than anything else on earth."

But that was almost half a lifetime ago now and life being what it is, it just never came to pass. It seems that Maggie just never had the time to get serious with anyone.

Oh, there had been suitors; like that Johnson boy over on Frozen Creek or Sam Snyder down at the hardware store here in town. But Cliff was having such a hard time of it here at the diner back then and she just couldn’t leave him like that. Then Mama got sick, bless her heart.

Maggie spent the last 6 years of her mother’s life in almost constant attendance to her, watching her slowly fade away as each new stroke stole a little more of her mind and spirit. Between Mama, the house and the café, Maggie’s life had just quietly slipped away, somewhere between death and duty.

. . . . .

"Hey!"

Cliff shouts through the service window behind the counter.

"Maggie! Where you at, girl? Can’t you hear that bangin’ at the door? Poor little ol’ Jessie is standin’ out there shiverin’ and shakin’ like a dog passin’ peach seeds! Open up that door and let them things in here! I need some help. These grits are gettin’ stiff!"

Shuddering back to reality, Maggie jumps to her feet. She takes the Kleenex from her pocket and passes it over her eyes before stuffing it deep in the pocket on her apron. Turning away from the tree, she forces a smile and walks to the front door and turns the dead bolt. The two forms of Jessie and Teddy quickly dart past her there and into the warmth of the dining area as Maggie flips the sign on the door to ‘Open’.

. . . . .

The sun is all the way up now, having crested the ridge of the nearest mountain to the east. But try as it might, the best it manages to do is push the blackness of night away and force a timid glow through the gray, overcast skies. Just like every morning as far back as Maggie could remember, this one is a madhouse in the diner during the breakfast rush.

Every table and booth in the place is full up with customers as is the counter by the cash register. Maggie and Jessie are calling out orders through the service window two or three at a time and hanging the tickets on the row of clips strung on a cord across the top of the window. Cliff is keeping the counter of the service window full of prepared meals and Teddy is in the rear washing dishes as fast as he can go. The little team of four keeps the hungry bodies moving through the diner with a practiced efficiency.

Maggie seats two or three tables, returns to the counter and rings a few customers out, grabs a coffeepot and starts making the rounds from table to table. Jessie takes orders from the new tables, calls them out to Cliff at the window, grabs a coffeepot and makes the rounds of the booths along the walls and the counter. When she catches up a little, Maggie takes the orders of those she has just seated to help Jessie out. Both women carry orders to the tables, as they are prepared. And the cycle goes on and on until the brunt of hungry truckers and travelers are waited on and served.

The air in the diner is heavy with the smell of coffee, cigarette smoke and hashbrown potatoes. The conversations of fifty or more people has created a continuous drone of sound across the room. Every now and then a few bars of a Christmas carol can be heard coming from the speakers in the ceiling above it all. Bursts of laughter sing out from around the room as the rattle and clank of dishes being gathered mixes with the steady jingling of the bell on the front door, adding to the confusion. All in all, it is a normal day.

. . . . .

"These people are my friends," Maggie thinks, smiling secretly to herself.

Well, maybe even more than friends, they are as much a part of her life as Cliff or Betty Ann or the kids. These people are her family, melded together by a blood made of diesel fuel, strong coffee and asphalt. She knows the names of most, the handles of others and the faces of the rest. But more than that she knows their hearts, because her heart pumps the same loneliness through her veins as theirs does to them. She sees it in their eyes, hears it in their tales and feels it in her soul.

As the morning rush dies down, Maggie finds a quiet place in one of the empty booths over by the Christmas tree and takes a seat. There are about a dozen truckers sitting at tables nearby, talking about road conditions, construction going on and places they have been. Jessie comes by and pours her a cup of coffee.

"Hungry?" she asks.

"Yeah, a little, I guess," Maggie responds.

"Tell Cliff to fix me plate, he knows what I want. Thanks, hon."

She watches the young woman walk away from her and sees herself crossing the room twenty-five years ago.

"Poor little Jessie, she sure has a hard time of it," she thinks.

That boy that got her pregnant, the one with all the big plans and promises, sure vanished like a vapor when he found out he was gonna be a daddy. But Jessie never stumbled. She had that baby, took this job, got her a little place to live and never looked back or complained. She had Maggie’s admiration for that.

Cliff helps her all he can and looks over her the same way he did Maggie all those years ago. When Maggie divides up the tips at the end of the day, she gives Jessie and Teddy both forty percent of the take each and she keeps twenty. Neither one of them knows she does that, but Maggie knows they need it worse than she does and it’s just her way of helping out. She loves them both like the children she never had.

. . . . .

Teddy is across the room from Maggie’s place in the booth, bussing tables there in hopes of catching up before the dinner traffic picks up. She chuckles to herself at how much he tries to look and act like Cliff; the little white paper cap on his head slightly cocked to one side and his trouser legs rolled up in a double cuff. Half aware of the conversation beside her, Maggie finds herself lost in the twinkle of the lights on the tree in front of her. As she slowly chews on the toast Jessie has brought her, her mind drifts back to the time she first met Teddy…

It was the summer after Mama died. Maggie had just carried a bucket of eggshells and coffee grounds outside to the dumpster as her and Cliff were cleaning the kitchen at the end of the day. The sun was almost down, more dark than light, as Maggie heaved the bucket up and dumped the contents into the dumpster. All of a sudden, up jumps this figure from inside the dumpster yelling.

"Hey! Watch it!"

Maggie almost fell dead with fright as she stumbled backwards before the looming figure above her there in the dusky light. Her feet became tangled in one another and she fell flat on her backside as the bucket landed and rattled on the ground some distance away from her. Her first thought was that the creature was one of the many bears that lived in the nearby mountains and she was certain she would be bear-droppings by daylight.

A feeble, "I’m sorry," was all she could manage to muster up to say.

"Why did you throw that garbage on my biscuits?" the figure asked with a deep voice.

Biscuits? A talking bear? Maggie was having a hard time putting the two ideas together over the ringing in her ears caused by her pounding heart. She couldn’t momentarily hear herself think over the loud pants she was taking. And then she started shaking. It was not fear that was causing it, but the sudden anger that rose from her aching backside, up her spine, past the hairs hackled on the back of her neck and out her mouth.

"Biscuits! I’m gonna give you some biscuits, mister!" she screamed at the frozen figure as she sprang to her feet. "You come down out of there and I mean right now!"

Cliff was right by her side now, axe handle in one hand and flashlight in the other. He had heard the commotion through the open kitchen door and ran outside to see the silhouette of Maggie standing there looking off into the darkness with her hands on her hips.

"What the hell is going on here, Maggie?" Cliff asked, a little out of breath.

"Look!" Maggie said, pointing.

Cliff followed her finger and shined the flashlight up to the top of the Dumpster and onto the figure standing there. The beam of light came to rest on a man of about twenty-five years of age in worn, tattered clothes. His head seemed too large for his body and his almond-shaped eyes were streaming tears down his chubby cheeks as his body shook in silent sobs.

"Please don’t hurt me, I didn’t mean no harm, I was just gettin’ me some biscuits," he whimpered out in a meek voice as he wrung his huge hands together.

Maggie just looked at him in quiet disbelief as her wits were slowly coming back to her. She felt her heart begin to soften as she looked into the terrified eyes of this man-child before her. She heard Cliff, in that soft, soothing voice of his speak to the man.

"Come on down out of there, son. We have more biscuits inside and you’re more than welcome to ‘em. Give me your hand and let me help you down out of there, now. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you here, son."

. . . . .

Maggie has known Lloyd Miller all of her life. They had gone to high school together here in town. His daddy and brother run the sawmill and Lloyd hauls logs and lumber for them. Benny Tillman is a trucker from Wenzville, Missouri, a little town just west of St. Louis. He makes regular runs to North Carolina three times a week to pick up carpeting from one of the mills and deliver it to a chain of carpet stores out of Kansas City. The tall, lanky dark-haired driver she knows only as Hollywood, hails from Los Angeles, California. He makes two East Coast turn-arounds a week and is a regular when he passes through town. He picks up high-end handmade cherry furniture here in North Carolina and takes it back to Los Angeles for sale in the more fashionable stores there. He usually brings a load of produce with him from one of the many growers in Southern California. Maggie doesn’t know the other two drivers by name, but has seen their faces here many times before. As she finishes her breakfast, she listens to their conversation.

"Yeah, Lloyd, I ran into some ice coming down ol’ Monteagle last night. Kinda patchy, you know? Slide a while, glide awhile," Hollywood says. "Didn’t get ‘er slowed down real good ‘til I was almost in Chattanooga."

" I heard that," Lloyd says.

" Liked to have got kilt up there on that mountain myself ‘bout six months ago."

Jessie was leaning over the table filling Benny’s cup and asks, "What happened?"

Lloyd knows he has her attention now and he continues.

"Well, I took a load to lumber to Nashville, dropped it off and got a backhaul of popcorn to take to Asheville here and started back towards home," he says. "It was pretty late at night when I reached the top of Monteagle hill, so I eased on over and started down at a pretty good clip. Next thing I knew, I looked down at the speedometer and I was goin’ about 75 or so and fixin’ to come up on all them big curves ahead."

He pauses a second to glance at Jessie and see if she is still with him. Maggie shoots a quick look at her and can see her standing there with that coffeepot in one hand and a towel in the other, eyes big and jaw dropped a little. Maggie is fighting hard to contain the laughter at the serious look of concern on the younger woman’s face. She wonders who had been watching her twenty years ago when she was told this same tale.

"Well, I said to myself, ‘Self, you better slow this thing down unless you wanna go over the edge and into one of these big hollers here’, so I started easing down on the brake pedal a little," Lloyd continues.

"That seemed to help some, but them curves was comin’ up fast now, I knew I had to slow down more, so I mashed a little harder. I wasn’t slowin’ down fast enough, so I mashed them brakes to the floor so hard my leg was shakin!"

"Oh Lordy, Lloyd," Jessie almost whispers.

"Yup, I thought this was it for sure. I wondered if somebody would care enough to put one of them little crosses on the shoulder of the road where I went over the edge to Perdition. Sure did," Lloyd says, slowly shaking his head.

"The weight of all that popcorn was too much for the brakes to hold and I knew they was gettin’ hot! Then, what I thought at the time was the worst thing that could happen, happened," Lloyd stops.

"What Lloyd, what happened next?" Jessie asks nervously.

"I looked in my mirrors, on both sides of the cab there and flames and black smoke was just a rollin’ out from under there! I’m thinkin this just ain’t my day. Then the strangest thing happened, Jess."

Maggie places her hands across her mouth now to hide her laughter and she is fighting back the tears at the young girl’s expression.

"That corn started poppin’! Sure did. It got so hot in that trailer it was like an oven, I reckon! That popcorn was makin’ the most awful racket you ever did hear. But you know what? The more it popped, the lighter that trailer got until I was finally able to get ‘er slowed down enough to keep us on the road. Kinda funny how things work out sometimes, ain’t it?" Lloyd concludes.

Jessie just stares at him for a moment. Everything was silent.

"I should have known it was some kind of old foolishness when I seen who was tellin’ it!" Jessie quips and whirls and stomps off in mock anger as the small crowd roars in laughter, Maggie included.

. . . . .

Maggie could tell a marked decline in the number of customers as the day passes slowly by. Even dinner had been slower than usual except for some locals and a few travelers. The traffic on the interstate has picked up, but the traffic through the diner has dropped off noticeably. Cliff was taking advantage of this lull in activity to eat a bite himself before any supper rush set in, although he wasn’t expecting much of one today.

"Everybody is trying to get someplace for Christmas and just ain’t stoppin’ to eat today," she says half to herself, half to Cliff.

Maggie is sitting across from Cliff in the booth, her back against the wall by the window and her legs extended along the seat cushion.

"I reckon so, Maggie, it’s like this every year. Bet they’re lined up tomorrow for the big feed, though. We always have a big turn out for that," Cliff says.

"I think Christmas day is when I miss Mama and Daddy the most, Cliff. I always got such a big kick out of watching him and Mama make over the customers like they did on that day," Maggie softly says, not wanting anyone but Cliff to hear. It was one of those very private moments only siblings can share and fully understand.

"Me too, kid, me too," is all Cliff says, never looking up from his plate.

. . . . .

Jacob Spurlocke had opened Café Carolina back in the autumn of 1946 when he returned from the war. He had been a cook in the Navy and started this diner with a small business loan from the Veteran’s Administration. Shortly after, he married his high school sweetheart, Joanne Eversole, and together they worked day and night to build a future for themselves and their little family.

The diner had been on Main Street in Candler back then, about half a block down from the courthouse. As the business grew, so did the diner. Jake bought the store next door when it went up for sale, knocked down a wall here and there, added some tables and hired some help. That was back in ’53. About that time, Granny got sick and Jake, Joanne and little Cliff moved back home to help take care of her on the small family farm nestled back in a little valley in those North Carolina hills above town. It made things a little harder than they would have liked, but Jacob always loved the place where he grew up and was glad to return to it.

The small town of Candler was growing by the early 60’s and then the interstate came through. Jake bought a piece of land out by it and built the current café on it and moved the business from the heart of town to the busier location by the new road. Some of Maggie’s first memories were in that café, as she played quietly over in the corner, as Daddy, Mama and Cliff worked.

Jacob was a big man, about 6’4" in his stocking feet and about 230 pounds of gentle bear-like warmth. He looked so huge standing next to Mama; her frail 5’6" frame was towered over by Daddy. But Jacob was probably the gentlest soul Maggie has ever known, besides Cliff.

Jacob had started a tradition, back in the early years at the café, of preparing a large, seemingly never ending meal on Christmas Day. Turkey, ham, roast beef, with all the trimmings and fresh made bread and more kinds of pies and cakes than you could name. He would open the doors at noon and stay open until everyone was fed or the food was gone, which ever occurred first. It was his gift, once a year, to the community and the world at large. He never charged a dime of anyone on Christmas Day.

People would come from miles around, often bringing dishes of their own; pudding, fudge, jam cakes and the ever present fried chicken. Jars of jelly, honey and molasses would appear from out of no where and cover a tabletop set up over in the corner.

While Mama and the hired help waited on everyone at the café, Jake and Cliff would prepare and take plates out to people who couldn’t make the trip on their own, the elderly and the sick. Truckers and travelers who knew about the event, would make a special effort to be there if their business caught them out on the road on Christmas Day.

It seemed to Maggie that her Daddy knew every soul in the world. She remembered thinking, even as a child, that the man who won her heart would surely have to steal it away from her Daddy.

. . . . .

"Well, it don’t look like there is gonna be much goin’ on for a while, Maggie. I’m gonna start preparin’ those hams and turkeys for tomorrow," Cliff says as he rises from his seat and turns to walk back to the kitchen.

"You might as well let Jessie and Teddy go on and leave, Cliff. I expect me and you can finish up what needs to be done here," Maggie calls after him. Cliff pauses long enough to listen and then nods his head as he continues to walk to the kitchen.

Maggie casually glances at the only two customers still in the café. It is a man with rather short, well-groomed graying hair and a young boy of about five years of age. You can see the similarities in face and features and Maggie ventures a guess at a man and his grandson. She can’t remember ever seeing him in here before, but he seems strangely familiar somehow. Like she might have known him in another lifetime or something. She studies him quietly from her place in the booth.

"About my age," she thinks, as she gazes at the back of his broad shoulders in the flannel shirt.

"Now, where do I know him from?" she asks herself. "Oh well, probably somebody that looks like somebody else," she concludes as she rises from her seat and walks to the counter.

Nice looking boy though. He is probably about the age my grandson would be, if that had ever happened. I bet his grandma is real proud of that little fella."

Feeling the Christmas spirit and more than a little curiosity, Maggie opens the pie case and slides two pieces of Cliff’s apple pie out and turns to cross the room with it, one in each hand.

"Here you go, men, on the house for Christmas Eve," Maggie says as she places the pie plates on the edge of the table.

"Well, looky here, would you? Thanks, mam," the man says through the smile below his silver moustache.

"Yeah! Thanks, mam," echoes the little voice of the boy.

"You’re both more than welcomeand merry Christmas," she says as her gaze locks on the man’s eyes for an instant.

There was that feeling again. She has seen those eyes somewhere else, sometime long ago. She suddenly feels a little flustered and flushed as she picks up the empty plates and heads for the kitchen.

. . . . .

Teddy and Jessie were pulling on their coats when Maggie walked past them to put the dishes on the table by the dishwasher.

"You two have a merry Christmas and I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful now," Maggie said to them over her shoulder.

"You too, Maggie. Merry Christmas and merry Christmas to you too, Cliff," Jessie said. Teddy just nods in approval.

"All right you two, now get out of here before I change my mind," Cliff grunted at them.

Maggie busied herself around the kitchen for a few minutes before going back up front to check on things. She came out of the back just in time to see the man and boy getting into a red late model Jeep Cherokee and Jessie and Teddy walking across the parking lot to Jessie’s car.

Looking down beside the cash register, she sees the credit card receipt Jessie had collected from the man. Picking it up, she glances at the name on it as she opened the register drawer. William D. Hanson. William Hanson. Will Hanson. Will Hanson! That was it! It was not so much the man that she recognized as it was the boy! He was the spitting image of the Will Hanson she knew some forty-odd years before! She raises her head quickly to look out the window again, just in time to see the Jeep going out of sight in the direction of town.

. . . . .

"Well, that’s enough for me for one day, Maggie. I’m goin’ to the house. Betty Ann’s folks are gonna be there this evenin’ and I’ve been informed my ‘presence is requested’," Cliff says, buttoning his coat by the back door.

"Why don’t you run by for a while, kid, have some eggnog with us or somethin’?"

"Well, I might a little later, hon. Right now I wanna go over the register real quick and get that money to the bank. Been a lot of break-ins lately, you know," Maggie answers, placing the last stack of steaming plates on the counter beside the stove.

"Well, suit yourself then. Come here and lock this door behind me, you never can tell what kind of yard birds hang around a place like this," Cliff says, that big brother look of caution in his eyes.

Maggie crosses the kitchen, goes straight to Cliff and wraps her arms around him. She raises her face up, pulling away from him, and places a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Cliff," she says.

It always makes Cliff blush a little when she does that.

"You too, kid," he says.

Her hand trails down his shoulder as he turns and makes his way through the back door and pulls it closed behind him. She feels the cold knob of the dead bolt jolt in her hand as it finds its home inside the jamb.

. . . . .

The tired sun has dropped low enough in the western sky to show it’s pale yellow face beneath the clouds as it begins to disappear behind the distant ridge of hills. Long shadows have silently slipped from one side of the dining room to the other, unnoticed, as the day has passed by.

Maggie fishes several quarters from the pocket of her apron and drops them into the slot of the old Wurlitzer. The metallic clank they make as they fall seems loud in the quietness of the empty diner. As she makes her selections, the old machine whirs, hisses and crackles as the first bars of the first song begins to play. Moving to the front door, she stares off into nowhere and everywhere. Her eyes follow the black ribbon of asphalt that gently rolls and turns its way in both directions until it disappears into the distance. She stands there quite still in the growing darkness around her, as the songs play out one by one. The only lights in the diner are now coming from the little tree in the corner and the quiet flicker in the windows.

And she listens...

The words of the songs tell her she is not alone in her emptiness. Somewhere out there, somewhere down that road, is one who understands what it is like to be the only person in the world. A loud clunk marks the end of the last song as the hiss from the old machine dies and is buried in the silence of the room. A silence so loud it almost makes her ears ring.

Reaching over to the closest table, Maggie picks up her coat and puts it on. Taking up her purse and the cash bag from the register, her hand searches her coat pocket for her keys.

The closing door muffles the sound of the bell ringing above it as she locks the door and turns to make her way to the car. The tears running down her cheeks drying in the cold wind and running a chill down her back.

. . . . .

It is strangely quiet in the cold evening air. The only sound she hears is the crunch of the frozen gravel beneath her feet and the occasional vehicle passing by on the interstate. The large parking lot to the rear of the café stands empty now. The choking smoke of idling tractors has long since left on the gentle breeze leaving behind only a faint trace of its oily perfume. The sharp jingle of her keys is followed by the dull thud of the door lock. She slides inside the little car and starts the engine. After the engine has warmed a bit, she turns on the lights and slips the car into gear and eases out of the parking lot.

The sign in front of the First National Bank of Candler flashes 7:21 and 29 degrees in bright red numbers, first one and then the other. Maggie pulls into the drive-through and stops beside the night deposit box.

She drops the cash bag in and hears the heavy metal door slam shut as the cash bag falls inside. She quickly rolls the window up as she pulls away, trapping the heat inside the car. Pulling out onto Main Street, she slowly starts making her way through the center of the sleeping town.

She glances over at the storefronts as she passes by, closed and dark at this hour. Some of the merchants have left their Christmas decorations lit tonight in the spirit of the season. The windows of the old café are dimly lit showing the display of women’s clothing that occupies it now. The courthouse in the center of the Square is brightly lit as always. As she navigates the traffic circle around it and out the other side, she notices the Nativity scene displayed there. She remembers several years back when those people from up in Raliegh came down here and tried to tell them that they couldn’t display it on county property. Well, the good people of Candler set them straight about that quick enough. The Town Council and Chamber of Commerce got together and told that bunch that they needed to head back to Raliegh and tend to business there.

"We are completely capable of running things here in Henderson county without your help or interference," they were told.

The faint lights of Candler grow dimmer in the rearview mirror as she starts up the winding road toward home. She always dreads this drive, even though she has made it a thousand times over the last thirty years or so. The mountain on the right looms there in the darkness, cold and indifferent at her passing. The valley below, on the left, lies sleeping and does not want to be disturbed. She feels her spirits fading a little with each click of the odometer. Pulling into the driveway of her dark little house, she turns off the lights and cuts off the engine.

It is pitch black outside and the wind up on the mountain is blowing now and threatening snow. She knows the way by heart and quickly finds the door and steps inside. Precious is there to greet her, more for his benefit than hers. She turns on the light and walks to the kitchen straight away. Setting her purse on the counter, she reaches into her coat pocket and takes out a folded napkin and opens it up.

"Here Precious! Mama brought you something special tonight," she says walking across the room to the little cats food bowl.

"Merry Christmas, baby," she says as she drops the pieces of boiled chicken liver in the bowl. She stands for a moment and watches as he slowly savors his treat, purring loudly over the smacking of his lips.

She hangs her coat on the peg by the front door and turns on the little radio beside her easy chair. Christmas carols softly play between commercials and weather reports as she heats up a can of soup in the kitchen. She sets the bowl on the table beside her chair and turns out the overhead light leaving only the dim light over the stove burning. Returning to the living room, she plugs in the small Christmas tree in the front window and takes a seat in her chair. With the soft music playing and the little lights twinkling, she quietly eats her meal alone.