Rewind <<

A Christmas Short Story in Five Parts / Rick McNally

This was written a few years ago at Christmas. The watercolor art pieces are original for this project and were created by a friend of mine, Elise Ackley.

I will publish one a month on the twenty-fourth of each month ending on December 24th, 2025.

Part 1 / Christmas Eve, Lost

<< Of all the mortal wonders of this world, none is greater and more terrible than the human soul. It is capable of both luminous wonders and the darkest horrors. It is unfortunately as much a testament to its thundering fall as it is to its holy Creator. The accomplishments and deeds of men and women are both heroic and grotesque; sometimes within the span of but a breath they extend the kiss of kindness and a belch of scorn. If I dwell upon this subject too long, I would retch, but lucky for me, I am not capable of such a response. <<

Christmas in Chicago was lovely. The beauty of the city came alive in the season with light, food, and magic. Its cold weather, legendary. The last-minute shoppers—trying to get a deal or find that last elusive present—were out in droves. Most were having a good time. George was not.

George’s frame slumped against the concrete bridge; the weather was bitterly chill, and his time was up. Born in the early 60s, he was now sixty-two. He should have been inside, perhaps beginning a fireside celebration with his daughters and wife, but this was not the case. The last decade of his life was miserable—and he had no one else to blame.

Even what little rest he was now stealing would not last.

“Hey buddy, who are you?” said the blue-clad police officer, poking him gently on the shoulder. “You can go sleep at home tonight if you can get up and walk away.”

“Ugh, yeah, right,” mumbled George, “that’s just it, I ain’t got no home.” George was not drunk, but he was otherwise muddled and addled in mind and body. His health had been declining rapidly with winter’s onset. This last calendar year had not been kind.

“Well, I still can’t have you sleeping here,” said the cop, “for one, it is colder here on the bridge than in a park. I can take you to a shelter if you want; it would be no trouble. This is the Miracle Mile; you can’t be sleepin’ here.” Behind him, cars, busses, and people puttered on the street and on the sidewalks.

“I don’t know,” muttered George again. The lights illuminating the Wrigley building behind them were just starting to flicker, brightening the nearly 100-year-old skyscraper in a picturesque way against the greying Midwestern sky. “I’ll walk north and find a different place, somewhere off your beat.” He knew these streets well and even had a few friends here and there, though most of them were rats and pigeons.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea…” replied the police officer when a young woman in her early 20s bounded up to him. She was dressed in a burnt yellow puffy coat and a rather cute burgundy-toned hat. She was gregarious and lively.

“It’s okay, officer. I’ll take it from here. She looked at the sidewalk as if looking for the teleprompter text and words to speak, “See, that’s my dad and I’m here to take him home for Christmas.”

The aging officer looked up at her with a very doubtful look and paused for a few moments and then said, “Okay, sure. It’s a blooming Christmas miracle.” His unbelief dripped off each over-emphasized syllable. “Hallmark’s gonna be making a sappy Christmas movie out of this night in 2021?”

“No, really,” retorted Kyrie boldly to the officer while simultaneously grasping George’s gloved hand and helping him to his feet, “I’ve got this. You can go get an eggnog donut or something.” Yeah, the comment was dumb, but she couldn’t resist.

“If it were a real Christmas miracle, you’d take the time to buy me a donut for my troubles tonight, me having to work Christmas Eve for what seems the 100th time.”

“I’m serious,” said the girl again.

“Alright, have it your way, take care of him,” resigned the police officer. He pulled out his wallet and found a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her and said, “I don’t usually do this, but it is Christmas, go get him a cup of coffee so he doesn’t freeze.” He straightened up, cracked his aching back, and began sauntering across the bridge southbound. “I’ll be patrolling the Riverwalk below, if you need some help. Take care of him, and you should be careful, young lady.”

“Oh, I will,” said Kyrie to his back. “And thank you for the money. It was very kind of you.”

Turning her attention to George, she said, “What are you doing here? That was stupid. You knew you were likely to draw attention sleeping here of all the places in Chicago. There are way better spots, you and I both know that.” She was brushing him off and lifting him to his feet. He was wobbly and looked like he was in his 90s, not his early 60s.

“I know, I know, I just got tired. Wa…, was walking from Millennium toward the Water Tower and I just got tired. Had to stop…” George continued, “…and what is this stuff about you being my daughter? That’s new.”

George and the much younger Kyrie had known each other for the last year and a half, ever since Kyrie had appeared on the streets of Chicago the previous summer. Homeless herself, with as much personal baggage as George, and just as guarded about her past. Smart and tough, she did not look homeless for she always found the best coats and clothes and dressed much like any young woman in her 20s. Sometimes she stole things when she was desperate. She was down on her luck too, and weary of this lifestyle that she shared with George and many others, but did not know exactly how to escape it.

“It was just a throwaway line,” Kyrie batted the comment away. “I had to say something to get him off our backs. We take care of our own.” She seemed gruff about this, but inside she did have—or perhaps, better expressed— was starting to have feelings for George that were very like what a daughter might have for a father. Not that she knew what those feelings were, having never known her true father, let alone a mother’s arms. “Where can I take you tonight?”

“How about down to the Water Tower? There’s usually a religious nut giving out free bagels on Christmas Eve, but first that cup of coffee?” They made their way down Michigan Avenue, passing by shoppers and shops that were much finer than they had the means to visit. In his day, George shopped in these very shops for presents for his family and would have seemed as one of the present passersby, happy and warm. For her part, Kyrie had only known orphanages and foster homes, some of which were tolerable and others were not. They stopped into a small shop just off the Mile and grabbed some coffee and continued their ten-block journey to the small park which was at the foot of the Water Tower. They were also able to beg a few leftover pieces of pizza off a couple of college students coming out of a local pizza haunt. For them, it was a nice Christmas Eve treat.

“Here you go, George,” said Kyrie as she helped him into a bench under the tower, which was now lit up and clearly visible against the darker buildings around it. “I’ve got a couple of errands I want to run. Can I come back and check on you in a bit? Keep an eye out for the Bagel Guy.”

“Sure, sure. You don’t have to waste your time on me. Go about your life. Get out of here. Get out of the city, get yourself a life, young lady.” George liked her too, but knew what kind of damage he could bring to people’s lives, particularly his own.

“I AM coming back,” she said over her shoulder. “And I’m bringing you a Christmas present.”

As she left, he shuddered against the cold, and somewhere inside of him, he got sentimental and introspective. He thought of Kyrie and her “future” on the street, and this made him shudder even harder than the cold. He muttered a small prayer into his ragged leather glove and slumped deeper into the hard, cold city bench as a couple of rogue pigeons pecked greedily at his nearly empty, tepid coffee cup.

Kyrie returned about three hours later with a small, wrapped present unseen in her coat pocket. Her tasks were neither interesting nor necessarily fun. She found George asleep and shivering. It was no secret that his health was not good. He had spent some time in the hospital a few months back, and the doctor’s report was dire. He didn’t share details with her as they encountered each other on the street periodically, but she did make a point to check up on him from time to time. She was better at scavenging and living than he was, and she, for some reason, cared.

“George, I’m back. George? I brought you something.” She pleaded lightly, but he did not respond or stir.

Most of the shoppers and bypasses were now gone, having retreated to kinder places of shelter. She was beginning to get very worried about George. She could see his coat rising and falling, and knew he was alive, but it seemed just barely. Perhaps she should flag down a police officer and see if he could take them to an emergency room. She fondled the present in her pocket, weighing options, decisions, and outcomes that she didn’t feel confident to consider, let alone make. The present wasn’t much, but it was all she had to give, and now she was wondering if she would ever have an opportunity to give it.

In the pocket with the present was also a smooth chestnut. A token garnished on a better day. She kept it for good luck because it comforted her. She’d had it for nine years; it was her prize possession. She caressed it lovingly as the worry and fear crept into the chimney of her heart like a demented Santa. “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas,” she muttered to the icy wind.

Standing above the ailing George, she looked at him asleep—perhaps dying—and sighed. She could see the destitute, destroyed life before her and wondered what misfortune and error brought him to this place. He had spoken to her before about a wife and daughters. He had a life, a job, a home sometime in the past. How did he get here?

She knew how she herself got “here.” She was not proud of who she was or what she had done. She was not always kind, not always good. She had done things that she was not proud of in the least. She spent many hours dwelling on her life and failures, reliving certain events and inside, dying. Her life resembled this man before her in more ways than one. She, too, was destitute and friendless. She hated herself. She hated the world that spun under her feet. She even hated God, if there was such a being.

As she stood there in the cold, she reached the bottom of herself, sighed harder still, and looked up to the snowy, darkening sky. It would be wonderful, perhaps it would bring meaning to her life, if she could somehow save him. But she knew in her heart that she could not even save herself. She was truly desperate.

“God, if you are there, please help.” She wasn’t a praying person. She hadn’t prayed once in the last two years since she ran away from her previous situation. “He needs it, and who am I kidding, I need it too. I’m lost. So, I don’t know, just do something, okay.”

She looked around, her eyes as muddled with tears of doubt, noting the bagel man’s leftover bagel boxes and a crumpled Burger King wrapper, and noticing nothing new or nothing coming their way, she slumped down on the bench nearest George. She verbally ticked a few times and resigned herself to this place. She should go find a warmer place, or perhaps even a warm stranger for the night, but she knew she couldn’t leave George. Not yet. No, not ever. Not in his condition. A few minutes of rest, and perhaps another man in blue would come and help them to a warm hospital at least.

She closed her eyes, weary from the day, and waited a bit longer. Ten minutes passed. Then ten more. Then, perhaps, a miracle.

Out of the corner of her eye in her dream state, she beheld a strange figure in the snow, bright, bold, and glaring. The color and glow were more beautiful than any other thing she had ever seen. It was otherworldly, strange, and terrifying. No, there were not one but two of these sources of light, and then she fully opened her eyes, and the glare and flare were gone. In the place of the light was a short, well-dressed man and, on what appeared to be a leash of light, a seemingly happy dog.

“Someone called for help, and we were dispatched,” said the man, or maybe the dog.

Kyrie was dumbfounded. What did he mean? Her memory of the bright, eerie lights and the fear she had felt moments earlier were beginning to fade. “Excuse me?” she exclaimed.

“I am here to help, young lady. I will not be restrained from my task,” he continued. He looked like a caricature of an English professor from the past, tweed-clad and proper-sounding in voice and attitude. His dog was slender and black, and was both somehow intimidating and also pleasant to the eye. The dog appeared to be blinking in and out of existence as if he were elsewhere between this second and that.

“We have come to rewind time. For in doing so, perhaps we can right the wrongs and bind up fractured bones and perhaps heal the brokenhearted. I will take you both on this journey to the past and I will not take no for an answer.”

Kyrie didn’t know what to say. Who was this weird little man? Why was he bothering them with such crazy words? He made no sense. George was still sleeping in a heap on the bench; he did not notice the lights or the unlikely visitors.

The man made a quick move of his hand and the dog stiffened and then jerked, the leash of light leaping from the man’s hand. Suddenly the sleek black dog dashed away from the man in such a manner as time itself seemed to fold in and compress. To Kyrie’s eye it seems as if the dog’s movements caused a dark and ominous void that was pulling herself and George into. She gripped at the bench in vain, and in astonishment they both slipped into the beast’s contrail and were whisked away from this plane of existence. Gone.

The lone and level snow that was at their feet mere moments before silently gusted far away.