A Christmas Story

By Marc-Yves Tumin

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."--Matthew 25:40

The Big Man moved quietly about the darkened newsroom, closing the windows as if it were his own home.

His paper had started out small but prospered -- springing up and struggling through the Depression in the so-called outer boroughs. It had been owned by the same family for years.

Loyalty to the employees was its hallmark, and its employees returned that loyalty a thousandfold.

Theirs was a vocation and Big Jack exemplified everything the paper had stood for across the years.

He had battled for its traditions, and he had kept the same standards for decades, both personally and professionally. Against all odds, he had saved it when the publisher was in hospital.

He was the most decent sort of man -- broad-shouldered, fair-minded, passionately kind and angry.

People often remarked that he resembled an Irish cop, which pleased him immensely.

And his fingers were as thick from work as his immigrant forbears.'

He was a thoughtful person, courteous, and deeply religious.

He was a man of integrity who never let down a friend.

He kept a bottle of Paddy Irish Whiskey in his desk for medicinal purposes. And he could laugh heartily or bark orders at deadline, though it was never personal.

He possessed a vast knowledge of the grassroots community and commanded a devoted following.

He was a big man, in every respect, inside and out. Above all, he had the common touch.

On his desk was docked a battered dreadnought of a typewriter, which made a statement.

Sometimes, when he leaned his forehead against the keyboard and closed his eyes, the imprint would remain as if from a trolley-car conductor's sweatband.

His office was piled with books, magazines, and photographs of sports teams.

Across one wall ran a bridge of newspapers, as if tracing the pilgrimage of his ancestors.

A sprung trap rusted behind the door, which was well and good because a field mouse shared a corner of the room.

Big Jack often asked it in a high voice: "Did anyone ever say you look like a thumb?"

The wee creature resided in the blue-collar real estate at Cabinet Alley under Broadsheet Bridge.

The Big Man would feed it crumbs of his sandwiches. It would nibble a kernel of chocolate-chip cookie as he spoke to it. And, every afternoon, he'd assure it, "You're safe on my watch, Brendan!"

Then the newspaper was sold. A new generation swept in and, with it, a new species known as the bottom-line men.

They brought with them a raft of bad manners, new fangled equipment, and self-appointed experts at one thing or another.

Brendan was quite upset and hid inside his cabinet. Then, one day, there was an unsettling quietness in the air and people kept looking at the Big Man's door.

Sure enough, he was summoned into the corner chambers of the new owner, who was full of himself, though young enough to be Big Jack's son. People called him a gombeen man behind his back.

Brendan listened to the receding squeak of the Big Man's shoes as he departed.

A short time later, he came back but was unusually quiet. As darkness fell, Brendan could see Big Jack dabbing at his eyes and blowing his nose in a linen handkerchief.

Perhaps it was the sentiment of Christmastide. Then the Big Man left the office early, something he rarely did.

On the way home, Big Jack took a detour through the local park. A cold wind was gusting as he made his way to the very edge of the lake.

He stood there for some minutes, peering out across the water, and then he turned around and trudged home.

The next day, Brendan watched the Big Man cleaning out his desk. Then he leaned down toward the mouse, and, with a sad smile, said: "Safe home, ya' little bum," surveyed the room, closed the door softly, and was gone.

Shortly thereafter, somebody set down some cardboard glue traps, most unlike the ordinary spring-and-cheese variety, but Brendan was too agitated to notice and slept fitfully that night.

The following morning, a noise startled him, and, as he scurried for the sanctuary of his cabinet, he was caught in one of the new traps -- unable to turn around, his head, flank, legs, and tail held in a death grip.

He was terrified as he strove mightily to free himself, all through the afternoon. By nightfall, he was still helpless and dazed.

His eyes were unfocused. He felt his life ebbing away. A sharp thirst afflicted his throat. Resignation had set in and he was reduced to simply trying to breathe.

Then there was a sound outside. The doorknob turned, the light flickered on, and he heard the march of familiar shoes.

He tried to look up but was unable to move his tiny head or lift his snout. The Big Man had returned to retrieve his umbrella.

This story will be concluded in next week's paper.