A Christmas Story (Part 2)

By Marc-Yves Tumin

Brendan tried to respond to the characteristic squeaking of Big Jack's brogans, but his throat was so parched, he could hardly make a sound. Then, something attracted the attention of the Big Man, who was fumbling behind the file cabinet for his umbrella, and he saw the doomed creature, and knelt on one knee.

"Aw, Brendan, have they caught you, too?" he asked in his distinctive accent. The wretched thing squirmed and gave a faint, miserable chirr.

Big Jack felt pity, a flash of anger, and, then, sheer helplessness. His huge strong arms hung uselessly by his side. And, as he held the glue trap up to the light, for a moment, man and mouse regarded each other, face to face.

He saw the stricken animal gasping, its one free eye glazed. He realized it was suffering. And his familiar reassurance, "You're safe on my watch, Brendan!" stuck in his throat.

The Big Man set the trap on the floor and placed his shoe above it so. He shook his head sadly and lifted his gaze to Heaven: It was the right thing to do. As he was murmuring, "So long, little fellow," he saw that -- even in death -- the wee critter was fighting for life with all its might, struggling desperately, spasmodically, as if dreaming of freedom, of scurrying through a hedge, of wending its way to sanctuary. And, for a moment, Big Jack was a schoolboy again.

He was racing in the Catholic school cross-country championship, a thin-clad sliver of pine in a river fraught with waves of crimson jerseys. The huffing harriers were steaming over the last hill. They were leaning into the final turn. They were driving down the homestretch.

He was his team's last hope against much larger institutions. They were out of their depth. The odds were against them. Yet, despite the overwhelming obstacles -- when few would have faulted him for giving up -- Young Jack held one card to be reckoned with: He had something to prove. And, thus, he ran with all his heart, and all his soul, and all his strength, and all his mind.

The crowd noise was deafening, but he was aware only of silence. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his coach waving him onward, the old monsignor exhorting him to prevail, his dad punching the air, his classmates jumping up and down, his mother wringing her hands, and, in particular, a serious young girl's great big eyes.

In a blur, he caught sight of the distant tape, but there was a solid wall of crimson before him. Then, suddenly, the wall was crumbling. He was in sixth place. He was fifth. He was fourth. Some older runners blocked his path. He forced himself through. He was third. He was second. It was a battle to the very last yard.

The runners' arms clashed. He almost broke stride. Someone went sprawling. The tape was bursting on his chest. People were catching him. Caps were sailing in the air. The crowd was carrying him shoulder high. He had won. He had won. He had won.

The Big Man looked down at Brendan in his death throes. The diminutive beastie writhed in agony. He picked up the trap and, again, held it to the lamp. Brendan moved one paw feebly.

Big Jack put down the trap, wet his handkerchief at the water cooler, and squeezed a few drops onto Brendan's tiny snout. The minuscule mouth moved frantically. He gave him some more to drink, then rummaged in his desk for a brown paper bag, tore away the sides of the trap, set Brendan, still stuck, inside the bag, grabbed his umbrella, and left the office forever.

Downstairs, the night watchman had bolted the front gate. Big Jack muttered, "We're in a fix now, Brendan." He lumbered upstairs and back down the freight side. An ancient iron door with a Fox Police Lock barred the exit. The Big Man leaned against it, but the barrier wouldn't budge.

He gingerly set down the bag, prayed for strength to St. Patrick, pressed against the door, and tugged the bolt with his mighty fingers. His neck bulged. His arms strained. He panted with the effort. The door seemed to resist with a life all its own, however, in more than one sense, it was opposed by a greater power. And, finally, the stubborn barricade relented and upon its hinges groaned.

Big Jack exhaled, wiped his brow, scooped up his parcel, and rambled onto the dark pavement. His hand was bleeding and he kept thinking of what he'd say if a policeman stopped him. As he ambled homeward, he wasn't at all certain that he could free Brendan without gravely injuring him. However, he consoled himself that at least his furry friend -- so far afield and in such desperate straits -- wouldn't perish ignominiously in a garbage bag provided courtesy of the bottom-line men.

(Conclusion next week)