Comfort & Joy

“I’m gonna show Joy my arrowheads. ”

Irritation flashes in Daniel’s eyes and then is gone. “Fine. I’ll work alone then. ” Without another glance, he goes up the stairs and disappears.

As soon as Daniel is gone, I look down at Bobby. “You aren’t too nice to your dad. ”

“He isn’t too nice to me. ” He pushes the hair from his eyes, revealing an angry purple bruise above his eye. “He yelled at me about fighting, and it wasn’t even my fault. ”

I wish I could reach out for him, but he doesn’t seem ready for comfort. So, instead, I say, “How does the other guy look?”

“I missed,” Bobby says miserably. “And I wanted to hit him. I was so mad. ”

“What happened?”

His shoulders lump in defeat. “Arnie Holtzner punched me. ”

“The butthead? How come?”

“ ’Cuz I’m a crybaby. ”

“You are no crybaby, Bobby. You’re a very brave boy. ”

“Yeah. ”

“Tell me what happened. ”

“We were makin’ Christmas ornaments out of cotton balls and Life Savers. I said I din’t want to make one, and Arnie asked why, and I said ’cuz the ornaments were stupid and he said I was stupid and I said I wasn’t. Then he socked me. ”

I want to say, Arnie’s an ass, but I hold back. “Why didn’t you want to make an ornament?”

“ ’Cuz we aren’t gonna have a tree. ” His voice catches. He glances at the door his father just slammed. “My mom would never forget Christmas. ”

I know I should keep my mouth shut, but when I look down at this bruised little boy, I am drawn by some force that can’t be denied. “You never know, Bobby. Christmas is full of magic. ”

For the remainder of the afternoon, Bobby and I play board games and watch Winnie-the-Pooh movies. All the while I can hear Daniel working upstairs—hammering, sanding, walking from room to room.

I tell myself to stay out of their business, but the admonition has a hollow, empty sound.

These two need help, and it’s Christmas. I may have lost my own holiday spirit, but I can’t watch a little boy lose his. Besides, this is my first real adventure. What kind of adventurer ignores the needs of others?

“Let’s play again,” Bobby says, reaching for his game piece.

I laugh. Three rounds of Candy Land are all any adult can reasonably be expected to survive, though, with Bobby drawing my cards and moving my game pieces, I must admit that I’ve hardly been paying attention. “No way. How about we do something else?”

“I know!” He pops to his feet and runs upstairs; moments later he’s back, holding a mason jar full of rocks. “It’s my collection. ” He flops down on the floor and dumps out the jar. Dozens of stones splatter out. Several arrowheads are mixed in with the pretty stones. Bits of beach glass add color to the pile.

I kneel beside him. “Wow. ”

He picks them up one by one; each piece has a story. There are agates, beach rocks, and arrowheads. His voice runs fast, like a weed eater in summer as he talks. Mommy found this one by the river. This one was at the beach, hidden underneath a log. I found this one all by myself. When he’s finished, he sits back on his heels. “She always said she’d find me a white arrowhead. ”

I hear the drop in his voice, the way grief sidles in beside him. “Your mom?”

“Yeah. She said we’d find it together. ”

To change the subject, I say, “What’s that nickel doing in the jar?”

He barely looks at it. “Nothing. ”

There’s definitely something in his nothing. “Really? No reason at all? Because those are your special things. ”