Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

Well, Father thought, he would have to see to it that they wouldn’t be disappointed, that there would be nothing amiss in the scene of the Nativity. Moments later he stood in front of the crib and unwrapped the package. To his chagrin he discovered that the tumble to the sidewalk had caused one of the lambs to lose its head and one leg. But Herbie Morris could easily repair it, Father told himself as he stuffed the broken lamb into his pocket and proceeded to put his replacements in position. First, in the center of the crib, the Infant. Next, to the left, the First Wise Man. And then, close to the Babe, another unbroken lamb that he’d purchased.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Father knelt down and gazed at the peaceful tableau before him. Ordinarily the scene would have evoked a sense of serenity. But the priest’s heart was heavy. He couldn’t help but think that it was going to be a sad Christmas for Charley Abbott. And that the man’s prospects for the future were even worse. Moreover, Father couldn’t erase the memory of what he’d seen and heard at the Swansons-the anger, bitterness, selfishness, and, yes, even the cruelty.

Hoping to dispel his disquieting thoughts, the pastor started to close his eyes. But a slight movement in the crib distracted him. He stared in astonishment as he saw that a drop of moisture had appeared on the face of the Infant and had begun to trickle slowly down the pink waxen cheeks.

Even as he watched, fascinated, another drop appeared-and then the priest quickly understood the reason for the seeming phenomenon. The greens that Emma had placed on the roof of the stable had begun to lose their resilience in the steam heat of the church. The fir, pine, and holly boughs were drooping, shedding moisture on the face of the Child…

In the flickering rosy glow of the nearby vigil lights it struck the priest that the scene seemed almost real-as if the Child were alive and crying. As if He were weeping for all the people in the world. All the poor, lonely, homeless-

Father Crumlish stiffened. A startled expression swept over his face. For some time he knelt, alert and deep in thought, while his expression changed from astonishment to realization and, finally, to sadness. Then he rose from his knees, made his way to the rectory office, and dialed police headquarters.

“Could you read me that list you have of the buildings that John Everett was going to have torn down?” Father said when Madigan’s voice came on the wire. The policeman complied.

“That’s enough, Tom,” the priest interrupted after a moment. “Now tell me, lad, will you be coming to Devotions tonight? I’ve a call to make and I thought, with this snow, you might give me a lift.”

“Glad to, Father.” Suspicion crept into Madigan’s voice. “But if you’re up to something-”

The pastor brought the conversation to an abrupt end by hanging up.

Herbie Morris was on the verge of locking up The Doll House when Father Crumlish and Big Tom walked in.

“Can you give this a bit of glue, Herbie?” Father asked as he handed the storekeeper the broken lamb.

“Forget it, Father,” Herbie said, shrugging. “Help yourself to a new one.”

“No need. I’m sure you can fix this one and it’ll do fine.”

Then, as Herbie began to administer to the statuette, the pastor walked over to a display of flaxen-haired dolls and leaned across the counter to select one. But the doll eluded his grasp and toppled over. The motion caused it to close its eyes, open its mouth, and emit the realistic sound of a child crying.

“I see your telephone is close by,” Father said, pointing to the instrument on a counter across the aisle. “So it’s little wonder that Detective Casey thought he heard a real child crying while you were on the phone with him at headquarters. One of these dolls must have fallen over just as you were telling him to arrest Charley Abbott for John Everett’s murder.”

The priest was aware of Madigan’s startled exclamation and the sound of something splintering. Herbie stood staring down at his hands, which had convulsively gripped the lamb he’d been holding, and broken it beyond repair.

“I know that you were notified that this building is going to be torn down, Herbie,” Father said, “and I know these four walls are your whole life. But were you so bitter that you were driven to commit murder to get revenge?”

“I didn’t want revenge,” Herbie burst out passionately. “I just wanted to keep my store. That’s all!” He wrung his hands despairingly. “I pleaded with Everett for two months, but he wouldn’t listen. Said he wanted this land for a parking lot.” Morris’s shoulders sagged and he began to weep.

Madigan moved to the man’s side. “Go on,” he said in a hard voice.

“When I went to his house that night, I took the gun just to frighten him. But he still wouldn’t change his mind. I went crazy, I guess, and-” He halted and looked pleadingly at the priest. “I didn’t really mean to kill him, Father. Honest!”

“What about his wallet?” Madigan prodded him.

“It fell out of his pocket. There was a lot of money in it-almost a thousand dollars. I-I just took it.”

“And then hid it, along with the gun, in the room of a poor innocent man,” Father Crumlish said, trying to contain his anger. “And to make sure that Charley would be charged with your crime, you called the police.”

“But the police would have come after me,” Herbie protested, as if to justify his actions. “I read in the papers that they were checking Everett’s properties and all his tenants. I was afraid-” The look on Father’s face caused Herbie’s voice to trail away.

“Not half as afraid as Charley when you kept warning him that the police would accuse him because of his mental record, because he worked in the Liberty Building and was going to lose his job. That’s what you did, didn’t you?” Father asked in a voice like thunder. “You deliberately put fear into his befuddled mind, told him he’d be put away-”

The priest halted and gazed at the little storekeeper’s bald bowed head. There were many more harsh words on the tip of his tongue that he might have said. But, as a priest, he knew that he must forego the saying of them.

Instead he murmured, “God have mercy on you.”

Then he turned and walked out into the night. It had begun to snow again-soft, gentle flakes. They fell on Father Crumlish’s cheeks and mingled with a few drops of moisture that were already there.

It was almost midnight before Big Tom Madigan rang St. Brigid’s doorbell. Under the circumstances Father wasn’t surprised by the policeman’s late visit.

“How did you know, Father?” Madigan asked as he sank into a chair.

Wearily Father related the incident at the crib. “After what I heard at the Swansons and what Casey told me, a crying child was on my mind. And then, when I saw what looked like tears on the Infant’s face, I got to thinking about all the homeless-” He paused for a long moment.

“Only a few hours before, Herbie had told me how hard it was, particularly at Christmas, to be lonely and without a real home. Charley was suspected of murder because he was going to lose his job. But wasn’t it more reasonable to suspect a man who was going to lose his life’s work? His whole world?” Father sighed. “I knew Herbie never could have opened another store in a new location. He would have had to pay much higher rent, and he was barely making ends meet where he was.” It was some moments before Father spoke again. “Tom,” he said brightly, sitting upright in his chair. “I happen to know that the kitchen table is loaded down with Christmas cookies.”

The policeman chuckled. “And I happen to know that Emma Catt counts every one of ’em. So don’t think you can sneak a few.”