When Luke Kelly closed the rickety latch of his farmhouse gate that Christmas Eve, never in his puff could he have imagined all that would transpire before he’d lift it again. The evening itself was grand: a thin, crescent moon rose above the frosted hills like the Holy Infant’s cradle.
Luke, a bachelor in his late 30s, was off to Lafferty’s Pub for a few jars, followed by Christmas goose with Auntie Grace, a tradition since his own mom had passed away five years earlier. Midnight Mass would follow, then his long, lonesome trek back to his empty home, carrying a bit of tasty fowl for his terrier, Tiny.
On this night, however, before his first pint at Lafferty’s had been set down before him, in walked Mickey Owens, trumpeting to Luke above the din of cheerful patrons.
“Luke Kelly, your Christmas gift has arrived, and she’s still a rare beauty, I tell you.”
“Aye,” he added, pulling Luke playfully by the ear, “Kitty McGurn is home after five long years in America, and she’s after inquiring about yourself.”
Hearing Mick’s announcement, Luke sat dumbstruck on his stool, as if the very mention of the name – Kitty McGurn – had knocked him senseless.
“Why would she be asking for me?” he blurted out finally.
“Wisha, man!” proclaimed Mickey in mock dismay, drawing the attention of all in the pub. “Weren’t the two of you cooing doves, once upon a time? And when Kitty went foreign, weren’t you planning on joining her after your ailing mother had passed on, God rest her soul. Whatever happened between you and Kitty is a mystery still.”
“Aye, we’ve been speculating on your breakup for years,” chimed Michael Lafferty, the publican. “Out with it, man, for ye’ve stitched it away for far too long.”
Luke took a deep gulp of stout, stared hard into the bar mirror a long moment, and finally spoke. “Kitty and I were smitten, for certain, and I had every intention of joining her in the States after my dear mother passed away. But, sure, didn’t she write me a letter soon after she arrived saying she was working at a flea market in Cape Cod. A flea market, mind ye! What next, thought I, a flipping flea circus! I figured she had met up with a Yankee and was playing me for the cod – you know, making up a daft story to brush me away. And the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became. More letters arrived, but by this time my heart was cleaved in two, so I pegged them into the fire, unopened and unanswered.”
A few likeminded patrons nodded gravely, but Martin Shine, who had lived abroad, piped up, “Luke, a flea market in the States just means the selling of knick-knacks and the like.”
Luke stared blankly at Martin, his mind all a muddle, as the penny of his folly went slowly down the chute. “You’re joking?”
“I’m not, then. I’m afraid you made a proper blunder of it, mate.”
Luke dropped his head on the counter like a sack of meal, and those present wondered if he’d ever lift it again. Oh, how his bullheaded ways and impetuous assumptions had shattered his lifelong dream.
“Chin up, man, ’tis Christmas, when anything’s possible,” perked up
Martin, trying his best to revive the crestfallen man. “You’ve lost five years, granted, but why lose five times that again?”
Luke finally lifted his sullen head, “How can I ever make amends to her, tell me?”
“Greet her tonight after Midnight Mass, can’t you, and offer to walk her home,” advised Michael Lafferty, standing him a fresh pint. “Tell her how heartily sorry you are, and confess your trespasses against good sense.”
“I’ll heed your advice,” he answered the publican gravely. “But she’ll need to be a terribly forgiving woman.”
That Holy Night, in the candlelit country chapel, where children sang like angels in the choir loft above, Luke spotted Kitty in the upper pews, lovelier than his memory had ever envisioned. Following Mass, he found her kneeling before the crèche, gazing upon the Infant Jesus. He knelt beside her and boldly but gently took her hand. Unalarmed, Kitty turned to him and asked, “Do you still believe in Christmas miracles?”
Luke answered without hesitation. “I believe anything is possible, now that you’re home.”
When Luke Kelly lifted the rickety latch of his old homestead in the wee hours of that Christmas morn, he gazed at the thickly-speckled sky above, believing the brilliant stars had arranged themselves solely for Kitty’s homecoming. Inside, Luke put down the kettle, stoked the turf to a blaze, and served Tiny a goodly portion of Auntie Grace’s goose. Next, he cautiously took the kitchen mirror from the wall, and removed from its back a black-and-white snapshot of Kitty McGurn.
“Tiny, do you see that lovely woman pictured here? Well, that’s none other than Kitty McGurn. And guess what?” he declared, petting his faithful mate between the ears, “she’s after inviting me to her home for the Christmas dinner. And, by jinx, I’ll do my best to win her heart over once again. Why, I might even suggest she open her own flea market hereabouts, once she settles in. Now, Tiny, won’t that be the right ticket for the three of us?”
In response, his faithful mate jumped onto his master’s lap and licked him lovingly from chin to cheek, convincing Luke Kelly that all would be so.
*This is one of 16 stories in Kevin O'Hara's "A Christmas Journey, Vol. 2," recently published and for sale by The Berkshire Eagle in Pittsfield, MA. You can learn more about Kevin O'Hara on his website TheDonkeyman.com.
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