Pie Thief

Two hours later, I saw the inevitable head pushing open the mudroom window, drawn by the smell of baked apples. Before I could say anything, Nadie slid a plastic plate onto the windowsill. "Of course I have one for you, Pim."

Ann was joined by Ethan, and they were joined by William and Ruth. And then spouses, one by one, our family extending and grafting on. Those pairings led to Griffin, Sophie, little Nadie, Michael, the twins Christopher and Christine, Alice, Emma, Jeb—I nixed a Jed Junior—and finally Janey ... whom I admitted I spoiled even more than I spoiled all the others because I thought an "oops" should be extra-specially-loved.

Through it all, birthdays and anniversaries and Thanksgivings were wonderful times, but Christmas was the best. Somehow, despite our constant complaints about empty nests and "What do we need this much room for?" and some sad memories about the loss of parents, we kept the house. It never felt crowded for the holidays, just lovingly filled with twenty and more people bustling about.

And each twenty-fifth, as the darkness closed in and turned the snow bluish under the night sky, Nadie and I would make our way outside. We'd hear the noise of distant traffic fade away, every man-made sound quieting, leaving only the silent night. We'd see the parallel grooves running through the snow, the ground between churned with prints, a single set of them running alongside. We'd watch the antlered figure prance out from behind the barn's bulk, hooves making small crunching sounds in the crust as he returned home from his night's journey.

"Heya, Pie Thief," I'd say, and laugh while he nuzzled for the biscuit he knew was in my pocket. "Welcome back."

"Hello, Pim," she'd say, and give him the cinnamon-baked apple she carried.

And the years passed.

I could hear Nadie on the phone with Ethan. For once, I didn't want to be on the call with the kids. Let them have their unguarded moment.

"Sweetie, if you could come a bit earlier, all of you, it would be good. Talk to your brother and sisters." ... ... ... "It's your father." ... ... ... "No, it's bad. Months at most."

The news had come like a bullet out of the darkness, but what could you do but accept it?

Nobody said a word about the elephant that day. Nadie seldom laid down the law in our family, but when she did, it was as if it came down from the mountain graven in stone. She made it clear: keep it light and happy.

It was just the way Christmas should be: shrieks and giggles from teenaged voices; quieter laughter along with liquid Yule cheer for the older. The late-morning visit to the shelter where we all donned aprons and took our turns dishing out a holiday meal. Sophie's husband, who was from the States, endured the good-natured razzing about Americans "needing their NFL fix," and pointed out that all of his brothers- and sisters-in-law were sitting around watching the Christmas game right alongside him.

Nadie sat beside me the whole day, quiet herself. She was moving more slowly these days and was content for others to manage dinner, tame the chaos, and bring in wood for the fire. Making the morning's schnecken had been enough.

When the time came that evening, she helped me to my feet. It was snowing. I was glad that I got to see that a final time. Once more the familiar quiet descended as I saw Pie Thief peering at me over the paddock fence.

I stroked the wiry hair along his spine as the velvety nose nuzzled into my neck and then burrowed into my coat pocket for the treat he knew would be there. Then there was a sound, not the wind in the trees or the crack of ice breaking free, a man-made sound. The jangle of a harness. I looked over toward the barn.

Kerstman pulled aside the tarp at the back of the sleigh and emerged with an armful of leather and buckles. "This is called a pickaxe arrangement." He shook the straps out, disconnecting and reconnecting with the sure, quick movements of practised hands until there were three abreast in the front, followed by two, two, and two. "Your fella will run in the front. It's the easiest. Next year, he'll be ready to take Dasher's place alongside Rudolph."

He reached into his pocket and produced a carrot. "Somebody's looking forward to nothing but a warm stall and all the apples he can steal. Right, old boy?" Dasher's big head turned and snuffled, and the carrot disappeared as if by magic.

The Kerstman gave a little chirrup and Pie Thief moved up to take his place in the centre. I helped with the hame buckles while Kerstman did the belly band. He gave a final shake to the leather that set the little bells attached all over a-jingle and then climbed up into the sleigh. He brushed the powdering of snow off the seat and held up a thick, green blanket. He looked over at us. "Ready?"

Nadie and I looked at each other in confusion and surprise.

"Someone has to keep him brushed, his hooves oiled, and sneak him treats. In between, there's a workshop where we can put those nimble fingers to use for many years to come, Jed." He turned those bluest blue eyes toward Nadie. "And Missus will be thrilled with someone who knows their way around cinnamon the way you do."

The younger Webbes—adults who felt like children again at this time of year, their children, and even Sophie's tiny baby, first great-grandchild to Jed and Nadie—came down early on Boxing Day. They were surprised that there was no smell of coffee or baking.

"Just let them sleep in," they said.

It was later that morning that Ethan said, "I'll just go check."

He came back and caught the eyes of his brother and sisters.

The four stood at the foot of the bed and looked at the couple, lying with hands clasped. They saw the joyful expressions on their faces and how they looked somehow ... younger.

"They never wanted to be apart," Ann said. The others nodded and smiled through their tears.

I hope you enjoyed the story; thank you for reading. Also, thanks to MsCherylTerra, norafares, and OneAuthor for reading and feedback while it was baking.

Author's note: The poem attributed to Clement Clarke Moore that gave names to the reindeer was published in 1823. Robert May's coloring booklet introducing Rudolph came out in 1939, given away to children who visited Montgomery Ward department stores.

—C