Note: Every year I share a Holiday story with readers. This is part two of this year's Holiday story. I posted part one on Monday -- if you missed it, scroll on down and read part one before reading today's part of the story.
Part Two
He got back to the theatre early, and went back stage to his small dressing room.
He took off his heavy coat, and hung it on the hook on the wall.
He placed his hat on the dressing table, and laid his thick, warm leather gloves next to it.
There was a sharp knock at the door, followed by a high-pitched female voice.
“Are you decent?” the voice asked.
He sighed, and shook his head. Maria always asked that question when she knocked on his door. She always made the question sound a little bit hopeful – as if she hoped he was disrobing when she knocked on his door.
“I’m dressed,” he called. “Come in!”
He could have sworn he heard a small sigh of disappointment from behind the door.
The door opened and a chorus girl with blonde curls and nice curves stepped into the dressing room.
“I brought you something,” she said. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“That was kind of you!” he said. “It smells good. What is it?”
“Chestnuts. Hot roasted chestnuts. I bought them from the little boy who runs the stand down the street.”
That caught his attention!
“A short little boy – about so tall?”
He held his hand out, palm down, indicating the boy’s height.
She nodded.
“Pale, white skin – no gloves – wears an old jacket that’s ripped and torn? Old black hat that’s too big for him?”
She nodded again.
“Do you know him?”
He nodded.
“My hat ran away on a gust of wind earlier today,” he said. “He found it for me. And he wouldn’t accept a penny for helping me – so I bought a bag of chestnuts from him. It was the least I could do.”
“That’s funny,” she said.
“What – that my hat blew off?”
“No – that he found it for you ands wouldn’t accept any sort of payment. The very same thing happened to me. Not with my hat – but I had dropped my wallet. Her found it, and brought it to me. And he wouldn’t accept any kind of payment.”
“He seems like a good kid.”
She nodded.
“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?” she said. “I just wish things weren’t so tough for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s an orphan. His parents died in the flu epidemic a few years ago. He’s been living on the streets ever since. I don’t know where he sleeps. I think he has some kind of hiding place somewhere. It must be really cold in the winter!”
“How d you know this?”
“He told me. We talk sometimes. I try to buy chestnuts from him whenever I can. Just to help out. He won’t take any handouts.”
He smiled.
“You’re getting a good bargain. They’re good chestnuts.”
She dropped her hands to her hips, moving them up and down in a sort of half-hearted slimming gesture.
“I don’t eat them,” she said, quickly (perhaps a little too quickly). “A girl has to watch her figure – you know how it is!”
He chuckled. She seemed so concerned – and really, there was no reason at all for her to feel that way. She was stunning. They always were. He’d spent his whole life working in vaudeville and circuses, performing his strongman act. The chorus girls were always stunning – but they always worried about “watching their figures”!
“I wish there were some way to really help him,” said the strongman. “Something more than just buying chestnuts from him.”
The chorus girl shook her head.
“There’s nothing else to do,” she said. “I don’t have much, but I’ve tried to give him money. He won’t take it.”
The strongman nodded slowly. He understood.
“He won’t take charity. He has to earn it. Has to make his own way in life.”
Now it was her turn to nod in understanding. He was right.
“That’s what I had to do,” she said.
He leaned forward and kissed the top her head.
“Me, too,” he said. “It’s what we all had to do. All of us who perform for a living. We all have the same story.”
A young stagehand popped his head around the side of the door. He had red hair and freckles, and was chewing a huge wad of gum.
“Curtain call in thirty minutes!” he said. “You’d better start to get ready!”
The chorus girl turned and stuck out her tongue.
“You’re worse than the stage manager,” she said.
“I know!” laughed the stagehand. “That’s why you love me so much!”
She laughed.
“Not ‘til Hell freezes over!” she said.
“Then I’m in luck!” countered the stagehand. “”As cold as it is, that just might happen!”
He turned and headed down the hall.
The chorus girl turned back to the strongman.
“I have to go now,” she said. “I need to get dressed.”
He nodded.
“Me, too.”
“I’d like to stay,” she said. “I mean – to talk. You know. But I gotta get changed.”
He nodded.
“Duty calls. The show must go on.”
“Yeah – something like that.”
The chorus girl turned and walked down the hall to the dancer’s dressing room.
The strongman closed the door, and started to change into his costume. As he did, he thought about the little boy who made a living by selling hot roasted chestnuts. There must be something to do to help him!
