Alice O’Brien woke up Thanksgiving morning and could barely move. Arthritis began in her fingers when she turned 65 and now, ten years later, it had crept into her shoulders and feet.

She pulled herself to the side of the bed, swung her feet to the floor and flexed her toes. Gradually the pain eased. She shrugged her shoulders several times and turned her head from side to side. “It’s just a matter of time before I can’t get up and down the stairs,” she said to the silent house.

She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and hobbled to the window. The sky was iron gray. Rain sheeted the window and flooded the street below. A fast running river splashed over the curb and raced to the harbor at the end of the block.

The parking lot across the street was almost empty. On most Thanksgivings it would be full before noon. Not today. Rain had been predicted to turn to sleet before becoming a full blown blizzard by night fall. For the first time since Alice could remember the Thanksgiving parade had been cancelled.

Her Toyota was parked in the same spot where she had left it two weeks ago after coming home from shopping. Lately she didn’t feel safe enough to drive but turning in her license would be another bit of freedom chipped away from the dwindling days of her life.

The rusted green van was still there, resting on its flattened tires at the far end of the lot beneath the willow trees that tossed in the wind sweeping the lichen covered dented roof. The license plate had been stripped away shortly after the van was abandoned last October.

Alice leaned closer to the window. A young woman, holding the hand of a small girl, hurried across the lot and crawled in to the back of the van. “Aha,” she said, her breath steaming up the window. She rubbed the fog away with the corner of her blanket and leaned closer for a better look. “They’re living there,” she said aloud turning from the window, “Maybe I should get a cat so I have someone to talk to.”

As she slowly pulled on her clothing she ran through the times she had seen them before; in the spring in Brewster Park; at the end of summer fishing at the end of Long Beach; since October, walking through the parking lot across the street.

The mother, a young red headed woman with a spray of freckles across her nose was never without her backpack. Alice guessed the little girl, either five or six years old, was a miniature version of the mother and carried a backpack of her own.

In the fall, once the days grew cooler, Alice often saw them in the library. The mother, the backpack resting at her feet, sat at a desk reading newspapers or magazines while the little girl curled up in one of the large dark brown leather chairs with a book propped up on the backpack on her lap. Sometimes they both seemed to be sleeping. Once a man spoke softly to the little girl; her mother raised her head and called out sharply, “Violet! Come here.” The little girl smiled up at the man, slipped off her chair and went to sit on her mother’s lap. The mother whispered something in the little girl’s ear the little girl hid her face against her mother’s shoulder.

Violet. The little girl’s name was Violet.

After that, whenever Alice saw the child in the library, she would whisper softly, “Hello, Violet.”

Violet always smiled but never spoke.

Alice, the only child of parents who were only children, never married. After graduating from high school she entered the Sisters of the Devine Mercy. “You broke your father’s heart,” her mother told her on the day Alice made her final vows and became Sister Mary James. On that day she also received her assignment to teach in a school on the mean streets of Detroit. Alice loved teaching. Sometimes she thought she loved teaching almost more than she loved God.

Years later, after her mother died of Alzheimer’s Alice’s father, who had been the primary caregiver, suffered a stroke. Alice left the convent and the career she loved to returned to her childhood home and care for her father. The house was a small two-story colonial in downtown Plymouth, within walking distance of the harbor.

In the evenings, sitting by her father’s side, they leafed through the family album filled with crimped fading photos held in place by small black triangles. The night before he died he turned to her and said, “Our family stops here.” His eyes filled with tears. “It stops with you, Alice.”

Now, alone in the silent house, Alice sat in her father’s faded wing backed chair and crossed her hands in her lap; not in prayer, she had given that up long ago. She was use to spending holidays alone but this Thanksgiving was different. The wind howled around the corners of the house like a dirge and caught the brass knocker on the front door, tapping it gently as though begging to come inside. She wondered if death was near. And, after death – what?

She crossed to the fireplace and put a log on top of the kindling. Once the fire got going she settled back in the wing backed chair and flicked the remote at the TV. Nothing. She flicked the switch on the light beside the chair. Nothing. A power outage. With a sigh she picked up the album and began turning the pages, barely noticing the faces smiling up at her.

By mid-morning the lights flicked twice and came back on. Alice took a can of tuna from the cupboard and rummaged through one of the cluttered drawers for the can opener just as a vivid bolt of lightning lit up the room and a clap of thunder shook the house. Rain hammered on the windows. Alice quickly turned off the television but forgot to turn off the lamp before sitting down in the wing back chair. She glanced across the street.

Violet and her mother, wearing light clothes and sweaters, huddled under a black umbrella that kept snapping inside out and back. The mother seemed to be arguing with a policeman in foul weather gear. Her hair streamed over her face.

The policeman turned towards the idling cruiser at the curb and shouted to the driver behind the wheel before pointing to the green van in the far corner of the parking lot. Violet and her mother shook their heads so violently rain washed from the ends of their hair. The policeman reached out and took the mother by the upper arm. Violet reached up and swung from his arm trying to pull his hand away.

Alice dropped the album to the floor and rushed to the front door. She threw it open with such force it hit the wall. “Violet,” she shouted above the storm. The policeman and Violet’s mother stopped arguing and stared at the house. Violet let go of the policeman’s arm and moved closer to her mother. The policeman in the car rolled down the window and squinted at Alice.

“Violet,” she called again. The rain had turned to sleet and stung her face. “What are you two doing just standing there? Supper’s getting cold. Come on inside,” she waved her arm as though irritated and beckoned for Violet to cross the street. Violet’s mother placed her hand on Violet’s back and gave her a gentle push Violet stuck her thumbs beneath the backpack’s straps and stepped off the curb, crossed the street, and came up the front steps. Alice leaned down, held out her arms and whispered in Violet’s ear, “Pretend I’m your grandmother.” Violet, looked over her shoulder, at her mother and the policeman who stood side by side watching it play out. Violet gave Alice a stiff hug. “What’s your mother’s first name?” Alice whispered.

“Beth.”

Alice straightened up, raised her hands, cupping her mouth and shouted, “Beth, you’ll catch your death standing out there.” She beckoned Beth towards the door. “Come on.” She turned as though to go inside but stopped and turned around. “Bring your friend with you if you want.” The policeman pointed to his chest and raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you,” Alice shouted.

The policeman called across the street, “Ma’am, Do you know this woman?”

“Know her?” Alice clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and motioned to Beth who looked up at the policeman. He shrugged, walked to the police car and said something to his partner. Beth crossed the street and hurried up the stairs.

“Give her a hug, mom,” Violet whispered. “Pretend she’s my grandmother.”

Without waiting Alice reached out, gathered Beth into her arms and brought her inside the house. After the door was closed Beth slapped her hands against the door and looked through the peep hole. “Oh, God,” she wailed, dropping her backpack and turning away from the door. She sank down on the steps that led to the second floor. “There’s a tow truck. They’re towing the van away.”

Violet slipped off her backpack and sat down beside her mother. She put her arm around her shoulders. “We can go stay on that boat again, mom,” she said. Beth gave her a warning look. “Well then where will we stay?” Violet began to whine. “We can’t stay under the bridge, and that bad man at the shelter -.”

Beth pressed a finger against her lips. “Shhhh.” She gathered Violet in her arms and they rocked back and forth together.

Alice waited until Violet stopped crying and said, “Stay here.” Water pooled on the steps and the floor. Beth and Alice stared at each other without speaking.

Violet began to shiver. Her teeth chattered. Finally Alice said, “Move aside. I’m going upstairs to find you some dry clothes.”

“We can’t stay here,” Beth called up after her. “We don’t know you.”

“I know you,” Alice called back over her shoulder, “I’ve seen you at the beach, in the park, at the library.”

Beth stood up. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “How do you know you can trust us?”

Alice, on her way down the stairs with an arm load of clothes said, “I don’t. But I’m going to take a giant leap of faith.” She carried the clothes into the bathroom and piled them on the wicker hamper. “After you’ve changed bring the wet clothes into the kitchen and I’ll put them in the dryer.” She held up her father’s faded blue Patriot’s sweat shirt. “Violet can wear this as a dress until her other stuff is dry.”

While they changed she put another log on the fire and then went into the kitchen to make tuna fish sandwiches.

“Well, it’s not exactly Thanksgiving dinner,” Alice said, after the three of them sat down at the table. Violet licked mayonnaise off her fingers; Beth picked fallen crumbs off her plate with the tip of her finger; Alice opened another can of tuna fish and brought the jar of mayonnaise and loaf of bread to the table.

After lunch Alice took Violet in to the living room and lifted a box of puzzles off the top shelf of the bookcase. She blew away the dust and placed the box on the coffee table. Violet chose one of the puzzles and began to work on the frame. When she went back to the kitchen, Beth was standing at the sink washing the dishes. Alice sat down at the table. Beth pulled out a chair and sat across from her.

“I think it’s time we introduced ourselves,” Alice said, holding out her hand. “I’m Alice O’Brien, ex-nun. I used to be a teacher but I came home ten years ago to take care of my father before he died. I’m seventy-five years old and don’t have any living relatives. When you and Violet showed up on my doorstep, literally -”

“- literally -” Beth said, still holding Alice’s hand.

“ – you were like a gift. Now,” Alice squeezed Beth’s hand and let it go, “your turn.”

“I’m Beth Ryan. By the time I aged out of foster care Violet was already four-years-old. I found a job as a nurse’s aide at a place that had day care for the employee’s children. After the nursing home closed the economy was so bad I couldn’t find another job. I kept looking but eventually I emptied my savings account to pay the rent and when I couldn’t pay the rent anymore we lost our apartment.”

“No friends?”

Beth shook her head. “While living on the street?”

“How long have you been living on the street?”

“A little over a year. That van across the street was the closest thing to a home we’ve had since we left the apartment.” Beth’s eyes filled with tears. Alice crossed to the kitchen counter and brought back a paper towel. She waited while Beth wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“How old is Violet?”

“Six.”

“What have you been doing about school?”

“You have to have an address before you can enroll a child in school. I didn’t want anyone knowing we were living on the streets. I didn’t want some social worker taking Violet away. She’d wind up like me.” She pressed the napkin against her mouth to stifle her sobs.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Outside the sleet had turned to snow. Big soft flakes clung to the window pane. Finally Alice said, “I’ve got a plan. I’ve got arthritis. It’s getting hard for me to do what I have to do to keep this house up, go grocery shopping, run errands. If you’d be willing to help out you could stay here until you get back on your feet.”

Beth pressed the tears away from her eyes with her finger tips. “We couldn’t do that.”

“Why not? You can look for a job, I’ll home school Violet and get her caught up so she can start school on a par with all the other kids in her class. What do you say?” She held her hand out across the table. After a moment Beth took her hand and shook it. “Deal?” Alice said.

“Deal. But just until I get back on my feet.”

“Mom,” Violet called from the living room, “The lamp just came on.”

“The sofa opens up into a queen size bed. I’ll make it up for you and Violet. You can sleep there tonight, watch TV, and get a good night’s rest and tomorrow we’ll figure everything out.” Alice stood up. “There are some Girl Scout cookies in the cabinet and some chocolate milk in the ‘fridge. Maybe you can heat it up and have a cup of cocoa.”

“Would you like one?”

“No, I’m going to bed. I’ve got a good book. I’m going to read for awhile. Come up with me and I’ll give you the sheets and pillow cases.”

“I’ll shovel you out in the morning,” Beth said, following Alice upstairs.

“Good. And maybe we can go shopping if the roads are clear. Maybe pick up a turkey. Thanksgiving is just a number on the calendar.” She piled the sheets on Alice’s outstretched arms. “If we can pretend to be a family, we can pretend that Thanksgiving comes on a Friday this year.”

Later that night Alice put her book aside, turned off the lamp and lay in bed listening to the drowsy ebb and flow of conversation waft up from downstairs. A truck rumbled past the house, the sound of the plow muffled by the heavy falling snow, as it moved slowly down the street away from the house.

Alice closed her eyes and smiled.

About the Author

Grace Gannon Rudolph

Grace Gannon Rudolph’s work has appeared in newspapers, magazines, anthologies, on stage and on the ‘Net. She is an eternal optimist who hopes to find an agent to represent her work.