The Coming of Mr. Pemberton: A Christmas Story

Everyone wondered, but no one knew – knew who Mr. Pemberton was, that is. Oh, they all knew of the Pemberton family. At least the older ones did. They remembered the cranky old man who used to throw things at them when they were kids. Just because they passed his house! Not because they stole his apples or anything. They never would have dared!

So the talk circulated, from the old to the young, and back again. Everyone longed to know who had come to live in The Manor. At least, that’s what the townspeople called it.

Not that the children cared about the house, though. All they thought about was the boulevard: the quarter-mile driveway going to the house. It made the perfect racetrack for bikes and rollerblades. Or sledding. There wasn’t a better hill for sledding in the area. Kansas towns weren’t known for their hills, and Quibley was flatter than most.

That had them worried. If Mr. Pemberton was anything like his surly ancestor, their fun might be over. For whatever reason, the village police were strict about racing in the streets. Though, who knew why? It wasn’t like Quibley had tons of traffic. But then, grown-ups could be that stupid. Still, with fingers crossed, they listened to their elders discuss Mr. Pemberton. And, with the eternal optimism of children, they prepared their sleds for the first snowfall.

Something odd

There was one strange thing about this Pemberton affair, though.

They noticed that Angela Brimm hadn’t said anything at all. And she’d never been silent about anything. Never, as far back as they could remember! Children notice these kinds of things, you know. They were sure that even if she had laryngitis Angela Brimm would find a way to talk!

But, strangely enough, most of what she said made sense. She talked too much, that was true. But that was a good thing, because sometimes she was the only one around with any sense. While everyone speculated about Mr. Pemberton, Angela Brimm went about her business as usual.

Miss Parker, who had been postmistress since the Revolutionary War—or so it seemed to the children—had the most to say. “I remember Old Pemberton. We called him the Crow. He had a drinking problem, he did. Sometimes he’d wander around town for hours before finding his way home. I was just a girl then, but I remember his raucous singing and the clanging as he tripped over garbage cans. Maybe that was why he smelled so bad. Always rolling around in the garbage.”

“I remember that too,” Mr. Crawford piped up, chuckling. “He was happy as a lark, he was, stumbling about after an evening at the tavern. But he was a mean old snake the rest of the time, shaking his cane, and squawking at everybody!”

“And then one day, didn’t he just disappear?” asked Henry Bates. “But I never heard where to and why. And they say no one except the banker ever heard from him again! Seemed mighty fishy to me.”

“Good riddance, that’s what I thought,” Mr. Crawford said, shaking his head.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Parker, the eldest. “It seems to me that he started drinking like that after his wife died. That drove him to it, I guess. I remember my mother saying she had never seen anyone suffer like Mrs. Pemberton did. I guess it broke the old man.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Mr. Crawford grumbled. “But I’m none too happy about having one of them Pembertons back in town. What kind of a man could he be with a father like that? And it’s been two weeks since he moved in, and there’s been no sight or sound of him. Now tell me there’s nothing fishy about that!”

But no one had an answer, not even Angela Brimm, who usually had an answer for everything. That’s what worried the children. What kind of man was he, and how would he treat them? Did he drink too?

Most of all they were worried because their parents had forbidden them to go near the Pemberton house. It seemed they had all judged the man without even seeing him.

But even the children hadn’t noticed Stella’s unusual silence. As quiet as her sister was vociferous, Stella was even quieter than usual. At least that’s what they would have said. “Quieter than ever!” But with a sister like Angela, she probably didn’t get much of a chance to talk, even as a child,” they reasoned.

Yet even they couldn’t see that Stella wasn’t her usual happy and carefree self. She seemed downright uncomfortable about it all.

The sisters

I was the only one who noticed. Then again, as their niece, I knew “The Sisters,” as everyone called them, better than most. And I knew that their names fit them well. People said Angela talked too much, and she did. But they also admitted that she never spoke ill of anyone, always saw the good in people, and tried to help them. And oddly enough, despite her profusion of speech, her words were pearls of wisdom. She was angelic—no mistake about it!

Light-hearted and full of joy, that’s how I thought of Stella, at least before her trip to the city. Something must have happened. Even though she seemed the same, I sensed a sadness lurking beneath the surface. But Stella didn’t talk about it, not even at home.

Worried about her, I retreated to the kitchen and my Christmas preparations. Not that we did much. Usually, it was just a special dinner with any needy or lonely souls we could find to join us.

Cooking and sewing are my therapies. Comfort in times of trouble, and outlets of joy in happy times. Which is only natural, since my name is Taylor. You see, I take names very seriously. To me, they’re more than just words attached to faces. They define the person.

Everyone, even Angela, says that’s a crazy notion. But they’ll never convince me! Why, my aunts embody their names, after all! People were drawn to them, as they are to angels and stars! And otherwise why would I, though I’m so much younger, be doing most of the cooking and handicrafts? Nope, no one will ever convince me that names don’t have special meanings!

There wasn’t much left to do. The toys, hats, and mittens that we make for the orphans each year were ready to be wrapped and delivered. We never bother with gifts for each other. We prefer to keep things simple without a lot of clutter.

But this year, I decided to bake more and planned an extra special dinner. “Who knows?” I thought. “It might even cheer Stella up. Snap her out of whatever funk she was in.”

It was good thing only one guest was coming this year. A crowd might overwhelm her. Maybe she needs some quiet after the hustle and bustle of the city. She’s never liked crowds. “Yep, that’s it,” I decided. “Here I was imagining she was depressed over her best friend’s wedding. It can’t have been easy for her to watch her friends get married one after the other, when she’s never even had a boyfriend.”

But things did not go according to plan.

Much to my dismay, things have a way of doing that. I like things to be neat, orderly, and well-planned. Tailor made days, to fit my Taylor life. Yet, I’m glad God stepped in and messed up my plans, to give us the best Christmas ever! And not just for us, but for the whole town!

You see, we never planned anything for Christmas Eve. We always saved it for the candlelight service at church. It was the highlight of our year, and we wouldn’t miss it for the world! There aren’t many special events in Quibbley. That’s why the kids were so worried about their sledding hill.

I never expected the evening to end as it did.

Thank goodness I did all that extra baking and cooking, though, because an unexpected guest showed up. I must admit that it all turned out well! Stella is now more radiant than any star in the sky. Her name means star, you know.

Still, I’d like to know why true lovers were separated for so long. I doubt I’ll ever find out, though. Stella still doesn’t talk much more than she ever did

But I have learned one thing. When Angela Brimm isn’t talking, you can be sure she knows even more than usual. If that’s the case, don’t ever expect her to spill the beans. As I said: she’s angelic and the soul of discretion.

And John Pemberton? Well, I’m sure he’s a nice guy. I’ll like him a lot more, though, when he wipes off the silly grin he wore throughout the meal.

All’s well that ends well, though. The kids can stop worrying about their hill. Now, all they need now is a good heavy snow!

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed in this fictional story are not based on real people. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

📷 Image credits: House | Trash cans | Winter wear.