The Christmas List: A Novel

Kier was in his office reading freshly posted comments under his article when he heard Linda unlock the building’s back door and enter. She was speaking to her son, Mason. “Now don’t get into anything. You can sit here and draw. I’ll be right out.”

“Can I have a can of root beer?”

“Not can, may.”

“Can I have a may of root beer?”

“No, may I have a can of root beer.”

“Can I?”

She groaned. “Just a minute.”

Kier shut off his computer. The comments on his “obituary” had continued to accumulate, for the most part it was just more of the same kind of attacks. He wasn’t sure what drew him to the site; it was like rubbing his tongue over the sharp edge of a cracked tooth. No matter how much it hurt he just couldn’t leave it alone.

He heard Linda say, “There’s no root beer. I got you a grape soda.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

There was a pop as the boy opened the can, then Linda appeared in the doorway, “Good afternoon, Mr. Kier.” She wore a crushed velvet burgundy dress and her hair was done up in a simple twist. Kier had forgotten how pretty she was. “Sorry I’m late. Mason’s Sunday school teacher stopped me on the way out.”

“It’s okay. Come in.”

She looked pensive as she stepped inside the office. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course not. Would you mind shutting the door?”

“My son is out there . . .”

“Oh, right.” Kier stood up and walked to the front of his desk. He motioned to the chair in front of him. “Please, sit down.”

She had never heard his voice so gentle; she knew it was irrational but it frightened her. She walked over and sat down in the chair, her body tense with anticipation.

Kier leaned back against his desk, sitting on its edge. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, unconvincingly.

“Are you afraid?”

She looked like she was going to hyperventilate. “A little.”

“Thank you for your honesty. Let me get to the point.” He looked at her for a moment, then said, “What do you think of me?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“It’s a straightforward enough question—what do you think of me?”

Straightforward as a minefield, Linda thought. “I think you’re good at what you do. Really good.”

“And what is it that I do?”

“Develop and manage real estate and other investments.”

“Yes, I’m good at that. But what do you think of me as a person?”

She looked down at the ground as she searched for a safe answer. Kier’s gaze never left her.

Finally she said, “I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

“Let’s try it this way. What kind of a person am I?” When she didn’t look up he rubbed his chin and sighed. “Okay, I’ll make this real simple. Am I a good person, a bad person, or somewhere in between?”

Linda carefully picked her words, “You’re . . . you’re smart . . .”

“Am I the kind of guy you’d, say, want to marry?”

She looked up sharply. “Would I what?”

“Don’t be scared. I’m just using the question as a point of reference. If you weren’t married, would you want to be married to me?”

“It would be inappropriate,” she said.

He smiled. “A safe answer, but not really a truthful one. Because if you really wanted to marry me you wouldn’t care, would you?”

She took a deep breath. “Probably not.”

“Good.” Kier shook his head slowly. “Thank you for being honest.” He walked back to his desk, sat down, then picked up a pencil and set it down in perfect alignment with his desk pad. “I know this is hard, but could you be a little more specific? Why wouldn’t you want to be married to me? I’m rich. I’m not bad looking. You could do worse.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t think you would care that much about me. Or my son.” Her eyes started to well up with tears. “Please don’t fire me, Mr. Kier. You know I need this job.”

“I’m not going to fire you, Linda.” He leaned back in his chair. “You studied English in college. You know Robert Burns, the poet?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“O wad some power the giftee gie us, to see ourselves as others see us.” He looked at her with a strange expression. Linda suddenly wondered if he’d been drinking.

“The truth is, I already knew the answer to the questions I asked you. So let me say what you were afraid to say: You wouldn’t want to be married to me because I am selfish and inconsiderate. I would take from you what I wanted and give nothing in return. In short, I would use you. Am I right?”

“I didn’t say—”

“Don’t worry—this is my confessional, not yours.” He paused, looking for the right words. “Do you know why there’s a Nobel Peace Prize?”

She stared at him, wondering what this could possibly have to do with their conversation. “No sir.”

“It’s an interesting story, really, and . . . relevant. Alfred Nobel was the inventor of dynamite. A useful thing, of course. It was used in mining, clearing land—it saved years building the transcontinental railroad. But it was also used in war. People lost their lives. Many, many people.

“As fortune would have it, in 1888, Nobel’s brother Emil died. A French newspaper mistook his brother for him and ran an article with the headline, Le marchand de la mort est mort, ‘The merchant of death is dead.’ It went on to say that Dr. Alfred Nobel became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before. That was the first of many such articles. Nobel was so upset by what he read about himself that he decided to change his legacy. He left his fortune to the establishment of the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true.” Kier rubbed his chin. “I know, it’s a little like a drug dealer leaving his money to a drug rehabilitation clinic. At any rate, Nobel and I have something in common. We’ve both left a trail of suffering in our wake, and we both got a glimpse of our legacy before we died.

“It’s a blessing, really. Painful but not without benefit. It’s like seeing your report card while there’s still time to change your grade.” He looked down for a moment. “I know what you think of me, or at least what you should think of me. I’ve hurt people. The Bible—yes, I’ve read the Bible, I was even a deacon once—the Bible says that true religion is to help the widow and the fatherless. I’ve put them both on the street. I’m like the opposite of true religion. I am not good.”

He looked at her, unsure of how she was taking this. Linda sat quietly, her hands laced in her lap. “You don’t have to disagree,” he said, though she showed no sign of doing so. “No, I’m not a good person. You, on the other hand, are.” He leaned forward. “You are kind and forgiving and remarkably selfless. You work forty-five, fifty hours, a week, then go home and take care of your husband and son. I would wager that you couldn’t even tell me the last time you did something just for yourself.” She didn’t respond. “You can’t, can you?”

“I took a long bath last weekend.”

“My point exactly.” He stood, then walked back to her. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“We’ve been together a long time, you and I. You know more about me than anyone else does. You know just about every meeting I’ve ever had, every phone call I’ve taken. You know my own clients better than I do. You send them birthday and wedding presents with my name on them. I don’t even know if they’re married and you send them flowers on their anniversaries. Am I right?”

She nodded.

He lowered his voice. “You also know the people I’ve hurt, don’t you?”

After a moment she nodded. “Yes.”

“You’ve been with me for a long time, Linda. You’ve seen me change. Not just the change in business, but the change in me. You’ve seen my son grow up without a real father. You’ve seen my marriage fall apart. Like it or not, you are my life’s witness. That puts you in a unique, if unenviable, position.” He crouched down in front of her. “That’s why I need your help. I want you to make me a very special list.”

Linda raised an eyebrow. “A list?”

“I need the names of everyone I’ve hurt and my crimes against them. And I need to know where they are now. I want to make it up to them.” He looked down for a moment as if the weight of his own words had just fallen on him. “I want to fix things, if possible.” He looked back up at her. “Will you help me?”

“When would you like me to start?”

“As soon as possible. I’ve wasted too much time already.”

She thought it over. “I can do that. Anything else?”

“No, I think that’s enough for now.”

She stood. “Then I’d better get Mason and get home to Max.”

Kier got to his feet. He put his hand on her shoulder but quickly removed it as he could see it made her uncomfortable. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Kier. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She walked out of the office and called to her son. “Come on, Mason. It’s time to go home.”

Kier sat back in his chair and thought about the commitment he had just made. He wondered if he were strong enough to follow through with it.