By Michelle Barany 
 
 

Carolers gathered outside the bookstore just as Nathalie was about to leave, a shopping bag loaded with Christmas gifts: books, cassettes, calendars weighing her down. It was getting late, probably 6:00 P.M., she thought, and she still had two shirts to buy in the department store at the other end of the mall, one for her husband, Glenn, and one for her brother, Chris. They had different, almost divergent personalities. It would take her a long time to select the right shirts. She tried to ease out from the side of the door, but the crowd of listeners had swelled up around the singers, and she couldn't leave without disturbing anyone. She put her bag down and listened to the uplifting carol, the tenor and baritone of the men's voices mingling with the alto and soprano of the women's. The singers, clothed in nineteen-century attire from hats to fur-collared coats to boots, looked like an 1800 Christmas card out of someone's collection.
When the carolers finished their song, she forced her way among a slowly dispersing crowd. There was no way she could rush to the department store past the strolling people, and the loaded bag of presents pulled down heavily on her arm. She decided to put the bag in the trunk of her car and drive closer to the store.
The parking lot was crowded when she came, and she had parked farther down at 
the entrance to the lot. One third of the way to her car, a man jumped up 
from between two parked vans.  Glenn's warning flashed through her mind: Be wary of strangers approaching you as you walk to your car, don't get yourself tangled up in packages, look around you, have your keys ready.  She could have checked every recommendation off her husband's list, but this man appearing so suddenly defied any anticipation of danger. Dusk was settling and the cars on the street already had their lights on. She could see no one else on the parking lot. She kept on walking without looking at him, but she saw him in her field of vision. She heard him as she passed. "Do you have change? I'm broke and I'm very, very hungry." She kept on going and, peripherally, saw him retreat between cars.
She slowed down. She had had time to appraise the thin man, probably a little older than she, in his mid to late thirties, dressed in a loose summer shirt and lightweight pants, barefoot, even though the California temperature this mid-December evening was fast dropping down to the low fifties. She shifted the bag from her left to her right hand, lifted the flap of her purse, reached for her wallet inside, slowly moving forward, her upper body slightly turning in his direction. He came toward her. Sliding the handle of the bag of books down her arm, she riffled through the wallet.  She had used most of her cash in the bookstore and found only two one-dollar bills and a ten. She turned, faced him and handed him the two dollars. From her 5-foot-5 height conferred by the sturdy two-inch heels of her shoes, and her over one-hundred-pound weight by her light and warm woolen jacket, she felt like a giant before the slightly stooped man, whom she could look in the face without raising her head.
He took the money, said, "Thank you," and tried to add something else, probably, "May God bless you," as the Salvation Army officers at the entrance of stores would say, but he stumbled on the words, as if they were stuck together, and only the word God came out clearly. He struggled to repeat, moving backward. 
She turned away from him. "You're welcome," she said, forcing herself to enunciate clearly, because she felt uneasy and her words might come out garbled too. But  not from fear, from shyness perhaps, although she did not know why. The event had been banal enough, had happened very fast, yet it lingered on like a settling mist.
At her car, when she placed her bag in the trunk, she saw the silhouette of the thin man farther up, moving toward a couple on foot. They glanced at him over their shoulders as they passed. Probably mistaking their glance for a positive gesture, he moved closer to them. His arms rose and fell as the couple went on without stopping. He stood immobile until the flashing lights of a security cart came into view. He then stooped down between cars and disappeared from sight. She got into her car.
As she came to the other side of the mall, an SUV pulled out of its parking 
place ahead of her. She waited for a mounted guard patrolling the area to go past the vacated space before pulling into it. With this extra security, there wouldn't be any out of luck people asking for help here. 
The store advertised substantial December discounts if the purchases were made with the store credit card, and people milled about crowding the aisles. She made her way to the rack of new, fashionable shirts with a soft velvet finish, easy to wear with or without a tie. In no time she had selected a handsome long-sleeved dark gray shirt for Glenn, more conservative. But what about that brother of hers? Should it be the kind of sweatshirt Chris wore between business ventures when, avoiding discouragement over the last failure, he kept in shape by running while reassessing his options? Should it be a white shirt with a tie in case he needed to look for a part-time job or two to hold him over until his new small advertisement business took off? Or perhaps a woolen sport shirt? He could wear it skiing, able to afford time off, if he was doing well.  As he should be, she thought, considering the business loan he had been able to secure one year ago. She loved that tall brother of hers, four years her junior, somewhat of a maverick, who, single at 28, with some experience and a bachelor's degree in business in his pocket, was finally experiencing some success in his newest venture. Perhaps Glenn would now look upon Chris more kindly. Perhaps this Christmas, their talk wouldn't turn into a bitter argument about Glenn comparing his company man's relative security to Chris' taking of chances. It seemed, at times, as if Glenn tolerated Chris solely for Nathalie's sake, she and her brother being the only two left in the family after their parents' death in a car crash a few years earlier. She bought the sport shirt. 
The rack was near the entrance to the mall. Here too, carolers sang, but these were dressed in metallic silver-and-gold space suits, and the rhythm made the songs take flight toward and beyond the bedecked red, green and gold dome above. The gaiety reached her. She saw a belt she liked for Glenn and bought it. As she crossed the store on her way to the exit, she passed the sweatshirts. A black one attracted her attention. Her brother looked good in black. She bought it for him. Her store card had made the purchases affordable. 
At the entrance to the freeway, a man was walking across, pushing a cart. She stopped to let him go by. Her headlights shone on him. He wore a long, worn jacket and a cap pulled down to his ears. The cart looked stuffed with blankets. A large-lettered sign "Will Work for Food" protruded above. A homeless, she thought.
 She remembered the slight man on the parking lot. Where was he now that night had fallen? At least this one, wherever he dwelled, seemed equipped for the cold nights in this semi-desert area.  It was easy to speculate that he was a veteran of the trade, whatever had brought him here, alcohol, drugs, mental illnessÖ
She inched her way forward as, according to monitoring lights, one at a time the cars ahead of hers sped up toward the freeway. When her turn came, she, too, accelerated until she had reached freeway speed. She merged into the flowing traffic of look-alike suburban vehicles, moved to the central lane, the thin-clothed, barefoot man in tow in her mind.
What, dear God, what could have brought the clean-shaven man on the mall parking lot to ask total strangers for handouts? She had been leery of him at first, but he could easily be the one to fall victim to anyone's whim. And what had he tried to say, the thin stranger whose words wouldn't come out? What could he buy with the two dollars she had given him? A small loaf of non-enriched bread or half a quart of milk? Was it why he hadn't been able to utter, "May God bless" or "God be with you?" Or did something completely different jumble the words up, like, "But for the grace of God, there goes you?" Ridiculous! She could hear her husband's voice, You and your wild imagination! Why do you always complicate life? How do you know he doesn't want drug money? Glenn, the voice of reason. Even at that, where did you turn if you were on drugs and had no money left to buy food? And what if the stranger had simply been down on his luck, with no one to help? What did you do if you were in business, needed a loan, had no collateral, had been kicked out of your home through repossession, had no one to turn to, no experience at anything else and found yourself hungry?  The car heater wasn't on, but she felt sweat oozing on her forehead.
Restless, she twisted in her seat, looked up. The next exit was hers. She had almost missed it. She made an abrupt lane change. The car behind her blew an angry warning. 
Glenn was right. She did let her imagination get the best of her. Let's come back to reality, she thought. She needed a handful of groceries, milk, bread, salad. She wouldn't have to write a check. Her ten dollars would cover that easily.
Once off the freeway, she drove to the supermarket in her area. She parked the car by one of the green dividing strips and got out.  The rising notes of a lone violin playing "Holy Night" ascended in the darkness. She did not see the player, but she had seen him before. She knew he was an Asiatic in his late sixties or perhaps in his seventies, Vietnamese, Cambodian or Laotian, she couldn't tell. He was always sitting Buddha-like on the grass at the end of a dividing strip, a plate with a few shiny coins next to him. His face was long and lean, but not skinny, and he had the long, smooth fingers of someone who had been spared manual labor. What had he been in his native country? A doctor? A lawyer? A teacher? A musician perhaps?  No doubt someone with a profession, who had learned how to play the violin. Was he someone who, once he had immigrated into this country had found out that he was too old to practice his trade? Someone who lacked training in other fields, but who could create stirring sounds? And attract a few coins to his plate?
The two entrances to the store were framed between quadrants of Christmas trees for sale. The man playing the violin was sitting across from the central quadrant, at the end of a strip close to one of the entrances, dressed, as before, in a fading rust suit and a buttoned up faded brown shirt. A few people went past him without stopping. What would he say if, on her way out, she gave him her change, Thanks, but for the grace of GodÖ? 
She hastened into the store, grabbed a hand basket and put in the milk, the bread and the salad she needed. On her way to the cashier, she calculated that it would leave her four dollars and some cents out of the ten in her wallet. Christmas was approaching; she could still buy a bottle of sweet sherry. She and Glenn could sip some tonight together by the fireplace. But it meant that she would have nothing left to put in the man's plate. From inside the store, she couldn't see him, couldn't hear him play.  No, she thought; it's our time, our holiday time. She added the sherry to her provisions. Besides, she thought, she couldn't possibly donate to every outstretched hand.
She left the store by the farthest entrance from where the man still played, walked to her car the long way around to avoid him. Once inside, she quickly closed the car door on the wrenching sound. Her headlight lit the player briefly as she pulled the car out and swung it around, just as someone was putting a donation in his plate. He did not acknowledge it. He continued playing, as removed from all as if he had been alone in a far-away rice paddy.
She pulled into the street, removing the figure from her rearview mirror.
On the way home, she kept her thoughts on the evening ahead. A quick meal, then Glenn would light the gas logs in the fireplace while she would bring in the sherry. They would settle on the love seat across from the fire.
When she arrived home, she saw her brother's car along the curb and felt a surge of joy. She went directly into the kitchen through the rear door to put the groceries away before joining the men into the living room. As she went in, she heard her brother's voice but couldn't distinguish the words. When he stopped talking, there was a pause. She removed the carton of milk from the bag and went to place it inside the refrigerator. In the living room, the pause lasted, unusually long, it seemed. Then Glenn spoke, his voice perhaps more reflective than when he normally addressed Chris. The refrigerator door open, she listened.
"I don't have that kind of money. And I don't know that I could raise it." Then his voice rose, business and analytical, as usual. "Tell me. You had a large loan. Apparently things didn't go so well. What makes you think they would pick up?"
She heard Chris clear his throat. "It'sÖ" He cleared his throat again."Öthe third year. The crucial year. If you could at least co-sign for meÖ Come next year, I'd be able to repayÖ everything."
Her heart pounded oh so fast. Her hand holding the milk carton shook against the shelf beneath the freezer, as she waited for her husband's answer.

 
© Michelle Barany, 2002

Michele Goriou Barany 

I was born in Paris (6ème arrondissement) and, after the age of ten, grew up mostly in La Rochelle, on the Atlantic coast of France. In France, I taught 4th grade in a public grade school, then became a translator-interpreter for USAREUR Headquarters in the office of G-4 in La Rochelle. I met my American husband of 46 + years through friends. We were married in La Rochelle in 1955. I came to the United-States with him in June of 1956. In the United States, I worked as a clerk in the Agricultural Department at the University of West Virginia in Morgantown, while my husband studied for a Master's degree in Music Education. After he received it in 1957, we left for Sanders, Arizona, where he taught music in high school for two years. Our first child, a daughter, was born in Ganado, Arizona, on the Navajo Indian Reservation. The following year, we came to California where we have lived since 1959. Our other two children, a daughter and a son, were born in California.

When my children were all in school, I went back to college. I have a bachelor's degree, summa cum laude, with a double major in English (creative writing option) and in French, and a master's degree in French from California State University, Long Beach. I was also made a member Pi Delta Phi, Phi Kappa Phi and Phi Beta Kappa. For twenty years, I taught French in several community colleges and at California State University, Long Beach, where I edited three books of my senior and graduate students' literary translations, The Translators' French Quarter. I retired from teaching in 1996. My husband and I travel and we enjoy our grandchildren. I also write stories. Once a month, a group of francophone friends meet at my house to speak French.

 I have had poems published in journals, and stories in anthologies, reviews and journals, among them: The Antioch Review, Rafale from Le Farog Forum and Le Forum.