Beauty Is

I sighed in anxiety as the train came to a slow and steady stop. Glancing out of the window as I waited for the short little man to come by and tell us it was time to leave the train, my mind meandered back to the day I had decided to move, therefore remembering some of our family’s past.
Annabelle, when she was not a day over twelve, had been taken in by my parents after they found her by the church. My sister, Maybelline, and I automatically loved her, and growing up together went beautifully. But, Maybelline had decided to run off with the milkman, leaving Annabelle and I at home alone, where we remained for a year until, as two women in our early twenties, we decided to move to the city, get the most of life while we still could.
The short little man in his suit ordered us off of the train, and, squeezing through the sandwich of people, Annabelle and I somehow managed to mosey down the train and out of the small door, almost tumbling upon exit. We caught our breath and glanced at each other. Annabelle’s light, delicate-looking brown hair was pulled back, and her bright blue eyes were ablaze with atypical determination. From the way she grasped her bag with determination, it was hard to believe that this twenty-two year old woman was the same timid twelve-year-old from ten years past.
My red hair was in a braid, and my forest-green eyes were uncertain. My hands, ink-smudged as always, fumbled for the handle on my bags. “Well, Annabelle, this is it. This is our city.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” Annabelle smiled as I knew she would, as she always did.
It was not a big city, but it was a city, and we were going to live in it. The house reminded me of the rest of the city. It was small, cozy, cold, not too noisy but not too quiet, and furnished with mellow adornments. “What do you think of it, Annabelle?” I asked, curious of her opinion on the house.
“It’s beautiful!” She squealed, exuberant. “What do you think, Sarah Lee?”
I looked it over for a moment and then said as though writing, “The house is… pretty, not beautiful, but pretty.”
“What is beauty?” Annabelle asked suddenly, as though in sudden desire for the answer.
“Beauty is…” I trailed off, realizing I could not answer the question.
“Well, anyway, let’s get our bags to our rooms, shall we?” Annabelle giggled, obviously exuberant. I laughed softly. “We shall.” I picked up my and Annabelle’s bags and dragged them to the room. The room wasn’t the best. It had two good-sized beds, though, and a decent amount of space. Chattering, giggling, and laughing, we set up a station for my typewriter, and everything else was situated before we went to bed.
Over the course of the next few days, Annabelle found a job and I, not wanting to be at home alone, found one too, as a columnist in the Rockwall Times. It was there that my dream to be published came true, and I would never forget that it was hard work that brought me there. Once my mystery novel was published and my name was out, I was continuously receiving requests for more and more, and was quickly promoted through the ranks of the newspaper staff.
These were good times for Annabelle and I. Money wasn’t plentiful, but it wasn’t scarce. We had enough to eat and clothes on our backs, and as long as there was paper in my typewriter and ink all over the counter everything was fine. At least, until Annabelle fell ill- very, very ill- for a long time without any diagnosis except for stress. Eventually, I mustered up enough money to send her to our old homeland, a beautiful place and one far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Hopefully, she would be able to relax there and fully recover.
Despite the noise of the city, I found myself rather lonely at home. After awhile I became an excellent cook, something I never would have dreamed up, and I began to clean on a daily basis, and that preoccupied me for quite awhile as the house was a mess. It was after two weeks that the house was spic and span, and there was more food in the pantry than the United States Army could ever eat, and I had written every story I had ever thought of writing, that I realized Thanksgiving had come and gone. I didn’t mind, as I had been eating a lot recently anyway, and so I spent the day praying, although it was Friday, two weeks after Thanksgiving.
In the middle of the day, I received a telegram from where Annabelle had been staying. Tears sprang to my eyes and I shook my head. “No…”
We are sorry to report to the receiver/s of this telegram that Annabelle Joanna Thompson has recently died of strep throat STOP Her death took place at Thomas Jones Hospital, Thanksgiving evening STOP Her will shall be mailed to you shortly STOP Again, most sorry to report this STOP Doctor Jane Marcia Albright, Thomas Jones Hospital Staff STOP
Shock and grief swept over me like a wave, and I gasped for breath and was certain that I was going to be sick.
I crept into the kitchen, one hundred percent positive that I was going to be sick. I grabbed the counter, dizzy beyond imagination, and watched it spin until I had to close my eyes to keep from vomiting.
I began to cry uncontrollably and in great sobs that racked my body. Annabelle! I sobbed desperately, wishing that somehow the tears could undo the horror that had been done. Annabelle, sweet Annabelle, sweet, quiet Annabelle, peaceful Annabelle, wonderful, beautiful Annabelle. All of that beauty ended so abruptly.
My face was puffy and red from crying, and I realized I didn’t care. Whatever beauty was, I thought angrily, this is not it. I cried harder, longer.
The next week I spent crying, crying myself to sleep, crying when I woke up, crying, and crying. It took seemingly forever, but finally, I stopped crying - I stopped crying on the eighth day. The eighth day… had it really been that long? Or rather, that little time?
I no longer cooked, eating out of the full pantry, and I wore all black, keeping my hair concealed in a black bonnet indoors and out. Cold set in, and I realized it was close to Christmastime. Maybelline sent me a telegram saying sorry, Merry Christmas. I didn’t write back, and I didn’t tell her about Annabelle.
Of course, I was still too muggy-brained and depressed to even dream about Christmas. I didn’t put up a tree and I didn’t even write a Christmas-inspired article for the newspaper. My typewriter, for the first time in its over-used and loved life, had been left abandoned.
And one question, or rather, riddle, still haunted me… Beauty is. I laughed bitterly now and then at the thought. Beauty was no more. Life had no beauty in it, not when Annabelle took it all with her. The gems had lost their luster and the stars lost their twinkle after she passed away.
I became the Scrooge of the town, the one who would never celebrate under any circumstances. Not even Christmas, which seemed to offend children, in their haste to make greatness of the holiday. I was always shooting looks that said, “See if I care! Go on!” But I never meant it. And with every look I was cut deeper. Cut deeper by my own words. What worse a fate could God have dreamt for a writer?
It was on the third week before Christmas that I was sitting at my window, shivering in the cold, and ignoring the hot tea that I had brewed for myself. I hadn’t bought a Christmas tree, and wasn’t going to. I needed money for the little food that I brought home.
Thinking sorrowful, bitter thoughts, I stared out of the window. I began to hear a beautiful singing voice, singing Christmas carols. Annabelle, she used to be in choir back home, and she had such a pretty voice. Forgetting my previous anger and bitterness, I began to involuntarily hum the lyrics to the next few songs.
After a few days, I would wait by my window every day after dinner with a cup of hot cider and wait for the carolers to come by, singing their songs. I made up excuses for my slight change in behavior, saying it was the memory of Annabelle. But somewhere inside of me I knew it was just me, trying to poke through the dark storm clouds that were my thoughts.
On the second week of this, I thought I may as well do the carolers a small favor. Every day I began to put out hot cider and cookies on the front porch, and the carolers would eat dedicatedly and dutifully, bringing the smallest smile to my face every day. I started to have the longing for a Christmas tree, but I couldn’t afford one and I wasn’t strong enough to chop one down and haul it around. It was three days before Christmas Eve that Mrs. Marie, my kindly old neighbor, invited me to a Christmas party at her house on Christmas Eve, and a place to be and stay for Christmas since I would otherwise be alone. Her sweetness and love made it thoroughly impossible to bring the word ‘no’ to my lips, and so I accepted the invitation and told her I would be there.
In the end, I used one of my beautiful green dresses and my gloves that I only adorned on special occasions. Also, I found, in the depths of my closet, the most beautiful pair of red shoes I had seen in my life. I strapped them on and set off, indomitable.
I felt entirely out of place at the party. Previous acquaintances acted as if they no longer knew me, and I figured that they were probably right. I became determined to break the mood, and it wasn’t until an hour into it all that I finally mustered to courage to say, “Hello, Samantha! I’ve seen your children caroling recently, and they looked rather adorable.”
From there on, I was accepted into the crowd. I was shy, and a tad nervous. Sometimes, people would say that I reminded them of Annabelle. Mrs. Marie had us all hold hands and sing Christmas carols around the Christmas tree. It towered high above all of our heads and was topped with a beautiful, shining star.
After we all stopped talking and held hands around the tree, the songs began. We sang along as we were told. We all held hands tighter, as if we didn’t want to ever let go of this moment. I realized, suddenly, nobody wanted to let go. I didn’t want to let go, either, as I realized with a slight shock.
Something got to me-- the final blow to a wall that needed to come down, the last ornament on a Christmas tree. It was with that little something that I thought to myself,
Annabelle, I wish you could be here. I really do; it is for that reason that I must let you go. I know you won’t mind though… I know you love beautiful things and this, right here, is beauty.
Merry Christmas, Annabelle.