FROZEN FOOTSTEPS

A CHRISTMAS STORY

There had been no snow all December, but for the first time in the season the sky was threatening. As a few stray leaves rattled across the pavement, Robert Fuller hunched his shoulders and leaned into the bracing wind. He heard the honk of geese, off by the lagoon, and looked up, catching the first light drops of rain on his face, and walked faster. • Well, as fast as a 72-year-old with a bad knee could maneuver along the path. • There was no one out, which didn’t surprise him given the weather, but was unusual just the same. On most mornings, he knew when to expect the man walking his black lab and when the clutch of runners would go by, when he would hear the rumble of the bus or the distant whistle of the train. In this year of unease and upheaval, there was a certain comfort in the sameness.

He had been walking this route every day since May, the day his wife was taken to the hospital, after taking a sudden turn. With no visitors allowed, he could only walk off his worries. He was walking the route two weeks later when he missed the phone call from the nurse, offering a last chance to say goodbye. And he walked it every day since, as the days became weeks, the weeks became months, and the months now more than half a year.

So he was walking it on this day, the 20th of December, when he came across a message chalked on the sidewalk that was so distant, yet so familiar, it made him stop.

There was a looping red heart, with a pair of initials inside:

RF + MB.

Finding her notebook

Over the past months, sometimes routine was all Robert Fuller had.

There were the walks in the morning — from his house, to the park, around the lagoon, over to the playground and past the old brick pavilion, its doors locked and windows dusty, then home again. The newspaper would be on the porch, the coffee ready. Then a chapter in whatever old book he had pulled from the shelf, then the mail: bills on one stack, magazines on another.

Cards, when they came, were set aside and savored. At first, they had come in bunches — friends, neighbors, former students who had become like family, their pastor, a forgotten classmate who had come across the news — and, with Christmas approaching, the mailbox was filling again.

In the afternoons, he puttered around the garden, looking forward to the days when the 12-year-old girl who lived next door was outside and had a story to share.

Now, with the leaves raked, the roses covered and the shovels set by the back door awaiting the first snow, he had begun working his way through the attic. When his wife moved in so long ago, into the house where he grew up, many of her boxes had been tucked away amid the books and games and memories of his youth.

Every day he took down a box of hers and looked through it, not to sort or toss — the house was far from cluttered. In fact, it had barely been disturbed. Her perfume was still on the dresser, her stack of books on the end table, her umbrella leaning by the closet door.

No, he would sit with the day’s box at his feet, take the items out and consider them one by one before putting them back in their place.

Some might say he was lost in the past, unable to step securely into his new world. Others might say he was trying to remind himself of the life he knew, and assure himself that — even now, as he felt so adrift — he had a place in it.

Others would know the truth: He was searching for a way to say goodbye.

There were still mornings when he awoke and thought she was downstairs making breakfast, only to realize he smelled coffee because he had set the timer on the coffee maker before bed. There were times when he would call out to her, as if she were in the next room, or set a table for two and wait to hear her key in the back door, only to later eat a cold meal alone.

There were days when the emptiness didn’t leave him at all.

Yet there were times when his spirit could be lifted by the smallest of things. A smile from the mail carrier, a nod and wave from someone he passed in the park or — especially — a quick conversation from across the way when he spotted an old friend.

So, when he came across the small notebook tucked in among all the photos and postcards and doo-dads in the attic boxes, he slipped it in his coat pocket and kept it with him. It wasn’t quite a journal or a diary, but it contained the jottings and drawings of a young girl, notes and memories of how she met the boy across the street and how they had fallen in love, long after that first kiss.

Now, as Robert Fuller stood in the wind and the drizzle and stared at the random heart chalked on the sidewalk, he knew it perfectly matched what a young Marjorie Benson had written on the inside of that notebook: RF + MB.

His heart was full and empty at the same time.

‘Would you stop staring?’

It was a warm summer day when the moving truck pulled up across the street, trailed by a wood-paneled station wagon, and 10-year-old Marjorie Benson arrived in the neighborhood.

Robert, then 11, sat on his porch and watched as the boxes filled the front lawn, the movers navigating their way down the ramp with appliances and furniture and, finally, a piano. He watched as a girl, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, drew a hopscotch grid on the sidewalk, casually tossed the chalk piece into a square, and hopped her way to the end.

This went on for a while, until she called out: “Would you stop staring and come over already?”She introduced herself — Margie — and offered him a piece of chalk. He shook his head.

“You know, a boy would never play hopscotch,” he said.

She didn’t miss a beat: “That’s because they couldn’t hop that long.”

That was all it took.

Moments, possibly magical

The next morning, he circled through the park, but the heart was gone, washed away by the rain that had chased him home early. There wasn’t even a hint of redness on the sidewalk, so it left him wondering if the message had ever been there at all.

After all, Robert Fuller was a practical man. As a retired math teacher, he wanted the world to add up. He believed in coincidences, not cosmic connections.

Still, there had been all these moments — where he’d be thinking about Margie and a cardinal, her favorite bird, would turn up at the feeder. Or just then the mail would come and bring one of her catalogs. Or he’d click on the TV only to find her favorite show.

Sometimes when that happened, he’d let himself believe — if only for a little while — there was something magical about it all. But then he’d realize it only seemed that way, for the reality was he thought of her just about all the time.

When he reached the park, the sun had just crept over the horizon, not enough to chase away the sharp chill. The lagoon had iced over, the long shadows from the trees on the island stretching across the whiteness. A light frost painted the grass and the edges of the sidewalk.

When he returned home from his walk the day before, he had gone looking for the box of old letters, the ones from the year he had studied abroad in college. It was the first time they broke their tradition of going ice skating every Christmas Eve. In one letter, she encouraged him to find a rink in Germany, and promised to skate on the lagoon at the same time, and it would still count.

“Even when we’re apart, we’ll never be too far away,” she wrote, then added: “I know what you’re thinking, but sometimes you just have to believe.”

The next year, back on the lagoon, they got engaged.

Now, as he walked, lost in the memories, his foot sent something skittering across the sidewalk.

He followed it as it rolled to a stop: A small piece of red chalk.

When he bent to pick it up, he realized a hopscotch grid had been drawn on the sidewalk and he was standing at its edge.

Maybe there was some magic to it all. He tossed the chalk out to a space, and slowly, carefully, hopped his way to the end, checked to see if anyone had seen him, and – heart suddenly light – whistled the rest of the way home.

The next day, it was a picture of a cardinal. The day after that, a carefully drawn rose.

Finally, on the morning of Christmas Eve, it was a pair of ice skates.

And he started to believe.

Checking his choice

They both were on the frozen lagoon that morning, the day before Christmas, the boys playing hockey, the girls doing figure eights near the pier. They were in high school now and were sneaking glances at each other across the way.

The puck had gotten away and wound up in the dried-out cattails, and as the other boys searched for it, he skated back and forth in front of the net, trying to stay warm. He didn’t see her skate over, but when he turned, there she was, a tassled red hat on her head, a sly smile on her face. She gave a glance backwards, toward her friends, and quickly kissed him on the cheek.

Before it all registered, there was a shout and the puck came sailing back his way. The game was back on. He heard the slice of her skates as she zipped back to her friends, and the giggles from the distance. He was so lost, he could barely stop a puck, but he didn’t care.

Later, in the dim of the evening, as he stared out his bedroom window at the drifting snow, he spotted her slip out her front door, envelope in hand, climb the steps to his porch and — after a moment — dart back home. When he retrieved the note, there was a heart with the initials “RF + MB,” and boxes left unchecked next to two choices: “Yes” and “No.”

Of course, he checked “Yes.”

A red scarf and matching gloves

Later that evening, Robert Fuller pulled on his boots and set out for a Christmas Eve walk. There had been some snow that afternoon, the first of the season, and it muffled the sounds as night fell. Most every house on the block was bright with lights, though the street lacked the night’s usual bustle, with all its families coming and going.

Yet for the first time in months, he did not feel alone.

He followed the path to the park and the frozen lagoon. With every gust of wind, a swirl of flakes lifted and sparkled in the streetlights. In the distance, a small plow was clearing the ice, sending the snow sailing through the air, its headlights cutting through the gathering darkness.

He took a step off the pier and onto the ice, then a second and a third and steadied himself. He could make out the old hockey goal across the way, in its usual spot. When he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clap of skates, and feel the kiss on his cheek, and see her darting away, offering a glance back at him.

He took it all in, the years past, and all those cut short that awful morning in May.

After a moment, he stepped back onto the pier and — glasses fogged — turned to walk home when something caught his eye from inside a pavilion window, the glass covered with a light frost. He stopped and squinted. It had to be a reflection, only it wasn’t.

It was an older woman, a red scarf around her neck, with matching red gloves. She was sitting at a table alone, as if waiting for him. He walked over, sure she would disappear, but she didn’t.

At the window, he looked into the familiar eyes. The wrinkles at their edges were gone, but they still sparkled. She smiled, reached out a hand, and so did he. If not for the glass, their fingers would have touched. Then at the same moment, each took a finger and drew the opposite side of a heart, sweeping outward and into a curve, then back to the point below.

When their fingers met at the bottom, a flash of light reflected on the glass and there was a loud, grinding hum — the plow was finishing its work, and had swung closer. Startled, Robert Fuller turned, lifted an arm to shield his eyes and offered an embarrassed wave to the driver.

He ducked his head, slipped his hands deep in his empty pockets, and started home, leaving a lonely trail of footprints behind.

By the time he arrived home, he was uncertain he had seen anything at all, but tried to convince himself he had by searching for one of those signs. He leafed through the mail again, but there were no catalogs. He turned on the TV, but the movie was unfamiliar. He brought down an attic box, in search of another message hidden in the past, but found none.

Finally, ready to give up for the night, he went to turn off the porch light.

When he did, he noticed two sets of footprints on the steps — those from his own heavy boots and a smaller pair next to them. He stepped outside, followed the footprints to the mailbox, pulled out the waiting envelope, went inside and sat down on the piano bench.

For a moment, he felt the rush of that evening so many years ago.

The first thing that fell out was a note with a yes-no checkbox at the end — a query from his neighbor about whether she and her mom could drop off a Christmas meal. The second was a notebook —

the notebook. He was puzzled at first, but realized it must have fallen out of his pocket on one of his walks and been found by the girl.

When he flipped through the pages, he realized the corners of a few had been folded — and that each corresponded to one of the chalk messages. His neighbor had made the magic.

He would have to thank her the next time he saw her, but for now just smiled, checked the “yes” box, and walked the note back next door.

In the middle of the heart

The next morning, he slept until he heard the rumble of a plow on the street. After breakfast, he headed back to the park. A few kids were already on the hill, trying out new sleds, others were skating on the lagoon. A lone runner traced the distant path.

He had an explanation for the chalk drawings, but was unsure what to make of the encounter at the window. The pieces still didn’t fit. Had it actually happened, or did he only wish it into being?

At first, he took an entirely new route — past the bandshell, down the hill, then along the far edge and around the baseball diamond. But he was drawn back to the pavilion. He figured there would be nothing, but as he approached, he saw it. The heart was on the window.

It was there, in the frost, shining in the morning sun.

His heart quickened and he stepped to the window, following the frozen footsteps from the night before.

He lifted a hand, prepared to wipe away the frost, and see if half had been written on the inside. Sometimes you just have to believe. But he stopped himself: Did it matter if it was real or not, so long as he felt it was?

Instead, he took off a glove and, with a finger, wrote RF + MB in the middle of the heart.

It was all he needed. It was the gift of goodbye.

Greg Borowski, a Milwaukee Journal Sentinel editor, writes a Christmas story every year for his family and friends. Some of his previous Christmas stories are collected in two books, “A Christmas Wish” and the earlier “The Christmas Heart.” He can be reached by email at greg.borowski@jrn.com. Follow him on Twitter at @GregJBorowski.

ILLUSTRATION BY KAYLA FILION/USA TODAY NETWORK