Page 104 of I Am the Messenger

"Sure, baby," Lua says, and I do.

I've given thirteen piggybacks by the time Marie rescues me from the youngest of the boys.

"Jessie, I think Ed's all tuckered out, okay?"

"O-kaaay." Jessie gives in, and I fall backward to the couch.

Jessie's about six, and while I'm sitting there he whispers something in my ear.

It's the answer.

He says, "My dad's putting up our Christmas lights soon--you hav

e to come and have a look one day. I love those lights...."

"I promise," I say. "I'll come."

I look around the house one last time, almost convincing myself that I used to live here. I even conjure up a whole lot of great memories with my dad inside these walls.

Lua's asleep when I leave, so it's Marie who sees me out.

"Thank you," I say, "for everything."

She only looks at me with her warm, genuine eyes and says, "No worries, Ed. Come back anytime."

"I will," I say. This time I'm not lying.

On the weekend, I go past during the day. The Christmas lights are up and they're very old and faded. Some of the lights are missing. They're the old-style lights. They're not the type to flash. They're just big bulbs in different colors, strung along the eaves above the front porch.

I'll come back later, I think, to have a look.

Sure enough, in the evening, when the lights are on, I see that only half the ones that are still there actually work. That translates to four globes in operation. Four globes to brighten up the Tatupu house this year. It's not a big thing, but I guess it's true--big things are often just small things that are noticed.

The first chance I get, I'll be back, during the day, when everyone's at school and work.

Something has to be done about those lights.

I go to Kmart and buy a brand-new set of lights, exactly the same as the existing ones. Nice big globes of red and blue and yellow and green. It's a hot Wednesday, and surprisingly there are no questions from the neighbors as I get on the Tatupus' front porch and stand on a large overturned pot. I dismantle the original lights, bending back the nails that hold the power cord. When the whole thing is down, I notice the plug goes inside (as I should have expected), so I can't do the job completely. Instead, I put the old lights back up and leave the new ones at the front door.

I don't leave a note.

There's nothing else to do.

At first, I'd wanted to write Merry Christmas on the box somewhere, but I decide against it.

This isn't about words.

It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.

I'm eating ravioli in the kitchen that same night when a van pulls up in front of the shack. The engine growls to a halt, and I hear the car doors slam. Next I hear the sound of little fists on my front door.

The Doorman barks for a change, but I calm him down and open up.

Standing there are Lua, Marie, and every kid from that family.

"Hi, Ed," says Lua, and the rest of them echo him. He continues. "We looked you up in the local phone book but you weren't in it, so we rang all the other Kennedys around here. Your mother gave us the address."

There's quiet now as I wonder what Ma might have told them. Marie breaks it.