Revelation at the Flea Market: A Short Story for Christmas

The sign leaned precariously in the snow next to the busy coffee shop. Even with “Christmas” in front of them, the words “Flea Market” conjured up nothing but dirt under fingernails, musty garage sales, and the peculiar smell of someone else’s attic. The wind was gray, the day dismal, and though Christmas was just a week away, Lauren was more tangled tinsel than holly jolly. But she had 45 minutes to kill, so she followed the arrow down the sidewalk.

The moment she walked through the doors of the rundown Masonic Temple, she felt like she needed a shower; it was as if a layer of grimy nostalgia had instantly coated her skin. She took a minute to observe the people around her with a critical eye: the legging-laden, nose-pierced, purple-haired teens with one eye on their phones; the walker-pushing elderly, puffy and sallow, too much time on their hands. The hopeful money-makers behind the tables, trying to make a few bucks off what they’d found in their parents’ storage unit or had bought from another flea market. Dealers just supporting one another, Lauren thought wryly.

There was something slightly desperate about their tables piled high with assorted jewelry, VHS tapes, old toys, dishes, and faded Christmas décor. Brenda Lee sang Christmas carols from an old record player just inside the doorway.

Mistletoe hung where you can see, every couple tries to stop ...

Junk. It was all junk in her eyes. Why was she here? What drew her to this place on a cold Saturday in December when she had so much to get done? Her nails sparkled from her holiday manicure at Stephen’s salon; she needed to fill time before she picked up Cassandra from orchestra rehearsal. She cupped her hands around her Starbucks drink and walked the aisles, preferring to fill her nostrils with peppermint and chocolate instead of Eau De Michigan Basement.

You will get a senti….senti….senti…. [screech] sentimental feeling, when you hear … voices singing, let’s be jolly—

Humph. No one would ever accuse Lauren’s needle of getting stuck on sentimental. 

A handful of vintage lunch boxes sat together on a tabletop corner, the metal kind from the 1970s, stamped with images of The Dukes of Hazzard, Fat Albert, and Snoopy. She paused over the blue patchwork of Holly Hobbie and matching thermos, and her mouth suddenly tasted creamy peanut butter on white bread. She could smell the plastic of the thermos as she sipped chocolate milk in a noisy cafeteria. Holly Hobbie was often her only companion at the lunch table.

She shook her head. That was a long time ago. What ever happened to that Holly Hobbie lunch box? Where do old lunchboxes go when they die? To the flea market, apparently. She sniffed and sipped her mocha.

The next table held a display of jewelry laid out in velvet-lined trays that had seen better days. Thin watches with ratty leather bands, tarnished silver and turquoise bracelets, and necklaces whose baubles still shone with a faint glimmer of hope. A brooch caught her eye, and she bent over the table to pick it up, a perfect double circle of pearls with a bow of rhinestones.

Where had she seen this before? Something about it …Grandma.

Oh, I’m so glad to see you, honey. Are you taking me to breakfast? Grandma, with a circle of rouge on each cheek and the brooch pinned to a backdrop of light blue polyester. She’d never learned to drive but was up and neatly dressed every morning in case someone decided to stop by and take her out to eat.

Lauren chuckled under her breath and lay the brooch back in its place. Sweet Grandma, how she missed her. How sorry she was that every breakfast she'd picked her up for had an ulterior motive: a timid request for cash. Lauren could pay her back ten-fold now, if Grandma were still alive.

The man behind the table walked over while he pulled his long, stringy hair into a ponytail, ready with a sales pitch and a long-winded story, Lauren assumed. She avoided eye contact and moved down the row.

Pyrex nesting bowls, holiday serving platters, and white casserole dishes with glass lids covered a rickety wooden table. Her fingers traced the tiny white flowers that encircled an avocado green bowl, and she was overcome with the smell of burnt popcorn and the sound of angry voices: the nightly argument right on schedule. Her father’s gruff complaints started during the evening news, his words growing louder, more harsh, during the commercials. Mom’s stony silence spoke volumes by the time the credits rolled after M*A*S*H.

Lauren cradled the bowl, closing her eyes and willing herself to remember instead Mom’s Christmas sugar cookie dough, chilling in a similar bowl in the fridge. She couldn’t help sneaking more than a couple of bites. She never had been able to recreate that recipe. A tinge of sadness tingled her heart; why hadn’t she tried harder? Her kids could’ve had memories of her mother, their grandmother, every Christmas, but she had slammed the door on those a long time ago.

She checked her Apple watch; still several minutes before she needed to get back in the car and head to the school. She took another sip of her now-cooling drink and scanned the large hall. The tables overflowed with junk, there was no nice way to put it. You could call it vintage, you could call it antique, but those were dress-up words for the stuff that no one wanted anymore. Meaningless relics from the past trafficked for a quarter.

Still, used Christmas décor valiantly tried to entice her down the next aisle, and she succumbed. She was always a sucker for Christmas decorations. Her own home was currently resplendent in gold ribbon, white lights, and a gorgeous centerpiece custom-made at the boutique downtown. She certainly wouldn’t buy anything here, she was just … curious.

As she made her way toward the faded garland and singing Santa, she passed a stack of VHS tapes in a crate; couldn’t help but notice a Rugrats video on top. She picked it up and was immediately transported to a ratty green couch. It was the middle of the night, and she was trying to soothe her sick toddler by inserting the worn tape into the VCR. She’d been a teenage mother living in Grandma’s basement, with the consequence of her mad dash from home now on her lap, nursing a sippy cup of apple juice. Thank God we’re past those days.

She pictured that basement “apartment” in detail, saw a forlorn Christmas tree with a few second-hand ornaments that tried to bring a little merry into her life. How determinedly she’d tossed that tree into the dumpster when she married Tim! Since then, she’d allowed the memories of those days to be swallowed up by Pinterest-perfect Christmases, overflowing Amazon carts, and holiday gatherings with lots of friends and lots of wine.

She ran her hands over a mismatched set of holiday dishes and a faded Elf on the Shelf … and then she saw it, peeking out from behind a large stuffed replica of the Grinch.

It was all one piece and dusty, with clumps of brown glue residue where the hay should be. The figures were stuck to the floor of the wooden crèche, and Mary’s blue gown had a faded patch as if she had sat in the light of a window too long. Joseph was missing his staff, and the wing of the Angel of the Lord was chipped.

But baby Jesus was perfect. He smiled up at her from the manger, fists frozen mid-flail above his swaddling clothes, happy to see her.

The nativity was so like the one Grandma set up underneath her Christmas tree each year, with the crèche handmade by Grandpa long before he died. If Lauren closed her eyes, she could see the green macramé Christmas tree hanging on the wall. It was as tall as her nine-year-old self, with multi-colored pom poms for ornaments.

Lauren examined the set closely. It seemed smaller, older, but she could smell the lingering scent of her Grandpa’s pipe, feel the shag carpet under her feet, hear Johnny Mathis singing "Oh Holy Night" in the background. Could it possibly be the same nativity?

Suddenly she knew what to look for. She ran her bejeweled fingernail along the base of the crèche at the back. If this was the one Grandpa had made, there was a small gap where the two boards met, and maybe …. she gasped as she pulled out Joseph’s thin wooden staff.

She had removed it and hid it back here one year as she lay on her stomach beneath Grandma’s tree, brooding with angst to the tune of her quarreling parents. She had jiggled the staff like she jiggled her leg, wanting to see if anyone noticed it was gone. If anyone noticed her. 

Lauren replaced it now and gently blew the dust away. She thoughtfully stroked baby Jesus’ fist between her thumb and forefinger and pictured her current nativity set in the living room. It was 4-foot tall, made of gleaming white ceramic, and perfectly positioned in the sunny corner next to the fireplace. It was gorgeous, but it was meaningless. The shapes were modern, expensive, and abstract, meant to represent the characters of the first Christmas, but utterly lacking character. Baby Jesus was a faceless white form in a manger lying on strips of garish gold velvet.

When had Jesus become faceless to her?

So many times in her life she had wondered where he was, why he’d left her alone in an unhappy home as a child. As she held the nativity set in her hands, she felt Grandma’s brooch press into her cheek as she pulled Lauren into a hug. Jesus hadn’t left her alone. He had given her Grandma.

Though Grandma had never noticed Joseph's staff was missing, she had noticed Lauren's jiggling leg, her angst, her loneliness. She'd been Lauren’s rock, a fount of kindness through the years, a warm and safe place to land. It was through Grandma that she had seen his face, heard his words, and felt his love.

Lauren wiped at the tears on her cheeks and handed the woman behind the table a fifty-dollar bill.

“Oh, I can’t break a fifty, hon. That there’s only a buck-twenty-five,” she explained.

“I know,” said Lauren. “Keep the change. And Merry Christmas.”

The woman grinned, displaying several gaps where teeth should be as she shoved the fifty into her bra. “Same to you, darlin’, same to you!”

Lauren let the tears fall freely as she walked out to her car. Though the scratchy wood of the nativity snagged her sweater, she felt as if she were hugging her Grandma once again, holding close the remnants of her childhood.

In this rundown assortment of other people’s memories, she had found some of her own—and they were good. Especially the babe in the manger, who, it turned out, had been with her all along.