A Life
"Mary."
It might have been an incantation, or an amen, the way the word slipped into the stillness and changed the room. There was weight here, stirring the air, shifting the atoms. A word can do that.
Mary leaned forward and kissed the old man's forehead. "I'm here," she said, but of course he wasn't talking to her.
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"Your grandfather has gone visiting," the hospice nurse had told her a few days before. He was between two worlds, she explained, of neither and in both. This wasn't senility but ambivalence, and it left him lost to those who loved him. Where he was going they couldn't follow, and so they kept him warm, and waited. He was 96 years old and it was time, and still each one, in their one way, thought the same thing.
"Please God, let him have one more Christmas."
You leave some marks in 96 years, some solidness that doesn't break, and more so, maybe, in a small town. Traditions were taken seriously here, and what had always been changed rarely, and reluctantly. Founded in 1708, in upstate New York, its streets had been walked by a young Ben Franklin. George Washington and Alexander Hamilton huddled in its inn one night, planning the next day's advance on the British. Mark Twain had lectured there, Teddy Roosevelt had campaigned for governor there, and four nice Jewish boys had performed there one autumn night in the high school gym, billing themselves as The Marx Brothers and leaving the audience howling, if a little baffled.
So a life of nearly a century, a man born, reared and retired within its limits, was something to be cherished by a city. Many things had changed over the years, so a constant was held in high esteem, and this one more than most. There was no one in town, you see, who could remember a Christmas in Bedford Falls without snow, or without George Bailey.
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It was an unremarkable life, at least by spectacular standards. A small town banker made few waves in the middle of the 20th century, and if a few hundred lives were touched, well, still it seemed insignificant in a world of generals and presidents, movie stars and scientists. He was an average man with no headlines tucked away in a scrapbook, and no street signs bearing his name. He had a wife and five children, again unremarkable, and he lived quietly while the world exploded around him, sustained by mediocrity, and Mary.
They were married nearly 25 years, and her death from breast cancer in 1960 seemed an aberration to all, an unnatural act. George became different then; his walk became more purposeful and less ambling, and his smile less frequent and more wistful. He sold the family business and dabbled in real estate, painted landscapes, played with his grandchildren, and slowly went deaf, hearing less and watching more.
But nobody kept Christmas like George Bailey. The old house at 320 Sycamore blazed with lights from Thanksgiving Day on, and even well into his 80s George made the rounds, serving up soup at the shelter, passing out gifts, leading carolers through snowy streets, and always, always in the front pew at First Presbyterian on Christmas Eve, surrounded by family. And if he was too lanky and angular to wear a Santa suit, a Bailey family job passed from Harry, his younger brother, to Tommy, his son, he still had something of an elfish stature, a toymaker at heart, a visitor bearing gifts.
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"I was his favorite," Mary's mother told her often, "and so are you." She was the namesake of love, after all, and the first Bailey granddaughter, and somehow naturally the caregiver. As a little girl, she located his slippers and translated the muffled world. "Momma wants to know IF YOU'RE HUNGRY," she'd say, and he'd nod and laugh his soundless laugh, pat her head and slip her Snickers bars when no one was looking.
Now, she stroked his hand once more, adjusted his covers and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her, breathing again. She was a strong woman but knew her weaknesses, and how to pace herself through sickness and death.
He noted this, as he'd noted others, in and out, speaking to him, touching him. Opening his eyes now seemed superfluous, and hard. Years of progressive hearing loss had caused him to compensate, anyway, so vibrations told him much. He sensed, then, another visitor, coming in, pulling a chair up bedside the bed, and still he played possum.
Until he heard the voice, loud and clear.
"You've been given a great gift, George," said the little man, smiling.
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"Say! Did you ever get your wings?"
Clarence tried to look miffed, which was hard to do and keep his balance on the icy streets at the same time.
"Oh, my goodness, of course I did. Christmas Eve 1945, in Earth Time. Right after...but then you remember that night, don't you, George?"
The taller man stopped, and scratched his head, "Y'know, now, that's funny you should say that. I do, but I haven't thought of it for years."
Clarence grabbed George's arm as his feet slipped once again. "That's the way it works, George. Miracles. People forget, they have to, or else we angels would have all sorts of problems getting things done, what with people watching for us and all."
He looked upward then, and shook his head. "No, Jacob, I'm NOT talking too much. Give me a little credit."
Clarence turned back to George, who was sweeping snow off the steps of the hardware store with his foot. "I'm an angel First Class now, thanks to you, George. You can't get much higher than that, unless..." He sighed and glanced up once again, almost reproachfully. "Well, we all have our talents, let's say. I'm not very good with weather, for example. And I couldn't smote a fly, even if I wanted to. But I have my moments."
"What the heck is THAT?" George said suddenly, peering through the snow.
Clarence rubbed his head and shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Hmm. Oh, yes, well. It's a Wal-Mart, George. I forgot you haven't been out of the house much lately." He sighed. "Believe me, we've had some interesting discussions in heaven about this sort of thing."
George shook his head. "So many changes in Bedford Falls. I hardly recognize it anymore."
"Ah, now," said Clarence, brightening. "That's where you're wrong, my good fellow." He glanced up again. "Yes, I'm GETTING to it."
"You see, George," he continued, "one thing hasn't changed in all these years, and that's been you."
They were walking by Martini's now, filled as always with customers, celebrating Christmas Eve. "Sixty-one years ago, George, you were given a chance to see what the world would have been like if you hadn't been born. A great gift, as I told you back then. And you've been paying it back ever since."
George stopped, and looked down at Clarence. "You know, I worry about you, little fella. You sure all this snow hasn't soaked your brain?"
"No, George, there's nothing wrong with me. Look here, you mean to tell me you don't realize the gift you've given this town?"
George Bailey thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose the savings and loan helped some people..."
Clarence sighed again. "Hope, George. That was your gift. Every questionable loan you made, every chance you took, every kind word you said, every thing you did spoke of hope. Hope like a brand-new morning, hope like a sunset, hope like a helping hand. Hope like a baby being born, George. Hope like a manger. You could walk into a room and people would see tomorrow. It was a fine gift, George, a fine one."
George ducked his head. "Well...I dunno, Clarence. A man does his best, I guess, but I can tell you a million things --"
"A million wisps, George, a million forgotten moments, all outshone by an aura of goodness. You've made us all proud, George. It was a wonderful life."
"And," he added, "you're going to make a wonderful angel."
George stopped. "Well, now, those are very nice words, Clarence, but look here. We're almost at the outskirts of town. It's late, and Christmas Eve. I've got to be heading home."
"Oh, George," Clarence said, smiling. "You ARE heading home, my friend."
"And I know someone who's waiting for you."
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The snow had turned to rain, Mary noticed, and it seemed appropriate. Most of winter still lay ahead, but spring would come eventually and they would start over, this time in a world without George Bailey. She would concentrate on finding her own slippers now.
The minister struggled to abstract nearly a hundred years of life into a graveside service, and his words floated around Mary's consciousness, sticking occasionally. "No one kept Christmas like George Bailey," he said, invoking Dickens, an odd analogy. Grandpa had been an interesting man, but he'd never been Scrooge, or could be. There was no redemptive moment in his life, no struggle with faith or facing of despair that she knew of, but then she'd been born in 1960 and might have missed some moments.
She watched her mother, now 70 but looking and acting 20 years younger, as she always had, kneel by the casket at the end of the service and do the strangest thing. She scattered rose petals over the lid lightly. "Keep these in your pocket for me, Daddy," she said.
And as they walked back to the car, right on time the bells of First Presbyterian Church of Bedford Falls began to ring, marking the passing of a favorite son, and suddenly Mary had a thought.
"Do you remember, Mama, what Grandpa used to say whenever he heard a bell ring?"
Zuzu smiled. "I do," she said. 
3:06:35 PM 
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