The Red Gloves Collection Read Online Free PDF Page A

favorite time of year, after all. The time when he had always seemed most like the little boy he’d once been.
    Dear Earl.
She paused and gazed out the window once more.
Where is he? How is he getting along?
For a moment she closed her eyes and remembered him the way he’d been before he left.
Come home, son. Please. Before it’s too late.
    She blinked her eyes open and returned her attention to the matter at hand. Slowly her pen began to move across the page.
    It’s December again and I must tell you, son, my hope is strongest at this time of the year. I picture you, somewhere out there, and know that wherever you are you know this much: Special things happen at Christmas. I hope—wherever you are—you’re still thinking of us, Earl. We’re still here—your father and I. Still waiting for your return.
    Still watching the door.
    A single tear fell on the page and Edith gave it a delicate brush of her fingers. She had never been a praying woman; she didn’t figure it mattered much whether some sort of silent words went up to a God who maybe didn’t exist. But days like this she almost wished she did believe.
    She reached for a tissue and wiped it beneath her eyes. As she did, Paul entered the room and quietly took the seat beside her.
    “Writing to Earl?”
    She nodded and met his eyes. No matter how much time passed, she and Paul had promised each other they would not forget their youngest son. They would continue to hope for his well-being, and most of all for his return. They would keep watch for him and believe with each passing season that one day he would come home.
    Paul stroked his wrinkled chin and turned to the front walkway. “It’s Christmastime again.”
    “Yes.” Edith closed the journal. “I was thinking the same thing.”
    “Every Christmas since he left—” Paul took a quick breath. He was winded more often now, weaker than he’d been even a year ago. “—I tell myself this is the year. He’ll find his way home. Walk up the sidewalk and make Christmas perfect. Like it used to be.”
    This was what she loved about Paul. He shared his heart with her. So many men couldn’t, wouldn’t do that. But not Paul. They had cherished each of their fifty-seven years of marriage because they were first and always friends. Best friends.
    She reached over and laid her hand on Paul’s. “Maybe this is the Christmas.”
    Normally, when she made a statement like that, Paul would smile and agree with her. After all, they had nothing if they didn’t have hope. But this morning Paul’s eyes narrowed. After a long pause, he gave a shake of his head. “I don’t think so, Edith. Not this time.”
    The corners of Edith’s mouth dropped. “What?”
    He stared at her and what she saw in his eyes left a pit in her stomach. Paul didn’t have to answer her. His eyes told her exactly what he didn’t want to say.
    After five Decembers without Earl—without hearing from him or having any idea where he was—Paul had given up. The thought grieved Edith deeply. Because Paul’s hopelessness could only mean one thing. He no longer expected Earl to come home. Not this Christmas or next.
    Not ever.

CHAPTER FIVE
    T he red gloves had been gone for five weeks, and Earl no longer recognized himself.
    Always before there had been a remnant deep within him, a small shadowy bit of the man he’d once been. But not now.
    He glanced around the mission, grabbed a plate, and headed for his corner table. His hair was wet and his bones ached more than usual. In the days since he’d been robbed, Earl hadn’t been able to find a tarp. Instead he’d ripped apart an old cardboard box and used that to shield himself from the rain and ice. He was fighting a cold, and a cough that seemed worse every day. But he didn’t care. So what if his lungs filled with fluid? If he was lucky, it would kill him in his sleep. Then he wouldn’t have to look for a way to die.
    That’s what his life had come to: looking for a way to end it.