The Star Of Bethlehem

?*-----?'s>•"—"N. C V. **'"'/, Ä?* itf«**>VÄ. #«%â^ The Star Of Bethlehem by Ron Willoughby Eleven p.m. on Christmas Eve. He should be at Rita's now, drinking coffee and struggling to assemble toys to put under the tree for the kids. But because that jerk Gibbs had insisted that he stay until five, Alan was just now crossing the crest of Big Black Mountain, the road tilting down and curving left out of the headlights, the back seat piled high with presents bought with plastic money. He smiled wryly as he steered into the first curve. 25 When Alan was a boy Christmas had been exciting , mysterious. Now the only mystery was how he would pay the bills. He was halfway through the curve when he hit the patch of ice and the car began to skid. The headlights waved wildly as the car jolted to a stop near an embankment, then stared blankly across the road into the black void on the other side, where the mountain fell off sharply in a drop that seemed to lead to the center of the universe. Alan sat for a minute, letting his heart drop back down where it was supposed to be, then touched the accelerator lightly. The engine speeded up, but nothing else happened. He got out to take a look, his breath silver fog in the cold air, and found the right rear wheel dangling above a deep ditch. Damn! He kicked the bumper in disgust and looked up at the sky. The stars were winking at each other, snickering silently. Now what? A tow was the only hope, and there wasn't likely to be any traffic along here tonight. Since he was only four miles from Norton it would probably be better to walk than wait. So he put on his heavy coat, pulled the hood over his head, locked the car and set off downhill. Walking along in the cold black silence, Alan could have been the only human on earth. He buried his hands in his coat pockets and pulled his head further down inside his hood, like a turtle retreating into its shell. He had told Rita he wouldn't come until tomorrow, but had later decided to make the trip tonight, because he wanted to see the kids open their presents on Christmas morning. And now this. He should have known when Gibbs wouldn't let him off that it just wasn't his day. And the worst part was that he shouldn't have to make the trip in the first place. Rita could have adjusted to city life if she had tried harder. Lots of hill women did. But not Rita. Oh, no. She just pined away for the mountains, and nothing could snap her out of it. Two children, a nice house, her own car—what else could she have wanted? But none of it had made any difference. Well, he thought sardonically, the car had made a difference. One day she had loaded it with luggage and kids and gone back to Pardee. Left a note saying she was sorry but she wasn't coming back. And even as bad as he had hurt, Alan sure as hell wasn't going to live in Pardee, where you mined coal or lived on welfare. So that was that, and now a visit with his kids meant a six-hour drive each way. He was so deep in himself that he almost didn't notice the light back in the trees to his right. It had to be a house, and he wondered if they had a phone. They'd have a fire, for sure, and even though he had only been walking a few minutes the cold was already seeping in around the edges of his coat. He turned up the rutted dirt road that snaked into the hollow. The light was a warm yellow glow from the window of a small cabin. When Alan stepped up on the wooden porch it popped and cracked in the cold. He doubted this place would have a phone. He knocked. "Come in." Alan hesitated. "Come on in." He fumbled, found the latch...