The 25 Most Significant New York City Novels From the Last 100 Years (Published 2022)

Short Story: The Emissary

The Press-Citizen holiday story, Emissary was written by Tom Gingerich. The accompanying illustration was drawn by Hani Kamal Elkadi

Editor's Note: The Iowa City Press-Citizen has run a short story every Christmas since 2011. Tom Gingerich of Kalona, whose work was selected by a panel of readers, has penned those stories since 2014. Since 2018, Iowa City artist Hani Elkadi has created original artwork to accompany them.

He met him at his local McDonald's a few days before Christmas. He'd stopped by for lunch– a cheeseburger and senior coffee with one cream, his usual order. Bill Ramsey had succumbed to a fairly comfortable routine of late. At seventy-six, never married and recently retired, he needed to stay busy and active. So coupled with daily longer walks, at least three times a week he'd trek the mile from his condo to the restaurant for lunch and to chat with several employees who'd become friends.

The tinselled wreath and evergreen garland framing the door, and the festive colored lights adorning the building should have filled him with seasonal spirit, but the couple arguing in the parking lot and the guy he saw tossing a bag of trash out of his car window on the highway had put him in a foul mood– lately a common occurrence.

This visit in particular, though, would stand out– the day he met the old man. He noticed him immediately, sitting alone at a corner table. He was scruffy looking, rather disheveled and dark, his skin damaged by sunshine and time. He was dressed in several layers of clothing and wore a heavy wool stocking cap on his head, unkempt salt-and-pepper hair spilling onto his shoulders.

Bill assumed the man was homeless, another sad case; and when he peered through the window and saw the cart parked against the building, he was sure of it. It had a short wheelbase and was heavily loaded down and covered by a weatherproof blue plastic tarp. Then he noticed the hard rubber tires and the shiny spokes of the wheels and saw that it was a discarded wheelchair.

Occasionally, Bill would interact with the homeless on the street, and he volunteered at several shelters and food banks periodically. He was disturbed by their plight and the obstacles that they face on a daily basis. Not knowing their stories, he tried never to be judgemental. He had no right to be deprecating. In the old man's case, he felt strongly compelled to approach him and did so, sitting down at the next table. At first Bill avoided eye contact, but when he was settled, he glanced his way. The man looked up and smiled.

"Hey… how's it goin'?" Bill asked.

"Okay. How about you?" the man responded.

"Doin' well," Bill said smiling. "Looks like we have the same tastes in fine cuisine," noticing they'd both ordered the same meal.

"My usual order," he said. "Don't alter it much. Sometimes I have two burgers though, and maybe a small fry." He took a sip of coffee." I'm Charlie," he said, leaning forward and offering his hand.

"Glad to meet you, Charlie," Bill replied, shaking hands. "Bill Ramsey. You from around here?

"For the moment," he chuckled. "I'm sort of a free spirit, as I'm sure you've already surmised. I go where I'm needed. Sometimes it's easy and sometimes it's difficult. I plan on hanging around here at least until Christmas." He took a last sip of coffee and stood up. "How about a refill?" he asked.

"Thanks," Bill replied, handing him his cup. As he shuffled away, Bill realized there was a lot more to Charlie than first impressions might suggest.

It was a blustery day, no snow yet, but Christmas was in the air. The northwest wind had picked up. Ornamental grasses were whipping and leafless rose bushes were rattling their bones in the landscape just outside the window near where the man's chair was parked. Charlie returned with the refills and sat down once again.

"Where were you from originally, Charlie, if you don't mind me asking?" Bill said.

Charlie paused, tilting his head and looking deep into Bill's eyes. The look was searching and somewhat mesmerizing. "It's far from here," he mused. "And I miss it when I'm gone too long. I'm here to make a few visits. But I'll be returning soon." He seemed reflective. "How about you, Bill?"

It was obvious that Charlie didn't want to open up about his past, so Bill let it go.

"I retired three years ago, Charlie. Was a professor at the U– Philosophy," he said. He sipped his coffee and took a last bite of his burger, dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Have been trying to stay busy since then. That's the key, you know– keeping busy. A person needs to keep things in perspective, especially in these troubled times– needs to get out and try to make a difference, even at our age, don't you think?"

Charlie was listening intently, focusing on every word. "Absolutely," he agreed. "But something's troubling you, Bill. It's been building up in you, hasn't it? It's getting worse the closer we get to Christmas – and I know why."

Suddenly apprehensive, Bill was puzzled. It was as if the old man were somehow tapping into things he couldn't possibly know. In fact, he was feeling a strange tingling sensation, a light-headedness that he couldn't explain and had never before experienced.

"There's no need to be concerned, Billy," Charlie continued. "It'll all become perfectly clear momentarily. Won't take long. Never does. And you'll easily accept it, even though it might seem outrageous.You're being given a gift– a Christmas gift if you will. A very special gift not many people receive. And it's because of who you are and how you've lived your life– and of how recent events and concerns have affected you over the past few years.

"We've been watching you with interest and have seen how the worldwide craziness and purveyors of hate have affected you. So I'm here to relay a timely message. And Christmas is the perfect venue, since it's always been your favorite time of year."

At first, Bill's dizziness and apprehension interfered with his ability to grasp what Charlie was saying. But as the old man had asserted, it abruptly became clear to him what was occurring, and what the old man really was. So he readily accepted what was happening in broad daylight in of-all-places… Mickey D's. This old man wasn't at all what he had seemed.

"You've always seen Christmas as a joyful time," Charlie continued. "Of course all the gifts and the mystique of Santa played a huge part when you were small. I still remember how you always had trouble getting to sleep each Christmas Eve anticipating the early morning rumble down the stairs to find the presents under the tree you'd hinted at for weeks. And for some reason I especially recall the disappointment your eight-year-old self felt when there was no electric train set in '55. It was a popular gift and too expensive for your folks at the time.

"But as you grew, that Kid in the manger who your folks ushered you to the front of the church to visit after each Christmas Mass soon became your focus. And that focus led you toward a career that raised philosophical questions concerning our purpose for being. You disseminated ideas to young minds down through the years, opening up avenues of thought that would sustain them."

Bill recalled those earlier times clearly and with much affection as the old man spoke. Lately, he had lost the focus that had carried him through the years. The tragedies playing out in the news each day, the bloodshed and armed conflicts, unprovoked invasions, the societal moral decay, the celebrity worship, our disrespect and neglect of our once pristine planet, the shameful politicizing of our flag, and the widespread political mayhem that had engulfed the country– all of it had taken a heavy toll on him. He needed it to change, no longer recognizing the civilized society in which he was raised. In fact, for the first time in his life he was fearing the collapse of civility itself.

"I came because you've clearly lost your way," Charlie resumed. "I remember when you were growing up the love you displayed for your pets, and how you were always generous with your time, helping out at home and caring for your grandmother who came to stay. You always knew the importance of caring from an early age. That's why you feel out of place today."

As the old man spoke, Bill recognized that Charlie seemed increasingly familiar– that he'd met him, or versions of him, many times before as old memories were resurfacing.

"You think that the message of Christmas has been lost– that people no longer care about kindness and doing for others. But that's not true. The great majority of humanity are decent, caring souls who still adhere to the golden rule and are energized anew each year when the Christmas story unfolds.

"It may seem as if hatred and extreme ideologies are destroying us, but the greed and corruption and prejudice that we see won't last. The Kid's message is too powerful. And even though some of His so-called followers are twisting and distorting His messages of peace and love, eventually the world will come to its senses and reject their warped mentality."

Bill sat very still savoring the essence of Charlie's message, recalling Christmases past and the feelings that they'd always evoked.

"You want Christmas to inspire you and heal you the way it always has, but you're afraid. You're feeling abandoned. That's not the case though– far from it! The message of Christmas is still relevant. In fact, it's more relevant than ever. It's become a necessity. And people like you, Billy, are the key.

"You've always been a friendly spirit– were raised that way. It's who you are. You've donated time and money to local charities and shelters. You treat people with respect, and it's killing you to see the disrespect and outright hatred that has surfaced and seems to be running rampant."

Bill was leaning forward listening intently, elbows on the table, hands clasped, fingers laced together.

"You feel helpless listening to the evening news. You feel so alone. But know this– you're not alone, Billy. There are countless others, a great majority, who feel exactly the same. It's up to each individual to spread the meaning of Christmas– a year-round quest, not just during the season. When that begins to happen, things will change. It may seem a naive thought, but it's not. It will happen. Until then, just keep the faith. It's still there. You've got it in you."

Charlie stood and disposed of their trash in the nearby receptacle. He returned and leaned forward, palms on the table, again gazing directly into Bill's eyes. "Go home and consider what you've heard and seen today, Billy. Love is the answer… and the Kid in the manger is pure love, the exact opposite of hate. Love is really all that matters in the end. And Christmas is where it all begins."

As Charlie moved past him and headed toward the door their eyes locked. He reached out and squeezed Bill's shoulder, his touch imparting a catharsis, a releasing of all the fear and consternation that had long tormented him.

Bill watched as the figure rounded the corner and approached the cart, and he followed the old one's progress as he moved slowly along the sidewalk until he was out of sight. For the first

time in years, Bill seemed at peace, having been reminded that good, will always triumph over

evil– that love… the Christmas lesson…love is all you need.

This article originally appeared on Ames Tribune: Short Story: The Emissary

A Memory From My Personal Life

Photograph by Agustina Fernández.

Hebe Uhart had a unique way of looking—a power of observation that was streaked with humor, but which above all spoke to her tremendous curiosity. Uhart, a prolific Argentine writer of novels, short stories, and travel logs, died in 2018. "In the last years of her life, Hebe Uhart read as much fiction as nonfiction, but she preferred writing crónicas, she used to say, because she felt that what the world had to offer was more interesting than her own experience or imagination," writes Mariana Enríquez in an introduction to a newly translated volume of these crónicas, which will be published in May by Archipelago Books. At the Review, where we published one of Uhart's short stories posthumously in 2019, we will be publishing a series of these crónicas in the coming months, starting with one of the most personal.

About thirty years ago, I had a boyfriend who was a drunk. Back then, I was full of vague impulses and concocted impossible projects. I wanted to build a house with my own two hands; before that, there'd been another project, involving a chicken hatchery. I was never cut out for industry or manual labor. I didn't think that alcoholism was a sickness—I believed he would be able to stop drinking once he decided to. I was working at a high school and had asked for some much-needed time off to improve my mental health, and I spent my days with my drunken boyfriend going from club to club, and from one house to the next. We paid countless visits to the most diverse assortment of people, among them an old poet and his wife who would receive guests not at their home, but in bars. Some turned their noses up at the pair, whispering that it took them a week to get from Rivadavia Avenue to Santa Fe Avenue, as they spent a full day at each bar. It was a year of great discovery for me, learning about these people and their homes, but sometimes it was boring, because drunks have a different sense of time and money. It is like living on a ship, where time is suspended, and as for my boyfriend's friends, they were always destined for the bottle and stranded at the bar (or so they claimed) until someone could come rescue them. I used to get bored when drunk poets began counting the syllables of verses to see if they were hendecasyllabic, trochaic … it could go on for hours.

The whole time I was mixed up in all of this, nobody ever knew where I was going. I would only come home to eat and sleep—I didn't tell my family anything. They became concerned. My mom had a cousin follow me and report back to her:

"They sleep at a different house every night. My advice—buy her an apartment."

My mom gave me all her savings (one million pesos, the equivalent of twenty-five thousand dollars) and told me to find an apartment. So my boyfriend and I went together to choose. I would confront people and ask them questions while he hung back, watching me work. Before long we came to an old but giant apartment with a long hallway. "Look at all this space!" I said, thrilled. But there was something strange about it—the wall dividing the apartment from the one next to it was very low (about ten observers looked at us from the other side). I thought: "No big deal, we can raise the wall later. With all this space, we could get new wallpaper, remodel …? Right?" He said yes to everything because being around so many people terrified him—neither of us knew how to remodel anything. As usual, he looked on fearfully, with admiration, as I confronted people. I felt strong and confident, like an executive. So I hadn't built the chicken hatchery after all, but I had discovered an interesting hobby. Luckily, I was advised not to buy the apartment. I bought a very old two-bedroom, with a telephone and an elevator that had never been used. A piece of the ceiling had crumbled, so we put the bed in a small foyer beside the front door, a decision we'd agreed upon. The owners had sold me the apartment without cleaning it: when I swept, a cloud of dust would form. So, I told myself: "No need for sweeping. After so many years, it can't help but stay dirty." I had already gone back to work and was performing well, but I was tired of coming home to two or three drunks who had kept me awake the night before arguing about the poetry of Góngora or Quevedo, sleeping on the floor of one of our vacant rooms. I could never bring myself to say, "Get out of my house."

Instead, I began to focus my energies on curing my boyfriend: I would take him to the doctor and the psychologist, and buy his vitamins for him. After much preparation, he was finally ready for his first job interview; he had agreed to everything, but it didn't progress any further than that. He never did sober up, but I at least learned how to buy and sell apartments.

Anna Vilner's translation of "A Memory from My Personal Life" will appear in a forthcoming collection of Hebe Uhart's crónicas, A Question of Belonging, to be published by Archipelago Books in May 2024. The original Spanish version was collected in Uhart's Crónicas completas, published by Adriana Hidalgo.

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Reflecting On The March Of Time: Long Story Short By Jan Risher

Here it is December already.

Another year has come and is almost gone. Boggles the mind. These days, I spend more time thinking about time than may be practical or productive. 

Contemplating time and aging, love and hate, war and peace, I think about the paradox between experiences that teach us versus experiences that break us. I read a prayer recently that sums up so much of that riddle.

Laura Jean Truman wrote, "Keep my anger from becoming meanness. Keep my sorrow from collapsing into self-pity. Keep my heart soft enough to keep breaking."

Truman's writing made me think of my great-grandmother, Arrie Ellen Hawkins Henderson. She lived a block away from my childhood home and was a huge part of my growing up years. To me, she was always old — being that she was older than I am now when I was born. She had so many children that I often come up with various totals, but I believe it was 12. I knew 11 of them well. 

Arrie Ellen Hawkins Henderson, Jan Risher's great grandmother, poses for a photograph in Forest, Mississippi.

Provided photo

Her youngest child, Mary Ellen, was born with Down syndrome at a time when all the doctors recommended putting the child in an institution. My great-grandmother respected physicians and took their advice, but it didn't last long. 

"What all children need most is love — and that includes Mary Ellen," she told me one day when I was about 16 and the two of us were rifling through a cigar box of old photographs. "I did what they told me to, but I couldn't leave her there. So, we went back and got her and she's been with me ever since."

Later, we came across one of the only photographs of her one child I didn't know. She told me about the day he died, which would have been about 50 years earlier. His name was R.G. He was running home from elementary school and the ice truck ran over him. More than 50 years later, she cried as she told me the story I had heard referenced all my life.

When I read Truman's line about keeping my heart soft enough to keep breaking, I thought of little R.G. And my great-grandmother, a woman who somehow managed to keep her sorrow from turning into self-pity. Through the grief, she kept going, living and loving after losing a child. 

Though she and my mother were related only by marriage, the two of them loved each other dearly. My mother's ultimate compliment for my great-grandmother was that she treated everyone the same. 

"No matter if you were the janitor or the president, she treated you just the same," my mom still says. 

Which is mostly true, but I would say that my great-grandmother treated a few of us differently. Those of us lucky enough to fall under her vast umbrella of love got special treatment. With so many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, her ability to love was immense. 

When I moved to the other side of the country, my great-grandmother called me one day (back in the days of long distance phone calls, this was a big deal). She wanted to check and make sure I was coming home for the holidays. When I told her that I would be there with bells on, she started singing. 

"And we'll have chicken and dumplings when she comes," she sang with gusto — it's the second verse of "She'll be Coming Around the Mountain." She knew how much I loved chicken and dumplings. 

I remember exactly where I was standing as I listened to my great-grandmother sing. I remember how the light was coming in the window — and I knew I would remember the moment for years to come. 

I was right. 

She also knew how much I loved the apple pies she made. She always added a lot of nutmeg to her pies — and they were special. 

When I went home that Christmas and it was time to fly back out West, my great-grandmother called as we were loading up the car. "Stop by on your way to the airport," she said.

Even though it was time to go, when she said stop by, you stopped by.

It was cold and rainy that day. I ran to her front door through the rain, she opened the door and thrust a steaming apple pie out in the cold. The rising steam was visible. 

"The is for your trip," she said. 

The question of "What was I going to do with a hot apple pie on a series of flights across the country?" never entered my mind. I just took the pie, smelled the nutmeg and gave her a hug and a squeeze. 

Till this day, a whiff of nutmeg takes me straight back to that front-door stoop and the love of my great-grandmother. 

Time is a funny, funny thing.

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