The guests had not yet arrived for the party. The hor d'erves had been prepared and set out neatly on the table, and a large punch bowl of champagne and ginger ale was placed in the center. Christmas and New Year decorations graced the windows and the panes were frosted by the frigid air outside as the winter held a firm grip over the streets, sidewalks and pavements leading up to every home.

Mrs. Anderson was not in a partying mood but felt a sense of duty in hosting the holiday party. It would consist of a small group of friends and family all well-known to each other but who had not gathered together in quite a while.

She had no idea exactly who mighty show up, or who would cancel. The snow, the first of the season, had been in mid-afternoon and had continued unabated. The light on the porch cast a glow on the soft snow as it accumulated on the ground.

She had been in a somber mood all week and was not attuned to the holiday season with its spirit of giving and hope.

"For what reason should I be optimistic?" She thought to herself. "It's been over a year now and it's still not finished."

The guests did come after all, not everyone who was invited but more than were expected. After cursory holiday greetings, they complained about the snow and the snarling traffic and questioned why they had even ventured to go out on such a night. They had known that Margaret had invited them more out of a sense of obligation than kindness. Although one could never deny that she was the perfect hostess, they also knew that the last year had been especially difficult for her with the news that her only son had been sent to the front line of battle.

"When will this war ever end?"

"Why don't they both concede their losses and form a lasting peace?"

How ironic it was to celebrate and feign happiness amid the horrors of war.

"But it is a war which is so far away. Why are we there in the first place?"

this was the mood of the evening and the drift of everyone's conversation as guests nibbled on snacks and canapes while drinking wine and punch. The year had come to an end and for Margaret it had been an especially difficult and trying one. Last January shortly after the holidays had ended, her son was called up for military service. His tour of duty was to be only one year on the active front and then he was promised a return home. Many things can happen in a year and most of what does happen is unexpected.

"Mom, it's only for a year. A year passes so quickly. I'll be home before you know it."

These were among his parting words as James bade his mother good-bye last February. He was neither excited nor afraid at the time, or at least he didn't show it. His attitude was one of resignation and service to his country. his guiding force

was a sense of obligation.

"Mom, it's my duty to go."

A sense of duty had guided his whole life. He had the same attitude towards school and sports and most of all his family.

While in the service he had written home regularly and without fail during the first six months. At least once a week Margaret received a letter. The news was usually optimistic if not always truthful. Margaret was able to read between the lines and sensed that her son was protecting her from the truth and any bad incident which might have occurred.

Then suddenly in mid-October the letters became less frequent and had stopped altogether. It was already two months since she had received a letter and she felt it difficult to suppress her anxiety. Her husband asked the Armed forces to send a tracer and to determine the state of his whereabouts, but the polite and businesslike response was that there was nothing to worry about. The head general at the bureau consoled them by saying, "This sometimes happens with men in the service. After six months they get tired of writing. You know, the routine sets in and they feel they have nothing more to say."

"But not our James," Mrs. Anderson replied. "James would always write even if it were a short note. Just not to make us worry."

"Well, then maybe his letters got lost," the general said. "That sometimes happens on the battlefield. You know, there's no post office in the middle of combat."

He said this to diffuse the tense situation with an attempt at dry humor but the effect fell flat.

"What I meant to say is to be patient a little longer. If you don't hear from him during the holidays then contact us again and we'll put a priority search on him, but you know, we are a nation at war and it's easy to lose track of people."

This reassurance gave her some hope that the military was not totally indifferent. She even felt embarrassed that she had been so persistent in trying to locate her son. There must be thousands of cases similar to hers where sons had not written.

With this hope that an official inquiry would be made into her son's whereabouts, Margaret was able to get up the strength and courage to face the holidays.

The party was not particularly cheerful but Margaret felt it was her responsibility to sustain the holiday spirit.

"The weather report says that the snow should be tapering off by midnight."

"Yes, a total accumulation of ten inches! Do you have snow tires?"

"God! Do you think I'd travel in this weather without them?"

Such was the drift if the evening's conversation after the preliminary concern with the war. How safe it was to speak of the weather even when the weather itself was inclement. There's an indifference in the weather which favors neither the rich nor the poor, the sheltered nor the homeless, the schooled nor the unlettered. The weather was either benign or cruel, but always indifferent to the human predicament.

Politics and society, on the other hand, were determined by human motives. There was nothing passive nor cursory with discussions in these areas, for to discuss politics, society and foreign policy was to take sides, and in so doing, to invite confrontation.

So, in the spirit of the holiday season, the weather dominated the course of the evening's dialog.

"You know," one guest said making a trite observation, " We all hate the snow until we get caught in a summer heat wave."

"I guess we're never satisfied."

"I guess not."

It was then that the doorbell rang. It must have been after ten in the evening and no further guests were expected. The doorbell rang a second time and Margaret went to answer it. The guests became quietly silent.

She flicked on the light to the porch and pushed aside the curtain on the door to grasp a glimpse of who would be calling at such an hour.

The doorbell rang a third time and Margaret opened the door. In the glow of the porch light she saw three men dressed in military uniforms standing solemnly in front of the door. She opened the door just a crank and asked them. "Yes, may I help you?"

One of the soldiers, who appeared to be the oldest of the three, answered, "We came for the funeral."

"I'm sorry. You must be mistaken, but there is no funeral here. We are celebrating a New Year's party."

As she said these words her heart sank. She noticed that all three of the soldiers had a blank stare which focused somewhere beyond the door and into the home and even beyond into infinity.

"Who specifically are you looking for?"

There was no answer. Only a cold silence. A strong cold unearthly wind passed briefly across the patio and the powdery snow whipped across their faces.

"We've come for the funeral," one of the other soldiers repeated.

Margaret, a bit unnerved said, "I'm sorry. I don't know how to help you. There's no funeral here."

She slowly and politely closed the door. The other guests had overheard the conversation and were also left speechless.

"That was strange," said Margaret at last. "They said they came for�E#034; She hesitated and left the sentence unfinished. The others gathered around her trying to make little of the strange encounter.

"With this cold weather we should have invited hem in for some food and drink."

"God only knows where they came from."

Mr. Anderson went to the window and peered through the curtains. The three men had gone and were no longer standing at the door. He cast his glance across the street and under the glow of a street lamp beneath the falling snow he saw them standing and staring into his home.

"Shall I call the police?" one of the guests suggested helpfully.

"No, don't. They'll soon go away."

A half-hour later when he checked again, they were gone.

"It's strange," commented one of the guests. "They did not arrive by car. There are no tire marks in the snow."

Another guest observed, "Even their footprints left no mark on the snow."

Several days after the party and the incident of the mysterious visitors. Mrs. Anderson received a visit from one of the government authorities who had traced the whereabouts of her son. He had called earlier in the day and had requested to see her personally. When he arrived, his greeting was serious and businesslike.

"Mrs. Anderson we have been able to track down your son�E#034;

She made a nod with her head and invited the Sergeant to enter and sit down. His message was short and to the point.

"Mrs. Anderson, your son was killed a week ago in an enemy ambush."

She lowered her head attempting to conceal her anguish but could neither weep nor cry.

The sergeant continued, "He was on a special mission with three other fellow soldiers when they were attacked by the enemy. A commanding officer found this picture among his belongings and sent it to us to give to you. It was probably one of his last pictures of himself which he had taken."

Margaret took the picture and held it with trembling hands. In it she saw her son with a bright smile, secure and confident. Beside him were his three friends who had fought with him valiantly to their deaths. As she gazed closer at the faces she recognized them as the three visitors who had come to her home a week earlier when the first snow had shrouded her home from the sky.


Stories