Sarah's Christmas Miracle by Mary Ellis

be a famous chef and smiled as bittersweet memories of his first year in Cleveland came back. How he’d loved that loft apartment with its twelve-foot ceilings, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a view of Lake Erie. The four roommates had rotated months as to who slept on the couch and who had their own room, but even the couch had been comfortable. A man could fall asleep hearing foghorns from passing ships and the mournful whistle of trains as they slowed to cross the bridges into downtown. The apartment had been close to everything—stores, restaurants, clubs, parks, and sport stadiums. He’d earned good money back then, and he had treated pals to football and baseball games. At first he’d been shocked by the price of a hot dog during those events—twice the cost of an entire package at the grocery store. But in time he became accustomed to overpricing. He called it the excitement factor—the more fun you had, the more you had to pay for food and drinks.
    He and his three English friends had gotten along well. Everyone pitched in to keep the place fairly tidy. On Sunday afternoons they would sit in front of the big screen hooting, hollering, and throwing foam footballs at the TV. Then Pete moved in with his girlfriend, and they had set a spring wedding date. Keeping up with a third of the rent and utilities was beyond his reach when Cal was laid off, so he’d moved into this third-floor walkup sight unseen…and he had hated the cramped, dismal rooms ever since.
    Pete reached for more pizza. “We had some good times, old buddy.”
    “Yeah, we did,” agreed Cal. “How are the weddin’ plans coming along?”
    Pete laughed. “Growing in leaps and bounds. At last count Michelle has invited eight bridesmaids and changed the ceremony from our neighborhood church to the huge cathedral downtown. But as long as she’s happy, I don’t mind.”
    Cal felt a stab of jealousy but tamped it down quickly. He had holed up like an urban hermit instead of trying to meet women. “You’re a lucky man,” he said, finishing his Coke.
    “That I am. Things will turn around for you too. I hear rumblings in the industry that companies might start hiring after the first of the year to be ready for spring ground breaking. Have your resume in hand, prepared to interview. Your chance will come, and then you can move out of this place.” Pete stood abruptly. “I gotta take off. Michelle is cooking steaks tonight, and she doesn’t like to keep them warm. The rest of the pizza is yours.”
    With that, Pete picked up his coat and hurried out the door, leaving Cal alone once again. Strong odors of garlic and onion seeped through the walls from the apartment next door. Folks sure cooked some odd food in this neighborhood . He padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door to assess what had offended Pete’s senses. Nothing smelled out of the ordinary as he ruffled through old take-out containers, discovering a container of Chinese he’d forgotten about. He popped the lid to evaluate the remnants. Although it appeared different from the original condition, it didn’t seem disgusting. He hadn’t a clue how long food could safely be kept. Growing up in a family of six guaranteed no leftovers went uneaten. His mother scraped anything not consumed by lunchtime the next day into the slop bucket on the porch. Their sow promptly polished off the bucket’s contents without complaint.
    Cal ate a hearty forkful of the egg fu yong and then another. After all, he’d been raised to believe wasting food was sinful. By his fourth forkful, a dull ache began in his gut and then spread upward into his chest. Cal barely reached the bathroom before the spoiled takeout, spicy pizza, and carbonated soda made a hasty reappearance. Filled with shame and revulsion, he scrubbed his mouth with his toothbrush and then began systematically cleaning out his fridge of suspicious meals. Out went partial cans of Coke, green-tinged bread, hard-as-rock