The Night Before by David Fulmer

your knees, O hear the angel voices
O night divine, O night when Christ was born
Oh night divine, O night, O night divine…
    By the fourth note, Joe had lifted his foot from the gas and turned to gape in wonder over the sounds from her slender throat. The tones were honeyed and while there was something anguished about the way the song poured out of her, there was also no denying that it was lifted on hope. When the last echo died, she noticed the astonishment on his face and said, “I sang in the choir back home.”
    She turned away and began to croon the melody. Joe listened, feeling an ache in his chest. Miles away, his house sat warm and quiet, with the lights from the tree filling the front window. The kids would be in their beds by now, though he knew Christian would have a hard time settling down.
    He wondered if they had asked their mother why he wasn’t home and imagined Mariel trying to put on a front. She’d have to lie, of course. Could she get away with it? The kids were sharp, his daughter especially. She’d know something was wrong and would worry. He went back to cursing his wife for the betrayal, the act itself and the stupidity of letting herself get caught. On Christmas Eve, no less. She was—
    â€œHey.”
    The final hummed note had faded and they were idling at an intersection. Joe looked at Nicole and then peered into the mirror. Mother and child were regarding him with matching vexed expressions. Something had gone terribly wrong in their lives, too. Indeed, compared to what had befallen them, his drama seemed a frivolous thing. They had been tossed from a rude home onto a cold street with nowhere to go. He pondered the odd set of turns that had brought them together on this night, amidst the first Christmas Eve snowfall in seven years.
    â€œSomething wrong with the van?” Nicole said.
    He returned to the moment. “No, it’s okay. I just…” They rolled forward. “It’s down the next street.”
    Reverend Callum opened the door. His liquid eyes were cool but he said nothing as Nicole, Malikah, and Joe filed inside.
    Joe made the stuttering introductions. No seemed to know what to do next and before it got strange, he said, “Reverend, do you have anything in your office that a seven-year-old girl might enjoy?”
    The cheap ploy worked. The reverend pulled his gaze off Joe and pursing his lips and furrowing his forehead in a clownish arc, he fixed wide eyes on Malikah.
    â€œI don’t guess you mean cookies and milk,” he said. “Naw. You don’t like cookies, do you?” Malikah nodded gravely. “You do? Well, all right, then. Come on this way.”
    He ushered the three of them into his office. The radio gurgled sweetly as he went about opening a box of Oreos and producing a carton of milk from the refrigerator. Joe drew a cup of coffee from the pot on the side table for Nicole.
    He dropped his voice to say, “Can you wait in the chapel while we talk?”
    Nicole said, “Malikah, come with mama.” They walked out of the office and Joe closed the door behind them.
    Reverend Callum was abrupt. “What’s this about? I got a phone call from Mrs. Walters. She wasn’t happy. You abused her hospitality. Why’d you do that?”
    â€œI’m sorry, I didn’t -” Joe said. “I couldn’t -”
    â€œCouldn’t what?”
    â€œI didn’t want to leave them in that place. Not tonight.”
    â€œIt’s a shelter,” the reverend said. “What it’s there for.”
    â€œI know. I just…” He caught a breath and told him about the house on Grant Street, the boyfriend and her mother, and the dreary space at the church, the nasty woman on the next cot.
    Reverend Callum listened, then shook his head. “Should have left them there anyway,” he said. “Now what are you going to do? They can’t stay here.”
    â€œI know, I