The radio was playing a tinny version of "O Holy Night" as Marilyn pushed open the door of the Laundromat, lugging her overflowing laundry basket with her. The place was nearly empty except for a shabbily dressed older man folding towels and socks in a corner by the coffee machine.

Could there be a more depressing place to spend Christmas Eve? she wondered. This was turning into the worst Christmas of her life. Her first Christmas as a divorcée, and she was spending it in a strange Laundromat listening to Muzak because of a broken appliance at home.

Paul was no doubt celebrating the evening with his new girlfriend. Well, no point going there. She threw the contents of her hamper into the nearest machine, measured the laundry soap into the dispenser and filled up the slots with quarters. Nothing. She jiggled the coin slot and checked the dials. Still nothing.

Great. Another machine as dysfunctional as her marriage. As her life. And Miranda’s flight was arriving in an hour and a half. The house wasn’t tidied yet, never mind decorated for the holidays. Mr. Illingsworth, the old Scrooge, wouldn’t even give her the afternoon off on Christmas Eve to get ready.

She pulled the clothes out again and transferred them to the next machine. This one started. Closing the lid, she walked over to the coffee machine and inserted a dollar. The machine hummed obediently, but no liquid dripped into the waiting styrofoam cup.

"Is everything in this place broken?" she said aloud.

"The coffee machine is out of order most of the time," the man said. She looked at him. He appeared to be in his late sixties, and he was wearing a worn blue checked shirt, with pants a little shiny from ironing. He was folding a threadbare tea towel neatly as he spoke.

"I’m sorry I didn’t notice you trying to get a cup of coffee until it was too late. I always bring a thermos of my own when I come here. Can I offer you a cup?"

She hesitated, then smiled ruefully. "Why not? It’s Christmas."

He took the empty styrofoam cup from the machine and filled it from his thermos. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he was afraid of spilling.

She accepted the cup from him. He watched her sip it, then said, "You’re a little out of your element, aren’t you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Don’t be offended. I just mean that you don’t look like the Laundromat type."

She stared at him a moment, then gave a short laugh.

"It’s that obvious? Yeah, alright. My washing machine broke down at the last minute before my daughter’s flight comes in. She’s a student, and this is our first Christmas together since my divorce. I wanted everything to be nice for her arrival, and instead everything is chaos. I guess you could say I’m not having a good day." She turned her head to hide her tears.

"What about you?" she said, changing the subject. "What brings you here on Christmas Eve?"

He smiled. "You mean, why am I not at some black tie affair, celebrating in style?"

"Something like that."

"I don’t have a lot of places to be these days."

"No family?"

"Not any more. Since my wife died, holidays are pretty much the same as other days. But after my wash is done, I plan to go to the candlelight service at my church. Katherine and I used to go together every year. It was one of our traditions. That and the fruitcake."

Marilyn was intrigued. "The fruitcake?" He finished putting the folded laundry into his old wicker hamper and poured coffee into the lid of his thermos. Pulling up a chair, he sat down to enjoy his coffee.

"Our first Christmas after we were married, we made a fruitcake together," he explained. "We were keeping it to serve during the holidays, but then a man in our church got laid off at the factory. He had a big family to support.

"Our congregation was a poor one, but everybody helped out in whatever way they could. Katherine and I didn’t have two nickels to rub together at the time. But we did have the fruitcake. So we gave them that. Every year after that it became our tradition to find somebody in need that we could give the fruitcake to."

Marilyn’s eyes filled up again, but she didn’t try to hide it. "It sounds like you and your wife had a wonderful marriage."

He looked down at his wrinkled hands that had a slight tremor. "I’ve been very blessed. It’s been two years since she’s been gone. There’s not a day goes by I don’t miss her like crazy." Marilyn felt a pang of envy.

"You’re lucky to have had that. The only holiday tradition my ex and I had was fighting. We were so wrapped up in our own misery I don’t think we saw how it was affecting our daughter."

She got up to add the fabric softener. Standing at the machine, the tight bubble in her chest began to leak waves of pain through her muscles. She turned to her companion with a sad smile. "That’s why I wanted this Christmas to be special for Miranda. She’s had so many rotten holidays."

He smiled at her. "Isn’t being with her mother special enough?" She walked back to her chair and sat, noticing the floor where people had walked in their muddy winter boots.

"Yeah, right. Real special."

"Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?" he said.

She looked at him. What was it about him? His life was more depressing than hers, but he seemed to radiate peacefulness and understanding.

"I just wanted to get something right for a change," she said softly. "I failed at marriage and motherhood. Everything that matters. Now the house isn’t ready or the presents wrapped or anything done for Miranda when she gets home. I couldn’t even manage that much. I guess my ex was right. I am hopeless. Broken down and worn out like my washing machine."

He was silent for a few minutes while the radio played a disco version of "Joy to the World."

"Do you know what Christmas is about?" he said at last.

She shrugged. "Something about peace on earth and brotherly love. That sort of thing?"

He looked at her. "Those are important all right, but if you had to sum up Christmas in one word, it would be mercy. God showed our poor broken down world mercy by entering it as one of us, and suffering along with us."

The washing machine sloshed energetically. Marilyn looked at the man, who seemed to be collecting his thoughts. Was she in for a sermon now? Her own fault for opening up to a stranger. His words were as slow and deliberate as his movements. He took a sip of coffee from the lid of his thermos and spoke again.

"I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re all in need of a little mercy. Maybe most of the time. You sure sound like you could stand to extend some of that mercy to yourself." He stood up and with slow, stiff movements put on his jacket and hat.

"I hope you have a good Christmas, Mrs.…I don’t know your name," he said.

"It’s Marilyn," she smiled through her tears, holding out her hand. They shook hands.

"I’m pleased to meet you, Marilyn. I’m Harry. Please, just enjoy your daughter. That’s what she’s here for." He pulled a crumpled paper bag from the hamper and handed it to her.

"This is for the two of you. Merry Christmas." He picked up his hamper and went out into the cold air. Stunned, she watched him go.

"This is for the two of you." She looked down at the crumpled bag in her hands. Opening it slowly, she looked inside.

It was a small, round, Christmas fruitcake.