The Freedom to Decide by W. L. Bolm

Yael is out to the coffee shop to pick up fixings for brunch, and Alma is puttering around the house, cleaning up last night’s dishes and listening to a podcast about a royal scandal from five hundred years ago. She normally doesn’t notice the ease inherent in this little Cape Cod, but this morning there are small touches that speak to Yael’s love for her.

The peony cut and placed just so in a mason jar filled with water on the windowsill. The gleaming windows. The corners that never build up dust.

Yael bursts through the door laden with paper bags, of bagels and cream cheese and spreads and two coffees. Alma laughs as she helps her unload.

They’ve managed to make a dent in their feast when Alma says, “That flower on the windowsill is so cute, and it smells so good.”

“Yeah, that was such a good idea. You’re always so thoughtful.”

Alma pauses. “No, you’re thoughtful. I didn’t pick it.”

They stare at each other, stupefied, then push away from the table to go peer at the peony. Thus begins an audit of all the little kindnesses each attributed to the other.

The polished wooden table. The loose doorknob now tightened. The wool throw folded neatly on the ottoman in front of the couch.

“A tomte,” Alma whispers at the same time Yael whispers, “Shretele.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon on the couch, deep diving on their phones into stories from different cultures of little old men who tidy the house in exchange for a meal or because they’ve become part of a family.

Now they see these little touches with new eyes. They compare notes and audit the past. Did Alma unpack and put away those new wine glasses? Did Yael set up the Shabbat candles? Who patched that crack in the ceiling?

“We should stay up for him,” Yael whispers in bed with a mischievous glint in her eye while Alma’s scrolling TikTok. “Catch him in the act. Talk to him.”

Alma shakes her head, completely serious. “That’s the easiest way to kill the magic.”

Yael scoffs.

“What if it’s some neighborhood kid, playing a prank? Or one of the neighbors?” Alma asks.

“Even more reason,” Yael replies.

Alma presses the screen of her phone a few times and navigates to her notes. “It said in a few places that if you gift one of these guys a suit, he’ll think he’s too good for the house and move on.”

Yael snorts. “Like a house elf? You don’t like having someone coming in and doing half our chores for us for free?”

Alma elbows Yael. “Free is the right word. We should set him free. What if he doesn’t like cleaning up after us? We don’t know why he’s here or what he’d rather be doing with his time.”

“Hmmmm.”

The next morning, Alma wakes early and starts sorting through the doll room. Yael doesn’t ask questions. She refuses to go near the doll room.

Alma strips a nice suit from one doll, a ballroom gown from another. There are overalls and a straw hat from a farmer girl, complete with a piece of straw between her lips, and a flight suit from a collector’s edition Amelia Earheart.

Yael watches her write the note.

To our little friend,

Thank you for all you’ve done. Please take one of these outfits if you’re inclined and live your best life.

Love, Alma and Yael

“Sorry,” Alma says, looking sheepish. “I know it’s silly, but I just can’t live with the idea that we might be inadvertently enslaving a fairy, or whatever it is that’s been helping us out since we moved in.”

Yael takes in the wrinkle in Alma’s brow, the way she bites at her top lip. Her next words are careful, measured. “It’s undoubtedly a mitzvah,” she says.

Alma brightens and lets out the breath she’s holding. She writes out little labels for each outfit, with curling flourishes, the online hand lettering class finally coming in handy for something.

Lawyer/businessman.

Dancer.

Farmer.

Pilot.

“What if he doesn’t want to be any of those?” Yael asks. Now that she’s chosen to be supportive, she’s all in.

Alma grins, her eyes sparkling. “Well, there is always the clown.”

Yael shudders, thinking of the doll’s glassy eyes and bright red wig.

They leave the note and outfits on the kitchen table along with a glass of milk and plate of cookies.

“Reverse Santa,” Alma whispers as they slip into bed.

The next morning, some of the milk, one of the cookies, and the overalls and hat are gone.

Even with all of their researching, with Alma’s desire for magic to be real, the proof before her eyes is hard to process.

“Yael, did you do this?” Alma asks with a smile, not quite ready to truly believe in their mystery friend.

Yael just shakes her head.

And from then on, the wives do sometimes find dust in their corners. Their windows sparkle just a little less. But, they learn to appreciate those little touches in their house when they do appear. When a cut peony appears in the window, Yael knows it’s Alma seeing something beautiful and thinking of her. When the Shabbat candles are polished and placed on the table Friday afternoon, Alma knows it’s because Yael’s idea of a perfect night is spent with her over good food and fresh challah.

While they take a bit more care with the inside of the house, their backyard soon becomes an outdoor oasis, the table and chairs arranged just so, rose bushes, dahlias, and peonies blooming at the edges, and rows of snap peas, cucumbers, tomatoes, pumpkins, and almost every vegetable the women can imagine (and some they’ve never heard of) flourishing in a tidy plot. Their neighbors and friends wonder at the abundance of their garden when they seem to spend such little time toiling at making things grow.