A Treasury of Christmas Stories (7 page)

My mother touched my face gently. There were tears in her eyes. At the time I didn't understand why, because I felt good inside. Very, very good.

Pat Gallant
is a fourth-generation native New Yorker and mother of a son. Awarded a New Century Writer's Award in 1999 and again in 2002, her writing has been published in
Saturday Evening Post, Writer's Digest, New Press Literary Quarterly,
and several anthologies.

Simply Magic

By Barbara L. David

I
T'S DARK
. The black sky sparkles with the brilliant light of distant stars. It's cold. And the laughter and chatter of excited anticipation make puffs of smoke with every joyful breath. Everyone is happy: Mom, Dad, and all five kids — ages eleven months to seven years. We've just come from Christmas Eve Mass and look forward to a delicious dinner.

Okay, it's really McDonald's. But the drive-through isn't too crowded and the servers actually get our order right. We sit down to our meal. Carols play softly. The Christmas tree glows. Fries by candlelight. The evening flies.

It's nearly bedtime.

“Mom, the cookies!” Our daughter's voice conveys an urgency suggesting Santa's imminent starvation should we fail to supply cookies.

I open the Tupperware, and she carefully arranges cookies on a decorative paper plate. Her fastidious attention to the plate's palette of color, shape, and flavor create a delicious opportunity for the baby. While our culinary artist considers how an additional chocolate chip or sugar sprinkle cookie will affect the composition of Santa's snack, our sly baby makes his move. His tiny, chubby fingers cling to the table's edge. Stealthily, he pulls himself up. In the twitch of a reindeer nose, the baby grabs a cookie, drops to his bottom, and crawls away with cheetah-like speed.

“Mom!” shrieks our little girl.

I scoop up the baby as he gums his sugary catch. “Don't worry. I'll put him to bed.”

I take him and his two-year-old brother up the stairs. Neither really protests; they're tired after a busy day of play. As our daughter finishes her cookie masterpiece, our middle son, who has trouble with certain consonants, studies it critically.

“What if Hanta gets hursty?” he asks.

Our oldest considers the problem and then searches for pencil and paper. He touches the eraser to his lips, leans toward the paper, and with purposeful determination begins:
Dear Santa
, he prints carefully, forming each letter to his second-grade teacher's exact specifications.

“What are you writing?” his ever-curious sister asks.

“Shh! I have to concentrate.” He continues: The milk is in the — Panic strikes. “Dad, Dad. How do you spell ‘fridge'?”

My husband pauses as he sweeps French fries. “
R-e
— ”

“How can ‘fridge' start with an
r
?” our phonetically aware daughter interrupts. “
Fr
idge.
F
-
r
-
ig
.
F
-
r
-
ig
. I think it's an
f
.”

“Well, it's really called a refrigerator,” my husband says as he sweeps up a fry mixed mysteriously with pine needles.

“Re-frig-er-a-tor. Re-frigerator,” repeats our little girl.

Our son's pencil hits the table with impatience. “How do you spell it?”

“
R
-,” says our girl, “
e
-”

“No!” protests our insulted second-grader. “Dad!”

“I was only trying to help,” pouts our wounded first-grader.

My husband begins, “
R-e
— got that?”

“
F-r-i-d
” — he dumps the dustpan of fries — “
-g-e-r-a-t-o-r.
”

“Got it.” Our writer thinks, then adds,
Thank you for coming
.

Everyone present signs the note after the word
Love
. My husband forges the babies' names.

I come down the steps and announce bedtime. They're willing tonight, even eager, but first they want to check Santa's progress one last time. We log onto the Internet and go to NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Com-mand. From its North Canadian post, this government organization tracks Santa's sleigh and reindeer as they depart the North Pole and travel around the world. We reach the site and an up-to-the-minute report begins. An official voice announces that right now Santa is leaving Rio de Janeiro. We watch the video showing his sleigh flying gracefully around the Christ the Redeemer monument and heading toward the United States. NORAD projects that Santa's arrival time in our hometown will be around midnight.

“He's coming! He's coming!” they cheer.

“Come on. It's time for bed,” I say.

There's no argument tonight. They all run up the stairs. I follow slowly to make sure they brush their teeth and say their prayers. They know they must go to sleep. Santa won't come until they're asleep. But it's hard to sleep. It's impossible to sleep. It's all too wonderful. Tomorrow is Christmas. Tomorrow! A glance out the window. Then a long stare. The flashing red light on the radio tower — it's … Could it be? I want to believe it, too. But if it is Rudolf, they must go to sleep. Now. Santa's coming.

A mad dash of little sock feet and quick leaps into bed. Covers pulled warmly about them and a moment of silence. Suddenly, quiet.

Then a little voice asks, “Do you hear Santa yet?”

“
Shh.
”

“I think I hear him!”

“
Shh!
”

Giggles and laughter and quiet whispers and whispers that get louder, and then “
Shh
.” Again and again. But finally the “
shh
” lasts. It's quiet, and it stays quiet.

Sleep. And then a sound. It's late or early, the middle of the night. I'm awakened and I make the mom rounds, checking on the kids. The babies are sleeping soundly, curled up in their cribs, their little bottoms skyward. My next little guy is oddly arranged with most of his body avoiding the soft mattress, seeking the hard plastic of his racecar bed. I pull the blanket around my daughter on the bottom bunk, and as I look toward the top one, my oldest pops his head up.

“Did you hear that, Mom?”

“You have to go to sleep.”

“I think it was Santa.”

“Go to sleep. I love you.”

“Can we check, Mom?”

“Check?”

His sparkling eyes and innocent belief win my heart. What's a few more lost moments of sleep? In just one or maybe two more years, a rooftop noise on Christmas Eve might make him merely roll over. For the moment, whatever woke us holds the promise of childhood magic.

“Okay, but we won't go down. We'll only peek from the steps.”

He springs from his bed, not a bit tired.

“
Shh
,” I say.

“Oh, okay.” And he begins an exaggerated tiptoe out the door and into the hall.

I take his hand as we creep down the steps. My own heart pounds with excitement. One, two, three … from about the sixth step we can see. Just a night light burns. The tree is not lit. The room is mostly dark, but somehow the shadows shine. I watch my little boy, his eyes wide, his smile broad. He glows with awe and happiness.

“All those presents… . Look! Look at the stockings… . Mommy! Mom, he ate the cookies. He ate the cookies.”

“
Shh
.” But I'm even happier.

We hug with happiness. We sit on the steps and linger in this wonderful night. But it's very late, or very early, and we must get some sleep.

My little boy hurries to bed. I fix his blanket and kiss his cheek. He falls asleep immediately. I lie awake. My dreams are visions of joy. Tomorrow is Christmas, but there will be no better present than tonight.

Barbara L. David
lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her husband, Geoff, and their five children. She earned a Phi Beta Kappa key during her undergraduate studies and taught English, journalism, and film studies before becoming a stay-at-home mom. Barbara enjoys freelance writing in moments between helping with homework and changing diapers.

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ePub ISBN 10: 1-4405-3468-3

ePub ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3468-3

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