Fault Lines (13 page)

I had cut doggy footprints from construction paper and placed them all over the house. I’d left cute notes everywhere of the puppy’s favorite sleep and play spots. I’d slipped long letters into Dad’s briefcase outlining my plans to take care of the dog, to love it and be responsible. Dad adored everything I did, just as I knew he would. He’d saved every scrap of paper in a file folder. The clincher came when I reminded him I’d be starting high school soon. Only a few more years and I’d be gone. Last chance to make my childhood dream come true.

Barney’s red bow scratched my cheek as I struggled to hold his squirmy little puppy body and give Dad an arm-less hug at the same time. I pushed my face into Dad’s chest. I hopped in place. I squealed.

“Daddy, Daddy, thank you!” I said, but in a way I was talking to Mom. I was saying,
I won, you lost
. I do that sometimes, talk to Mom without saying a word to her.

So it’s not surprising she didn’t like the dog, or that she saved her strongest anger for Dad, since he went against her when he gave in to me. I saw all that in her eyes last Christmas Eve. One year ago…

Dad’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. “Time for presents!” he announces, allowing me to push away from the table and leave my plate of food.

Things go on like that all morning. We go through the Christmas motions, except everything seems phony and rushed, like all of us are trying to make it end. No joy, no magic, no cocoon.

Even the gifts fall flat. We all give each other life survival items. Underwear, boots, socks, gift certificates to Wal-Mart we know will go to buy groceries. Grandma gives us all school clothes, plus $100 cash.

“Put it in the bank, or spend it on something you’ve been wanting,” she says. “Or use it to pay off debts you’ve accumulated and start over, fresh.” She smiles at me on the last part, and I know she’s talking about Creeper’s window.

I’m actually glad it’s time to leave for my community service shift at New Horizons. I want out of here. Grandma drives me.

now

I know

Parked cars line the street for two blocks in either direction from the shelter, so Grandma has trouble dropping me off. A barricade blocks people from pulling into the long driveway that leads up to the food pantry and community meeting room.

She stops next to the barricade posted with a handwritten sign, “Fire lane. No stopping, standing or parking.” Grandma waves her hand. “Oh, it’s only for a minute.”

I fling open my door to hop out fast, but she leans across the seat and touches my arm. “I know this Christmas isn’t easy,” she says.

She pauses for me to respond, but I don’t have anything to say. “You’re walking into a place where people will be happy,” she says. “They’ll be celebrating that they have food and a warm place to eat. Try to tap into some of that joy. Let yourself feel it.”

I nod, knowing she’s right, I really should be grateful – and jump out of the car into a pile of slush.

Inside the place is so jam-packed, I don’t know what to do. People are lined up for food with paper plates and plastic silverware in their hands. Some talk and hug. Lots more eat at round tables decorated with green and red tablecloths and flickering white candles in glass jars. Voices and laughter echo off the concrete walls.

I spot Mrs. Jenkins at the end of a long line of rectangular tables spread with food. She’s the first food server people come to. Behind her, a giant banner reads, “COMMUNITY DINNER SPONSORED BY POLLY’S COUNTRY MARKET AND THE TOY HOUSE. MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

Mrs. Jenkins sees me and waves me around to her side of the tables. “Hi, Dani! Isn’t this great? Grab a hair net and apron in the box over there!”

She assigns me to do the mashed potatoes. For an hour and a half, that’s all I do, spoon the glop onto plates. Nobody awaits St. Nick’s arrival more anxiously than me – that’s when Mrs. Jenkins wants me to help hand out presents to kids.

The place goes nuts when Santa finally walks in around 4:30. He waves like a rock star and kids jump up and down, screaming, so Mrs. Jenkins can’t quiet things for instructions. She waves her arms and shouts “Settle down!” but it’s swallowed up in noise. Finally, Santa yanks off one white glove, jams two fingers in his mouth and shrieks a whistle with his tongue. Everything freezes.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he says, pulling his glove back on. “Please, step back a bit. Old Saint Nick needs some room to maneuver!”

He’s impressive. Even while motioning the children back and pointing out where they should stand, he looks jolly. His beard is real, his fat belly jiggles when he laughs, and his red cheeks match his suit.

It isn’t easy in the mass of squirming bodies, but Mrs. Jenkins wants me to count how many kids show up so she can write it up in her January newsletter. I do my best, finishing on my tiptoes to see over the ones crowding at the front. Way in the back, I spot Jazzy, grinning wide, wearing a red party dress, her wavy red hair flowing loose on her shoulders. She holds hands with her mother, looking tired in a gray sweatshirt. I count Jazzy last, making 62, approximately.

When Santa finishes waving back the mob, they all stand about the length of two rectangular tables from me. I’m positioned in the open doorway to the food pantry, which stores the wrapped gifts.

Santa points at a crack in the floor for the kids to stay behind. “So many children, so many gifts! Merrrrry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!”

I pick up gifts stacked on shelves closest to the door. Each one has a yellow sticky note on it, telling if it’s for a boy or girl, and what age. I hand one present at a time to Santa, and he reads the sticky note and pulls it off.

He plays up the drama. With every present, he stands tapping one finger on his lips, pretending to be looking for one person in particular. The kids hop and inch forward, raising their hands, calling, “Me! Me!” He waves them back behind the crack on the floor. Then he slowly wanders into the group and chooses a child. Some kids run off to open their gift, some drop on the spot and tear the paper off, and Santa comes back for another package.

After several minutes, I start to think he’s dragging it out too much. The kids lose energy, start to droop. But Santa doesn’t pay attention. He’s too busy prancing around like he’s the real thing.

Now I’m worried. I’m not sure, but I think we have a problem.

I wave over Mrs. Jenkins, still wearing her poinsettia-patterned apron from serving the meal. She walks up as I hand Santa his next gift. I motion for her to lean in, so I can whisper into her ear: “I’m not positive, because it’s hard to count when they’re all moving. But I think there are more kids left than there are gifts.”

“That’s impossible. We based our count on last year’s numbers. The Toy House even gave us a few extra gifts beyond that. How many did you count?”

“Sixty-two.”

“What? We only had 45 last year!” Mrs. Jenkins strains her neck to look back at the thinning group of kids.

“I think a few more might have showed up since I first counted at the beginning,” I say. “It might have been more like 65, I’m not sure.”

There are 25 kids left by my count, and only 14 more gifts. Her lips move as she silently counts heads. Then she steps in the pantry to count packages. Her face turns pale, like she might pass out, but then she pulls it together.

“You keep doing what you’re doing,” she says. “I’m going to handle this. No child will leave here today without something for Christmas.”

She disappears into the dark food pantry. I hand Santa another gift. He starts his routine for the umpteenth time, and I look out at the kids still waiting.

Jazzy remains near the back, holding hands with her mother, at times leaning sideways or on tiptoes in her scratched-up black shoes to see past taller kids as Santa moves around. She never loses sight of him, but not because she worries about getting a gift. She believes. She clearly thinks Santa’s sleigh is parked outside, with reindeer waiting to fly off on Christmas Eve rounds. Pure love sparkles in her eyes as she gazes at him, and for just a second, I feel the magic.

When Santa comes back for another gift, I pick one of only two left for a young girl and I whisper, “Could you give this to the little red-haired girl standing near the back with her mom?”

Santa pulls away from me like I just asked him to rob a bank, and his jolly face transforms into a deranged killer’s, dark and mean. “I don’t play favorites here,” he growls. “Don’t ask me for favors. Now, give me that.”

I open my mouth to explain, but he grabs the package and walks away. He doesn’t do his slow routine this time but instead hands the gift straight to a girl near the front. Then his head snaps back around to show me his face, with an expression that says,
Don’t tell me what to do
. I look around to see if any adults have noticed Santa turning psycho, but people are either eating, talking, or watching the kids.

I keep my mouth shut. Especially when I hand him the last little-girl gift, I don’t say a word.

But again he quickly hands it to a child, leaving Jazzy out in the cold. Then he flashes me a frowning smirk that sends chills down my spine. I can hardly believe it. I imagine him going home to an empty house and kicking his dog across the room.

Mrs. Jenkins reappears, and only two gifts remain. I hand one to Santa. Mrs. Jenkins smiles at me and pretends to wipe sweat off her forehead.

“Phew! I was able to get in touch with the owner of The Toy House. That wasn’t easy, but he was glad I tracked him down. He felt terrible! So he told me to make something up to look like a gift certificate for $25. I signed each one myself, and The Toy House is going to honor them.”

“That’s good,” I say.

Santa hands out a package and comes back for another, once again wearing his Jolly-Old-Saint-Nick face. I wonder if I should tell Mrs. Jenkins about his scary side, but I don’t. I just hand him the final present without speaking.

When he returns, I say to Mrs. Jenkins, “That was the last gift.”

She steps forward to take charge, but Santa Claus grabs her arm, panicky. “What? What’s happening?”

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “We’ve come up short, but everything is under control. Follow my lead.”

However, Santa starts to freak out. He looks back at the kids still standing there and then at Mrs. Jenkins again. “Where are the rest of the presents?”

“I’m about to explain that, if you would so kindly let go of my arm.”

His voice gets higher like he might cry. “You can’t do this to me.”

She looks him straight in the eye. “Sir, you’re hurting my arm. Let me go.”

Before she gets out the last word, he dashes through the pantry door and disappears. Oh my god. He ran away.

Everyone in the place looks around in confusion. There’s a general murmur, then a few kids start asking where Santa went and if he’ll come back. The anxious feeling in the room gets higher as the talk gets louder. Mrs. Jenkins raises up her hands to calm things down, so she can speak.

I lock my eyes on Jazzy. I expect her to start crying, but she wears this absolutely pleasant grin. She looks up at her mother and hops in place three times.

My face gets hot. I know why she’s happy.

I understand exactly what Jazzy is thinking, because I’ve been there once too – about a million years ago – listening for reindeer hooves on the roof and such. I know her smile comes from deep inside, from a place of love and faith. She believes without question that Santa has gone back to his sleigh. She has no doubt he’s getting more gifts, and she believes to the depths of her soul that any minute he’ll return with exactly what she wants, that perfect thing she’s been wishing for on the first star she sees every night.

“There’s a slight problem,” Mrs. Jenkins says, and voices start rising again. She raises her hands back up.

Most of the ten kids still waiting for gifts are old enough to know Santa isn’t real. A few are probably on the edge of wondering, at six or seven years old. Jazzy is the littlest one.

A tall skinny boy with a buzz haircut, who I recognize from elementary school, raises his hand politely. I figure he’s a fifth-grader by now. He appears to be wearing the same pants he wore in third grade when I went to school with him, because they’re about four inches too short and way too tight.

“Excuse me,” the boy says. “Where did the Santa go?”

“Santa had to leave,” Mrs. Jenkins says holding up her hands to keep people from going nuts. “Don’t worry. Please. I have something for all of you.”

Jazzy’s smile disappears. She looks back up at her mother with her eyebrows crushing together, making sad lines on her forehead. She doesn’t speak, but she has one question written all over her face:
Why did Santa leave?

Mrs. Jenkins holds her made-up gift certificates in one hand, paper and pen in the other. “Please line up here. I’m giving each of you a gift certificate worth twenty-five dollars at The Toy House! Isn’t that great? All I need is your name, so they can watch for you at the store.”

All the kids get in line, except Jazzy. She looks dazed for a second, then she buries her face in her mother’s shirt and cries. Her muffled voice calls, “Santa! Santa!”

Jazzy’s mother tries to peel her away but can’t. “Jazzy, you need to get in line,” her mother says, but it only makes the little girl’s crying louder.

I walk to her. I kneel and touch the back of her velvety party dress. “Jazzy. It’s me, Dani. Remember me?”

She shifts her head enough to let one eye peek. “I don’t want you,” she says, pressing her face back into her mother, who rolls her eyes and looks up at the ceiling. “I want Santa. Please, Santa, I love you!”

“Jazzy, listen …” I say.

She pulls her head back and looks past me toward the open food pantry door. “Santa! Come back!”

I don’t know what to do. I crouch there with my hand on her back, rubbing in circles, thinking how it isn’t fair. She’s had a lifetime of being disappointed, of not getting what she wants or needs, of being let down by adults. She deserves one day of the year when her wishes come true. One day a year, Jazzy’s world should be lovely and glittering and full of promise.