Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes (10 page)

As Walter spoke, Kathy saw that Santa was fighting to keep from interrupting. Then he calmed himself, came over to Walter, put a hand on his shoulder, and said softly, “Behold your sons.”

Once more the bedroom dissolved, and before them arose her boys’ bedroom. There lay Kurt, a soccer star at thirteen, his father’s pride and joy. Near him slept his more fragile, more studious brother Jamie, only eight.

But Kathy saw more deeply into them than ever before.

She had always marveled at the differences between them. Kurt was wild and unbounded, good but not great in his studies, a prankish humor about him, always looking years older than his age, a cut-up at Bible camp, starting to show an interest in girls but respectful toward them. She and Walter had been at pains to keep him away from the filth in movie theaters and the jungle noise that blared from car radios.

Then she peered into Jamie, her mild boy, clinging to her much longer than Kurt as a toddler. Jamie was more intent, more serious, disliking physical activity. He had gravitated toward music, the good kind, classical and uplifting musicals from the past that taught moral lessons. She was struck by his determined devotion to the violin, a driving impulse in him even more than she had realized. But something else shocked her to the heart. “He’s eight years old,” she said, “how can he be...no, he can’t be.”

“Who touched him?” asked Walter. “Tell me who it was. I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”

“No one touched him,” said Santa.

How can Santa be so persuasive, thought Kathy, so impatient, so unlike the Santa Claus I imagined as a child, yet so much like him? “My body could not have produced...it’s monstrous...that’s my child. Jamie will not dishonor God with....” She went light in the head. “He
can’t
be that way. I refuse to believe it.”

“No son of mine,” said her husband, “goes in for that kind of stuff. He’s a red-blooded American boy. We’ve brought him up right. You’re deceiving us with sick fantasies.”

But Kathy knew it wasn’t so. The hint of pleading in her husband’s voice told her he didn’t believe it himself. “He can resist the call of this addiction,” she said. “The Good Lord will make him strong. You’re here as a gift from God to alert us, to make us vigilant. Jamie needs a little tough love is all. We’ll keep him from temptation. Kurt’s safe, but Jamie requires a firm hand.”

The little girl looked distraught. “But that’s not—”

“Can’t you see?” said Santa. “It’s inborn. It’s natural.”

“It’s perverse,” said Walter.

“We’re all sinners in the eyes of God,” said Kathy, feeling more assured. “But we can keep ourselves from the opportunity for sin. I always thought it was recruitment. I still do, when it comes to
acting
sinful. Sinners support each other in the illusion that what they do is no sin. This weakness, this being drawn to temptation, is part of Jamie. I thank you both. And I thank the Lord for sending you. We’ll be vigilant from now on. We won’t let the gay agenda seduce him.”

“Music is out,” said Walter.

“Yes. No more violin. We’ll monitor his listening. There are questionable composers. Tchaikovsky, Bernstein, I’ll read up.”

“Enough!” said Santa. His upset brought terror to Kathy’s heart. “You don’t see.”

“We don’t?” said Walter.

“No, I—”

Wendy touched Santa’s arm. “Maybe we should let them—”

“Yes, you’re right. Rest. We’ll be back. The sharing of dreams may achieve what we cannot.”

Before Kathy could probe further, Santa waved a hand and he and Wendy were gone, the room stripped of greenery and lamplight in an instant.

“What the heck just happened?” asked Walter, his voice weakening into sleep as he reached the last word.

Kathy barely managed to parse what he said before she too fell asleep.

Chapter 11. A Spellbinder’s Spell Unravels

GRONK FOLLOWED THEM OUT OF MAGIC TIME and down the stairs. Santa tore through the house in high dudgeon, out the front door, and off the porch, Wendy hurrying to keep up. Bounding into his sleigh and taking up the reins, he paused an instant for Wendy to leap in before leather smacked his team’s idle haunches and he shouted, “Away!”

Were it not for that pause, Gronk would have missed the rising runners. As it was, he clung now, his grip precarious, to the black lacquered curve of the sleigh-back as they jostled and rose.

“I’ve never seen such strayward adults in my life.”

“It’s habit,” said Wendy. “Deeply engrained modes of thought. Undoing them won’t be easy.”

Santa again slapped rein to haunch and cracked his whip. “By God, they’ll shut that boy down before they’ll honor who he is! Alcoholism indeed. I tell you, Wendy girl, I’m out of my league. You see why I like children? They sparkle with natural humility and purity and wide-eyed wonder. The good ones anyway, and that’s who I’m best with. Their minds flex. They can lay aside one set of goggles and try on another, quick as a wink. Why, even that bully, with his wretched parents and naughty friends, shows more flexibility than these damned Strattons.”

Though Gronk was devilishly pleased at Santa’s difficulties and knew his mother would take great delight in them too, he marveled at how upset Santa was. Wendy did as well, judging from the way she let his tempest blow over her.

“If I could only tear their eyes out and shove in a fresh pair,” he continued. “Cultural brainwashing, Wendy, that’s what we’re seeing. They’re doomed, all of them. There simply aren’t enough meditators, and Buddhists, and window washers among them. How can we possibly persuade such people that what they’re seeing is not only normal but blessed by God? And, oh my heavens, the preacher’s bound to be worse, accepting the lies dunned into his noggin at seminary, then blithering on and on about them from the pulpit for thirty years.”

“Not to mention his flock!

“You saw the Strattons. They’re mostly good people, polite and kind. But they hold these warped views on certain issues, views that compromise their integrity-based lives. They do their best to act out of righteousness, but their lockstep allegiance to institutionalized nonsense damns them to their own hell! How does one even
begin
to change that?”

“Lead with the heart,” said the little girl calmly, “and the mind will follow.”

Santa seemed not to hear her. “I can’t play the power card. I can’t say, I’m from God, he’s right, you’re wrong. They’ve got to see the big picture and embrace it freely, or it won’t stick. How does one undo years of habit? Let mortals sneak past nine years old and they’re lost!”

“I’m seventeen, Daddy.”

“Yes, but you’re nine at heart. You’ve kept your connection to childhood. They’ve strayed a ba-zillion miles from it. How do we get them back? It’s hopeless.”

“Daddy,” said Wendy, “we’ve still got a bunch more visits. And there’s the dreamscape, don’t forget that.”

Gronk watched Santa loft his great head to renew his rant. Then he calmed. A smile peeked out of his whiskers. “You’re right. Our visitants will be sharing a dreamscape. They’ll gather together over the lessons we’ve taught them.” Then he grew agitated again. “Some lessons! What guarantee is there that they won’t go further off the rails? That they won’t sink deeper into prejudice and make things worse, years earlier, for Jamie?”

“We’ve got to have faith,” insisted Wendy. “You know what I love most about you, Daddy? You overflow with generosity. It’s your stock in trade. When you get so angry, you frighten me. It means you’ve given up before you even try. Be more generous toward yourself, that’s my advice. You can do it. We can both do it. Michael wouldn’t have appeared to us if that weren’t so. We haven’t even seen the preacher yet. Maybe our visit will be, I don’t know, this huge miracle for him, the blinding light on his road to Damascus. Our mission has the backing of God himself. That’s going to count for much with Ty Taylor. And if we can persuade
him,
why he’ll go into the dreamscape with all sorts of truly righteous ammunition to turn Jamie’s parents around. He’s their pastor. Please don’t give up hope, Daddy. It’s too early in the game for that.”

The girl’s eyes glistened. Gronk could have leaned forward and licked the tears off her cheeks. But he dared not do that. No, he would observe their third visit, getting as close as he could to the next mortal, as he had with the other three. Again would he offer subliminal suggestions to magnify the mortals’ unspoken fears and stoke their naughtiest impulses.

The sleigh shifted abruptly downward. Gronk’s grip failed and he fell off behind it. Down toward a house on the south side arrowed the sleigh, Gronk following in hot pursuit.

* * *

Earlier that day, having polished the text of his Thanksgiving Day sermon, Ty Taylor washed and ironed his pajamas, the monogrammed ones Alison had given him the Christmas before she died, and folded them neatly into his dresser drawer. He prided himself on keeping the house spotless.
Men sana in corpore sano;
indeed, a clean house
encouraged
a cleanliness of body, mind, and spirit which truly went hand-in-hand with godliness. A thorough cleansing would correct so many of society’s ills. The minds of sinners, even the faithful, were so cluttered with secular trash, it was difficult to reach them. He needed a God-sized broom and a divine mandate to sweep their lives clean. The chore was Herculean. For not only were the faithful fallen, but those in Satan’s iron grip were
deeply
fallen. The worst were defiant in their hellish ways, lambs bleating from the satanic sheepcote as though they roared like lions ramping free and proud.

Keeping his house immaculate allowed Ty to focus on these things, to gird his loins against the foe, keeping himself holy, then banding together with other worthy believers to beat back on all fronts the rising tides of secularism. The Almighty had his ways, which were mysterious indeed. Even so, the righteous were not to question them, but be God’s soldiers with every breath granted them. This special season brought much to be thankful for. Topping Ty’s list were the strength and stamina to hold Christ’s banner high and press boldly into the moral fray.

He showered and toweled himself dry. Those same pajamas he took from the well-oiled drawer to cover himself. Placing his slippers just so by his bedside, he set his glasses neatly on his night stand, slid beneath the crisp sheets and comforter, closed his eyelids to ask God’s forgiveness and to bless Alison and a list of recently deceased, grieving, or ailing parishioners, and fell asleep.

Only to find himself, moments later, fumbling awake.

“Hello, Ty,” said a male voice he had never heard, but knew at once. “Hi, Mister Taylor,” echoed a girlish voice in equally astounding tones.

“Marauders,” said Ty, slurry with dream. He groped for his glasses. “I should be afraid. But I feel such joy in your presence. Let me look at you. Dear God in heaven, I’m insane out of my head. And oh my, the scent of pine is overwhelming.”

“Ty,” said one who could not be, but was indeed, Santa Claus, “this is Wendy, my stepdaughter. We’re here for the first of three visits tonight, to open up new vistas for you.”

“I must be dreaming.” He put a hand to his face. His heart pounded. “This can’t be good for me. But it’s marvelous! You’re a godsend. Literally. Am I right?”

Santa said yes to that. But Ty saw that he had no interest in dwelling on his connection with God. The girl chimed in, “To be more exact, the archangel Michael sent us.”

“Did he, dear?” said Ty, delighted.

“Whether Michael or God himself,” said Santa, sweeping a hand past the baseboard of Ty’s bed, “we’re here to show you some of your flock.”

The bedroom walls fell away, and there before him sat the Stupplebeens at their breakfast table, egg-encrusted plates set aside, newspaper sections snapped open over coffee.

“My heavens, it’s George and Vera. They’re very righteous, very generous, double tithers, and always deeply engaged by my sermons.”

“Listen,” said Santa.

And the old couple’s words came bell-clear to Ty’s ears. George smacked the newspaper. “The queer boys and cross-dressers are pushing their agenda again. Another bleeding heart corporation’s added benefits for so-called domestic partners.”

“They’ll roast in hell,” said Vera. “Which company is it this time?”

George told her.

“All right, we won’t spend a penny on their products ever again. Find out who the CEO is. I’ll singe his cowardly ears with a few choice words.”

“Money’s all they understand,” said George. “Homo’s are rich. No kids, no responsibilities. But us Christians are richer. We’ll throw enough money at this to drive them back into the closet where they belong.”

“In hell paying for the sins of the flesh is where they belong.”

Santa cut the sound off.

“Their faces are so...ugly,” said Ty in astonishment. “Dripping with hatred. That’s not the way they are with me.”

The Stupplebeens faded and Santa brought up Bill and Susie Franklin, trading anti-gay barbs as they window-shopped in Manitou Springs. Then Freddie Collins sitting on a park bench sharing vicious jibes with his cairn terrier about a lesbian couple passing by. Ty was astonished. “But Freddie’s eyes glow with such joy as he shakes my hand at the church door. The Franklins too. Their words hold nothing but praise to the Lord.”

“People are different in their private lives,” said Santa. “But let’s observe them in a more public setting.”

Before Ty’s bed arose a view of himself preaching. In the near pews sat Freddie Collins and the Franklins and Stupplebeens. But Ty saw silken ribbons of connection between his heart and theirs, ribbons that shimmered at his words. “Woe unto the sodomites,” he thundered. Last Sunday’s sermon. “For in hellfire more intense than any fireball, eternally refueled by the ferocity of their sins on earth, shall the sodomites burn. They must turn from their wicked ways, my friends. This bound guidebook from God himself, this holy scripture whose text is eternally fixed, condemns them for what they do. The Bible verses are incontrovertible. Oh, they do their damnedest to minimize them, do they not? Or pervert their meanings, just as they pervert and pollute and befoul and besmirch the bodies the good Lord has given them to sing his praises with. They even have the temerity—dear God, are there no limits—to found so-called Christian churches of their own. How hooded are their eyes? How deaf their ears? As deaf as demons. As hooded as hawks.”