Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes (21 page)

Beneath their torment, Chuff kept up his spirits. For he held in his heart a small secret pride in being unlike them. Only Mommy could shame him for being different, not them. He was better than they were. It didn’t swell his noggin, but it kept him from tumbling into despair. Despite this pride, Mommy could make him feel awful with just a look.

His brothers had thrashed him before. But this time they were more vicious than ever. They weren’t used to defeat. They bullied bad boys and girls at Christmas, played foul pranks on hapless mortals, instantly gratified mean desires. Chuff could tell through his agony that his brothers disliked being bested by Santa and Wendy and the Easter Bunny.

He, oddly enough, liked it a lot. Though he had never met them, they sounded appealing. And through the meting out of pain, the idea occurred to him—and at once took wing—to pray no longer to the indifferent moon, but to this immortal triumvirate.

They would rescue him from this hell, as surely as they had rescued the little boy.

To that hope, Chuff clung.

* * *

The Tooth Fairy’s eldest imp cowered in the sand. “You’re stuck with me,” he said. “I made bad choices, but I did my best. The rest is hindsight. They’ve got greater powers on their side, is all.”

She clamped a hand over his nose and mouth. “Never say that.” He tore at it without effect. “Pan will overstep. It’s the nature of triumph. It comes with the territory.” Gronk’s eyes filled with panic. His claws dug into his mother’s arms, shredded skin, bloodied muscle. “You’re radiant in triumph, your head swells, you want to win again but more decisively, you crave more toys, greater jolts of adrenaline coursing in your veins.”

Abruptly, she turned from him. He gulped air. “The proud Pan will try to impress little Wendy further. He’ll overstep. Change a tiny patch of the world, you want to change the whole damned thing.” She wheeled. “Gronk!”

He scuttled away.

“You want to redeem yourself? Spy on that bastard at the North Pole. Can you do that for Mommy? Of course you can. We’ll catch them this time. We’ll skewer the fat little fuck. Report every day, without fail. Listen in on the daughter. On the polar creep. On his wives and helpers. Be all ears. Can you do that, boy?”

He brightened. “Yes, Mother,” he said. Behind him, the waves slapped at the shore and receded.

“We’ll probe for his weaknesses. Pan won’t be content with saving one small boy. His suppressed appetites are far grander than that. By sanctioning these visits, Zeus has overstepped. Pan shall, in turn, overstep. Then we’ll sweep in and shatter their plans, undo their kindnesses, and visit misery unending upon the earth. Watch and wait. That’s all we need to do. By their power grab shall they be brought down.”

The Tooth Fairy felt elated, sure of her purpose now.

“Be gone,” she said. When he held back from leaving, she hurled him northward off the island.

Away flew her eldest, a rude blot upon the sky, shrinking until he was a smudge, a pinprick of gray distaste, and then nothing at all.

Chapter 21. Being Grateful, Being Scorned

THANKSGIVING DAY DAWNED LIKE THE FIRST DAY of creation, tremulous with anticipation, the air clear and crisp. All mortals that woke that morning, indeed all living beings poking their heads up out of slumber, felt at once vibrant with possibility.

For one wondrous instant, the scent of celebration hung upon the air—the steam of mashed potatoes, the aroma of sliced turkey, the tang of fresh cranberry. And this was true the world over, even in cultures for which Thanksgiving Day held no particular significance.

Such moments occur whenever the immortal world touches ours with benign intent. A boy’s life had been saved, four other lives changed, and ripples were about to move out from those lives into the world as a whole. But the simple presence of Santa, Wendy, and the Easter Bunny thrice in those three bedrooms in one modest-sized city, so intensely benevolent, touched for an instant every soul on earth. The goodness in everyone shown more brightly, a tremolo of generosity, before reverting to its modest glow or dim-bulb obscurity.

Santa felt it as a jubilant shout. In spite of his feelings of inadequacy in confronting mortal grown-ups, he remained grateful for having had the chance to save a child. The Easter Bunny, leaping and chittering in absolute delight, experienced it as a caress and a smile. To the Tooth Fairy and her imps, it seemed more a goad, a pinch, a poke, a sharp jab to the bowels, heart, lungs, to the innards entire, a pain that left them uneasy and humiliated.

As for the visitants, who had lived through a night of extremes and forgotten every particular, they woke to a world of radical change. Its balm spread everywhere in them, even as they understood with sober clarity that their lives had uplifted onto a new plane entirely. For they recalled yesterday’s sorry tinct upon their souls, how it had developed and deepened to color every thought, word, and deed; and they felt the contrast between that tinct and their new acceptance and embrace of the homosexual impulse in themselves and others. They knew, as sure as they knew the gentle necessity of breathing, that they must act in accord with this unbesmirched vision. That old friends would drop away, or be dropped, because of this small significant shift. That new friends would take their place. That a sea change, long overdue, would transform their lives.

Take Matt Beluzzo for instance, twelve and tough, hardened by a life of parental neglect, gravitation toward nasty peers, and grudges sufficient to spark riots. That morning, he woke in wide-eyed wonder. His pained squint was gone. Feeling more adult than ever, he surveyed his lop-drawered dresser, the faded wallpaper, a never-cleaned window hiding its streaks behind bent blinds. His bedroom bore the marks of neglect, the funds not spent on upkeep because Mom supplied herself with beer and cigarettes first, and there was never enough for what came second. To Matt’s astonishment, all of that was okay with him. He tried to hate his mother; he invited the old resentments in, but they would not come. Like spirits before an exorcist, they had fled forever.

Matt showered and dressed. The ever unreliable thermometer outside the kitchen window read thirty-eight, so he knew it was around freezing and dressed accordingly. He had no goal in mind, other than to survey a changed world. As it happened, he walked a wide circle around the neighborhood, which still slept but for grown-up walkers in ones and twos. Whereas before, he would have thought nasty thoughts and avoided their eyes, today he acknowledged each one with a nod and a “Morning, ma’am,” or “Morning, sir.” And they, sensing his new maturity, his directness and generosity of spirit, responded in kind.

He tried to hate his father languishing in jail, his fists far from Matt and his mother. But again he failed. I’m turning into a softy, he thought.

A sissy.

How odd the word, how ridiculous the concept. Name-calling was childish, particularly when you directed it at yourself.

Maybe he should knock on Robbie Stover’s window.

No. There'd be time enough to test himself against these sad little boys he had called friends once upon a time, yesterday, long ago.

* * *

Ty Taylor’s first emotion upon waking was a twinge of unease and panic. He had finished his Thanksgiving Day sermon the day before, but it was a sermon he could no longer deliver.

Then he relaxed into a laugh. The generosity now coursing through his veins was strong and articulate. He had been spontaneous before. He would be spontaneous this morning. “A Thankful Heart in a Thankless World” had been his announced sermon topic. It would remain so. But certain sections, certain thunderous ridings of his usual hobbyhorses, would be excised.

Something miraculous had occurred during the night. What it was it was impossible to say. Still, he bowed his head. “Thank you, Father,” he said, “for...well, I’m not sure what. I suppose for
everything!
”

He prayed for strength, and courage, and God’s healing hand upon an ailing world. Then he tossed off the covers, made his ablutions, prepared and ate a bowl of oatmeal, and marveled at the freshness of the world and the freshness of his spirit this fine morning.

When he arrived at the church parking lot, he greeted Nora Blue, his choir director and organist, on the way to the rectory. There he robed himself and prayed again, this time for humility, forgiveness, and charity toward everyone. But unlike all such previous prayers, this time he did not secretly believe his plea for humility was, at heart, unnecessary. For once, his contrition was genuine.

The pews overflowed with worshipers. Three rows back, in their usual place, sat George and Vera Stupplebeen, proud, upright, and ready to be fortified. Over yonder, the Pyne family; and beside them, Becky Harmon and seven-year-old Cully. Halfway down the aisle, Ty spotted the Stratton clan, Walter, Kathy, Kurt, and Jamie. His gaze lingered upon them, as Nora Blue played a majestic organ prelude. A sudden sob of joy caught in Ty’s throat. What was it? Some precious bond existed between him and them. Odd.

The community of believers had turned out in full force, dressed in their Sunday best. But today, his love for them felt a hundredfold more intense than ever. They were his flock, he their shepherd. They had honored him with the role of leading them into the paths of righteousness.

And he had failed them.

But no guilt tinged that recognition. However unworthy, he had done his best. Today, by God’s grace, he would do better. He would strive to live up to his calling, to step out of the way of the still small voice inside.

He gave the invocation and intoned the opening verses (“Give thanks unto the Lord, all ye lands...”), then led the congregation in the singing of the first hymn. Brief announcements followed: the ladies’ auxiliary’s silent auction, preparations and a need for volunteers for the upcoming Christmas pageant. Then the choir mounted a spirited assault upon “Oh bounteous is Thy loving hand,” the second hymn rolled out, and Ty made his way to the pulpit without his usual leather-bound folder, arms swinging free, growing a touch nervous (one never really overcame stage fright). There, Ty set his kind gaze upon on one parishioner after another as Nora Blue brought the hymn’s soaring melody to its tonic and the final chord rolled up into an echo of itself. The usual round of coughing and shuffling of bulletins ensued as Nora slid off her bench into a folding chair beside the choir.

“Let us pray,” said Ty, bowing his head. “Dear Lord, on this day of Thanksgiving, grant thy servant the wisdom to speak truth in humility, compassion, and generosity of spirit, the agility to sidestep for these precious moments our universal failings of pride and envy, of fear and hatred, of judgmentalism and condemnation in the service of self-exaltation. May we, in shared worship, exalt you alone and the mysteries of your truth, the Son who dwells in our midst, ever present and within easy reach, would we but hearken to his words. Amen.”

From the assembled multitudes rose a mumbled amen.

More rustling and coughing.

Then quiet anticipation.

“Oh give thanks unto the Lord, all ye lands,” he began, surprised at the assurance in his voice. “So commandeth today’s text. And all of us gathered here, even those who suffer in body and heart and mind, have much to be thankful for, have we not? This building, with its stained glass and inspiring arches; this glorious morn, giddy with sunlight; this blessed land of freedom and justice and liberty; our friendships; our families; the crown of health; every precious breath the good lord grants us. The list is endless. To be honest, our list of sorrows, when we choose to dwell upon them, is equally endless. But today we dwell upon our blessings. We linger over the miracle of their abundance, over the rich wonder of loved ones gathered about splendid tables in fellowship and thanksgiving, and we rejoice in God’s bounty, praising him and hoping in our heart of hearts that such praise will move the Almighty to continue bestowing those blessings, and more, much more, upon our unworthy souls.”

He had them. He saw it in their eyes. Their mouths were open, seeking sustenance from the holy breast.

“You have perhaps noticed that I come before you with no sermon in hand. No, I haven’t left it in the breakfast nook in my haste to join you, though I read such suspicions in a raised eyebrow or two.” Chuckles from the pews. “What I thought last evening I wanted to say is no longer what I have to say. Call it yesterday’s news. Today, I choose to trust my heart. A heart, dearly beloved, that is full to bursting. It is open to love as never before, and your poor pastor stands here naked and exposed, a bare forked animal, to tell you so.”

Ty suffered an instant of anxiety.

He knew well the comfortable worldview in which these good people had invested years of their lives. In many cases, he had helped mold it. They would not take kindly, many of them, to what he was about to say. But that could not, nor would he allow it to, stop him from speaking his mind. Was this a momentary aberration? A decision he would regret and wish too late to rescind? Not in the least. As confident as he had been yesterday about his condemnation of homosexual behavior, so confident was he now of a conviction quite the opposite. And this conviction, he discovered to his surprise, had put down deep roots in him.

“Saul of Tarsus, on the road to Damascus, had his blindness lifted, and he became Paul, Saint Paul, the great apostle. Your pastor has had, though he knows not how, a similar revelation. The scales have fallen from my eyes. For years, I have railed against the sodomites, as I called them, as our church calls them. Dearly beloved, received wisdom is often unwise, and no wisdom at all. What is belief when it is based on such wisdom? With the best of intent, and for all my adult life, I have railed again homosexuality. I truly believed its practice was a sin, as much as addiction to alcohol or an indulgence in lust, adultery, thievery, or murder. I stand before you now, humbled by my past pride, to tell you I was wrong. The church is wrong. The dominant culture is wrong.” Whispers began to circulate. Faces hardened. “I am intimately acquainted with all the usual verses we trot out and with every argument against homosexuality. I have made these arguments myself, over and over, from this very pulpit. They are as the dust beneath our feet. God is Love. Jesus is Love. There abideth these three, faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of these is love. From that same passage in 1st Corinthians 13 comes this marvelous truth: Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am nothing. I am resounding brass, a clanging cymbal.”