Feliz Navidad

The homes on the Circle were bright and welcoming with festive lights dancing along their eaves and fragrant smoke wafting lazily from their chimneys. The night was cool and crisp with golden stars twinkling in time with a cosmic Christmas carol.

It was the night before Christmas and I was sitting on the bench under the big tree in my yard sipping hot cider…sipping hot cider and waiting.

I didn’t see him arrive; he was just…softly and suddenly…there next to me. “I was wondering when you were going to show up,” I said, not turning towards him, before taking another sip of cider.

He chuckled warmly. “Not surprised to see me, huh?”

I shook my head. “I’ve read my Dickens,” I said with a grin.

“Well there’s just me this time…there are cutbacks all over.”

“Bah, humbug,” I said with a wink.

For a few moments, we sat silently side by side looking up into the endless night sky.

“Are you doing okay?” he asked.

A soft torrent of conflicting reactions and emotions surged through me and I sighed softly. “Yeah…most of the time…sometimes I…”

“I know,” he said.

“I’m sorry I never said…”

“You didn’t have say anything,” he said gently, “I was a clever fellow and you, despite your feints, aren’t nearly as inscrutable as you think you are. Well at least not when you know what to look for and care enough to look for it…and I did.”

“Yeah,” I smiled even as tears formed in the corners of my eyes. “I miss you.”

“Estoy con usted siempre, mi amigo querido.”

I nodded, still fighting back the willful tears. “I know. It’s kept me sane through some of the dark times this year…”

“Good.” He started to say something else but then thought better of it. “I have to go.”

I turned to look at him for the first time. I knew him by heart though he looked more serene than I could ever remember seeing him before. “Will I see you again?”

He winked and smiled. “Yes…it’s a bright circle of life and we’ll all see you again in due course.”

I didn’t need to ask who “we all” were, I just knew. And the knowing warmed me to my soul.

“Feliz Navidad, mi hermano. Feliz Navidad y Feliz Año Nuevo.”

“Merry Christmas, my friend,” I said to the cool Christmas Eve night. He was gone…and yet he wasn’t gone at all.

- for MZ -

150 Words: Showtime

This is always the hard part, she thought, as she watched her husband sleeping soundly. He was, she knew, ready for that special night of nights but first he had to get up.

She nudged him and he grunted. “It’s time, sweetheart,” she said.

He grunted again and she shook him harder. “It’s time, big guy,” she insisted, “time to rise and shine.”

“Don’t wanna,” the old man slurred, “tell ‘em to go without me.”

The old woman chuckled affectionately. “They can’t do that…there’s no magic without you. So get up, it’s showtime!”

The old man sighed and rolled over. He sighed and then, with surprising grace for a man of his girth, he rolled out of bed. “Tell me why I do this every year?”

“It’s for the children, Nick,” the old woman said handing him a steaming mug of coffee.

“Right…the children…ho…ho…ho…”

“That’s the spirit, dear,” she smiled.

Tomorrow in Baghdad

Despite her name, Mary did not really believe in miracles. She believed in love and in hope. She believed in God and her family. She believed in her country and her husband. But she didn’t really believe in miracles.

Even when she was a girl, Mary was too willfully pragmatic to believe in miracles. She patiently and politely listened to the tales of elves and fat men in sleighs pulled by flying reindeer but she never really bought into it. It was, she would realize once she was grown, something that always made her mother a little sad.

Mary went to church every Sunday and she believed in God though she reserved a more than a bit of skepticism about some of what she considered to be the more fanciful tales in the Bible. If God had ever been in the miracle business, she decided, he certainly wasn’t doing that kind of stuff anymore. This too made her mother a little sad.

Despite this, Mary did always love the holiday season. From Thanksgiving to Christmas the world was a brighter place and she liked that. She liked the music of the season and the aroma of her mother’s spicy sugar cookies baking on brisk afternoons; she liked the way her father thought that he had found perfect hiding places for the gifts he’d bought for her and her sister and her mother.

Christmas had been warm and cozy…her parents and her sister and her friends had gone out of their way to make it so…to distract her with the joy of the holiday…and as she finished washing the last dish from the scrumptious meal everybody had contributed to, Mary couldn’t help but smile gratefully.

But even though she couldn’t completely shake off the melancholy she felt deep down. She had dared to hope that her David would be able call…he told her it was not at all a sure thing but, despite knowing better, she had dared to hope just the same.

The days and nights since he had left were terribly, terribly long and lonely but she knew that they would be…she’d been through it before. The holiday season had come before she knew it and, being who she was, she threw herself into it though it felt more bittersweet than she would have liked.

Mary’s heart jumped expectantly every time the phone rang that Christmas Day and though the expressions of love and friendship were welcome she found herself crestfallen…it was love but it wasn’t David.

The hours passed and she made peace with the fact that David would have called on that Christmas Day if he could have…she knew that with all of her heart. But the Christmas night had almost slipped away…it was quarter past 11 PM as she dried her hands and shut off the kitchen light. It was still Christmas in America but it was tomorrow in Baghdad.

Mary slipped into the warm nightgown David had somehow managed to send along with other treasured gifts…she hoped that her box had gotten to him…she prayed that he was safe and well as he patrolled that faraway desert land…she wished, despite herself, that he had been able to call on Christmas Day.

Mary slipped into her lonely bed and was just about to shut off the light when the phone rang. Despite the disappointments of the day, she still dared to hope. Mary picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Howdy, ma’am,” a deep but chipper, faraway voice said.

Mary smiled and fought back a tear. “Hey, sergeant,” she said in a small, creamy voice.

“Merry Christmas, darlin’,” David said, “thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?”

“No,” Mary said, “I knew you would call if you could…but it’s not really Christmas for you anymore…”

“Yes it is, sweetheart,” David replied warmly. “It’s still Christmas where you are….it’s still Christmas at home.”

Mary sighed softly. “Yes it is,” she said, “yes it certainly is.”

Mary, despite her name, still didn’t believe in miracles…but she still believed in hope…she believed in love…she believed in her husband…she believed in God and her country…and, on that night, she believed in Christmas magic.

Dancing with Nat Cole

Midway through a cool Christmas Eve morning Cordelia Maxwell's kitchen was a symphony of fragrant, almost-irresistible aromas dancing from both ovens and all four burners of her range. The air was humid with savory perfumes of roasting meat, simmering vegetables, and spicy pies.

Cordelia, a chubby, buxom, tobacco-colored woman of 67 eventful years, was bustling around making sure the ham was still juicy and the turkey was still secure in its foil tent...tending to the yams and the rice and all the other dishes she would serve up during her traditional gathering. As usual her face was focused (those who didn't know her would call it stern and forbidding...the error was their loss) and, as usual, her eyes were ablaze with the bright light of a thousand smiles and the glistening weight of a thousand tears.

On top of the refrigerator was a small radio from which the silky voice of Nat "King" Cole was wafting filling the room with "The Christmas Song". She paused and smiled a complex smile filled with memories, expectations, and sweetly-aged and savored passions.

Cordelia opened the right oven and pulled the rack out so that she could get at the turkey. She peeled open the foil on the bird and started to baste it. "That's right, Tom," she said jovially, "you just keep roastin' nice and pretty like that. My babies are gonna be hungry and you're gonna to be the guest of honor at our table tonight."

"That bird's been dead for a long time, old woman," a gruff, amused voice called out, "ain't no sense in tryin' to hold a conversation with it now."

Clarence Vernon Maxwell, Sr., wearing his favorite terry cloth robe over his pajama bottoms, walked directly to the refrigerator. "And sweet Jesus, ain't there no other Christmas songs on the radio? I'd give that ugly negro some chestnuts if he wasn't already dead!"

Cordelia chuckled softly as she recovered the turkey and pushed it back into the oven. She closed the door of the oven and turned to her husband of nearly 50 years.

Vernon (as he preferred to be called) Maxwell was darker than his wife; his smooth face was crowned by a cottony field of close-cropped hair, a well-earned testament to his 71 years on God's green Earth. His bifocals were dangling casually on the end of a chain that went around his neck...they bobbed above the unapologetic paunch jutting out from his open robe.

"You got so much stuff in here I can't find my beer," he groused. "A-ha! There's one!" he exclaimed happily reaching for a long necked brown bottle.

Cordelia stood, her hands crossed across her chest, saying nothing.

Vernon closed the door, his prize in hand, and raised an eyebrow at his wife's expression. He knew she was not as annoyed as she was trying to look but he also knew that he was in for a scolding the same. "Don't you start with me, girl," he said, impishly challenging her.

"I thought you were getting dressed, Clarence Maxwell," she replied evenly. "It's almost noon and the children will probably start getting here soon."

Vernon twisted off the cap of his beer. "It ain't like they never seen me in my robe," he protested. "'Sides I found a game on and I got involved." He took a swig of beer and then, with a gleam in his eye, he slid closer to Cordelia. "I did take a shower and shave," he said nuzzling her face with his own. "I got some'a that Old Spice you like so much on..."

Despite herself, Cordelia laughed and gently pushed him away. "You so crazy sometimes, old man!" She turned back to the pots boiling on the stove.

Vernon set his bottle of beer down and spooned himself against Cordelia, bringing his arms around and cuddling her belly. "And you wouldn't have it any other way would you, baby," he cooed.

Cordelia sighed silently, luxuriating in her husband's embrace for a moment, then she tried to shrug him off. "Will you go get dressed, old man," she said, "I ain't got time for any of your foolishness, I got food to cook!"

Undaunted, Vernon cupped his hands under Cordelia's ample breasts and peered up over her shoulder at the pots she was trying to tend to. "Ooo baby, it smells like you put your foot into them pots as usual," he said disingenuously, "I can hardly wait." He paused and then added, "And it seems like you got everything under control so why don't we slip upstairs for a few minutes and you can give your lover man some sugar..."

Cordelia laughed and, after lingering in his embrace for a few moments, pushed him away gently but firmly. "I told you I ain't got no time for your foolishness! Get your crazy old black ass up those stairs and get yourself dressed!" she ordered with amusement and seriousness intertwined tightly in her tone of voice.

Vernon recognized the tone but decided to ignore it. He picked up his beer and took a few steps back. He let out a long, low whistle. "Damn," he said impishly, "why you wanna be like that, baby? All I wanna do is show you how a real man takes care of his big ol' fine black gal!"

Cordelia turned around and put her hands on her hips. "Look, sweet talkin' ain't gonna get you nothin' but a kick in the pants! Now get out of my kitchen and get out of that raggedy old robe 'fore I have to put my foot where the sun don't shine!"

Vernon affected being wounded. "You look, woman," he shot back petulantly, "I'm a grown man and I'm old enough to know when and if I want to get dressed!"

"You also old enough for me to rap you upside your head if you don't get outta my kitchen!"

Vernon harumphed and spun on his heels. "Fine!" he said barely able to conceal his smile, "Be that way! Man can't get no peace..or no lovin'...in his own house" He exited the kitchen chuckling softly. "Got me some business to take care of anyway!"

Cordelia let the smile she had been suppressing come to full flower as he disappeared through the door. "And no more football today!" she shouted after him.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he called back. "I wonder sometimes why I've put up with you for all these years, old woman..."

"'Cause I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, mister man!" she shot back playfully.

Vernon nodded as he started up the stairs. "Got that right," he murmured.

"I heard that!" Cordelia called out from the kitchen.

Vernon laughed boisterously and climbed the stairs towards their bedroom.

Presently, Vernon came back downstairs wearing his favorite red flannel shirt and a clean, neatly pressed pair of tan corduroy slacks held up by a pair of black suspenders that climbed up over his belly and over his slightly-slumped shoulders and back down the back. He was carrying the still half-full bottle of beer. He was also still barefoot. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked into the spacious family room silently admiring the tall, brightly-decorated Christmas tree with the small mountain of brightly-decorated boxes underneath it.

He slipped back more than 40 years remembering the first Christmas he and Cordelia had spent with C.V. The tree was much smaller and the gifts far fewer but it was magical just the same...C.V., using the unconscious whimsy of an 18-month-old, completely ignored the toys they had managed to get him and crawled happily inside one of the boxes and stayed there for hours. Clarence Vernon Maxwell, Jr. was his own man even at that early age.

That Christmas, Cordelia, already pregnant with Sister, had never been more radiant and Vernon, tired from working two jobs, had never been more content.

Until now. Vernon smiled and moved towards the dining room.

"You sure we got enough stuff under that tree?" he asked with a puckish gleam in his eye, "I'm pretty sure that I might still have a couple of nickels left in my pocket if you wanna go spend them too."

Cordelia, making sure the dining room tables...the long one for the adults, a smaller folding table for the children...were in place, looked up and smiled as Vernon ambled into the room. "It's Christmas, old man," she said simply. She winced when she saw that he wasn't wearing shoes but knew better than to press on that subject. "Everything’s comin' along just fine," she said pleasantly.

"Uh-huh," Vernon replied, glancing around. "I thought Amy and Sister were supposed to be coming over to help you."

Cordelia nodded. "They'll be over soon, Amelia still trying to get Leroy away from the damn football game." She cocked an eyebrow and looked into Vernon's eyes. "You did remember to turn off the TV upstairs, didn't you?"

Vernon rolled his eyes. "Course I did, woman," he said. "You think I'm gonna risk you going off on me again?"

"Dorothy will be over once her fella shows up," she continued.

Vernon frowned. "She still goin' out with that slick Jerome? Who invited him? I don't like him."

"I invited him, he makes Dorothy happy and that's all that matters," she replied firmly " And his name's George...and you never liked anybody who went out with Dorothy."

"None'a them no-count rusty butt negroes was good enough for Sister," he sniffed. "Especially not that smooth-talking ex-husband of hers..."

"I liked Michael," Cordelia replied. "It's a shame it didn't work out."

"It's a shame she married the lazy negro in the first place far as I'm concerned."

Cordelia drew closer to him and put her arms around his neck. "You're lucky I like grumpy old men, Clarence Maxwell," she said.

He smiled and said, "And you're lucky that gal down at the supermarket who likes me so much is too yella for my tastes." He winked and kissed her tenderly.

Cordelia patted his behind and stepped back towards the kitchen. "That girl would kill you, old man," she teased. "You'd be dead of a heart attack before you could get those suspenders off..."

"Hey!" he replied indignantly, following her into the kitchen. "Like my daddy use ta say, don't matter how much snow is on the roof as long there's still a fire in the furnace."

Cordelia poured herself a cup of coffee from the percolator on the counter. "Your daddy use to say a lot of things," she said with a sly smile playing on her lips, "but he was a God-fearin' man who didn't know anything more about messin' round with other women than you do." She sat at the kitchen table.

Vernon sat down across from her. "You're pretty sure of yourself, ain't you?"

Cordelia took a sip of coffee and smiled confidently. "Damn straight."

Vernon looked directly into her eyes for a long moment and then they both began to laugh warmly.

Vernon stood up and poured out the rest of his beer in the sink. He poured himself a cup of coffee and then sat back down.

"Okay, so how many people gonna be eatin' up all of our food this year," Vernon said gruffly.

Cordelia frowned thoughtfully and then said, "Well, Dorothy and her boys, of course..."

Vernon shook his head. "Kevin's getting fatter every year...when I was his age..."

"...you couldn't walk to the corner without stopping to catch your breath!" Cordelia interjected. "You leave that child alone, you hear me? He's a big boy and that's just the way it is and he don't need no smart-mouthing from you about it." She paused to take a breath. "'Sides you ain't got no room to talk there, big daddy," she said affectionately.

"Hey!" he said indignantly, "I’m an old man and I earned my belly, that boy is 16...ain't never gonna get him no girlfriend..."

Cordelia sipped at her coffee. "Matter of fact, Dorothy tells me he's been keeping time with a little gal in his class name'a Gina..."

Vernon's eyebrow shot up and then he smiled. "Really? Wouldn't think that the boy would have gotten up the nerve to talk to a girl being as quiet as he is most times..."

"Apparently, this Gina does most of the talkin' while Kevin just smiles a lot...it seems to suit both of them according to Dorothy."

Vernon chuckled. "That's my boy." His expression changed to something more somber. "James still gettin' into trouble?"

Cordelia nodded. "Dorothy's at her wit's end with that one," she said. "He's such a charming boy when he wants to be, I don't know why..." her voice trailed off. "Those boys of hers are like night and day..." she added.

Cordelia slipped back to a long gone Christmas Eve. C.V. was 6 and Dorothy, who had been renamed "Sister" by her brother, was 4. The twins were less than 4 months old. They were living in the house that Vernon's parents had owned until the time they passed away...it was an old, drafty house but it had become home nevertheless. Vernon had been working for the Post Office for two years and he was out late working and she and the children were alone together watching "Holiday Inn"...C.V. and Dorothy, not fighting for a change, snuggled under her arms, the babies snuggled in their crib upstairs.

Vernon had trudged in just as the movie ended and the children, too excited to be sleepy, had vaulted into his arms. Cordelia could almost see the fatigue leave his eyes as they peppered him with questions..."can't we stay up?"..."why don't we just open everything now?"..."did you see Santa while you were out?"...until he shushed them and endured their torrent of complaints and pleas as he carried them up to their rooms. He had paused and winked at Cordelia and she, seeing that he was having the time of his life, smiled back and made no move to relieve him of his precious "burden". The moment stayed with her forever.

Vernon cleared his throat. "Delia? You still with me, girl?"

Cordelia shook out of her reverie. "I was just remembering..."

He nodded. "Lot of that going on nowadays," he said knowingly. "Must be alla that goddamn Nat King Cole music in the house..."

"Must be," she replied wistfully.

"C.V.'s comin' ain't he?" Vernon asked.

"'Course my boy's gonna be here," Cordelia said. "Where else would he be?"

"I don't know," he said. "Boy ain't been the same since his Mary passed." He paused thoughtfully and then asked, "Is Petey coming too?"

'Yes, of course," she replied. "He and Robert called to ask if they could bring anything..." She narrowed her right eye waiting for his response.

"Robert?!" Vernon snarled. "I don't want that sissy in my house!"

"Don't you start that sissy stuff, Clarence Maxwell," Cordelia said sharply. "Peter and Robert are good boys...and they're happy together...and I won't have you badmouthin' them in my house!"

"Don't mean nothin'," he said petulantly. "Jus' didn't expect that C.V.'s boy would grow up to be a...to be one of those people...ain't right..."

"He is what he is. Like my Aunt Daisy used to say, he's my boy until he gets bigger...and then he'll be my bigger boy," she said resolutely. "The good Lord don't make no judgements on the boy and neither are we..."

Vernon shook his head sadly but then he looked up and smiled. "Guess I can't argue with the Lord...or with Aunt Daisy..."

Cordelia reached over and gently tweaked his nose. "Damn straight."

They sat quietly, listening to the music coming from the radio and the rattling of the pots on the stove.

This old house, Vernon thought, this old house has seen a lot of living...a lot of laughing and crying...a lot of warm Christmases. He remembered when the twins, 10 years old and not as enamored of being bookends as they once were, came to him in that very same kitchen and demanded that they not get the same things that Christmas. Cordelia had, of course, already predicted that particular turn of events and the gifts for them were not at all alike. But Vernon had patiently listened as Amelia described the dollhouse of her dreams, and then Angela extolled the virtues of the portable phonograph she wanted "more than anything in the whole wide world."

"When are Angie and William getting in?" Malcolm inquired.

"In a couple of hours," Cordelia replied, getting up to check on her ham and turkey. "Jake and Lori and the baby are going to pick them up at the airport and they'll all come together from there."

The baby...Vernon felt a bittersweet wave of emotion roll through him...it was still hard to believe that Jacob had made him a great-grandfather. "Jake and the white gal did good with that little girl of theirs," he mused aloud.

Cordelia spun around. "Clarence Vernon Maxwell! I do wish you'd stop calling that child 'the white gal'! She's a part of this family and it don't matter none that she's white."

Vernon shrugged and took a sip of coffee. "Calm down, Delia," he said patiently. "You know I love Lori...and she knows it too...she don't mind me joshin' her a little so why do you?"

Cordelia turned back. "It ain't right, that's all," she said as she pulled the ham out of the oven. "Besides I'm not sure it's all joshing...you weren't happy when Angela told you her Jake was marrying a white girl..."

He shook his head, remembering his knee jerk anger which had sent Angela running from the house in tears just three Christmas Eves past. "Can't say that I was," he admitted reluctantly. "But that Lori is a pistol," he said proudly. "She didn't take no guff from me and I respect that. White gal or not, she's okay with me." He smiled up at her, "Besides, she's threatened to start callin' me 'Papa Chocolate' the next time I call her 'white gal' to her face...you can't be expectin' a man to ignore a challenge like that."

Cordelia sighed heavily. "What am I going to do with you, old man?"

Vernon's eyebrow shot up devilishly. "I gave you a right interestin' answer to that question before...but it's too late now, you missed your chance. Day after tomorrow I'm going down to the supermarket where the women appreciate a real man."

Cordelia pointedly ignored his jokes. "Ham's ready...so's the turkey..." she announced pulling both from the oven and putting them side by side on the counter. "When the girls get here, we should be able to get everything else done in no time flat."

"Meantime, I'll entertain the boys in the den," he said impishly. "Gotta be another game on."

Cordelia started to protest but then, as it turned to 2:00, Nat Cole came back on the radio as a "very special dedication to Cordelia from her Vernon" and gasped at the sound of their names and then smiled. The year the record had first come out came to mind...it was Christmas Eve and the children were asleep and she and Vernon were in the kitchen wrapping toys and sweaters when it came on the radio. Almost as one, they had put aside the gift wrap and stood up, and took each other's hand, and then came almost shyly together, waltzing in the kitchen on a quiet Christmas Eve with Nat Cole.

It was the beginning of an unspoken tradition that they shared almost every Christmas Eve since.

Vernon put his bifocals on the table and stood up and held out his hand. Cordelia took his hand and he pulled her close and they began a slow, shuffling waltz while Nat King Cole sang his song of Christmas love and peace.

Vernon closed his eyes and held his wife close. There were many days when they had cried and fought...many nights when they'd been up tending to sick children. Many days when it looked like familiarity and other smiles would conspire to separate them...but there were many more days when the only thing that made sense in the world was this woman and this place. He gave a silent prayer and thanked God for her...for his children and beautiful grandchildren and his beautiful great-grandchild...for Christmas Eve afternoons filled with the aroma of food lovingly prepared and with the gentle strength of the woman in his arms.

Cordelia looked at Vernon's closed eyes and knew what he was thinking as sure he knew himself. He was an exasperating, willful, and utterly endearing man...more so now than he was when they first met so many years ago...and that was as amazing as anything that could happen on a magical Christmas Eve. Soon their children would come and the day would take on a new, more insistent energy...an energy she both welcomed and celebrated...but here and now, this was all the magic she needed...holding her husband, swaying with him while Nat Cole crooned.

As the song ended, they clung to each other in a tight embrace and then they pulled away slightly. Vernon bent forward and their lips met for what seemed, delightfully, like the one millionth time. Their eyes met but they said nothing. They kissed again and then drew reluctantly apart.

Vernon picked up his glasses. "I'm going to make sure the reception on the TV in the den is okay," he said, picking up their coffee cups and rinsing them out in the sink.

"Wouldn't kill you to put on some shoes, old man," Cordelia said to him as she shuffled towards the door.

Vernon smiled and turned back to her. "Wouldn't kill you to leave a man in peace, old woman," he said with a smile in his voice. "It is Christmas Eve after all." He winked at her and disappeared through the door.

Cordelia shook her head once more. The sound of car doors closing in the driveway signaled that the children were starting to arrive. She closed her eyes, feeling the gentle familiarity of her husband's arms still surrounding her... so safe forever, but especially on heart-warm and God blessed Christmas Eves, dancing with the man she loved.

Mr. Robinson

In my neighborhood the “boogie man” had nothing on old Mr. Robinson. Well at least that was the opinion held by my friends and I (ranging in age from 9 to 12 at the time.) Mr. Robinson stayed in his quiet blue house, with the drapes drawn and the windows shut tight, only venturing out to cut the lawn or to run errands in his big black tank of a car, a 1958 Cadillac that didn’t make as much noise as you might have expected something that big to make.

Nobody knew how long Mr. Robinson had lived in the neighborhood…he had been there as long as anybody, child or adult, could remember…and indeed nobody was exactly sure how old Mr. Robinson was (his skin, the color of rich pecans, was clear and relatively smooth but his hair, always neatly trimmed, was white as downy cotton.)

His wife, a chubby golden brown woman with perpetually smiling eyes, had always seemed to have a special place in her heart for all of the boisterous (and sometimes downright annoying) kids on the block. She would sit on her porch in her rocking chair knitting contentedly as we played baseball in the street or ran screaming like merry banshees during games of hide and seek that wove in and about all of the houses on the street; she would gently chastise us if tempers flared and fights seemed to be in the offing and that would be all that was needed to defuse the situation; she would bake wonderful treats to give away on Halloween and give us little candy hearts on Valentine’s Day. Some of us kids made her Valentines on Valentine’s Day and gave her little Christmas cards on the last day of school before Christmas vacation (we always brought Christmas cards to share with classmates and some of us saved an extra one to bring to Mrs. Robinson) and she always seemed to be delighted by them.

Mrs. Robinson (and yes she knew and liked the song, though she would have replaced Joe DiMaggio with Jackie Robinson in it if she had her druthers) made her house a welcoming place for us kids. Mr. Robinson, even then, was a sullen, mysterious figure who came and went paying little attention to the kids. We often wondered how it was that two such different people got together…and stayed together.

We never knew exactly how Mrs. Robinson died. One day an ambulance came and took her away while Mr. Robinson, dark blue and green suspenders (not sure why I remember that so vividly) holding up his brown trousers, watched from his porch. My mother and Lloyd West’s mother went over and spoke with him briefly; he nodded and he offered them a grateful little smile (none of us had seen Mr. Robinson smile before and we never would again) before disappearing back into his house.

From that day forward the kids in the neighborhood learned that the Robinson house was no longer a welcoming place. If by chance a ballgame or a round of hide-and-seek accidentally found its way into his yard, Mr. Robinson would explode through his door bellowing “you little hoodlums stay offa my grass!” and we would scatter. Our parents told us to respect Mr. Robinson’s wishes and, for the most part, we did.

On the last day of school before Christmas vacation I saved a Christmas card even though Mrs. Robinson had been gone for months by then. I signed it and put it in my jacket pocket. Walking home from school, after my friends had gone into their houses to change out of their school clothes, I paused in front of Mr. Robinson’s house. I thought about Mrs. Robinson and I smiled. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the little card and, my heart in my throat, I walked up the walkway to the front door. I was just about to put the card on the porch next to the door when the door swung open and Mr. Robinson, his face as stern as ever, loomed over me.

“What’ve you got there?” he said gruffly. I couldn’t find any words so I just held out the card. With an annoyed sigh he took the little envelope from my hand and opened it. He read the card and then looked at me, his face softening just a bit. “Thank you,” he said. “My Abby kept alla these things you little hoodlums gave her. Couldn’t understand why.”

“You’re welcome,” I said in a small voice, backing away from the door and down the porch stairs.

“Hey boy,” he called out to me as I got to the sidewalk. I turned and looked up at him. “Tell your little hoodlum friends to keep offa my grass,” he said but he winked and almost, but not quite, smiled as he said it.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Robinson,” I said as I crossed the street and headed towards my house.

Joshua and Ruth (a Christmas tale)

It was very early on Christmas morning when Ruth Wilson, all of five and with the mountain of curiosity and love that comes from being that tender age, had her brief encounter with Joshua.

In the soft hours before sunrise the air was crisp and still with only the occasional song of a lonely bird or cricket breaking the silence. Ruth (she hated being called “Ruthie”, even though both of her parents insisted on doing just that) had slipped from the warm comfort of her bed and had trudged down the stairs to sit watch. She had decided (embracing the dream of countless children before her) that this was the night that she was going to see him in person. Ruth Wilson, with the guileless determination only possessed by children of a certain age, had decided that this was the night that she was going to see Santa Claus with her very own eyes.

The fireplace was cool, Ruth’s father having made sure the fire was out before he went to bed, and Ruth was glad for the silly flannel pajama’s her mother had made her wear to bed. Her bright green eyes twinkled anxiously as Ruth thought about what was about to happen.

Ruth secreted herself in a shadowy corner of the stairwell that overlooked her family’s fragrant Christmas tree resolved to stay there until the jolly fat man made his appearance. And, of course, she then promptly fell back to sleep.

And thus she was asleep when a golden spray of light danced down the chimney. The warm twinkling light twirled and pulsated and finally spun into a spiral right in front of the Christmas tree. The light grew and grew until it was a ball almost as tall as the tree itself. And then, quite suddenly, there was a flash and the light was gone. In its place was a man…a burly man dressed in a festive scarlet suit trimmed in white with great gleaming black boots and a gleaming black belt that encircled the impressive girth of his belly.

The man had brown eyes that twinkled even in the darkness of the early morning hours and a thick white beard that contrasted with the deep chocolate color of his face.

The man glanced around, his eyes landing immediately on the sleeping Ruth. He chuckled quietly and shook his head. He made a step towards the tree and much to his dismay he found that he had stepped directly on a floorboard that gave off a very audible squeak. The noise startled Ruth and the man, realizing instantly that she had woken, rolled his eyes upward and sighed.

Ruth’s eyes grew wide with surprise (in truth, a small part of her hadn’t really expected that there was really a Santa Claus) and delight. “Santa!” she exclaimed softly.

The man shook his head and turned round. “Hello, Ruth,” he said, his voice deep and reassuring, “shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Ruth got to her feet and walked down the stairs. “I just wanted to meet you,” she said, shyly finding her voice, “I hope you’re not mad…”

The man smiled and knelt down. “No, little one,” he said gently, “I’m not mad.”

Ruth did a double take as she got close enough to see the man’s dark face so different from the ruddy, rosy-cheek image she had come to know. “Are you really Santa…I mean…”

The man smiled patiently. “Well actually, my name is Joshua,” he explained, “I’m a Santa from the South Pole…”

Ruth, finding this explanation to be perfectly logical, smiled. “Really?”

Joshua nodded and chuckled. “Can’t lie while I’m wearing this suit now can I, sweetie?” He rose and moved back towards the tree. “I have to do my thing and get on the road, still more houses to visit.”

Joshua waved his hand and a shower of golden sparks danced around the Christmas tree, circling and growing until the entire tree was covered by light. And then, suddenly, the light flared and was gone. And the tree was surrounded by brightly-wrapped gifts that had not been there before.

“Wow,” Ruth exclaimed softly, “that was amazing!”

Joshua nodded knowingly. “Yeah, it’s still kind of cool to me, too. You just have to believe in magic, Ruth,” he said, “because it’s everywhere. Never forget that.”

Ruth nodded. “I won’t, Joshua,” she replied earnestly, “I promise.”

“There’s a good girl.” Joshua turned and held out his hand. “It’s time for you to get back to sleep, little one.”

Ruth smiled up at the big man. “Are there any more Santas?”

Joshua nodded. “Yeah, it’s a big job and Nick needed some help to get to all the good little boys and girls on Christmas Eve.”

“Wow,” Ruth said thoughtfully.

“You want to know the big difference between me and ol’ St. Nick?” Joshua asked impishly. He puffed himself up and struck a playful pose. “I make this suit look good!”

Ruth giggled. “You stole that line from Will Smith.”

Joshua sighed heavily. “Everyone’s a critic.”

Joshua knelt down and looked into the little girl’s face. “Have a very happy Christmas, Ruth Wilson,” he said tenderly.

Ruth threw her arms around Joshua’s neck and hugged him tightly. “You too, Joshua.” Joshua hugged the girl and chuckled warmly. Ruth stood back and smiled. “You laugh just like the doctor on ‘The Simpsons’,” she said.

Joshua rolled his eyes again. “Yeah I get that all the time,” he admitted ruefully.

“Yo, Santa!” an impatient voice suddenly called out down the chimney, “get a move on, dude, we’re behind schedule here!”

Joshua sighed. “Nothing worse than an impatient elf,” he deadpanned. His hand began to glow as he raised it towards Ruth’s astonished face. “Sleep tight, little one,” he said in a rich, warm tone that reminded Ruth of her grandfather, “tonight and every night.

The light danced from Joshua’s finger and enveloped the little girl. Ruth felt herself drifting off to sleep…and she felt herself floating off the floor.

“Joshua?” she said as she floated up away from Joshua. “How many Santas are there?”

Joshua looked up and smiled. “There are millions, sweetheart,” he said, “millions all over the world.”

And then he smiled again and added, “And only one. There is only one Santa Claus, Ruth Wilson.”

Ruth Wilson drifted off to deep sleep just as the light gently deposited her in her bed. The sound sleigh bells and merry chuckling went with her as she returned to her dreams. In the morning she would not remember Joshua but she would know the magic…and on a glorious Christmas morning that is exactly the way it should be.

What Child is This? (December 23rd)

“Have a wonderful holiday,” the old man said with a bright smile, holding out the bag containing the merchandise just purchased.

Maribeth Mason, her bloodshot eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses even at that early evening hour, stifled a sneer and nodded, offering the man a wan smile as she accepted the bag from him. She pulled her overcoat around her and, with her purse secured under her left arm and the bottle of wine she had just bought held fast in her right hand, she pushed out of the liquor store and out into the icy chill of the evening.

The boulevard was bustling with shoppers and festooned with grand displays of garland and sparkling lights. None of it really registered much to Maribeth. There were a small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts in a corner of her apartment...next to a small fragrant Christmas tree she had bought and decorated a week earlier...but there was, here and now, not a shred of Christmas spirit in her battered soul. She walked steadily towards her apartment building some three blocks away. Done with crying...at least she hoped she was...she was anxious to get home, open the carefully-selected wine, and drink enough to make her pain go away (the last she knew was not really possible but she was willing to give it a shot.)

From somewhere she could hear someone singing...”I’ll Be Home for Christmas”...and it made her frown...when it started to make her tear up she shook it off with a muttered curse and a renewed vow to find some measure of oblivion that night.

A few days earlier, Maribeth had been full of the spirit of the season...happily shopping and looking forward to driving to her parents’ house on Christmas morning...driving there with Robert and a small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts. But that was then. She would still drive to her parents’ house on Christmas morning...neither Mother or Father would have understood or been unhurt by her absence...but Robert...Robert had excused himself from her life two days earlier.

“This is getting too intense,” he had whined to her, “I think we need to take some time off from each other...”

Maribeth had looked at him blankly. What the hell was he talking about? Her silence had made him uneasy. Three years and things were “getting too intense”? Three years and “we need to take some time off from each other”? What the hell was he talking about? Maribeth finally found her voice, “What the hell are you talking about, Robert?” she had asked in a voice as quiet and portentous as midnight.

He fumbled around for other words and, finding none, just shrugged. And then, seeing that she was not rushing to fill the space, he said, “Well...you know...”

And, suddenly, she did. “I hope the two of you are very happy together,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection.

Robert had looked stricken and then he tried to compose himself. “I don’t know what you mean...” he lied.

Maribeth had sighed and slumped back into her seat...the other patrons of the restaurant falling away into a silent haze...and just stared at him. She hoped there were no tears in her eyes betraying the pain in her heart...but there was nothing to be done about it one way or the other. Robert said other things...she could tell because she saw his lips moving...but none of it registered. Eventually his lips stopped moving and he paid the check and left.

As she turned the corner she looked up and saw her building...she banished thoughts of Robert to the shallow eddy in her memory stream where he dwelled...should be able to keep them there for a good fifteen or twenty minutes she thought ruefully.

Maribeth took a deep breath and kept walking steadily...her thoughts flowing to yesterday...to the box of knick-knacks, Christmas cards, photographs and the like that she had carried home yesterday. The box had been unceremoniously dumped next to the pile of brightly-wrapped gifts and given no further attention. The box was filled with the contents of a desk; a desk in an office she had occupied for four years. It hadn’t occurred to her...or to any of the other twenty-four people in her department...that their usefulness to the company would have come to such an abrupt end. Hadn’t occurred to her...or to any of the other twenty-four people in her department...that this news would come to them in envelopes that were supposed to contained Christmas Bonuses and, instead, contained severance checks and laser-printed letters of recommendation. Three days before Christmas. It hadn’t occurred to her for a moment.

“Company’s downsizing,” the vice-president in charge of personnel, looking more bored than embarrassed, had come down to tell them. “You know how tight the market is...and, well, we felt we needed to go in a different direction...you’ve all been wonderful assets...”

A couple of the other twenty-four hurled tart epithets at the man, gathering their own boxes of knick-knacks, Christmas cards, photographs, and the like and brushing brusquely through the small gauntlet of security guards the vice-president had brought with him.

The vice-president had hemmed and hawed a little...his face blushing deep crimson...as Maribeth and some of the others picked up their boxes and walked the gauntlet towards the elevators. The piped-in music had mocked her with its chipper seasonal lilt as she rode down with some of the other twenty-four. There were perfunctory hugs, angry diatribes, and facile promises to “stay in touch” in the lobby and then they went their own ways into the cold late afternoon.

And now, a day later, it still didn’t make much sense. But Maribeth didn’t want it to make sense just now...just to go away for a while...she hefted the bottle of wine slightly as she made her way past the alley next to her building. It was then that she heard a small, plaintive cry. A cat, she surmised...but then there was another...and it was not a cat. It sounded like...but that couldn’t be...

There was only a dim, amber lamp attached to the building illuminating the alley and Maribeth was not especially anxious to venture down to investigate. But then, another more insistent cry sang out...and she knew that it was not a cat...and she knew that she could not ignore it. She took another deep breath and held out her wine bottle, entertaining notions of being ready and able to turn it into a weapon if necessary, and walked slowly down the alley.

The doorway illuminated by the amber lamp was a fire exit from her building. The doorway was recessed and the cries were coming from the shallow alcove that separated the door from the alley proper. Maribeth peered cautiously around the corner into the alcove and was startled at what she found. There in a wicker basket, bundled tight against the elements, was a baby...not more than three or four months old...with a note pinned to the blanket (just like in a bad movie, Maribeth thought, as she glanced around looking for someone...but there was no one in sight.)

Maribeth knelt down and looked at the note...please take care of my Maria, I can’t do it anymore...Maribeth sighed audibly (definitely a bad movie.)

“What are we going to do with you, Maria?” she asked wearily. The child looked up at Maribeth with curiously untroubled eyes and gurgled softly. “Okay, kiddo,” Maribeth said, “first thing I guess we have to do is get you out of this weather. Then I’ll figure out who I need to call...”

Maribeth sighed again, put the bottle of wine into the basket (oblivion seemed an increasingly unlikely destination) and then picked the whole thing up. This was the last thing in the world she needed, she thought, as she made her way back up the alley. Maribeth kept looking around and listening...hoping that someone would come running up saying “Give me my baby!” But only silence greeted her.

Maribeth let herself into the building (the doorman knocked off at 6:30) and rode the elevator up the four stories to her apartment. She put the basket down on the coffee table and took off her coat. The baby was strangely content and quiet, looking around her apartment with big, curious eyes.

Maribeth extricated the bottle of wine from the basket and put it aside. Then, after contemplating a long time, she reached over and picked up the child. “Hello, Maria,” she said softly. “How could anybody abandon a beautiful girl like you?” The child just cooed quietly in response. She patted the girl’s fanny, determining that the child was dry...and apparently not hungry. Maria was obviously well cared for...and probably hadn’t been in that alcove very long. It didn’t make any sense to Maribeth...but, she laughed to herself, not much did these days so what was one more thing?

Maribeth carried the child over to an aged rocking chair...it had belonged to her grandfather...that was in the corner opposite the tree and the gifts and sat down. She rocked slowly...the child slowly slipping into slumber in her arms...trying to remember that she was supposed to be feeling sorry for herself...supposed to be drinking herself into sweet oblivion...and not being able to do so.

She looked over at the tree...its bows and ribbons and angels a reminder of a happier time not so very long ago. And then she looked down at the baby in her arms, left to the tender mercies of the elements and of chance by someone who just couldn’t cope anymore.

As the child’s big brown eyes closed slowly, Maribeth reached over and picked up the phone. In time, a policeman and a social worker would arrive to take her report. And then they would take the sleeping child to a foster home. But until then, Maribeth would rock with the child, forgetting her own heartache and anger for a while. She would find some modicum of Christmas spirit in the soft breath and tiny heartbeat of the baby in her arms and find herself regarding the small tree and the small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts as something softly and wondrously magical.

In the morning, the wine would still be unopened as Maribeth, her bathrobe pulled snug and a mug of steaming coffee next to the phone, made calls after a peaceful night’s sleep. The social worker would tell her that Maria was safe with a family who would take good care of her for the time being and her mother would tell her that she needed to bring nothing with her on Christmas but her smile and her small pile of brightly-wrapped gifts.

“Have a wonderful holiday,” the old man in the liquor store had said.

Maribeth sipped her coffee and glanced at her little tree. “Maybe I will,” she said aloud, a whisper of a smile playing about her mouth.