by Eli Easton
It was all Christmas’s fault. Damn Randall and his stupid holiday-cheer story.
We wandered over to a soccer field and circled it. There was nobody else out. Nobody else was stupid enough to be taking a stroll in these frigid temperatures. Mis huevos would probably fall off.
“So…” I said, starting the conversation. “What did I say? Be honest. From an outside perspective: is my story idea really that awful?”
I’d been excited about this Santa angle, dammit. At last, I’d been motivated and had a freaking direction. Now I doubted everything.
Jordan seemed to be searching for words. “Okay. I can tell you’re really into the idea, and that’s good,” Jordan said carefully.
“But…?”
“Well… I sort of see Mack’s point? I mean, this guy is donating his time to charity. Maybe he has a legit reason for not wanting people to know who he is.”
“Like what?” I scoffed. “You think he has a day job as Easter bunny and doesn’t want to be caught cheating?”
Jordan laughed. “Yeah, nerd. Like you said, maybe he’s a celebrity or the mayor or a priest or somebody, and he doesn’t want recognition for it. People make anonymous donations, right?”
“Yeah, but that’s just writing a check. This guy dresses up as Santa and entertains kids for an evening. Whatever his reasons are for secrecy, I think could be a good story. I mean, it’s Santa Claus! Who doesn’t love Santa? It’s an attention grabber. And it sure as shit beats the last few years’ articles on this Elks dinner, which were, like, two paragraphs of ‘The turkey was supplied by Metcalfe’s Market and a good time was had by all.’”
I stopped and slumped against the soccer field fence. Despite my words, I wondered if Mack and Jordan were right. Was I grasping at holly-colored straws? Was I so desperate that I’d allowed Walter’s wink wink, nudge nudge to addle my senses?
But part of being a journalist was chasing down leads and hints, spotting motes of interest. I had to at least track this down. And if there was nothing to it, so be it.
Jordan massaged my shoulders. “It’s just… it’s Christmas. You know, holiday spirit? Milk of human kindness?”
I harrumphed. Once upon a time, when I was a little kid, Christmas was magical to me. When my parents were still together, there were three of us rug rats, with me being the youngest. I remembered weeks of speculation and fraught longing over the brightly wrapped gifts under the tree, the annual ritual of tree decorating with tamales for dinner and spicy hot chocolate before bed, long, lazy Christmas days spent in pajamas, playing with my new toys, or maybe we’d all get bundled up and go out for a walk.
But my folks divorced when I was twelve, and my dad moved back to Texas. Mi mama had us during the school year, which meant Dad got holidays. Ever after, Christmas was consumed with logistics and travel, being told to go here at this time or that, warnings to ‘be nice’ and ‘get along,’ and having to go to a place where I wasn’t comfortable. I think my mom cried through the first few Christmases after they split too, which made holidays even more unbearable.
My siblings and I didn’t gel so well with my dad’s new wife and her two little kids. And being back in Texas, more of my uncles and cousins on my dad’s side were around, and my step-mom’s family too. They weren’t bad people, but they were definitely more conservative with their cowboy hats, shit-kicker boots, pickup trucks, and forced politeness. I always had the feeling my and John and Loretta’s status as half-Mexican made us “less” somehow. And then in high school, I came out as gay—a topic no one on that side of the family dared mention.
My dad became so… suburban. I dunno. He loved us, obviously, and we all tried to make it work, but it was tense. The holiday season lost its magic. I came to dread it, in fact.
Then again, I wasn’t a little kid anymore. Didn’t Christmas lose its magic for everyone? Still. I’d watched enough movies to know what I was supposed to feel, hypothetically.
“So you’re saying I’m a Grinch?” I asked.
“No. But… Santa Claus!” Jordan said in a bright voice. “Feel the magic, Gabe. Feel it.” He patted my shoulder and started walking again. I followed reluctantly.
“I’m trying,” I muttered. “Why do you think I want to do this story?”
“Right.” He sighed. “Well, I think you should go for it. If your gut says it’s interesting, then it is. It’s like with my art. When you feel that spark, you need to grab onto it. Don’t worry about what Mack or anyone else thinks.”
“Hmm.”
“And I’m sorry about tonight. I knew Mack was quiet and a bit withdrawn. I shouldn’t have tried it. But honestly, I don’t understand what happened. He seemed into you at first.”
I didn’t get it either.
“No more matchmaking!” Jordan said with conviction. “Clearly, being a yenta is not my strong suit. I just thought it would be nice to see Mack find somebody.”
“Him? What about me?” I complained.
Jordan rolled his eyes. “You don’t need any help, Gabe. You’re Mr. Sociable.”
“That’s not true! I am not Mr. Sociable and I do need help.” I was half joking, but I feared it was true.
Jordan rolled his eyes harder.
“Seriously, I’m hopeless. The guys I like are either straight or already taken. Or they hate journalists. That’s a new one, actually, but I bet it’s not the last time I hear it.”
“Gabe, you’re super cute, and you’re not a terrible person.”
I snorted. “Yeah, thanks for the ringing endorsement.”
“You’re going to find a special someone and be in love before graduation. I’d bet on it.”
“Maybe if I write to Santa, he’ll bring me a boyfriend for Christmas,” I snarked.
“From your mouth to Santa’s ears,” said Jordan. “Ho-ho-ho.”
Two things took me to St. Mark’s on Monday afternoon. It wasn’t necessary for me to do this much research for the sort of short, feel-good piece Randall expected me to turn in, but I still hoped to make something more out of it.
The second thing was Mack and Jordan’s shitty reactions to my idea. Maybe I needed to rethink this story. Or maybe I needed to find my Christmas spirit. I hoped a visit to St. Mark’s would help provide some inspiration.
St Mark’s was an old property in what was once a gentrified neighborhood in Madison, but was now a little run-down. A low stone wall shielded the property from view. There were pillars at the driveway entrance and a brass sign that said St. Mark’s Children’s Home and that was all. There had probably once been gates, but they were long gone. I drove up the driveway past a huge grass lawn.
The home itself had probably been built in the early 1900s. It was larger than a regular home, though not as big as a school or hospital. It was made of weathered stone and had a Victorian design with four gables and a covered porch. It had the ambience of a place very much lived in. Kid’s bikes and toys were clustered near a detached garage, the grass was patchy, and there was a van in an asphalt parking area next to spots marked Visitor. I parked my Honda CR-V in one.
Before getting out of the car, I checked email on my phone and contemplated sending a text to Randall about where I was. Something struck the driver-side door with a dull thud. I jumped and looked around to see what had happened.
A little girl of about seven stood a few feet away, staring at the car in horror, hands clasped over her mouth. Next to her was a smaller boy, maybe four. He looked at me in frozen dread, a white plastic bat in his hand.
I opened the driver’s door and saw what had caused the noise—a scuffed up old baseball. Clearly, I’d been the victim of a foul swing.
I scooped up the baseball, shutting my car door behind me. I glanced at the door, but the old beater looked fine—or as fine as it ever had. I gave the little boy a fake glare. “Did you hit that ball?”
His eyes widened.
“No fair, niño. At least you could wait until I was out of the car so I could catch it.” I tossed th
e ball up into the air and let it drop into my palm.
The little girl took a step toward me, her hands going to her hips. “I hit your car with the ball. Josh didn’t do anything.”
I was pretty sure she was lying, but she had a lot of attitude for a little squirt. She was dark-skinned, had a pretty but currently angry face, close-cropped black hair, and wore a red winter coat open over a bright purple blouse, black tights, and orange snow boots. Clearly she was no shrinking violet. I shivered just looking at her open coat. It was fucking freezing out.
The boy she called Josh was pale as milk with red hair and freckles. He was bundled up in a black coat that looked too snug. He stared at me like I was the Boogey Man, like I’d come to take his immortal soul. He suddenly regained his ability to move and dodged behind the girl so only his legs were visible behind her.
Dios. That was cute.
I tossed the ball in the air again. “You didn’t hurt my car, chiquita.”
The girl glowered at me. “What does that mean?”
“It means little one. It’s Spanish.”
“Chiquita don’t mean nothin’ to me,” she sassed. “I don’t speak no Spanish.”
“That’s too bad.” I tossed the ball up again. “You want me to toss this to you, see how far you can hit it?”
She thought about it, tapping her chin dramatically. “Only if you toss it to Josh too. Four times.”
“Negotiator, huh? I can do that.”
“Is that Spanish too? You might as well call me Sasha if you’re gonna keep makin’ stuff up.”
I laughed. “Okay, Sasha. Let’s do this over here, away from the cars.”
I walked away from the parking lot into the yard, making sure not to get too close to the building. Though it had probably seen more than its share of broken windows.
Truth be told, I was the worst ball player in the world. Seriously. I’d be forever humiliated about how much I sucked in middle school. But I’d survived hours of sessions at the park with my dad and older brother, trying to teach me, so at least I knew how to fake it. I’d figured out it was easier to pitch than to hit.
“Josh, you stand right here.” Sasha took the little boy’s shoulders and positioned him a few feet away from her. “And watch me, and then it’ll be your turn. Okay?”
Josh stared at her and said nothing. Sasha went into a classic batter’s stance that was way better than mine. “Try throwing it slow,” she lectured me. “’Cause that’ll be easier for him.”
“You got it.”
I did a gentle underhand toss to her. She hit the ball. Naturally, I missed catching it as it whizzed by my ear. Josh ran after it, a look of intense concentration on his face. He brought the ball back and handed it to Sasha.
She tossed it at me. “Okay, now it’s Josh’s turn.” She moved Josh to where she’d been standing, steering him with his shoulders, and handed him the bat.
“Don’t worry about that guy,” she told Josh. “He ain’t all that.”
She was right, alas. Still, I threw the ball as carefully as I could, aiming right for Josh’s bat and getting pretty close. He swung and missed.
“That was my bad. Lemme try again,” I said.
Sasha threw the ball at me. “Well, do it right this time.”
I threw the ball for Josh about five times before he hit it. But that time, he whammed it good. I ducked out of the way as it nearly got me in the stomach.
“He scores!” I said, jumping up and down. “And the crowd goes wild!” I made a roaring sound.
Josh ran around in a circle, then stopped and smiled at me.
“Mr. Josh, what can you tell the viewers at home about that aMAZing hit?” I held out an invisible microphone toward him.
Sasha laughed, but Josh just bunched up his shoulders, looking shy. He kept smiling, though.
“He don’ talk to strangers,” Sasha said matter-of-factly. “But that was a good one, Josh. See, I told you Spanish dude was easy.”
“Gabe. You can call me Gabe.” I shivered. “Only I’m going in now before I turn into a popsicle.”
There was a flicker of disappointment on Sasha’s face, but she said, “Well, go on then! Nobody’s stopping you.” She took Josh’s hand and pulled him toward the side of the building.
“Bye, Sasha! Bye Josh!” I called out.
Josh looked back at me but said nothing. He didn’t wave.
I’d made an appointment with Sharon Mandel, the woman who ran St. Mark’s. The teenage girl who’d opened the door took me to meet Sharon, who was in the kitchen at a table, going over what looked like homework with three kids.
I was expecting a prim headmistress or a principle type. But Sharon looked like a chubby and cuddly grandmother with kinky salt-and-pepper hair. She was probably in her fifties or early sixties, and she had a lavender sweater, a long full navy skirt, and white running shoes.
Sharon stood up and shook my hand. “Hello, Gabriel Martin. So nice to meet you.”
“Thanks for seeing me. I’m sure you must be busy.”
“Always.” She looked at the kids. “When I get back, I’ll want to see progress!”
One girl stayed focused on her math workbook, her tongue sticking out in concentration, but the other two gave halfhearted assurances.
Sharon led me down a hall to an office. There was a couch on one wall, a couple of comfy old chairs in front of her desk, and crowded bookcases. The large double window overlooked the backyard, where Sasha was pushing Josh on a swing set. Two other kids, dressed up in winter coats, were daring the cold to play on a teeter-totter.
Sharon sat behind the desk, and I took a seat in a comfy chair, taking out my phone. “Okay if I record this?” I waved it at her.
“By all means. So what can I help you with, Gabriel?”
She said it the Spanish way, Gah-bree-el. At Madison, everyone just called me Gabe or the anglicized Gabriel. So hearing my name said correctly was nice and reminded me for a second of mi mama.
I smiled at Sharon and turned on my voice-recorder app. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m doing an article for the Wisconsin State Journal about the Elks Christmas dinner. I was hoping to get a little background.”
“Sure!” she said briskly. “I have a prospectus we develop every year for donors and outreach. I can give you one of those. But I suspect you have something more personal in mind.”
“Yeah. I guess, for starters, I’d like to hear what the Christmas dinner means from your point of view. I mean, you probably have a lot of fundraisers.”
“Oh, no! That is, we do have other fundraisers, but the Christmas dinner is the highlight of our year.” Her eyes got a spark of real enthusiasm. “The Elks have been wonderful. They raise a good chunk of cash at a time of year when we desperately need it. I set aside half of it on Christmas for the kids. Getting everyone a nice present, an extra special meal on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, candy for the stockings…. There are more practical things I could spend the money on, but holidays are important. We try to build good memories here at St. Mark’s, and Christmas is a time when kids can feel very alone and left out of the fun. Every child deserves to enjoy Christmas.”
“Totally,” I agreed. I felt a little guilty for the things I’d taken for granted when I was growing up. Even though I’d had to do the house-shuffle thing, we’d always had a big Christmas in both households.
“And the kids are included in the Elks dinner, so it makes it a fun night out for all of us. They serve the children a meal, and then there’s carols and pictures with Santa. You have no idea how much they look forward to that! Some of them have lost so much. It’s nice for them to get a bit of normal.” Sharon smiled to herself as if remembering.
I cleared my throat. “Speaking of Santa, Walter Stickle at the Elks said he doesn’t know who the Santa is, that he just shows up already in costume every year. Were you aware of that?”
Sharon looked at me thoughtfully. “I think Walter mentioned that to me, yes.” She didn’t seem wor
ried about it.
“That doesn’t bother you?” I pressed. “That you have a stranger talking to the kids, taking pictures with them and all?”
She laughed. “Ah, Gabriel, are you a cynic! It’s Christmas, and he’s Santa Claus. No, I don’t worry about that. Truth be told, whoever Santa is, the kids adore him to pieces. We’re lucky to have him.”
“They do? I mean, more than they would any other Santa?”
She smiled knowingly. “There are Santas and then there are Santas. Believe me, this one is special.” There was a warm tone in her voice and a twinkle in her eye that made me suspect she knew more about Mr. Claus than she was admitting. “Will you be at the dinner? If so, you can see for yourself.”
“I planned to go, yeah.” I pretty much had to for my assignment.
“Good! Now is there anything else that would be useful for your write-up?”
Sharon was clearly a busy person and highly organized. She’d have to be with a house full of munchkins.
“Um, I was hoping to talk to you about the kids. Bring it back to a personal level,” I explained. “For example, I met Sasha and Josh outside.” I pointed out the window where they were still on the swings. “What’s their story?”
I was curious about the pair, about the way Sasha took care of Josh when they didn’t look at all related. I wanted to know more about them. And like Jordan said, you had to follow your gut feelings if you wanted to create art.
Sharon looked out the window, her face going soft. She hesitated. “Off the record?”
“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly.
She sighed. “Well, I can’t tell you the details, but I can say that some children who come here have seen things no child should ever have to see. Horrific things. With time, and a lot of love, kids like Josh can heal. He’s young enough that he probably won’t remember his past. With God’s grace anyway.”
“And Sasha?”
Sharon smiled. “That little firecracker is gonna take life by the horns and ride it. She’s been here since birth.” Sharon hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind. “Sasha, like a lot of our babies, was born addicted to meth and taken away from her mother by the courts. She fought like hell, though, and she’s doing just great. She loves to take care of the other kids. I adore that girl to pieces.”
