A Christmas story by Erika M Szabo
Rain had been falling since before dawn that Christmas Eve,
the kind that drifted down in soft, lazy drops as if the sky were too tired to
hurry. Inside the little cottage at the edge of town, the Carter family huddled
close to the stove. The fire was small, coal had been rationed carefully that
week, but it glowed enough to paint the room in amber light.
Six-year-old Annie Carter pressed her nose to the frosted
window.
“Do you think Santa will find us while we’re sleeping,
Mama?” she whispered.
Her mother smiled, smoothing Annie’s hair. “Santa always
finds children, even in the farthest and smallest houses.”
Annie nodded. “But leave the door open so he doesn’t have to
go into the chimney.”
“I will, darling, I will.” Mary sighed, thinking of the small
presents they could afford.
Times had been hard since James’ work at the mill slowed.
Their stockings hung by the fireplace, empty. They waited for Annie to go to
sleep before they filled the stockings with the pretty dress Annie asked for,
and Mary worked on at night, cutting up her dress from better times. James had
been carving wooden skates in the shed for everyone, and Mary was making
candied walnuts and almonds the day before, when Annie visited her grandmother.
Across the yard, their neighbor, Mr. Thompson, had been
watching the Carters for a long time, quietly, the way neighbors did in those
days. He’d seen James come home with tired eyes. He’d seen Mary working hard, growing
vegetables and raising chickens to feed her family. And he’d seen Annie, always
cheerful, always humming, even when her coat was too thin for December.
That Christmas Eve, he put on his Santa outfit, which had
hung in the closet for years, forgotten. Watching the family through the
window, he mumbled, “That little girl is about the age of my little Bella, and
his mother is about the size of my beloved wife.” Decided, he filled a large
sack with clothes, shoes, and toys that were his daughter’s all those years ago,
before the Spanish flu took her and his wife.
Just after dusk, he walked across the street and quietly opened
the door to the Carters' house. Stepping into the narrow hallway, he took off
his muddy boots and stepped into a pair of worn slippers he found by the wall.
“Ho—ho—ho!” he boomed as he opened the door to the family
room. “Merry Christmas to the Carter family!”
Annie’s eyes shone like lanterns.
Mary stood stunned seeing the unexpected visitor, but James,
recognizing Mr. Thompson in the Santa suit, regained his senses and ushered him
in quickly. “Oh, Santa, you must be freezing. Come in and warm yourself.”
Mr. Thompson stepped inside and sat by the fireplace,
warming his hands. He reached for his sack, but Annie gently touched her
mother’s sleeve.
“Mama,” she whispered, “I don’t need any gift this year.”
Mary blinked. “Why not, sweetheart?”
Annie leaned closer, her voice soft with concern. “Because
Santa is poorer than we are.”
Mary’s breath caught in her throat.
Annie said, still whispering, “He doesn’t even have boots,
look! He’s wearing old slippers and his sock is muddy and has a hole in it,”
Annie said, turning to her father. “Papa, you have two pairs of boots. Could we
give one of them to Santa, so his feet won’t freeze when he visits the other
children?”
Mary pressed a hand to her heart.
Before she could answer, Santa cleared his throat. “Well
now… that’s a mighty generous thought, young lady.”
Annie turned, earnest and bright. “You walk so far, Santa.
You should have warm feet.”
Santa’s eyes softened behind the wire-rimmed spectacles.
“You know, kindness like that… that’s the finest gift anyone could give.”
James fetched his spare boots, sturdy, well-cared-for,
polished just last week. He placed them beside Mr. Thompson. “If you’d accept
them,” he said quietly, “they’re yours.”
Mr. Thompson swallowed hard. “I… I would be honored.” Wiping
a tear, he opened the sack and gave his too-long treasured possession to the
family.
Annie’s laughter sounded like silver bells as she fingered
the pretty dresses and lined up the toys. Mary’s eyes were misted with tears,
and she silently thanked Mr. Thompson with a warm smile. James fingered the fur-lined
hat he got from the self-appointed Santa.
Mr. Thompson stood up, testing his boots, “Thank you,” he
said, voice thick. “For the warmth. For the welcome. And for raising a child
who understands the true meaning of Christmas.”
Annie hugged him tightly around the waist. “Merry Christmas,
Santa.”
He hugged her back, careful and gentle. “Merry Christmas,
Annie.”
As she walked Mr. Thompson to the door, Mary noticed
something strange: the air seemed crisper, and the gently falling snowflakes
sparkled like tiny stars. She believed in Christmas magic again. “You’re
welcome to join us for dinner, Mr. Thompson,” she whispered. “The turkey will
be done in an hour.”
“Thank you for the invitation, Mary,” he whispered back. “It’s very kind of
you. I’ll just change and shave my beard. I don’t want Annie to think that
Santa came back to have dinner with her.” He laughed.
But Annie knew. It took her one look at Mr. Thompson’s new boots.
She gave him a warm hug and the brightest smile. “This is the best Christmas,”
she said.
