Santa's New Boots

 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.