Christmas In The Holler

 A short story by David W. Thompson

Story cover by Erika M Szabo

Christmas was coming, and the goose was gettin’ fat—or so the young’uns have been singing for a month of Sundays. But the geese were already headed for greener pastures this late in the season. Our only hope of a decent holiday meal was waiting for me in the thick woods surrounding our cabin. 

I reckon if Ma had her druthers, she’d take a fat roast turkey over an old, dried-out, and chewy goose anyway. I sure would rather sit the river’s edge and wait for one of those geese to come floating by than trudge through the frozen-up hills praying for a stray gobbler to make a fatal mistake. But we play the cards we’re dealt. That’s what my daddy always says, and lately, our family wasn’t dealt no winning hands.

Things been bad for most of the folks in the holler though, so wasn’t no sense in me flapping my jaws over it. Folks just look at ya funny anyways. Still, I prayed extra hard last evening. I asked the Almighty again to make sure Pa was safe. Mining was a dangerous job.  I prayed for him to be home for Christmas. Things weren’t the same since he took that job at the new coal mine over in Mercer County. Ma said he sent home every penny he could, but things were still as tight as a frog’s backside, and that’s waterproof.

Next, I asked about the Neely family, who lived further up the mountain. I figured things had to be hard on them since Mr. Neely rolled his old Farmall tractor last month and broke himself up right smart.  “Love your neighbor as yourself,” the good book says, but what was a body to do if they was hurting just as bad? Quit your whining, Francis. I thought as I pulled on my best pair of socks—the ones Ma darned up for me. I wiggled my toes into Pa’s hunting boots. Ma packed some cotton scraps (left over from the Easter dress she made for Sally Mae) into the toe part so my feet wouldn’t woller around too much. Dressed as warm as I could get (and still walk), I grabbed Pa’s old double barrel 12 gauge and a pocket full of shells. I smiled, remembering the first time I shot that gun. Pa warned me to keep the butt tucked tight against the pocket of my shoulder, but my arms were short and weak, while my determination was long and strong. When Pa pointed out the target, I let the gun stock slip under my arm and yanked the trigger. The blast knocked me over quick as one of the football players I saw on Mr. Myer's television set once. Pa said that as soon as we had the money, it might be best to start me off with a secondhand .22 rifle instead, but money was hard to come by.

A brisk breeze and wet snowflakes slapped my cheek when I opened the door. I stepped out quietly, not wanting to wake the young’uns, but Ma still heard.

“You dressed warm enough, Francis?”

I nodded. “I’m good, Ma. Thanks.”

“You want me to fix you something? Won’t take a minute. Cup of coffee, maybe?”

That one caused me to pause for a minute. Ma always said I wasn’t old enough to drink coffee.   

“Maybe when I get back. I packed some deer jerky and a chunk of the bread you baked yesterday.” I turned back toward the door.

“Do your best, son, but don’t shoot any hens, and be safe out there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I closed the door, leaving the wood stove's warmth behind.

I followed a well-worn trail down to the river. ‘Coon and ‘possum tracks were all over the mud bank, but I was after a fat turkey. I decided to move across the holler to a stand of beechnut trees. The turkeys wouldn’t be too far away if the nuts were dropping.

Water seeped into my right boot when I crossed the river, and I shook my head. That was careless, Francis. You don’t need frozen up toes.

Moving uphill. I found the old log Pa, and I used to sit on when we were squirreling. He only let me watch after the old gun knocked me on my backside. I didn’t care. It was enough being out in Creation with my Pa, loving every minute of it. Truth be told, I wasn’t it no hurry to shoulder that gun again. It was a few years before he trusted me to have another go at it, and it didn’t kick near as bad as I remembered.

I sat on that old log, half-rotted after all the years, remembering Pa, our time together, and worse—our time apart. My eyes got wet, and I wiped at ‘em, saying a silent prayer that he’d be home soon. Then, a follow-up request that the turkeys would be moving soon. It was cold. Sure, my fingers and toes was gettin’ numb, but I swear to Goshen, my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders either. My head was nodding, and I almost forgot why I was out in the Creator’s frozen paradise.

When the sun was straight up in the sky, it offered a bit of warmth. At least the crust of snow and ice on my coat and hat thawed out. I hoped the layers of wool would keep me dry as the water dripped off my hat and down my neck. A shiver ran down my back.

Nothing but songbirds were moving, and there wasn’t enough meat on them to feed Sally Mae more or less the whole family. Mr. Roosevelt said we was in a depression, and there wasn’t nothing great about it. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” he said. Doing without was hard on the young’uns, though. Money was tight, and game was hard to come by, with everyone looking to the woods to feed their families.

I was taking a notion to move further up the mountain when I heard something moving through the brush to my right. Hard to get an aim on any critter coming in that way, at least for a right-hander like me. I scooted around on the log seat and pulled back the hammers on the shotgun.

Pa said never point your gun at something you didn’t want to shoot and to keep your finger off the trigger until ready to fire. So, I had the gun pointed in the right general direction so old Mr. Turkey wouldn’t see my movement, and my finger rested outside the trigger on the trigger guard.  Something else Pa said was a good hunter never took more than he needed, but there wasn’t much chance of that.  And all I needed right now was for the majestic bird to take a couple more steps. My mouth watered at the thought of a slice of juicy turkey breast. I swallowed it down and held my breath.

One more step, two, and…

A small hand pulled aside a branch, and Silas Neely poked his head out. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I let down the hammers on the shotgun. Silas was young to be out on his own, but with his Daddy laid up, I reckon that made him the man of the family—for a while, anyway. I waved, hoping he wouldn’t mistake me for a critter. He nodded and walked toward me. The shotgun resting on his shoulders was as long as he was tall. A piece of baling twine served as a sling to help him carry it, and a thick wrapping of tape held the stock together.

“Guess we’re after the same thing, Francis. You have a hankering for a Christmas turkey, too?” Silas asked. His eyes were deep and sunken, his cheeks hollow. I wondered if he’d been sickly.

“I sure am,” I whispered. “You must've put on a growth spurt, Silas. You’re as skinny as a ribbon snake and look like an old mule off its feed.”

Silas looked down at the ground and scuffed his boots in the leaves. When he raised his head and looked at me, his eyes were deep-set and shadowy. His pant leg only reached to his shins, about the same length as his oversized coat. A worn hat, two sizes too big, was pulled down low on his forehead, and a turkey wing bone call hung around his neck. I guess I stared at the double patches on his britches a bit too long. His face turned all red, and he kicked at the leaves again.

“Ma’s been right busy with Pa and the babies. Little Sarah’s sewing ain’t too good, but she does her best,” he said.

“That’s all right. Turkeys don’t care none, and I hear tell you’re a fine hunter.”

Silas looked up and smiled. “Pa says I’m near ‘bouts a man now.”

“I was thinking I’d try on up the mountain a ways. No sense in us hunting on top of one another. There’s a decent grove of persimmons up there, and the beechnuts are hitting the ground here. But where would you rather try? Both spots are promising.”

“I’ll head up if it’s all the same to you, Francis. Pa and I took a gobbler up there last spring. It’d mean much to Pa if I took another one there.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Good luck to you, Francis.”

“You too. Hope you get a good ‘un.”

I sat back on my log and watched him walk away, slumped over like he carried a fifty-pound sack of ‘taters on his narrow shoulders. Something must’ve flown into my eye about then. My vision blurred, and I wondered what Christmas would be like at the Neely house.

***

Long after the sound of Silas moving through the woods stopped, the birds started singing again. A pair of squirrels chased each other around a big oak tree, paying no attention to me. Reckon they figured I was just a thick branch poking out of that log and no threat to their play at all.

The hairs sticking out under my hat and those little hairs in my nose were froze up into icicles. Despite the cold, I smiled as I watched the squirrels’ antics, and I realized I best keep an eye on ‘em. I might need them for dinner—if the turkeys didn’t cooperate.

The sun was getting lower and peeking through the trees on the west side. It shouldn’t be long now. The turkeys would be moving and headed to their roost. The thought no more than jumped into my head when I heard a shotgun blast uphill from where I sat. Maybe Silas got lucky. For a moment, I was jealous, then felt ashamed of myself. Pa said you shouldn’t envy a neighbor’s good fortune. I reckon the good book says something about it, too.

The shotgun roared again. I heard Pa’s voice then, clear as day. “Pay attention now, son. Silas must’ve busted up a whole flock of birds!”  

My eyes got watering, and I wiped at ‘em with my coat sleeve. Did hearing Pa’s voice mean something bad happened? Like some omen? As soon as my eyes cleared, sure enough, a big gobbler came busting through. He stopped for a second to look behind, and my gun spoke. The big bird dropped where he stood.

Pa always taught me to respect the life of the game we’ve taken, but I had to restrain myself from hollering and hooting. My family would have a fine Christmas dinner. Now, if only Pa would come home.

I knelt by my prize turkey, admiring his full, sleek feathers and wide tail fan. His spurs were nearabouts two inches long and the biggest bird I’d ever seen by far.

“Thank you for the gift of your life,” I said. “Your sacrifice will feed my family on the holiest of holy days and it will not be forgotten when we sing the Creator’s praises.”

I cleaned the bird, saved the gizzard and liver, tied a piece of twine around his feet to carry him across my shoulder, and sat down to wait for Silas.

***

I couldn’t help but smile all over myself as I waited. Ma and the kids would be tickled pink when I walked in the cabin door with our Christmas turkey slung over my shoulder. I was planning my entrance—wondering if’n I should pretend to have been skunked. I imagined the disappointment on everyone’s faces and decided against that.

I didn’t have long to wait for Silas. I heard him stomping through the underbrush and could tell he carried out more than he carried in. I smiled at his good fortune. When his figure appeared, it wasn’t a turkey I saw, and I stared, trying to make out the furred critter he struggled to carry.  I stood and walked toward him, and the ringed tail identified his prize as a raccoon.

“I see you had some luck, Silas. Congratulations.”

“You too? I heard you shoot.”

I held up my turkey.

“I reckon I messed up, Francis. I was cold and started thinking I wasn’t gonna see nothing. All I could think about was not having any meat to take home for Christmas. Then this ‘coon poked his head out of that hollow sycamore tree and started scrambling down. I figured a big old buck ‘coon was better’n nothing. As soon as I shot, a whole flock of turkeys took off. They was practically on top of me, but I never saw or heard ‘em coming. I took a shot at one but missed him clean. Ma hates ‘coon though. Had too much of it lately, I reckon.”

Silas stared at my dressed turkey and licked his lips. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

Visions of Ma pulling a golden-brown roast turkey out of the wood-fired stove danced in front of my eyes.

“You of a mind to trade that fat ‘coon for this scrawny bird?” I heard myself ask. “Heck, I’d a never had a chance at him if you didn’t run him to me.”

Silas licked his lips again and stared at me to see if I was teasing. He shook his head.  “I appreciate the thought, Francis, but my Pa don’t abide by no charity.”

“Charity? Hellfire, Silas. Baked ‘coon is my family’s favorite meal. You should see the young’uns squabble over a chunk of ‘coon. You’d be doing us a favor, truth be told. But I understand if you don’t want to give it up…”  

“Pa wouldn’t want me to…”

“It’ll be our secret. Like I said, I only got the bird 'cause of you, so I reckon he’s as much yours as mine anyway.”

Silas stared at the turkey like it was the world's salvation, then dropped his head and held that ‘coon all the tighter.

“Mmm Mmm, Ma sure would be happy about that nice ‘coon. Best eating in the woods, Pa always says.” I told him.

Silas gave me a look I couldn’t make out. Then he nodded his head and smiled.

I slipped the bird off my shoulder and hung it on Silas’. I reached for the ‘coon, and he paused only a second before turning it loose.

“Merry Christmas, Francis.”

“Merry Christmas to you and yours, Silas.”

***

We walked a short way together before the trail forked, and we said our goodbyes.

The trail got steeper as I approached home. My boots grew heavy as if they were filled with lead sinkers, and I wondered if it was from the cold or my worry over what Ma would think about me giving away our turkey.

My little brother Billy met me at the door, hope shining in his eyes.

“Whatcha catch, Francis? Did you get us a big ol’ turkey?” he asked. The light in his eyes faded when I held up dinner.

 “Oh, Ma, it’s another stinking raccoon,” he said.

“Since when did you turn your nose up at raccoon meat, Billy Ray? ‘Sides, I know your brother did his best. Now, you apologize right this minute.”

Billy dropped his eyes to the floor. “I'm sorry, Francis. He is a nice fat ‘coon.”

I ruffled his hair and smiled. “It’s fine, Billy.”

Ma laid out a supper of fried squirrel and biscuits. The two squirrels didn’t go far between me and Ma and four young’uns. But I wasn’t much hungry anyway. Besides, Ma made the best biscuits in the whole county.

After dinner, I helped wash the kids up and got ‘em tucked into bed.

“I know it’s kind of late, but I’ll fix us a couple of cups of coffee if you don’t think it will keep you up,” Ma said.

“That would suit me fine,” I said. “I do still have a bit of a chill.”

I busied myself with wiping down the old shotgun while Ma started the coffee. When I was done, she placed a steaming hot cup before me.

“Now, tell me all about your hunt, Francis, ‘cause I reckon you left out a few parts. Sheriff Giles stopped by. He left just before you got back. He said the Neely boy was toting the biggest tom turkey he’d ever seen and the boy seemed bashful about how he came about it. He’d been hunting along the same patch of woods as you. You know anything about his good fortune?”

I looked down at my cup of coffee and thought for a moment.

“I asked Pa about something the preacher said one time, Ma. It was about the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing. Pa said he wasn’t as smart as the preacher, but the way he figured it, if you did something good for someone, you should keep shut about it. If folks knowed you did good, then you were just pumping yourself up, and then the good didn’t count.”

Ma’s eyes got wet, and a tear slid down her cheek. I’d never seen Ma cry before, and it upset me greatly.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I know we needed it, and you were counting on a turkey.”

“It ain’t that, boy. I couldn’t be prouder of you. You did just right.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I reckon you’re old enough and deserve to know, Francis. That ain't all the sheriff stopped to say. There was a cave-in at the mine, son.”

“A cave-in? Was Pa hurt? What else did the sheriff say?”

“That’s all he knew, or maybe all he would say. I’ll be on pins and needles until I know, but news travels fast in these hills. So, say your prayers extra hard tonight.”

***

That night, sleep was harder to get ahold of than a greased pig at the county fair, and I don’t think the coffee had much to do with it. My gut was twisting and turning—it felt like two tom cats fighting over a can of sardines in there. ‘Course, my brain wouldn’t shut up either. It kept throwing more “what-ifs” at me than the law allows. Leastwise, there ought to be a law about it.

It had been a long day, though; eventually, my body had enough. But I hate even recalling the dark dreams I was tortured with, and I ain’t gonna dwell on ‘em much. Suffice it to say I envisioned my Pa trapped and broken in a pitch-black hell hole of a mine, his funeral after that, my family’s grief… well, I reckon almost every possible horrible outcome.

I remembered hearing his voice in the woods—an omen? Please, God, don’t let it be so!

I dreamt of Pa, but in my dream, a demon took him over and was after me to drag me to perdition. I screamed at the demon and felt him grab my arm.

Pa’s voice said, “It’s all right now, Francis.”

I could smell meat burning. Was I already in hell?

“It’s all right, son. I’m home now.” The voice sounded like Pa, but I was afraid to open my eyes…afraid of what my waking eyes would see. A demon? A ghost?

I remembered what my Pa said the day he taught me to swim. “Even the bravest man gets scared, Francis. They just don’t let that fear whup ‘em.”

I forced my eyes to open.

“Is that you, Pa? Really you?”

“In the flesh, son. Lordy, I’m proud of you, boy. Merry Christmas.” He grabbed me up in a hug so tight it hurt, but I didn’t complain a lick. Pa was home!

***

A week ago, I went home to the mountains. A dear old family friend had passed away, and we went back to pay our respects. My Neely was ninety-nine years old and only missed his hundredth birthday by a few days.

After the service, Silas introduced himself, which was a good thing as I’d never recognized him otherwise. He walks with a cane these days, and his hair is the color of fresh fallen snow. He said he lost his wife last year and was all alone in the world.

“Reminiscing is one of God’s finest gifts to us older folks, don’t you reckon, Francis?” he asked. “I can still close my eyes and recall when our families were poor but richer than we knew. I dread the day my memories fade, old friend. They are all I have left.”

I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.

“I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, Francis, For us.”

Sally Mae was the last of us to live in the home place, along with her husband and two teenage boys. She’d found this old notebook I used to scribble my thoughts in long ago, boxed up with some of Ma’s belongings. I hadn’t read what I wrote back then for many years. And there’s been a few—between that Christmas and now. Over the years, a golden-brown turkey or a fine smoked ham always graced our table. And most years, we had more set before us than we could have hoped to eat.

I got home from the mountains just in time for our Christmas. My wife baked a pheasant for our holiday meal. A turkey is too much for just the two of us anymore. That pheasant was something to brag about and left me licking my fingers—or would have if my wife wasn’t watching. But to this day, that baked ‘coon, on the Christmas day my Pa came home? That was the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

A Baker House Christmas

A short story by Robert Allen Lupton 

Story cover by Erika M Szabo

Christmas didn’t come early to the Baker Orphanage on 12th Street during the Great Depression. It hadn’t come at all during the three years I’d lived there. Freddie was the oldest, he'd had been there the longest, and he said that he didn’t remember a Christmas Tree or even a special meal.

I guessed that most folks were too busy being hungry themselves to worry about a couple dozen kids, but I didn’t figure that Santa Claus was one of them. It seemed to me that he was too fat and too jolly to be hungry. Mabel had a book about Santa Claus that she’d brought with her after smallpox took her parents. Santa had plenty of food and mountains of candy.

I asked to read it the December when I was ten. She carefully removed the old newspapers she kept the book wrapped in. “You can, Max, but wash your hands. Don’t take it outside. Don’t believe everything you read. The book says that Santa brings presents to every child in the world on Christmas Eve. He doesn’t, at least not to kids like us.”

I read it twice. It wasn’t right that Santa didn’t bring us stuff. We needed Christmas worse than anyone I knew. The rest of the kids at Baum Elementary wore new clothes every January. New bicycles were on the bike racks and new gloves and bats were on the playgrounds. I decided that enough was enough.

It was the week after Thanksgiving, not that I had anything to be thankful for and I recruited two other orphans who were members of our secret club, the Baker House Irregulars. Mabel had told us about Sherlock Holmes and the kids who helped him, the Baker Street Irregulars. Eight of us who were nine and ten years old adopted the name and swore great oaths to protect each other. Besides Mabel and me, there were three other boys and three girls, Danny, Ray, Dolores, Janey, Bobby, and Audrey. So far, the only thing we’d done was to convince the older kids that if they picked on one of us, they had to deal with all of us.

Anyway, Danny, Bobby, and I confronted Carl Richardson after school by the bike rack. “Carl, that’s a nice Schwinn bicycle. Where’d you get it?”

“None of your beeswax, Max, but I got it for Christmas last year. Got a catcher’s mitt, too. Just what I wanted.”

“So, how did Santa Clause know what you wanted?”

“Easy, Stupido. You go down to Bamberger’s Department Store. Santa works there on weekends. You sit on his lap, tell him what you want, and if you’ve been good, he leaves it under your Christmas tree. Easy peasy!”

Danny’s eyes lit up for a moment, but then he asked, “Carl, what if we don’t have a Christmas tree?”

“Everyone has a Christmas tree. Now leave me alone. I'm late for piano practice.’

I called a meeting that night after lights-out at the orphanage. The eight of us gathered in the workroom. No one would ever think that kids would hide in a workroom. I told the Irregulars what we’d learned from Carl.

Bobby said, “This isn’t going to be that hard. We'll sneak out on Saturday and go to Bamberger’s. We’ll tell Santa what we want for Christmas. I figure the reason we don’t get no presents is because we haven’t been asking for them.”

Dolores shook her head. “You said he leaves presents under a Christmas tree. We don’t have a tree.”

“We can ask Santa for a tree or we can make our own. The boys can cut down a little tree and we can make ornaments out of paper and tin cans.” Mabel replied.

“Good plan,” I said. “Saturday morning we’ll get up early and finish our chores. We’ll tell the staff, especially that nosey Miss Blaine, that we’re going to the park. It’s only a half mile from Bamberger’s. If we hurry, we can tell Santa what we want and be back in time for lunch.”

Saturday morning came and the Baker House Irregulars were up at dawn, sweeping, washing, dusting, and picking up trash. Miss Blaine was suspicious of our newly found commitment to cleanliness, but she decided not to question a good thing. Right at ten o’clock, Audrey, the youngest Irregular, said, “Miss Blaine, we’ve finished the chores. May we go to the playground at Redbud Park. We’ll be back for lunch.

Miss Blaine, harried by her responsibilities, wasn’t averse to having a group of children out from underfoot for a couple of hours. She shifted the crying infant she held from one arm to the other and wrinkled her nose at the smell.

“Certainly. Don’t fight with the other children and don’t be late for lunch. Mable, change this diaper and put her in her crib. Max, you’re the oldest and you’re in charge. I don’t want to hear about any problems. You don’t want me to get the paddle.”

I said, “Yes, Miss Blain. I mean no, Miss Blain. No problems. We’ll be good.”

Mabel took the baby from Miss Blain. “Max, wait for me by the sidewalk. I’ll hurry.” She hurried upstairs to the infants’ room and the rest of us trooped out the door and waited on the sidewalk.

The morning was off to a good start, but things went downhill after that. It was one of the worst days of my life, and growing up in a small-town orphanage was a life filled with bad days. My first memory of that morning was how cold I was. The north wind carried the first bluster of winter. None of us wore good coats and there weren’t two mittens to share amongst us. I stamped my feet to keep warm. I hoped it didn’t rain because the soles of my oversized shoes were mostly newspaper I’d stuffed inside. Hand-me-down clothes are often threadbare and mine were no exception. We all faced away from the wind like cattle and huddled like sheep to keep warm.

Mable came soon enough. Janey asked, “What’s the baby’s name?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. There’s no point. You know that, unlike us, infants get adopted right away. The baby could be in a home with a Christmas tree before we have lunch.”

“That’s not fair,” complained Bobby,

I just shook my head. “Bobby, you know things don’t have to be fair.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t, but you do have to live with it.”

I’d swear that it was uphill and into the wind all the way to Bamberger’s and back. I know that isn’t possible, but my ears burned, and my nose ran. I kept my hands in my armpits to keep them warm.

We walked in the front door of the department store and luxuriated in the heat. My fingers and toes still tingle remembering how good it felt. Mabel pointed to a sign with an arrow. It said Santa. She didn’t have to say a word. We followed her down aisles festooned with more clothing, toys, appliances, and tools that I thought existed in the whole world.

Santa was seated on a throne and behind him were a million bicycles. A red rope looped between candy canes and four people dressed like elves directed traffic. We joined the line behind the other children.

When it came Mabel’s turn, an elf said, “I don’t see your parents. Where are they?”

“They’re not here. I came with my friends.”

“I’m sorry, young lady, but no one may see Santa Claus unless they’re accompanied by a parent.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m an orphan. Please, I just want to see Santa.”

“Again, I’m sorry. Store policy, you understand. I’ll be fired if I let you through. Have an adult from the orphanage come with you.”

Mabel crossed her arms. “I’m not moving until I talk to Santa.”

The rest of us crossed our arms defiantly. The elf yelled for security. I knew it wouldn’t end well and it didn’t. Worst day ever.

Four men arrived quickly. The elf explained the problem. A man said, “You kids can walk to the door, or we can carry you, but either way you’re leaving. Children your age aren’t even allowed in the store without adult supervision.”

There’s defiant and there’s stupid. I didn’t see any reason to get thrown out and then get paddled at the orphanage. “Mabel, let’s go. We’ll ask Miss Blain to come back with us.”

“She won’t. You know that, Max.”

“She probably won’t, but we aren’t going to win this. Let’s just go.”

She nodded, held her head up, and led the rest of us toward the door. I looked back. Santa was busy talking to a little girl. I don’t think he ever knew we were there. Audry and Bobby cried on the way to the orphanage. The store had called Miss Blain, and she was standing on the front porch with her paddle in hand. Like I said, worst day ever.

A couple of weeks later, Ray sat down at breakfast. “I’m mad. I’ve thought about it and I’m mad. We may be second-class citizens, but that doesn’t mean people should treat us that way. Just because we wear old worn-out clothes doesn’t make us bad people. We need Santa more than any other kids in town. If we don’t do something about it, it means that they’re right to treat us that way.”

Bobby swallowed a bite of overcooked powdered eggs. “Yeah, so what are we gonna do?”

“If we can’t have Santa, no one can. We’re gonna kidnap him. If we don’t get Christmas, nobody gets Christmas.”

“How are we gonna do that?” said Audrey. He’s an adult and we’re kids. We’ll just get in trouble again.”

“I’ve got a plan. The city parks the rubbish carts just down the street from Bamberger’s. We’ll steal a cart. We’ll wait outside the department store until it closes. When Santa comes out, we distract him, push him in the cart, and wheel him off. Eight of us can hold him down and tie him up. We’ll hide him in the barn, tell him what we want for Christmas, and won’t let him loose until he promises.”

I chugged the pretend orange juice. “Ray, that has to be the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. I’m in. Let’s do it.”

***

December 24th and the Baker House Irregulars had a mission. We snuck out right after dark and braved the cold. Bobby and Janey went to get an empty rubbish cart. Dolores and Bobby fetched ropes from the barn and the rest of us went straight to Bamberger’s to wait for Santa.

The eight of us were hiding together when the security guard unlocked the door and Santa walked out. Santa said, “Have a good night, Jimmy. I need to be on my way. I’ve got reindeer to feed and a sleigh to load. I need to start delivering presents.”

Jimmy laughed, “Sure thing. Don’t forget me. I need a new percolator and a couple of pounds of coffee.”

Santa nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

We put our plan into action. Delores sat on the sidewalk with a broken doll in her hands. She cried. Santa stopped and said, “What’s the matter, honey?”

She held up the doll, the body in one hand and the one-eyed head in the other. “She hurts.”

“Where are your parents?”

Delores cried louder, stood, and shoved the pieces at Santa. He did what most people would have done, he took them.

Delores wrapped her arms around his knees, I jumped on his back and pulled his stocking hat down over his face. Ray wheeled the garbage cart in front of him. Delores moved away and I dropped off his back. It took six of us to lift and dump him head-first into the cart. All eight of us wheeled the cart down the street.

Santa’s feet kicked in the air for the first few minutes, but then they stopped. Janey whispered, “He’s stopped fighting. Did we kill him?”

Mabel snorted. “You can’t kill Santa Clause. He’s magic.”

The lights were out at the orphanage when we wheeled Santa into the barn. We lit three candles and tied Santa’s feet so that he couldn’t run. We tipped the cart onto its side and dragged him out. The girls sat on him while Bobby and Ray tied his hands. We propped him up. Ray said, “Don’t yell. If you yell, we’ll stuff a rag in your mouth.”

Santa smirked. “To what do I owe the honor.”

“This is a kidnapping,” said Mabel. “We’re holding Christmas hostage. You have to pay a ransom.”

Santa didn’t even try to free himself. “What ransom?”

“We’re orphans. They wouldn’t let us talk to you at the store because we don’t have parents. We know that if we don’t tell you what we want for Christmas, then we don’t get a Christmas. The ransom is that we’re gonna tell you what we want and you’re gonna promise to bring it to us. Deal.”

“I could lie and say deal, but I’m just a department store Santa.”

“You saying that you’re not really Santa Claus.”

“Not exactly. Every man who dresses as Santa Claus and keeps Christmas in his heart is a real Santa.”

Ray held a candle near Santa’s face. ‘You’re the only Santa we’ve got. Listen, the first thing we want is a Christmas tree. I want a bicycle, a good one, a Schwinn.”

Audry went next. Santa patiently listened to each of us. His appearance changed as he listened. His eyes were brighter. His beard sparkled like it was covered with glitter and his cheeks grew redder.

I went last and wished for new shoes and a bicycle. Then I said, “There are another dozen kids at the Baker House. They deserve Christmas too. I don’t know what they want, but the real Santa will know. Bring them presents and bring something for Miss Blain. She’d be nicer if she was happier.”

“And what if I can’t bring presents to everyone?”

I was afraid he’d say something like that. “Well, in that case, don’t bring me anything. Bring presents for the other kids.”

“My goodness, an unselfish wish for Christmas. That changes things. It’s time for you to let me go. Christmas is waiting and whether I’m the real Santa Claus or only his helper, I can’t give anyone presents if I’m tied up inside a barn.”

Mabel crossed her arms. “We’ve done everything we can. They’ll probably lock us up tomorrow but let him go.”

Santa quivered and the ropes fell away. He looked different. His eyes twinkled like stars, and his beard became neater, better combed, and it glittered in the light. He stood up straight. His red felt suit became velvet and the cotton cuffs and accents changed to ermine fur. His buttons and belt buckle were no longer badly painted celluloid, they were polished brass. His worn boots were polished so brightly that I could see the candlelight dancing in them.

He laughed. “I’m starting late. You’ve delayed me. I assume that the eight you are willing to help me make up for the lost time.”

Mabel spoke in a whisper. “You’re different. Are you the real Santa Claus? What happened to the Santa from Bamberger’s?”

“Like he said, young lady. Every man who dresses as Santa can be the real Santa if his heart is in the right place. Max’s wish was the crowning touch, and here I am. Are you going to help me or not?”

We not only agreed to help, we begged to do so. Audry whined, “There’s no sleigh.”

Santa waved at the garbage cart and the air filled with sparkling dust. A beautiful sleigh stood where the garbage cart had been. “I’ve got a sleigh. What I don’t have is reindeer. I need eight reindeer and there are eight of you. Are you willing to be my reindeer for one Christmas Eve?”

Janey asked, “Will I remember being a reindeer? Will it hurt"”

“Yes. Dear, for the rest of your life, and no, no it won't hurt.”

“Yes, please. What do I have to do?”

“Once you’ve become reindeer, you’ll pull my sleigh. I’ll magically attach the harnesses and reins. I’ll use the reins to tell you what to do.”

Bobby stood in front of the sleigh. “I’ve never been a reindeer. I don’t know how to obey commands from reins.”

Santa laughed again and this time it was a full belly laugh. “Donkeys and oxen can learn how to pull a cart. You look smarter than a donkey. You’ll be fine. Okay, now, everyone join Bobby in front of the sleigh.”

Quicker than it takes to say it, we were reindeer. The world was different. The smell of an owl’s nest with two owlets exploded in my nose. The other reindeer each had its distinct scent. Mabel smelled in charge and Audry smelled afraid. Santa smelled like cinnamon, cloves, and vanilla, with a hint of Prince Edward pipe tobacco.

It was quiet and noisy at the same time. The impatient shuffling steps from my fellow reindeer rang on the floor as clear as a church bell. Santa’s velvet suit slithered when he raised or lowered his arms. Mice scampered inside the walls. I sniffed the sleigh, and it didn’t smell like the garbage cart, it smelled like cookies fresh from the oven. I liked being a reindeer.

I turned my head to talk to Mabel, but I couldn't speak. The best I could muster was a neigh, a whinny, and then a snort. Mabel snorted back.

Santa hopped in the sleigh, snapped his fingers, and the interconnected harnesses comfortably attached us to each other and the sleigh. The harness was black leather and trimmed with hundreds of small gold jingle bells. We were harnessed two by two. Santa wiggled the reins gently and said, “Showtime! Out the door and into the sky. We’ve got places to go.”

A quick gust of wind swirled through the barn, the candles went out and the door popped open. My feet were in the air before I was outside. I never touched the ground again until morning.

I never got over that night. I loved to fly. It’s the reason that I joined the Army Air Corps right at the end of World War Two. So did Mabel. I flew fighters and Mabel became a WASP. She delivered aircraft all over Europe, but women weren’t allowed to fly missions. One Christmas Eve, I was shot down near Antwerp. She stole a Grumman Hellcat, flew it across the English Channel, and landed it on a dirt road. I have no idea how she found me, but she did. That’s a story for another time. She likes to tell it to our three kids on Christmas mornings.

It was only one night, but it seemed to last forever. We made an amazingly quick tour of the United States. Niagara Falls was beautiful, and Washington DC was brighter than a sack of new pennies. Santa brought us in low enough over New Orleans that we could hear the music from the French Quarter. Those people never sleep.

We circled Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower. Paris gleamed in the moonlight. Germany was busy, smoke billowed from the factories, and the trains rushed from town to town. Santa did a splash and dash on the Danube. We flew so low that the sled’s runners and our feet just touched the top of the river. Beautiful.

We didn’t land anywhere, and Santa didn’t go from door to door, well I should say that he didn’t go from chimney to chimney. Every few minutes, another sleigh and another Santa flew up from the ground. Our Santa and the new Santa greeted each other and then our Santa tossed a sack to the new Santa. The sack grew bigger before it landed in the other sled. No matter how fast we flew, Santa never missed a toss.

He lit his pipe, puffed a couple of times, and said, “Maxie, I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if I’m the real Santa Claus, then who are all these other men dressed like me riding in other reindeer-driven sleighs? Well, Maxie, the world is a big place, and it gets bigger every year. Three hundred years ago, I could do this by myself. Remember when the Bamberger Santa, he’s actually Mr. Campbell from the hardware department, said, ‘Everyman who wears the suit and has Christmas in his heart can be the real Santa.’ That’s mostly true, but not every one of them every year. I choose the ones I need and deputize them, you might say. Like the eight of you, they’re my helpers for the night. Only some of them will remember being Santa Claus, but even those who don’t will remember it as the best Christmas they’ve ever had. I think of them as subordinate Clauses.”

I snorted twice and chuffed once. “Take it easy,” Santa chuckled. “I promised you that you’d remember tonight, and you will. Now, full speed, please. Russia is waiting.”

The night was an endless stream of glistening minarets, sparkling mosques, castles, hovels, stair-stepped pagodas, temples, city streets, and country roads. A fleet of outrigger canoes raced us in Polynesia for a few brief seconds as we island-hopped across the Pacific.  Santa sped under the almost completed Golden Gate Bridge in San Franciso, met three more subordinate Clauses over Chicago, and then said, “That’s the last stop. Only a few minutes to dawn and you need to be in bed before Miss Blain wakes up.”

I shook my head and said neigh. Santa laughed. “Maxie, Christmas comes when it comes, ready or not, and it ends when it ends. The night is over. Thank you for your help and Merry Christmas.”

Suddenly I wasn’t a reindeer anymore. I was Max, the orphan, and I was falling. I’d had falling dreams before and always woke up just before I hit the ground. This one ended the same way and I jerked myself upright with my fists clenched. I was in my bed in the boy’s dormitory at the orphanage. It was cold and the soft pinkish–gray light of dawn dimly lit the room through the frost-covered windows.

I was upset, thinking my Christmas Eve adventure had only been a dream. I glanced around and everyone was still asleep except Bobby, Ray, and Danny. Danny had tears in his eyes. He mumbled, “Did I just dream about being a reindeer and helping Santa Claus?”

Mabel answered from the open doorway. “No, it was real. Look!” She opened her hand, and she held a small gold jingle bell.

I unclenched my fists. I had a jingle bell in one hand. All of us did. The bells were heavy.

“Tree,” said Bobby. “There has to be a tree.”

The eight of us tiptoed downstairs. No reason to wake up Miss Blain until we had to.

The big front room was the same as it always was. No tree and no presents, but Miss Blain was already up. She held the front door open. Mr. Campbell and two other men carried the Christmas tree from Bamberger’s into the orphanage. “Merry Christmas, kids. We didn’t need the tree after Christmas Eve, and I asked Mr. Bamberger if I could bring it here. Where should we put it?”

Mabel ran to the picture window and shouted, “Here, please put it here. When people go by, they’ll see that we have a Christmas tree.”

Mr. Campbell smiled and said, “That’s not all. It was a slow Christmas season. The truck is filled with bicycles, gloves, dolls, toys, sweaters, shoes, and maybe a ton of Christmas candy. You’d be doing me a favor if I could leave it all here. If that’s okay, you can help unload the truck while I get the tree set up.”

He didn’t have to tell us twice. We were out the door like a herd of hungry reindeer.

Christmas was wonderful. Miss Blain was cheerful, and she let Mabel take charge of passing out the presents. It turned out that there was exactly the right amount of everything for every child at the orphanage to get exactly what they wanted.

Mr. Campbell stayed almost all day with us. He assembled bicycles, played catch, and taught the young boys how to spin a top and shoot marbles. He and Miss Blain kept sneaking little glances at each other. Maybe Miss Blain would get what she wanted for Christmas too.

Before noon, Mabel handed out the last doll and gave Freddie, the oldest orphan, the last pair of shoes, which were exactly the right size.

Mr. Campbell took a final sip of coffee and stood up. “I’m completely tuckered out. I need to get the truck back to the store and there’s a garbage cart in the yard. Any idea how that got there?”

I answered for all of us. “No sir, but we’ll push it back to where it belongs.”

“Thank you. There’s nothing like doing good deeds, especially on Christmas.”

“We should thank you. We didn’t think we’d be getting any Christmas. Santa Claus gets really busy.”

Mabel started to speak, but all that came out was a neigh and a chuff. Audry whinnied and so did Ray.

Mr. Campbell smiled and winked at me. He reached into one pocket, took out a single gold jingle bell, and held it out. “I think this fell off the Christmas tree. You’re right about one thing. Santa’s a busy man. It’s good when folks can pitch in and help him out. Good help can be hard to find.”

I reached into my pocket, took out my gold jingle bell, and showed it to Mr. Campbell. I winked back at him. “Yes, sir. Sometimes it’s hard to find good help. Merry Christmas.”

Robert Allen Lupton

https://robertallenlupton.blogspot.com

Robert Allen Lupton is retired and lives in New Mexico. He has three novels, seven short story collections, and three edited anthologies available in print and audio versions. Over 2000 of his Edgar Rice Burroughs themed drabbles and articles are located on erbzine.com

Our Guest Today is Author Gina Ardito #OurAuthorGang

Please welcome Author Gina Ardito

Gina Ardito is an award-winning author of more than twenty romances, a legendary singer in private, confined spaces (her car, her shower, her office cubicle), and a killer of houseplants. She hosts fun, informative workshops around the country. In 2012, Gina was named a Woman of Outstanding Leadership by the International Women's Leadership Association.

To her everlasting shame, despite all her accomplishments, she'll never be more famous than her dog, who starred in commercials for 2015's Puppy Bowl. A native of Long Island, New York, she lives with her husband, two children, the aforementioned famous dog, and two cat overlords. She's currently at work on the next CALENDAR GIRLS books, for release in the coming year.

For more information on Gina or her books please visit her website at http://ginaardito.com, follow her on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/GinaArditoAuthor or Twitter http://twitter.com/GinaArdito, or sign up for the monthly newsletter she shares with her ScribBLING Diva pals at http://scribblingdivas.com

(preorder at amazon.com)

After living in the carnival world, Polina Kominski is anxious to put down roots and build a life that includes a permanent home, and someday, a family. But first, she has to spend Christmas in Krakow, Poland to satisfy the final request of her late mother. Angry at having her strings pulled one last time, she's resigned to follow the detailed instructions left to her, but refuses to believe in the superstitions and allusions to magic her Mom wants her to experience. And, what's with number eight on her mother's itinerary, Kiss a Stranger.

To avoid facing his family's sins, international banker, Rhys Linsey, will travel the lengths of the globe in his quest to regain the collection of ancient artifacts stolen from him years ago. When he runs into Polina on a Krakow street, he volunteers to help her experience the beauty of the holiday while sharing the history and folklore of this charming city. No matter how much she denies the existence of magic, he's determined to prove her wrong.

Christmas in Krakow weaves a powerful spell, but Polina is running toward her future while Rhys is stubbornly mired in the past. Can the magic of the holiday extend beyond December to bring Rhys and Polina full-circle to love?