Authors: Natale Ghent
“My mom’s sick. I have to get to the store,” I say.
The man stares at me sceptically, then dismisses me with a wave of his clipboard. He rubshis head with his inky hand, then shakes his head. “Wait here.”
He walks over to the piles of newspapers, grabs a couple of bundles and hauls them back to where I’m standing. He drops them heavily at my feet.
“Thanks, mister. My mom will be grateful.”
“Yeah, whatever. Merry Christmas, kid.”
I use my house key to cut the plastic tape that holds the papers together. They feel warm and smell of fresh ink. I shove the papers into my bag, then hurry across the road and back toward my neighbourhood. My “people” are curious and happy that I’m delivering their papers so early—except for Mrs. Geeter, who’s grouchier than ever. She eyes me suspiciously and counts her money several times before giving it to me. But aside from her, pretty much everyone gives me a tip. I’m my most cheerful self, wishing everyone a “Merry Christmas” as I pocket the money. I count 15 dollars in tips alone. That’s almost 5 dollars more than last year. I practically run through my route, finishing in record time. I have to hurry to catch the bus to the next town. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and all the stores will close early.
I race over to the bus station and catch the bus just as it’s pulling out of the station. I hand the driver a 2-dollar bill and he hands it back to me.
“Exact change only.”
I pull out a handful of change from my collection money, then carefully count out the right amount. I throw it in the change box, the coins rattling noisily down its metal throat. The driver shuts the door behind me and steps on the gas, sending me flying before I have a chance to find a seat.
The bus is packed with holiday shoppers and their runny-nosed kids. There are people standing in the aisle, holding the metal rail that runs along the ceiling of the bus. Their faces are sombre, not at all what you would expect for the season. They swing back and forth with the movements of the bus, like meat hanging in a freezer truck. There is one seat free—a window seat next to a big, grumpy-looking woman with bags and boxes at her feet. She sighs as I apologize, stepping over her and into the spot. I could have stood in the aisle too, but I don’t want to look like meat in a freezer truck. I want to look out the window at the decorations and things.
All the houses and shops in town are decorated with lights and ribbons and ornaments. One house even has its door wrapped up to look like a Christmas present. In many of the house windows you can see Christmas trees standingproudly. I feel happy, despite everything that’s happened over the past few days. Then I think about the harness I was going to buy for Smokey with my collection money. That will have to wait now.
The bus leaves our small town behind and careens along country roads for about fifteen minutes. The air is stuffy and hot. The grumpy woman seems to be getting bigger by the minute. Her legs and shoulders are pressing me into the side of the bus. I can hear her breathing heavily beside me. She digs a candy out of her purse, her elbows stabbing me in the ribs. She rustles the wrapper loud and long before finally stuffing the candy in her mouth. I turn my back to her, just slightly, to let her know I’m uncomfortable. She takes the opportunity to take up even more space. I feel like I’m going to die by the time the bus finally pulls up to the mall and opens its doors.
Of course, the grumpy woman waits until everyone is off the bus before she struggles out with her parcels. When I step outside at last, I breathe deeply, taking in the cold fresh air. I see the woman struggling with her things, trying to juggle all the parcels. I watch her for a bit, then offer to get her a shopping cart, even though I justwant to get on with my own shopping. But it’s Christmas, I tell myself. She thanks me profusely, then presses a quarter into my hand like it’s a gold doubloon. I think of something smart to say, but just wish her a merry Christmas instead and light out for the stores before she asks me to push the cart for her or something.
The mall is packed with people. Holiday music blares over the sound system as bodies struggle to move from store to store. I am swept up in the stream, merging with the rest of the shoppers. When I reach the jewellery store, I break out of the flow. The store is lit up like a doctor’s office with shining glass displays and women who look like mannequins behind the counters. There are mostly men in the store, buying rings and things for their girlfriends and wives. A young woman with too much makeup and straight black hair to her waist smiles at me.
“Can I help you find something?”
“I’m looking for glass figurines.”
She motions me to the back wall of the store and points to a display of Royal Doulton figures. There are shelves and shelves of pretty young women in expensive Victorian dresses doing everything from gazing at birds to swinging on swings. I shake my head.
“I’m looking for figurines of animals. Horses and sheep and such.”
The woman thinks for a minute, then reaches below one of the counters.
“We have these.”
She holds up a tiny white glass greyhound with three tiny white greyhound puppies strapped together with a fine gold chain.
“Is that all you have?”
The woman nods.
“How much is it?”
She checks the small tag on the bottom of the figurine. “Twenty-five dollars.”
“What?!”
Ma would deck me if she heard me respond like this, but I can’t help it. Twenty-five dollars is more than I’ve got. And it’s not even what I wanted to buy for Cid. I was hoping to come home with several horses and things that she liked, not a bunch of prissy greyhounds tied together with a fancy chain.
“Would you like to think about it?” the woman asks me.
“Yes. I’m going to look around a bit. I really had my heart set on a horse.”
I move from store to store, manoeuvring through the holiday shoppers. I’ve become as desperate as the rest of them. The stores are practically empty, the best things already sold and gone. The horses and sheep that I do manage to find are too big and too expensive.
After an hour and a half of searching, I’m ready to give up. I’ve checked every store in the mall. At the last minute, I drop into a card shop—just in case. The store isn’t as busy as the rest. A white-haired woman arranges candles in one of the aisles. I scan the store quickly and decide there’s nothing for me. Great. I’m done. I’ll never find anything for Cid. Then I catch a glimpse of a tiny wicker basket on one of the glass shelves. I look inside the basket and discover a small porcelain fawn curled up with a tiny blanket as though sleeping. The basket with the fawn is so small it fits neatly in the palm of my hand. I don’t even check the price but bring it up to the counter, where the white-haired lady rings it in.
“Eight fifty-nine.”
I count out the money exactly and hand it to the woman. “Do you have a small box?”
“I have some tissue paper. Will that do?”
I walk out of the store with the fawn wrapped in tissue paper in a small brown bag. I’m so happy I found it, and happier still that I have enough money left over to buy the presents I want to getfor Queenie and Ma. I’ve been planning all along to buy both the black and silver hoof polish for Queenie. And Ma will get bath salts like every year, but I have enough money to buy her some nice soap and maybe a candle to go with it.
I see the bus pulling up to the stop so I run to catch it. I jostle with the other people, this time taking an aisle seat. It’s dark now and there’s nothing to see anyway. I’m so excited about the fawn that the bus ride goes by quickly. When we get back to town, the snow is falling again in big white flakes that dance in the light from the street lamps. I walk home slowly, enjoying the night, my newspaper bag still slung over my shoulder and resting against my thigh.
Walking in the snow like this reminds me of the time that Dad saved Christmas. He used to do all kinds of things to amaze us, like light his hands on fire without getting burned, or peel the layers from a golf ball so we could play with the rubber ball inside. But the most amazing thing he ever did was make it snow one Christmas Eve. We were really little. We told Dad we wanted snow. He called the weatherman to tell him he had three kids who wanted a white Christmas, and when we woke up the next day, the ground was covered in a deep blanket of white. Wethought Dad had arranged it. We thought it was a miracle….
I stop at a red light and stand at the very edge of the curb, my tongue stuck out to catch snowflakes. I catch one, the flake cold against my tongue for just a second before it melts. The light turns green and I walk across the street to the alley that shortcuts to home. The alley is a dark tunnel. The garbage bags and cans are capped with snow. In the street at the very end of the tunnel, a red stop light blinks. I’m looking at the light when suddenly I see a silver Pontiac Parisienne zip across the opening like a giant phantom fish.
I know it’s my dad.
I run down the alley as fast as I can. I have to catch that silver fish and see for myself who’s inside. The ground is slippery and I slide all the way along the dark tunnel. When I burst onto the street, I can see the car idling at the intersection. I run towards it, yelling at the top of my lungs.
“Hey! Hey! Wait!”
The car starts to pull away just as I reach the corner. I can’t make him out but I’m pretty sure it’s Dad. I haven’t laid eyes on him in years but I would recognize him anywhere. There’s a blonde woman sitting next to him and a small child in the back seat. They’re laughing about something and don’t notice me running and yelling after them.
“Hey, wait!” I shout, but the silver fish darts across the street. I make a snowball and whip it at the car. “Come back!” The snowball arcs smoothly, falling just behind the car. I throw another and another, running recklessly into the intersection. A car skids to a stop beside me, the driver cursing as I stumble past.
“Watch where you’re going!”
I ignore him and run across the intersection. I can see the boy in the back seat of the Pontiac turned around and staring at me through the window. His face is pale and empty. The Pontiac slips in and out of the lamplight and is gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Come back!” I scream again, even though I know the car is long gone. I fall to the ground and slam my fists in the snow, unaware that the man who almost hit me has been watching the whole time.
“Are you okay, kid?”
I don’t answer, but stand up and fix my scarf, then turn and walk back across the intersection. I want to scream at the man to leave me alone and mind his own business. He shakes his head and drives on. My mind is spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl. What is Dad doing here? Why wasn’t he back in the States? Why didn’t he come to visit us? I think about him and that woman. I think about them laughing and enjoying themselves like we don’t even exist. Does that woman know he has another family? Why was she any better than Ma? And what about the kid? Who was he?
Suddenly I realize that I’ve lost the brown bag with the little fawn inside.
“Oh, no, no, no….”
I search the street frantically, but I can’t see the bag. The snow is falling so heavily now that my own footprints are nearly covered. I start to panic for the little fawn, and run back and forth along the street. How could I have been so stupid? At last I see a small brown pouch at the side of the road in front of the alley. I must have dropped it when I made that first snowball.
When I reach the bag I see that it has been run over by a car. The top is crushed and dirty. My heart sinks to see that the tiny basket is flattened on one side. The little fawn is fine, however, sleeping peacefully beneath the blanket despite all the commotion. For some reason, the sight of the fawn in its damaged basket makes me feel so sad and sorry for myself that I can’t stop the tears from coming….
When I get home, Cid and Queenie are sitting by the fire. They look at me kind of funny because they wonder where I’ve been and they can see that I’ve been crying. I sniff hello and then go straight to my room so they won’t ask me anything. I stay upstairs for a long time, trying to decide if I should tell them about Dad or not. I try to fix the basket. The straw is broken and can’t be straightened properly. I have no choice but togive it to Cid the way it is. The disappointment sits in my stomach like a rock. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted it to be better than the ones Dad gave her. I cover the fawn with the little blanket, then tie the tissue around it with a piece of ribbon. It looks small and worthless. As I place the fawn in my drawer I decide not to tell the girls that I think I saw Dad—yet.
* * *
Christmas morning finally arrives. The snow is falling more heavily than ever. The wind has picked up too, causing big drifts to form on the lawns and streets. The plows have been running all night. The snow is so bad that there are no cars on the road. Normally this kind of weather would make me crazy with excitement, but given the events of the past few days I can’t help feeling a bit numb. I haven’t been to the barn in three days, which is really terrible—I’ve never missed a day before. But I’ve been feeling so low, it was all I could do just to finish my Christmas shopping.
When I get downstairs, Queenie and Cid are already up, digging through their stockings, which Ma has filled with mitts she knitted at the office, and oranges, and candy canes, and things she found at Woolworth’s. The rule in our houseis you’re allowed to rummage through your stocking first thing Christmas morning—even if you are the only person up—but you have to wait until after breakfast to open your main gifts. I don’t know who came up with this rule but we’ve stuck to it since I can remember.
“Did you look out the window at the snow?” Queenie asks, as I shuffle into the living room.
“Yeah, I saw it. It’s pretty bad out.”
“It’s worse than bad, Nat. It’s crazy. It’s supposed to blizzard for days!”
Queenie’s enthusiasm is like medicine. I decide to cast off my glum face and make the best of it, as Ma would say. I tuck the little fawn in its tissue wrapping into the branches of the tree and place my gifts for Ma and Queenie beside the few carefully wrapped gifts on the floor. Ma is busy in the kitchen, making pancakes with real maple syrup. Her boss gave her the syrup as a gift, which I think was really considerate of him. Ma lets us eat in the living room by the fire this morning—a special treat for Christmas. I help her carry the plates of pancakes, the small syrup bottle looped through my pinkie.