A CHRISTMAS STORY

By James S. Dorr

He wasn't dreaming of reindeer and sugarplums. At least not yet.

But as Timmy Hunter lay in his bed, still half awake, he did

think about the new fallen snow, ideal for the runners of Santa's

sled when it came in to land. He thought about the crisp night

air, and about how Santa would be bundled up against the cold.

About how, with so many homes to visit, so many more presents to

be delivered before Christmas morning, Santa would be tired when

he got there.

Tired and hungry.

#

Downstairs, Timmy's mother, Annet, was finishing decorating the

tree. She turned to her friend, Charles.

"Darling," she said. "How's the eggnog coming? Did you leave

some unspiked like I asked you?"

"Just about finished," Charles replied. He straightened the red,

fur trimmed cap on his head, then looked at her sternly. "The

unspiked for you?"

Annet giggled. "Only if I've been a good little girl, Santa.

What do you think?"

Charles laughed as well as he poured out two cups with rich,

sweet rum in them. He handed one to the slim, dark-haired woman

who reached out to take it, then put it down on the table behind

her. "First things first, Santa," Annet said, smiling.

He set down his own drink and pulled her to him, his lips meeting

hers, as she, in turn, steered him toward the soft fleece rug in

front of the fireplace. "Not too loud, darling," she said

between kisses. She guided his hand to the back of her skirt.

"One time, before . . . before Robert died, Timmy actually came

downstairs thinking he'd heard the real Santa Claus and. . . ."

Charles held her to him. "You're sure you're okay, Annet? I

mean, I know it's been more than a year since the accident, but

some memories stay on. They _should_ stay on. They. . . ."

Annet touched her finger to Charles' lips. "Shhh, darling," she

said. "Of course I loved Robert, but I love you too, now. And

Timmy likes you. The really sad memory -- you'll think this is

silly -- but Timmy's so young. The really sad thing was, what

with the funeral expenses and all, I couldn't afford to get Timmy

the presents he'd wanted that Christmas. And you know what?"

She giggled the way she had before. "I tried to explain to

Timmy, about the money, but he was too young to understand.

Instead, he blamed Santa."

Charles reached to straighten his cap again, then glanced to his

right, to the jumble of brightly wrapped packages heaped

underneath the tree. "Well," he whispered, "I hope _this_ Santa

will have helped make it up to him this year."

"Yes, I think so, darling," Annet said. She pressed against him

and nuzzled his neck, then pulled him down with her onto the rug.

"But what about _me_?"

#

"It was a lousy Christmas for Timmy," Annet said, after they'd

readjusted their clothes and were sipping eggnog on the couch.

"All I could wrap for him was a scarf and some shirts and things

-- the kind of things kids know they'll get anyway -- and one or

two cheap toys. I was really afraid he'd lost his belief in

Santa that year. Still, kids bounce back. This year he wrote

his letter to Santa Claus as usual. You know, you've seen it.

And then, tonight, just before bedtime, he shooed me out of the

kitchen the same way he's always done to make Santa's sandwich."

"Santa's sandwich?" Charles asked.

"Yeah," she said. She started to snuggle closer to Charles, then

glanced at her watch and stood up instead.

"Oh, my gosh," she said. "It's almost time for you to leave, and

I'll need you to help me. Anyway, you know how, when you were a

kid, you maybe left out milk and cookies for Santa? So he could

have a snack on his rounds? And then, Christmas morning, you'd

always check to make sure some of the milk had been drunk and the

cookies eaten?"

"Yeah," Charles said. He put his red Santa Claus cap back on.

"Of course, later on, we realized it was always Dad who. . . ."

"Shhh," Annet said. "Timmy doesn't know yet that you're going to

be his new daddy. I thought tomorrow night, when you come over

to have dinner with us, we'd make the announcement. . . ."

"I _love_ you, Annet," Charles said in her ear, then held her and

kissed her. "But you're right. It is late. What are you going

to want me to do?"

"Well, we do a sort of variant here. It started because neither

Robert or I cared for milk -- you know how it is when you get

older. So I'll get you a glass from the kitchen and I'll want

you to pour the unspiked eggnog in it, then take a big drink, so

it makes a stain on the glass like milk does, then put it on the

mantelpiece."

"Okay," Charles said. He waited until she came back from the

kitchen, a milk glass in one hand and a sloppily put together

sandwich on a paper plate in the other. He took the glass and

filled it with eggnog straight from the carton, then went to the

fireplace and took a big drink.

"How am I doing?" he asked with a wink, as he set the half empty

glass down on the mantel.

"Wonderful, darling," Annet said. "But now comes the tough

part." She handed him the plate with the sandwich. "You see,

after we'd convinced Timmy that Santa would probably prefer to

have eggnog instead of just milk, he got his own idea. He

figured, instead of store bought cookies, Santa would rather have

something he'd made for him all by himself. So" -- Annet giggled

-- "that's why I'll need you to take a big bite of this perfectly

_awful_ peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

Charles gave the sandwich a dubious look. "You know something,

Annet. Maybe I could just tear off a corner. . . ."

Annet laughed. "It has to be a _real_ bite. He'll check it.

That's why the eggnog had to be unspiked -- he'll put his nose in

the glass to check it too in the morning."

Charles looked down at the plate again, at the lumpy bread-

covered form in its center. "Peanut butter and jelly, eh?"

"It's his favorite sandwich. The way he sees it, it's nothing

but the best for Santa." She kissed him quickly. "Do it for

me?"

"Well," he said. "If you put it that way." He set the plate

down on the mantel, next to the glass, and picked up the

sandwich. He took a big bite and chewed it and swallowed.

"My God. It's gritty!"

"He must have used crunch style peanut butter," Annet said. "And

lord knows what else he had on his hands -- he's only a kid."

She took the rest of the sandwich from Charles and put it on the

plate on the mantel, then kissed him hard. "But it means so much

to him. . . ."

#

. . . and Timmy's eyes finally closed of their own accord as he

drifted off to sleep, his hand still clutching the box of rat

poison from the kitchen that he'd used to make Santa's snack

extra special. He dreamed, not of sugarplums and reindeer, but

of the crummy trick Santa had played the last Christmas. The

clothes and the cheap toys. How, for a whole year, he'd planned

to get even.

He slept very soundly, not even hearing the screams that began to

echo downstairs, and he dreamed about Mommy's new boyfriend,

Charles, and how much nicer _he_ was than Santa.

- END -

________________________________________

"A Christmas Story" was first published in the Winter 1991-92 issue of CEMETERY DANCE.