In the porch swing she started a slow, steady motion, watched the fog of her breath in the mist.
Cease-fire. Hope. Whatever ails you.
A shadow moved through the park. She quit swaying. Yes, there it was again. A boy. Not one of her cousins. Waving a flashlight, he flitted beneath the hissing leaves of the trees. What was he doing? Sarah squinted to see. Another movement, farther down the street. There was Santa, loping up the sidewalk, swinging his bag. His boot heels clicked on the concrete. The streetlamps brightened as he came, haloes in the mist, as though, just by walking past, he was lighting them. One by one, on the corners, they flared. His timing was just right, giving a magical glow to the night.
The boy was spying on Santa. As the big man swung his bag, candy flew from it, but he didn’t seem to notice. When Santa had gone a little way, the boy sprang from the trees, swept his flashlight along the curb, grabbed the stray sweets, and shoved them into his pockets. Then he’d rush back into cover. Sarah studied Santa’s walk. Was it a real Santa walk or the walk of a father in a costume? How could you tell? What was the difference between a —
“Sarah?”
Her mother stood in the doorway, one foot on a wooden plank in the porch, the other inside the house. The plank whined beneath her step.
“Yes?”
“May I come sit with you?” Sarah’s mother pulled her coat collar around her neck. She sat down, jostling the swing. “Aren’t you cold?” she asked Sarah.
“No.”
“Santa will be coming soon, honey.”
Sarah glanced up the street, but saw no one now. “I’m sorry,” she said to her mother.
“For what, honey?”
“I’ll get you another present.”
“I love my present,” Sarah’s mother said. She squeezed Sarah’s hand. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Since your daddy’s been gone, I’ve not been myself. Do you understand? It’s hard on you, I know.”
“It’s okay.”
“We’ll have fun again. Soon. I promise.”
“Why did Daddy have to go?”
“You know why he went. Remember what you read in the paper?”
“He’s carrying the beacon of freedom,” Sarah said.
“Well, then.”
“The paper also said — ”
“I know. The paper says a lot of things. The words are confusing, but sometimes, you just have to trust that, that — ”
“Okay.”
“Oh, Sarah. Honey, will you be upset if I’m not up when Santa comes?”
“He’s — ” Sarah twisted her head to see. The street was quiet.
“Tomorrow I’ll feel much better, and we’ll enjoy opening our presents.” She kissed Sarah’s cheek. “All right?”
“All right.”
“I love you, Sarah. Sweet dreams. Thank you so much for my beautiful music box.”
Sarah’s mother slipped back inside. Sarah moved the swing again. Its chains clanked. She could still smell her mother’s perfume on her coat.
She stood and peered at the sidewalks, looking up and down the street, then into the trees. She saw the Big Dipper, above the tallest pine, and remembered two summers ago, at a barbecue in the park, her father had put frog legs on her plate, telling her they were catfish. She wouldn’t have eaten them if she’d known they were frog legs. When she found out the truth, she thought she’d gag, but she didn’t. She liked the taste and wanted more. Later, her father had chased her up the street, making bear-grrs. Still later, when everyone else had gone indoors, he had showed her Sagittarius, in the southern sky, just above the trees. “See those stars there, honey, they form a teapot, with the handle over here — ”
“And there’s the spout!”
“Right.” His aftershave smelled like Mr. Leery’s Emporium on a hot August day — in the far back corner of the store near the lights, with all the soap. As he knelt beside her, his cheek scratched her skin. Always, even after he shaved, his face was rough. She rubbed her arm where he’d brushed against her. “And that blurry line of stars, the Milky Way, see, it’s like steam rising from the pot.” As he pointed, the trees rocked in a breeze. It was as though he’d set them in motion with the wave of his hand.
Clock. Spoon. Stars and tea.
The boy tiptoed out of the park. Sarah stopped swinging. He moved his light along the street. He didn’t see her, or pretended not to. He spotted a piece of candy, then another, in the middle of the road. Sarah noticed their yellow wrappers in the beam. He ran out to snatch them, then vanished into the trees.
Her cousins shot each other dead inside the house now, falling against the Crosley, imperiling the Christmas tree. Sarah had moved the music box into her bedroom. Her mother’s door was closed. The uncles glanced at the door and shook their heads. They tried to calm the boys. “I wish the hell Santa’d get here,” the men groaned, “so we could call it a night and toss them into bed.”
It was fun, in a mean sort of way, to see the uncles frazzled. She imagined her father at peace, asleep inside a tent, warmed by the beacon of freedom.
The aunts were in the kitchen, helping Grandma with the dishes.
There was a boot-scrape on the porch steps. A knock at the door. The boys froze and stood at attention. One of the uncles called, “Who’s there?”
“Special delivery from the North Pole!”
The boys leaped and screamed. Santa came inside with a big belly-laugh. He knelt beside the couch, below the pictures of her mother and father’s wedding. He felt around in his bag. Sarah leaned forward. To the boys, Santa passed out apple taffy candies, then reached inside for more. “Well, now …” he said. “I seem to have …” He turned the bag over. He shook it once, twice. Nothing. He looked at Sarah. “I’m afraid I’ve …”
“It’s all right,” said one of the uncles. “The boys will share.”
“No no no!”
“Come here, little girl, and tell me what you want for Christmas. I’ll put you at the top of my list,” Santa said.
She recognized his voice. Her own voice had fled. She shook her head. Santa. Santa. What did it mean?
He waved her over. She didn’t move. The first time she’d seen her father in his army uniform, one weekend when he was home on leave from boot camp, she’d almost laughed at him, but something had stopped her. He was funny: a grown man playing dress-up. But the costume made him serious too. The material was stiff and perfect, with sharp creases at the elbows and down the sides of the pants. Her daddy was a new person now, wrapped up where she couldn’t get at him.
Now, Santa stood in her grandma’s living room holding an empty bag. Another man in a funny get-up. Sarah couldn’t pretend she didn’t know the truth. Her mother was right, she thought. Best to shut the door. Grandma turned to her and smiled. “It’s fine, honey. Tell him what you want.”
A clock. A spoon. A wonderful time.
She backed up, bumped against the radio, then pushed through the front door, onto the porch. The park trees bent with the wind. She rubbed her arms. A minute later, Santa followed her out. He folded the bag across his arm. Sarah slid behind the swing. She heard the window blinds rattle and saw her uncles’ squinchy faces, peering out at her.
“I’m sorry your father’s not here, Sarah,” Santa said. “I’m sorry your mother’s upset.”
“It’s okay,” she said. A croak. She cleared her throat. “I already got one.”
“One what?”
“A taffy. The other day. In your store.”
Santa laughed. “Well. We can’t fool you, can we?” He sat on the swing.
“Is that glued on?” She touched his beard. It felt like Blackie’s fur. What she remembered of Blackie’s fur. She didn’t want to forget the old dog. Please don’t let me forget, she thought.