Silhouette Christmas Stories Page 29

  "Maybe," Andrew said, coming quietly behind her, "he left because it was time."

  "Andrew, I told you-" She stopped herself. "What do you mean, 'it was time'?"

  "Christmas is over," he said with a shrug. "Maybe it was time to go home."

  "Oh… Andrew." Karen sighed and put her hands on her son's small shoulders. "Darling, you don't really believe that Mr. Clausen is Santa Claus, do you?"

  "Tony believes in Santa Claus." Andrew's chin was up; his face had that set, stubborn look Karen knew so well. "He told me."

  "Honey, listen-"

  "And anyway, if he's not Santa Claus, then how come he gave me exactly what I wanted? It has to be him, Mom, he's the only one I told. It must be him." He looked so earnest, so grave, so young…

  "You mean you told Mr. Clausen what you wanted for Christmas?" Karen said carefully. Understanding was dawning, revelation coming like a sunrise.

  Andrew nodded.

  Karen took a deep breath; it seemed that the train mystery was solved at last. And she'd been wrong. "But, darling," she said gently, "why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because," he said with heart-wrenching simplicity, "I knew you couldn't get it for me."

  "But, sweetheart, if I'd had any idea how much you wanted a train, I would have found some way-"

  "Train?" Andrew's voice was puzzled.

  "Well… yes," Karen said, taken aback by the bewilderment in her son's face. "Isn't that what you asked Santa- I mean Mr. Clausen-for? The train?"

  Andrew shrugged. There was an enigmatic smile-a secret smile-on his lips, and an unreadable look in his eyes. "Of course not," he said. "I asked him for a new dad."

  Author's Note

  The Christmases of my childhood and young adulthood were always spent at my grandparents' house. A few days before Christmas, we'd pile into my grandfather's old pickup-Mom and my Aunt Mary and Uncle Russell and any cousins and friends who wanted to come along-and drive up the canyon to cut a tree. We'd find a nice, hardy little piñon and Papa would chop it down, and we'd take turns dragging it back to the pickup. The tree would be installed in the living room on a base made from an old tire. It was Mary's job to decorate it, because she was the only one who could put the tinsel on right. In the later years, we had electric lights, but when I was very small, I remember, we still used candles. They were only lit once, on Christmas Night.

  On Christmas Day, the family would gather for dinner. If the weather was nice-and it usually was at that time of the year in that lovely little valley tucked between the arid Tehachapi Mountains and the southernmost tip of the Sierra Nevada-the children would sit out on the porch. The grown-ups sat at the big dining room table, expanded for the occasion so that it stuck out into the living room, with Papa in his overalls presiding at the head and Grandmother flitting back and forth between the table and the kitchen, ignoring everyone's pleas to "Sit down, Mama, please!"

  In the evening, after the livestock had been fed and the cows milked, everyone gathered again around the Christmas tree. The old farmhouse wasn't large, but somehow it always seemed to hold everyone, sons and daughters and in-laws, all the children and babies- especially the babies! There were always a few "extras," too, because anyone who didn't have a place to go on Christmas was welcome at my grandparents' house. And Grandmother saw to it that every person there had a package under the tree. We'd sing carols for a while, until the kids got restless. Then we'd light the candles on the tree and sit in their glow and sing "Silent Night."

  Once the candles had been blown out, it was pandemonium, with kids yelling and paper and ribbons flying. Papa's special gift was always a five-pound box of See's candy, which, for the rest of the evening, he took great pleasure in passing around. Finally, stuffed with pumpkin pie and chocolate, loaded down with packages and sleepy children, everyone would drift away. But never very far away. Because to each and every one of us, that old farmhouse was home. And every day my grandparents lived in it was Christmas.

  When I was very small, we lived for a time with my grandparents. On one of those long-ago Christmases, a box arrived from far away-no one seemed to know where. In the box was a beautiful, brand-new Lionel electric train.

  Everyone thought Papa must have bought it, though he steadfastly denied it, and to be sure, it wasn't his way to be modest about his gifts. I think he would have been proud as punch to be the bestower of that wonderful train, as he was with his annual Christmas box of chocolates. So we never knew where it came from, and if Papa knew, he took the secret with him when he left us.

  In any event, on this and every Christmas, I wish for you the gifts my grandparents gave to me and to everyone-kin or stranger-who came into their home. Simple gifts: warmth and welcome and unconditional love.

  ***

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