On Christmas Eve

  “How about tomorrow?” he replies.

  There’s a place in Hopewell where the people who live in town buy their trees. But we live far out in the country and we have never bought a tree. We always take our sled and search through the woods behind our house until we find just the right tree, and then we saw it down and pull it home on the sled.

  “Can we wait until Sarah gets here,” I ask, “so she can come with us?”

  “Of course,” says Dad.

  Mr. Benjamin still has not come home from the hospital. Sarah is going to spend the weekend with us again.

  I go back to my chain making. I am so excited that I can’t control my hands, and I keep smearing glue all over the strips of paper, causing looks of vague disgust from Evvie. I can’t help it. This year I will actually be able to see what Santa thinks of our tree. I want it to be decorated especially beautifully for him.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Mom and Dad and Evvie and Sarah and I dress in our warmest clothes and set out across our backyard with the sled. Sadie bounds along beside us, leaping through the snow.

  “What kind of tree should we look for this year?” asks Dad. “A scrawny, skinny one?”

  “No!” Evvie and I cry, and Sarah smiles.

  “A little fat one?” asks Mom.

  “No, a tall, fat one,” I say.

  “Not too tall,” says Evvie.

  “It has to be perfect,” I say.

  “It should be tall and round and thick, like a tree in a storybook,” says Sarah seriously.

  We walk deep into the woods.

  “How about this one?” asks Dad.

  “Not tall enough,” I reply.

  “There’s a big hole in the branches,” Sarah points out.

  “How about this one?” asks Mom.

  “Too thin,” says Evvie.

  We look and look and look. It takes a long time to find the perfect Christmas tree. Sadie is the one who finally finds it. She sits down in front of a plump fir tree and gives us a doggie grin, her tongue hanging out.

  “How about Sadie’s tree?” I ask.

  “It’s tall enough,” says Evvie.

  “And fat enough,” says Mom.

  “And just full enough, with no holes,” says Dad.

  “It’s a storybook Christmas tree,” says Sarah.

  Everyone agrees that it is perfect. So we take turns with the saw until finally the tree rests on its side in the snow.

  We lay it on the sled and are about to start home when Sarah shyly takes Mom’s hand and says, “Mrs. McAlister? Look at that tree.” She points to a tiny tree, not more than two feet tall. “Could we cut that one down too?”

  “To be your Christmas tree?” says Mom. “Don’t you think your mother will want to help choose a tree?”

  “Oh, yes,” replies Sarah. “She will. But I thought she could take this one to Dad. We could even decorate it for him. With little tiny decorations. It’s just the right size for his room in the hospital.”

  “That’s a lovely idea, Sarah,” says Mom.

  So we cut down the tiny tree and add it to the sled. When we finally head back, we are walking in the dusk, snow whirling around us.

  “Your dad will probably be home soon,” I tell Sarah, “but until then, he can enjoy the little tree.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Sarah replies. “Maybe we should start rehearsing our Christmas songs after all, just in case. And we should make the program.”

  “After we write down the names of the songs we’re going to sing, we can decorate the program with pictures of wreaths and holly berries,” I say.

  Sarah nods.

  We walk along in silence. The woods are so quiet that after a while I almost forget where I am. And the next thing I know I am back in that room with the fire and the Christmas tree. Now I see that it is our very own living room. And the tree, the one that is decorated, is the tree we have just found. Exactly the same one.

  I shake my head. The vision disappears. It has been another sign, I think. A sign that we have found the perfect Christmas tree, and that when we decorate it, it will make Santa happy. He will whoosh down our chimney, all tired from delivering presents around the world, and there will be a beautiful, glittery, sparkly tree to make him forget, at least for a moment, his aching feet.

  I look down and find Sadie trotting along at my side, looking back up at me. She’s wearing that doggie grin again, and for the second time I have the funny feeling that she knows what I’ve been thinking.

  “Christmas Eve, Sadie,” I whisper. I’d like to say more, but Sarah is beside me, and anyway Evvie believes it’s crazy to talk to animals, and I do not want to do anything to spoil our walk home with our trees.

  The days are growing shorter and shorter. In about a week we will have the shortest day of the whole year. It was barely light when Sarah and I got up this morning, and now, in late afternoon, it is already growing dark again.

  Mrs. Benjamin has stopped by and picked up Sarah, and Evvie and I are sitting at the table in the kitchen, drinking hot chocolate. I stare out the window, to the back porch and our perfect Christmas tree. When we brought it home yesterday we stood it there in a bucket of water. Now it is waiting to be brought inside and decorated.

  I am still gazing out the window when Evvie says to me, “What are you thinking about, Tess? You have the weirdest expression on your face.”

  What I am thinking right at this very second is that it isn’t polite to tell people they look weird, and that Evvie could stand to be a little more tactful. But that sounds rude too, and Santa Claus might be listening. So I say, “I am thinking about Christmas Eve.”

  “About seeing Santa Claus?” replies Evvie, and I am surprised she remembers.

  “Yes,” I say cautiously.

  “Tess,” Evvie begins, and she is using her most annoying big-sister voice. “Tell me … how, exactly, do you plan on seeing Santa?”

  “I am not just going to see him, I am going to meet him. I’m going to talk with him. I have a whole lot of questions to ask.”

  “Okay. How do you plan on meeting Santa? You can’t simply go downstairs and wait for him. Do you know how many kids do that every year? And have you ever heard of one who actually saw Santa?”

  I squirm in my seat. I am not squirming because of what Evvie has said. I know that when I wait for Santa I will meet him. I am squirming because I do not want to tell Evvie my plan. I think it might jinx the magic.

  “Tess?” says Evvie.

  “Well …”

  “I just don’t want you to be disappointed on Christmas Day.”

  I think of something. “Even if I don’t see him, it won’t mean there isn’t a Santa Claus,” I say brightly. “It will only mean I didn’t see him.”

  Evvie sighs. She sips elaborately from her mug. “Tess, you really are way too old to believe in Santa Claus. You know that, don’t you? Sarah doesn’t believe in him. Just think about this: How could there possibly be a Santa? We know where our gifts come from. We buy them for each other. Sarah and Maggie and our other friends drop them off. Nana Florence and Papa Jim mail some.”

  “But —”

  “Even the ones with tags that say they’re from Santa,” Evvie rushes on, “aren’t really from him. They’re from Mom and Dad. They just write ‘Santa’ on the tags for fun. Have we ever gotten a present that wasn’t actually from Mom or Papa Jim or Sarah or someone?”

  I have been waiting for that question. “What about the snow globe?” I ask.

  Now it is Evvie’s turn to squirm. She twists in her seat. She frowns. I know she knows exactly what I am talking about. It was Christmas morning two years ago. We were opening our presents. And I found one under the tree with a tag that read “For Tess from Santa. Merry Christmas!” The tag didn’t look like any of the tags we had used when we wrapped our presents that year. It was plain white with a small gold star in one corner. The wrapping paper wasn’t ours either. But when I opened the box, I turned to Mom and
Dad and said, “Thank you, Mom! Thank you, Dad!” anyway.

  Mom and Dad looked at each other.

  “Isn’t this from you?” I asked.

  “No,” said Mom.

  “No,” said Dad.

  They looked at each other again.

  “Evvie?” I said. “Is it from you?”

  Evvie shook her head.

  “Maybe Nana Florence sent it,” I suggested.

  But when we called Nana and Papa that night, Nana said the snow globe sounded lovely, but it wasn’t from her.

  Mom decided Nana Florence must have forgotten she had sent it, but I could tell she didn’t believe that.

  “It really is from Santa,” I announced, wondering just how many of the gifts we receive each year are from Santa — but Mom thinks Dad bought them and Dad thinks Mom bought them, and in all the excitement nobody cares much anyway.

  Now Evvie says stubbornly, “The snow globe must have been from someone.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “It was from Santa.”

  Evvie rolls her eyes. “For heaven’s sake.” She pauses. “Okay. Tell me this: How does Santa fit enough presents for all the children in the world into one pack and deliver them in a single night? That is not possible.”

  “Evvie,” I begin, “he doesn’t need enough presents for all the children in the world, only for the ones who celebrate Christmas. And Santa is magic. Anything is possible with magic.”

  “Santa still has to grant Christmas wishes for absolutely millions of children,” Evvie says impatiently. “Besides, what about poor children?”

  “What about them?” I ask.

  “Why don’t they get as many presents as other kids? Santa should be especially nice to them since their parents can’t afford to buy toys. He should buy them lots and lots of gifts. But some kids don’t get any presents at all. And what about,” Evvie rushes on, before I can answer her, “kids like Sarah who wish for things that aren’t toys?”

  “What do you mean?” I say, even though I know perfectly well what she means.

  “I mean that I’m sure Sarah’s wish this year is for her father to get better. Do you think Santa can make him well?”

  My heart begins to pound. This is exactly why I need to talk to Santa Claus. I consider Evvie’s questions. “Well,” I say finally, “I think that sometimes, instead of leaving presents, Santa gives the gift of magic to people who need big important things to be done, like finding better houses or getting jobs for the grown-ups. Or making sick people well.”

  Evvie is giving me a look that I have seen more and more often on her face since sixth grade began. It is a combination of disgust and disbelief. But she tries to be kind and doesn’t say anything. Instead she carries her mug to the sink, rinses it out, and leaves me sitting at the kitchen table.

  I look down into my mug and poke at a melted marshmallow. I think about Mr. Benjamin and Santa Claus. I know that Sarah’s wish is actually for her father to be able to come home from the hospital in time for Christmas, but I am not sure that Santa can grant wishes before Christmas Day. The best I can do is wait until I see Santa on Christmas Eve and ask him please to make Mr. Benjamin well so that he’ll be home for Christmas next year.

  First thing on Monday morning I open the fifteenth window on my Advent calendar. Under the flap is a picture of one of Santa’s elves. My stomach jumps. We are getting closer and closer to Christmas Eve.

  I dress in red and green that morning. Green jumper and red blouse with red tights and my saddle shoes.

  When Evvie sees me she cries, “Tess, you look like a Christmas elf!”

  That is the point.

  We hurry to the kitchen.

  “Girls,” says Mom, “don’t take the school bus home this afternoon. I’m going to pick you up. Sarah too. We have to run errands in town.”

  “My angel wings!” exclaims Evvie.

  “Yes, we’ll go to the sewing store,” says Mom.

  Every year the kids at our church put on a Christmas pageant, the Nativity. Every year I love watching it, and every year Evvie loves being in it. I have never been in it. I do not like being stared at. But Evvie has been in it year after year. She has played a sheep and a cow and a shepherd and a goat and another sheep. This year, though, she is going to be the angel Gabriel. And Maggie is going to be Mary. For the last three weeks, whenever Evvie and Maggie have not been curling their hair or whispering about Dan Soderberg, who is the cutest boy in their class, they have been rehearsing their roles in the pageant. Since they don’t have to say any lines, Evvie has been practicing waving her arms and looking angelic, and Maggie has been practicing holding a baby and looking holy.

  Evvie wants her Gabriel costume to be perfect. And we have to make a new one, because last year’s angel, Carl Hatley, was two years older and eight inches taller than Evvie. His costume will never fit her. Evvie wants gossamer wings and a gold halo and, if possible, to look as though she is standing in a cloud.

  “We’d better go to the hobby shop too,” Evvie says. “We need gold wire and sparkles.”

  “Do you need to do any Christmas shopping, Tess?” Mom asks.

  “A little,” I reply. I am making most of my presents in school. That is what we do all December in art class. I am making candy dishes for Mom and Nana Florence, and pencil cups for Dad and Papa Jim, and a head-band for Evvie.

  But I still need presents for Sarah and Sadie. And something for Santa. I have decided that since I am going to meet Santa, it would be nice to give him a gift — something better than the cookies and hot chocolate I always leave for him. Probably everybody leaves him cookies and hot chocolate. There is Santa flying around the world dropping off wonderful gifts, and what does he get in return but plates of cookies and gallons of hot chocolate. I bet he can’t stand cookies and hot chocolate by now. I want to give him something else.

  “Mom, can Sarah and I shop by ourselves while you and Evvie get the things for her costume?”

  “Certainly,” replies Mom.

  “Goody.” I love going into town at Christmastime. Everything is lit with tiny gold lights. The lampposts are wound with green garlands and red ribbons. And the store windows … I could look in them forever. They’ll be full of stars and wreaths and angels and Santas and reindeer and elves and snowmen and tinsel and bows. The window of the toy shop is my favorite. Mr. Vinsel fills it with moving toys — an electric train, a twirling ballerina doll, marionettes that somehow dance all by themselves, a Santa who waves his hands, a little black dog that jumps up and down. Plus, Mr. Vinsel plays Christmas music, so you can look and look and look in the window while you listen to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and “It Came upon a Midnight Clear” and “Jingle Bells.”

  In town that afternoon Sarah and I wave good-bye to Mom and Evvie. Then we walk down the street, pausing to gaze into every window.

  I have four dollars and eighty-one cents in my change purse, which I think will be enough for three presents. “I need to buy a present for Sadie and one for you,” I tell Sarah. (I do not mention the present for Santa.) “You can come with me to the pet store, but not to Jensen’s, okay?”

  Sarah grins. “Okay. While you go to Jensen’s, I’ll go to the Fir Tree. No spying! We’ll meet at Mr. Vinsel’s window later.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  At Noah’s Ark, Sarah helps me choose a bag of dog cookies for Sadie. Then she goes to the Fir Tree, and I scuff along the snowy sidewalk to Jensen’s. When I step inside, I stamp my feet on the mat, then head straight for the dollhouse furniture. I have decided to get a Christmas tree for Sarah’s dollhouse. I know she has wanted one for a long time. I choose one with tiny decorations and lights on it. I am about to carry it to the counter when I see something that I know will be the perfect gift for Santa.

  It’s a snow globe. But inside the globe, in all the whirling snow, is a springtime scene — a garden in bloom. It’s a funny scene for a snow globe, but I think Santa will like it. For one thing, he probably never gets to see s
pring flowers up at the North Pole. Also, the snow globe will be my way of telling him that I know about the other snow globe, the one he left for me two years ago. The one that was a clue that Santa is real.

  When I have paid for the snow globe and the Christmas tree, I have only fourteen cents left — one dime and four pennies. But I don’t care. My Christmas shopping is finished, and I know I have gotten just the right gifts. Well, I know Sarah’s and Santa’s gifts are right. But I am not certain about the cookies I have chosen for Sadie. It is so hard to know what to buy for a dog.

  That night I carry a roll of wrapping paper and a spool of red ribbon to my room, close the door, and wrap all my Christmas gifts. I love Christmas secrets, even the ones that aren’t magic. When the gifts are wrapped, I line them up on my bed and stare at them.

  “This is the beginning,” I whisper. It is the beginning of absolutely the most Christmasy time of all December. And this year it is when I begin to hurtle toward Christmas Eve and Santa and the magic.

  * * *

  On Tuesday Sarah rides the bus home with me after school, and we plan the carol program for her father.

  On Wednesday night Dad brings our perfect Christmas tree inside, and he and Mom and Evvie and I decorate it. We unpack our decorations from their old boxes and admire the new decorations I made with Sarah, and we drink hot chocolate and sing “O Christmas Tree.” I get to put the star on top of the tree, and Evvie gets to plug in the lights. When she does, Dad turns off all the lamps in the living room and we look at our tree, shining in the dark. It is the tree from my Christmas visions.

  On Thursday Sarah comes home with me again, and she and Evvie and Mom and I bake batches and batches of Christmas cookies — gingerbread men and bells and stars and reindeer and Santas. Our kitchen is warm, and our house smells of spices. We put the cookies into tins, one for the Andersons, one for Evvie’s teacher, one for my teacher, one for Sarah and her mother, one for us, and one for Sarah’s father.

  On Friday when Sarah rides the bus home with me, she is carrying her suitcase. She will be with us until Sunday. She doesn’t say much. There are only six days left until Christmas. The tiny tree has been set up in Mr. Benjamin’s hospital room, and we will put the program on for him the next day. Mom has said she will drive us to the hospital.