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Hickory Farms

The gifts of Christmas

By
Bob Markwalter

When I was 12 years old, my father was transferred in December to a new job in another city. Two weeks before Christmas I found myself attending a new school and living in a new neighborhood, a thousand miles from the friends and family I had known all my life.

"Jobs aren't easy to come by these days," Dad explained.

"But why now?" I wailed.

"Well, Todd, we have a buyer for our house here and she wants to close before Christmas," Dad said. "And we have found a new place out there. You'll like it. It'll work. You'll see."

But it wasn't working. I was miserable during the week I was in my new school before Christmas break. I could tell that the other kids thought I talked funny. I knew that they thought the way I dribbled a basketball was strange. Even the way I ate lunch drew stares.

No one hung out with me. No one even talked to me. I found myself going into my little brother's room for company. Being a little brother, Alex didn't help much.

The only friend I had was Wilson, my big black cat. I had been afraid Wilson would wander off and get lost in the new neighborhood but after he explored the back yard of the new house he settled into his routine of napping, eating, and chasing the occasional startled squirrel up a tree.

Wilson made me feel good when he sat on my lap and purred as I scratched his back. But even Wilson wasn't going to make this anything but a rotten Christmas. I knew it just couldn't get worse.

But it did.

Our new house was actually an old house that was being remodeled. It was all right, I admitted to myself after three or four days in my new room. The house was big, with high ceilings, and had lots of windows. My room was at least twice as big as the one in our old house. There was a big family room and lots of space for toys. Alex and I even had a playroom.

The house was almost finished, but the workers knocked off early two days before Christmas and said they would be back after the holiday to finish the one room that was not done. That was a big storage room at the back of the house, and that was where the fire started.

Mom had dragged Alex and me to the mall for some last minute Christmas Eve shopping. I was grumpy and tired and feeling very sorry for myself by the time we turned onto our new street. I was staring out the window at nothing in particular when I heard Alex say, "Wow! Fire engines!"

Mom slowed the car as I looked ahead to see three fire trucks. She gasped as we got closer. I looked again. The trucks were in front of our house.

Some firefighters were rolling up hoses by the time we got out of the car, while others dragged wet, smoldering furniture out of the front door. Mother looked, sobbed once, and grabbed Alex as he started to walk toward a fire truck.

"Mrs. Lawton?" asked a firefighter.

Mom nodded and looked at him like she was trying to understand something.

"I'm Captain Landers, Mrs. Lawton.," the firefighter said. "I know you're upset, but I have to know: was there anyone in the house?"

Mom swallowed and shook her head, then said, "No, no one in the house."

"Mom?" I said.

She looked at me and said, "Oh honey, I'm sorry. Wilson, my son's cat. He was in the house, officer."

The firefighter nodded his head and walked over to talk to a couple of the people who were bringing things out of the house. They nodded their heads and went back in.

The firefighter came back to us and said, "We'll look again. We didn't find anyone, or any animals, but we'll look again. Some of the rooms are, well, pretty heavily damaged."

Mom sobbed. Alex began to whimper. I wanted to cry but I couldn't. Wilson had to be all right. I was already having the rottenest Christmas in the world. Then I hated myself for an instant. Here I was, feeling sorry for myself, when Wilson might be ... I buried my face in Mom's coat and began to sob.

Dad showed up from work, pale and shaken, but assuring us everything would be all right. It was all insured, he said, everything. A lot of our stuff hadn't arrived yet from our old house, so we had pictures, and toys, and lots of other things. We might not have much in the way of gifts on Christmas morning, he allowed, but we were lucky at that.

Mom was more herself by this time and she said, "We have each other. That's all that really counts."

But we didn't have Wilson. The firefighters didn't find him. I heard a lady who had taken off her helmet tell Dad that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't in the house, because there was still debris to be cleared. But maybe, she suggested, Wilson had escaped through his cat door.

Our neighbors across the street took us in that night. They were the Whalens, and they had talked a few times with Mom and Dad. Their twins, Alan and Judy, were in my class at school, but they had never spoken to me.

Their house was old and big like ours, or what had been ours. It was filled with Christmas decorations and they had a big tree in the huge entrance hall. Mrs. Whalen hugged Alex and me and said, "Come in and make yourselves at home. Let me take your coats and I'll make some hot chocolate, then you can have a nice hot bath before dinner."

I didn't feel like hot chocolate, a bath, or dinner, but the chocolate and bath made me feel well enough to come to the table. Mr. Whalen said a prayer, which included us, and we ate.

The Whalens were nice. They got Mom to talk about our old house, and our family and friends. Then they talked about our new town, and about their family and friends. The rest of us sat in silence until Alan asked me, "Will you pass the potatoes, please?"

"Sure," I said, passing the big bowl of mashed potatoes.

He spooned potatoes onto his plate, handed the dish back to me, and said, "That's a pretty cool dribble you've got. Would you show me how you do it?"

"Uh, sure," I said.

"And me," said Judy.

"She's the point guard for the sixth grade girls' team," Alan explained.

"Cool," I said, and smiled for the first time in hours.

After dinner, Alan and Judy took Alex and me to their game room. Alex loved it. I played, but my heart wasn't in video games. Alan put down his game controller after beating me for the third or fourth straight time and said, "I'm really sorry about your cat. Mom and Dad told us. We had a dog, Jonesie, who died last year. I still miss her."

"Thanks," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say, but suddenly found myself asking, "Why didn't anyone talk to me at school?"

"You didn't talk to anyone," Alan answered. "And you didn't act like you wanted anyone to talk to you. You acted, sort of angry all the time."

I thought for a minute and said, "I was angry. We moved so suddenly, and left all my friends behind."

"We'll introduce you to everybody," Judy told me.

"This isn't such a bad place," Alan said.

"No, no it isn't," I told him.

At bedtime, Alex and I shared one of the Whalens' guest rooms. We lay there in the dark. You could still smell the burned wood from our house. I thought of Wilson and wanted to cry again. Then Alex said, "Do you think Santa will know we're here for the night?"

"I don't know," I told him. "Maybe not."

"I hope he does," Alex said.

I knew Santa wasn't going to leave anything for Alex and me under the Whalens' tree. I didn't care. I wanted Wilson. Nothing else mattered.

Alex was worn out from the excitement of the fire, because he was not awake before dawn on Christmas morning. I was, though, but as the sky began to grow brighter I lay in bed. I had been angry, so angry I thought everyone else was angry at me. I hoped Wilson hadn't thought I was angry at him.

Mom opened the bedroom door and said, "Hey, sleepy heads, don't you want to see what Santa left?"

Alex opened his eyes, rubbed them, and said, "Santa? Santa! He knew we were here, Todd, he did!"

I threw one of Alan's robes over the pajamas he had loaned me and followed Mom downstairs. Everyone else was already there. And there were presents everywhere. And all over the room were firefighters, wearing crisp blue uniforms and big bright smiles.

Dad smiled at Captain Landers, the man Mom had talked to, and Captain Landers said, "Funny thing happened last night, Alex. Seems Santa couldn't figure out where you and your family were spending the night, so he dropped your presents at our engine house and we brought them over here for you this morning."

"In a fire engine?" asked Alex.

"In a fire engine," the captain said, pointing out the window. "And another funny thing, Todd. When we pulled up to the curb a little while ago, someone was waiting for us."

A firefighter stepped up and held our her helmet, and in it was ...

"Wilson!" I cried.

"He was a little dirty and plenty hungry," Captain Landers said, "so we cleaned him up and fed him. But he seems just fine now."

He was just fine, and I squeezed him so tightly he meowed in protest and dug his claws into my shoulder. I didn't care. He was back, and he was fine.

Everyone else began to open presents, but I held Wilson and watched. He began to squirm as soon as the first wrapping paper hit the floor and in a few minutes he was rustling happily through the mess. I joined him.

The firefighters took us for a ride on their truck, then they took everyone in the neighborhood for rides on their truck. They stayed for lunch - which they had brought and cooked - before going back to the firehouse.

As they left, I heard Dad tell Captain Landers, "You don't know what this means to us, to the boys. And you should have been home with your own families."

"Our families are used to not seeing us on Christmas morning," the captain told him. "We'll see them tonight. And don't forget about bringing the neighborhood kids down to the engine house. We'll give them the grand tour."

I was much happier after that day. Alan was right about our new home not being such a bad place. It was a great place, full of great people and great times. I played on the basketball team, laughed in the cafeteria, learned to drive, fell in and out of love, and managed to grow up.

Those are all wonderful memories, but none is as wonderful as the memory of that Christmas morning that Wilson came back to me. I do not remember much about the presents I opened that morning, but I will never forget the gifts I received.

Copyright 2002, Robert A. Markwalter

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