The Last Believer

The Last Believer

by Harry Buschman

It always snowed on Christmas Eve. Sure as the clock the first flakes fell early in the afternoon. We would be on our way home by then because old man Langley closed the office at lunch time.

He stood at the far end of the drafting room, bundled up and ready to leave. "Merry Christmas, everybody," he'd shout and It was the signal for us to leave hard on his heels – some of us would stop and have a beer or two at Hurley's before catching the train home. Some office romances would linger a little longer and there was always one or two single people from out of town who had nowhere to go for the holidays.

The railroad ran extra trains in the early afternoon. The schedules were loose and you would see people you never saw before. Many of them were tipsy and it was a fair bet they would ride past their stop to the end of the line. They would find the return trip long and embarrassing. Looking through the dirty windows of the home-bound train the first flakes were falling, and I’d count off on my fingers the presents I bought for family and friends, to make sure I hadn't forgotten anyone. I was resigned to the inevitable that somebody on the list was unchecked – I should have started earlier. But it was time to call a halt and if it wasn't bought and wrapped by now, there was always next year.

The train pulled into Westlake Village on the east-bound track. Some of us headed for the wall phone that hung in the cold dark station, others struck off on their own – knowing their wives were busy in the kitchen and could not drive down to get us. There would be an inch or two of new snow, like cake frosting, to smooth over the dingy parts of town. Some of us stopped for a Christmas drink at the Hollow Leg Saloon. On Christmas Eve drinks were on the house and Clancy the bartender wore his red and green suspenders. There was Irish music on the phonograph.

The road to home was only a quarter mile up Breakneck Hill. It would be a bitter cold quarter mile, and when we reached the crest of the hill the north wind would be waiting. But the sight of our houses, the smell of wood smoke and the cooking, (not to mention the warming bite of Clancy's bourbon) would insulate us from the chill of the late December night.

At that moment we would become separate men, each of us distinct and alone to himself – no longer were we a group of homeward bound husbands. I would be me, and you would be you.

The pies were being made. Apple and mince for us – squash for the old folks. The girls were stringing popcorn and cranberries in the living room – the young one stuck herself and quickly blamed the older for pushing her.

"Don't take your coat off dear – get the tree before it's covered with snow. I don’t want snow on the living room rug." The debate would begin as to where the heavy iron stand had last been seen.

"It's under this or behind that – or perhaps it's in the garage back of the lawn mower." Wherever the stand might be, it would have to be found before the tree was brought in; like opening an umbrella indoors, it was bad luck to lay a Christmas tree flat on the floor.

At last it stood warming itself in the corner, concealing the picture of Uncle Fred for the duration of the yuletide season.

I always asked, "Anybody want to take a last look at Uncle Fred?" No takers! There was never an answer. For the next few weeks, Uncle Fred would stare glumly through the tinseled branches at the festivities he never got to see while he was alive – or dead for that matter.

I would get the lights and the decorations and the kitchen stepladder. The younger daughter would abandon her tiny string of popcorn and cranberries and plunge into the business of ornamenting the tree. It was the father’s job to hang the lights and climb the ladder to hang the topmost star. It was the mother’s job to tell the father the tree leaned a little too much this way or that way – "and turn it so the bare spot is against the wall."

The old dog, a stickler for the status quo, would view the proceedings with mixed emotions. He had been through enough Christmases to know that the quiet placidity of the next week or two would be interrupted. He would stare at the tree from his warm spot by the sofa, accepting the fact that this tree was sacrosanct – unlike other trees that could be peed upon, this one was for looking at only. He was prepared for a late night filled with hushed whisperings and muffled thumps from the attic and the basement. He knew he must ignore these noises tonight – but only for tonight, for they are the same noises every dog has sworn to the death to defend his family from. He could only hope that he would be walked and fed at regular intervals.

Christmas Eve supper was a casual affair, and quickly disposed of. Leftovers, eaten only to clear space in the refrigerator for tomorrow's onslaught of uneaten turkey wings, cranberry relish, creamed onions, turnips, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes. The lady of the house looked worn and faraway, with her mind on the night to come, the dinner tomorrow, and what she should pray for at the Mass in the morning. I looked haggard and wondered if I would be able to get the car out of the driveway now that the snow was six inches deep. The younger daughter asked if she would be able to see the footprints of Santa and his reindeer on the roof, now that the snow had fallen. The older daughter ate and ran because she was caroling with the junior class of Westlake high.

The younger daughter "believed." The older daughter did not. We were torn between honesty and subterfuge. We promised the younger that the fire in the hearth would not burn the feet of Santa, and he would be mightily impressed if he found cookies and milk by the Christmas tree – he might even leave an extra present or two. Reluctant to relinquish the enchantment of Christmas eve, and yet knowing, with a child’s cunning, that unless she took to her bed, the magic of Christmas morning would never come, she would at long last, unwillingly say good night.

But, she had to be read to first – something seasonal to keep the juices flowing, and in the midst of the reading of the "Grinch," or was it "The Little Drummer Boy," the carolers arrived to fill the house with song. We had to go down to hear them. The girls' voices were pure as temple bells, but the boys sounded gritty and unmusical – like elderly drunks singing barely remembered school songs at a class reunion. The older daughter was not with them. She was singing with a group on the posh side of town where the take would be considerably greater.

With the last strains of "Deck the Halls" ringing in our ears, a bright eyed soprano displayed a basket already primed with dollar bills. "For music books," she explained, "We need music books for next year." It is Christmas after all, and only the grouchiest Grinch could resist a request for new music books on Christmas Eve.

We were on our own now. The work of the night could begin. Younger daughter asleep and the older one back from caroling – already on the phone and smelling faintly of cigarettes.

"Where did we hide the Easy-Bake oven?"

"Where is the new tricycle?"

"What did you do with the wrapping paper?"

"I told you we needed Scotch tape!"

The round-up began amid urgent whisperings and stifled accusations. We alternated between panic, frenzy and dismay – with long periods spent reading obscure assembly instruction sheets written in translation from the Japanese. A large sherry calmed the storm, and at last we were alone to admire the tree and the package filled living room. There was peace, a hush and a stillness so profound that it almost convinced us there might once have been a night like this long ago. The mother, the father, and the dog, mesmerized by the lights, the smell, and the memory of Christmases past.

There would be no believers under this roof next year, the younger daughter would discover the hoax at last and from that moment there would always be a touch of disbelief in our solemn word. Little by little the magic of life would slip away from her. The Easter bunny would not leave colored eggs in the living room, and the moon was not made of green cheese. Life was real, life was earnest, and a tinge of skepticism would make a woman of a little girl.

"I suppose this will be the last year she believes." I ventured.

"In Santa Claus? You're funny."

"Why? What makes you say I'm funny?"

"She didn't believe last year – I thought you knew everything." She said. "You remember the record player we got her last year?"

"Yes, the damn thing didn’t work."

"You had to go back the next day and get a replacement, didn't you?" She smiled at me tolerantly. "You took her with you, didn't you?"