Joanne Smith - The 13th Gift - Part Two

***

Rick and I had few contentious moments in our marriage, but the extent of my Santa collection definitely created several.

Once, as we were packing the figurines away for the season, Rick asked me which of the jolly old elves was my favorite. We were running out of storage space in the basement, and he thought it time to thin down the collection. I looked around: my sister Carol—Aunt Sugar to my kids because she always carried candy for them in her purse—had made weekly payments on the hand-carved, pipe-toting Santa dressed in red long johns. She believed paying for presents on the installment plan kept loved ones close to her heart all through the year, or at least until their gifts were paid off.

Her motto: “I don’t just give gifts, I make memories.”

Not all of my Santas are store-bought; several of my favorites are made of construction paper and cotton balls, presents from my children in the early stages of their artistic careers. Rick gave me only one, a weary little fellow with sad eyes. The blue-robed Saint Nick always seemed out of step with the rest of the happy crowd, and I asked my husband why he had selected that particular one for me.

“He carries the burdens of the world, so the rest of us don’t have to,” Rick had said. “Give him troubles. Give me your troubles.”

Then he had kissed me and whispered, “I love you.”

***

As the origin of each Santa pinballed around in my brain, I realized Rick’s question wasn’t that difficult to answer.

“All of them,” I said.

Rick had thrown up his hands then at the thought of finding room to store my seven boxes of chubby little dudes. He was the closet organizer, the cupboard cleaner, the guy who drew a diagram to pack a suitcase or rearrange furniture. I’m more of a “shove, stuff, and close the door quickly” kind of girl.

“You want me reorganizing the storage closet?” I had asked.

“My place in the family, right?” he had said.

I gave him a polite “yes dear,” and handed him the largest box.

This year I will repack the decorations myself, but I have the feeling his spirit will be standing there with me, especially if I fall back on my stuff-and-slam method. And while it’s painful to think about, I realize that I will cherish the moments that remind me of him.

I rearrange several of the Santas, then do a 360-degree scan around the room. The evergreen illuminating the front window still needs trimming, but the lights make the room festive. Nick has fashioned the pine sprigs that broke off its frozen trunk into a centerpiece for the table. I dig out a peppermint-scented candle and place it amid the greenery. When I light it, the minty aroma fills the house.

“Smells like candy canes,” Megan says, surveying the room approvingly. “We should buy some.”

I had driven to Bellbrook Chocolates earlier in the day and had walked right past a display of candy canes on my way to purchase six boxes of candy for Terry to bring back to the folks at Gem City. I don’t want to seem ungrateful if they are the source of our mysterious gifts.

“Next time I go to the grocery,” I promise my daughter.

Megan insists on greeting our guest in a too-small red sweater adorned with a polar bear dressed in Santa attire. The sleeves miss her wrists by two inches. I try to coax her into a lovely purple sweatshirt I bought last fall.

“This is the only Christmas sweater I have,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m wearing it.”

The boys are less concerned about their appearance. They wear dress shirts scented with Easy-On Speed Starch. I add extra under-eye concealer to my makeup regime.

Earlier in the day, I had scrubbed the family room floor, the kitchen, the bathrooms. I want Terry to see a mother in charge, a family recovering, kids under control. We are not perfect, but we are better. Christmas is hard work; I’m tired but also energized. If we learn Rick’s coworkers are orchestrating this game of Secret Santa for our family, I want them to know they have made a difference. I half expect the lot of them to show up on our doorstep, just like the gifts.

Even Ben agrees to be part of the welcoming committee, and I wonder if he shares my suspicions that his father’s coworkers are not just being friendly, but are true friends.

“I want to hear what Terry has to say” is all he acknowledges.

In the kitchen, my eldest and I fill green and red bowls with chips and pretzels for our guest. The offerings look paltry on the dining room table.

“We should have baked cookies,” Ben says.

I look at him and raise my eyebrow to say that none of us could have fit another chore into this day.

“Next year,” I tell him. “We’ll make cookies.”

He is fiddling with a twisty tie on the potato chip bag, but the darn thing keeps falling off. When it lands on the floor a third time, I pick it up.

“What’s on your mind, Kiddo?”

I rethink the old nickname when Ben lifts his face and looks at me. The maturity I see chiseled there is a new work of art.

“It won’t be long before he leaves me, too,” I say to myself. “But he will come back … with a wife, maybe grandchildren.”

“Is Christmas always going to be this hard?” he asks quietly. “We won’t have the gift givers to help us through the holidays next year. How do we make it without them, without Dad?”

“We’re learning,” I tell him.

We lean into each other.

“We will hold each other up.”

The doorbell rings, and we step away from each other.

“Let’s go meet our gift givers,” I say.

“You really think it’s the guys from Gem City?”

“Yep. We’ll know for sure in a minute.”

But Terry arrives alone, carrying Christmas stockings filled with candy, small toys, and gadgets for the kids. Though he has been my friend for more than twenty years, Rick was our connection. My husband’s absence makes the conversation between us awkward.

“I remember when I first met him,” Terry says, still standing by the door. “I went over to his house on a Friday night with his brother Tom. Rick was sitting cross-legged on the floor in between two huge stereo speakers. He was bouncing up and down to the beat of the music. I’ve never laughed so hard. I just loved him.”

Megan sits on the couch beaming, her large smile encouraging Terry to share more tales of her dad.

“Please, let me take your coat. Sit down,” I say.

Terry shakes his head.

“I can’t stay long.”

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