Christmas memories for most kids revolve around the time they got a new bike, or a puppy, or when they got a Red Ryder 300-shot air rifle with a compass in the stock. I remember a blood-stained Santa Claus.
It was 1974, and times were hard for us. My dad had been killed in Viet Nam the year before. We were struggling along on what remained of his Army life insurance payout and my mom’s wages from waiting tables at Shoney’s. I was ten at the time, and really missed my dad, but my mom missed him more, I could tell. She cried even more than I did.
The Christmas of 1973 had been bad enough. My dad wasn’t there, and unlike the previous two Christmases when he couldn’t be there because he was in Phnom Penh or Mekong or some other weird-sounding place, we all knew he would NEVER be there again for green bean casserole, or red velvet cake, or Uncle Greg’s stupid knock-knock jokes. He just wouldn’t.
But for a nine-year-old boy, one of the most important things about Christmas is getting gifts. You know it’s true. I guess because my dad had only been killed six weeks before Christmas, lots of people felt sorry for me. So, I actually got more presents that Christmas than I ever had before. I felt sort of guilty about being happy for getting all those presents since my dad couldn’t be there, but I finally figured he would want me to enjoy my new stuff instead of moping around.
But that was 1973 and this was 1974. Money was really, really tight. Gas was expensive, and people weren’t leaving big tips for my mom any more. People didn’t think about me being the kid whose father had just gotten killed in Viet Nam. It happened to too many other kids, and I wasn’t special now.
So, in late summer my mom started working a second job at a QCQ Discount Sporting Goods. She had to beg for the job, because the only position they had open was in the firearms department, and the manager had never hired a woman to work there before, much less with the guns. But my mom knew about guns, thanks to my dad. She dazzled the store manager with her talk of calibers, bores, grains, and semiautomatic shotguns vice pump shotguns.
Mom sort of liked working there, I think. She got a lot of flirting from the guys who came in to buy ammo, or fishing line, or a new hunting license. That always lifted her spirits. And she dressed well, every day. When I asked her why, she told me, “Timmy, you have to make a good impression, whether you’re selling a shotgun, taking an order for waffles or closing a big business deal.”
I remember going by there once when she was working, pretending to buy some dry flies (which I didn’t even use), just so I could talk to her. She was wearing a crisp white blouse and a navy skirt, and her nametag was aligned perfectly on her left lapel.
She was showing a pistol to a customer. “Now, Mr. Harrison, you did say this handgun was for your wife, didn’t you?” She smiled at the man.
The suit-wearing businessman managed to turn a little pink. “Ummm, well, yes, it is. With all the trouble these days, I like to think that my Belinda will be safe when I have to be out of town on business.” He drummed his fingertips on the glass display case.
My mom tilted her head as she asked, “Isn't your wife about my size, Mr. Harrison?”
Mr. Harrison cleared his throat. “Well, yes – about your height, but some heavier, I would think. Yes, definitely a little heavier.” He got pinker.
My mom laughed, a small, feminine laugh. “Well, if she’s a little heavier, she MIGHT be able to handle this Ruger Super Blackhawk in .44 Magnum, but I think she would like something a little lighter and easier to handle. You big, strong men like to think that we women can shoot the same guns you shoot.” She shook her head and laughed again.
She placed the large, heavy revolver back in the case, and instead drew out a smaller weapon. “Now, Mr. Harrison, this is a Smith & Wesson LadySmith. It holds five rounds, is chambered for the .38 Special, has a two-and-one-half inch barrel, and has a special alloy frame that allows for a lighter, more feminine gun.” She leaned forward confidently. “This is the sort of pistol I keep around my house for protection, Mr. Harrison. I think Mrs. Harrison would prefer it, don’t you?”
The red-faced businessman took the revolver from my mother and sighted down it. It was obvious even to me that he had probably never fired a pistol in his life, and I had to stuff my fingers in my mouth to keep from laughing.
“So, Mr. Harrison, will that be cash, check or charge?” my mother asked, reeling the fish up to the net.
“Cash, I think. And thank you, ummm…” the man peered at my mom’s nametag. “Thank you, Jennifer.”
The man left, and I could see my mom relax as I walked up. She dropped the fake smile, and gave me a real one. “Timmy, what a surprise! How did you get here?”
“I rode my bike. Mom, why did you tell that man you have one of those revolvers at home? You don’t.”
My mom blushed then. “Timmy, I know his wife, I’ve seen her at the hairdresser. She is about my height, maybe thirty pounds heavier, but there is no way she would shoot that big Ruger revolver. One time on the range, and she’d be so scared of the sound of it, she’d never shoot it again!” She sighed. “So, I bent the truth to be sure he got the right gun for his wife. It was for his own good.”
That was my mom. She would have made a bigger commission on the other gun, but she knew she wasn’t doing the best for the customer that way.
But even with two jobs, things were tough. The restaurant cut her hours, and then she caught the flu and had to miss work for four days. That really hurt. I had asked for a new football and helmet for Christmas because I wanted to go out for PeeWee football the next year, and I talked about them a lot. Every time I did, her eyes got red, and she had to cough and clear her throat. She said it was just the flu lingering on.
One night after dinner, I was helping her wash up the dishes. I noticed when she handed me a plate to rinse and dry, she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring any more. Now, that engagement ring was something special to my mom, and I remember her telling me more than once how my dad had saved a whole year to buy it for her, even though it wasn’t all that big.
I asked her where it was. She sort of cleared her throat and stared out the window at old Mrs. Jacobson walking her Pekingese on the sidewalk. “Mom, what happened to it? Did you lose it?” I asked again.
“Ye… yes, Timmy, I lost it. I lost it yesterday when I went downtown.”
“Well, do you know where you lost it? Maybe we can go back and find it.”
Mom shook her head, her red curls bouncing around her head. “No, Timmy, we won’t find it. Someone else has it by now, I’m sure.”
I argued with her about it for a while, but she wouldn’t give in. In fact, she changed the subject.
“So, Timmy, what position do you think you’ll play next year in PeeWee football?”
I puffed out my chest. “I figure I’ll play fullback, Mom, or maybe halfback.” But I looked down at the spoons I was wiping with a towel. “I won’t be able to play if I don’t get more practice, and if I don’t have a helmet.”
“Oh, I think Santa will bring your helmet and football this year, Timmy. That is, as long as you continue to be good the rest of the year!”
I nodded vigorously, and polished the spoons to a high gloss before putting them in the silverware drawer.
* * *
There was an upsurge in business at the Sporting Goods store. Mom sold three more pistols in November, because of a series of break-ins that had occurred. In one case an old lady had been beaten half to death, and in another a guy was stabbed. People were scared, and thought they could defend their homes by buying a pistol and sticking it in a drawer somewhere, like it was a magic charm that would keep the burglars away just by being there, whether they knew how to use it or not.
November came and went, and thousands of turkeys said their last “gobble-gobble.” With the first day of December, the Christmas month had officially arrived, and all my friends and I were involved in constant conversation about what we would get that year and whether we’d get what we’d asked for.
Strangely, the days of December both flew and crawled. When I wasn’t paying attention, the day would sneak off and leave me behind. But when I kept a close eye on it, the day nonchalantly dragged its feet and looked for ways to waste itself. Eventually, though, it was Christmas Eve night.
Mom sent me to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, and then came to tuck me in. I said my goodnight prayers, remembering to pray for all the guys still over in Viet Nam. Then Mom kissed me and told me to sleep tight. “And absolutely, positively, do NOT get out of bed before that clock says 7:00!” She looked at me sternly. “I’ll not have you waking me up at 4:00 am like you did year before last, young man!”
I giggled. “No ma’am. I promise I won’t get up till I’m supposed to.”
Mom turned out the light and closed my door. The Christmas lights outside my window made colorful patterns on the ceiling, and I watched them as I drifted off to sleep, thinking of Johnny Unitas and the Super Bowl.
But I started having a bad dream. In my dream, my mom was yelling at someone, and someone was yelling back at her. Then I realized it wasn’t a dream! For some reason, my mom was yelling at somebody. Was she mad at Santa Claus? Had he forgotten to bring my football and new helmet?
I eased out of my bed, and crept over to my bedroom door. I opened it slightly and was able to hear my Mom say, “Just get out! You’re not taking any of this stuff, not after I worked so hard for it! Not after I gave up…” and she sobbed a little.
I heard someone laugh, then say, “Now look, you be quiet, or I’ll take more than the presents! I know your husband ain’t around no more, honey! Why, I ought to just…”
Then I heard the gunshot. It was so loud! I’d never heard a gun shot inside a house before, but it echoed and echoed. Forgetting my promise to Mom about not getting out of bed, I ran out of the bedroom and into the hallway.
There was Santa Claus. Or at least, he was dressed sort of like Santa. He had on a red coat trimmed with white fur, and a fake beard that was pulled halfway off. It caught on the branches of the aluminum Christmas tree when he knocked it over, I guess.
And there was my mom, frozen in the living room doorway, right under the mistletoe. In her hands was a pistol, still smoking from being fired. I looked at Santa again. He was bleeding through his red suit, onto the white fake fur. His eyes, if they had twinkled before, didn’t twinkle any more.
“Mom! You shot Santa!” I yelled from the hallway. But Mom just stood there. I went over to her and grabbed her arm, shaking her. "Mom, you shot Santa!" But she shook her head.
“No, Timmy, he’s not Santa. He's just a burglar dressed like Santa to make people less suspicious when he's walking down the street at night. I heard a noise, and looked out to see if you had snuck out of your room. I saw this guy messing with the packages. He was putting them in a sack, not taking them out, so I knew he wasn’t the real Santa.” She kept the gun pointed toward the man by the tree, but he wasn’t moving. “Hand me the phone, Timmy, and dial the operator for me.”
The police came in minutes. They sat with us and asked my mom lots of questions. They found where the man had parked his car down the block, and where he had broken the lock on one of our doors to get in the house. They asked to see the registration for Mom’s pistol, and she showed it to them. They nodded. Finally, the older policeman said, “Mrs. Patterson, it looks like a very clear case of self-defense, but of course there will have to be a hearing.” My mom nodded, and the policemen left after telling her they would call her back in a couple of days about the date for the hearing.
My mom was cleared of any wrongdoing at the hearing. I’m glad she didn’t have that little LadySmith that she sold that Mr. Harrison. My dad always said, “Timmy, a .45 ACP round will stop anyone. It’s like getting hit with a ballbat.” That’s why he bought my mom that Colt .45 caliber military pistol and taught her how to shoot it, I guess.
I didn’t realize until much later that she had pawned her engagement ring to pay for Christmas presents for me. When she thought that burglar was going to take the presents, and thought about what she had given up for them, she just wasn’t going to stand for it. And when he started toward her, she brought her hands up in a classic Weaver stance and fired one round.
That’s when I ran out of my room. That’s when I saw Mommy killing Santa Claus, underneath the mistletoe that night.
Copyright
©2005, Tony Burton All
Rights Reserved