Not Because it's Christmas

NOT BECAUSE IT'S CHRISTMAS

         The chilling cold in Doris Taylor's small apartment on this, her sixth Christmas, was not broken by a roaring fireplace. Instead, her bulging red stocking hung from a nail in the wall above a gas spaceheater. There was little warmth in the project housing.

         Her crayon-written letter to Santa asked only for a rosy-cheeked doll found in the thick, dog-eared Sears catalog. That, and the stocking she knew would hold sweet surprises, would fulfill her meager dreams.

         She awoke to the sound of her mother's voice. "Time to get up, kids. Come see what Santa brought you."

         Doris, instantly awake, tossed away her blankets and sprang from her bed. The rusted springs screeched like a badly tuned violin. Bare feet met frigid wood floor as she ran down the narrow hallway, past the colorful picture of Jesus. In her haste, she narrowly avoided a collision with her brother, Devon.

         Mama waited by the heater, leaning forward eagerly in her creaky rocking chair. She wore an anxious smile.

         Doris tugged her stocking from the nail and emptied it in a rainbow spill onto the floor. Treasures! Hard candy of all colors; pecans, walnuts and her favorite, Brazil nuts, formed a sweet landscape.

         "Why don't you look under the tree, Doris, honey," Mama suggested. "The green package, I believe."

         Devon had gathered branches trimmed from other people's trees at the Christmas tree lot down the street, tied those branches together, and placed them in an empty five-pound coffee can wrapped in aluminum foil. His decorations were the tops and bottoms cut from tin cans with holes punched through them and strung with string. Mama provided a length of tiny, twinkle lights -- half no longer twinkling. The whole apartment smelled of pine.

         Doris scrambled toward what she thought must be the most magnificent tree in the world and picked up the green box. Her gap-toothed smile disappeared when she realized the box was not large enough to contain the big, blue-eyed doll.

         Still, she tore away the paper and lifted the top off the cardboard box inside. Her smile returned when she saw the brand new pair of black, patent-leather shoes--so shiny she could see her own reflection: wide-eyes and a toothy, white smile set amidst the pecan-colored skin of her young face.

         She held the shoes out proudly for her mother to see. "Look, Mama! Look what Sanna Claus brought me!" she exclaimed in a breathless squeal.

         "Girl, you must have been good when I wasn't looking."

         "No kidding," Devon agreed, punching Doris in the arm. "Brat."

         It hurt Doris a little, but attention in any form from Devon was a treat as rare as the new shoes themselves. To say she worshipped him would be a gross understatement. At nine years of age, Devon was the man of the house.

         "I think there may be something under the tree for you, too, Devon," Mama said, as if seeing the package for the first time.

         Devon looked up from examining the contents of his stocking and saw his mother nod. He dropped to his knees by the tree and took the silver wrapped package into his hands. Holding the package to his ear, he shook it for bare seconds before ripping away the paper. His dark, serious eyes rolled up to meet Mama's as he held up the new blue shirt. "It's too much, Mama. You can't afford..."

         "Hush, Devon. Old Santa can afford near anything," she said softly.

         Doris did not understand the tears that coursed down Devon's dusky cheeks. He should be happy, not sad.

Going to his mother, Devon hugged her, his head pressed against her ample bosom. Like a little caboose, Doris hugged Devon, snuggling against his slim back. Because it was Christmas, she thought, he didn't complain.

         After a hot breakfast of oatmeal, with lots of sugar and cinnamon, the children rushed outside to see what the other kids in the identical, red-brick apartments had received from Santa.

         As soon as Doris stepped off the porch, however, she saw that Devon's bicycle was missing from the spot where he always kept it--chained to a small tree by the door. An old bike, yes, paint-chipped and scarred, but the last thing given to him by his father before, as their mother told them, "He went to sing with the angels. They were in need of a tenor...and Papa was the very best one they could find."

         Devon loved the bicycle more than anything.

         "Devon, look, your bike is gone!"

         He pulled his thin jacket closer around his neck and walked stiffly to where the chain lay open on the ground. "Somebody stole it, Doris. The chain's busted."

         His hurt showed clearly in his eyes and Doris mourned for both of them. Now that she could reach the pedals, Devon would let her ride the bike if he was in a good mood. Doris's lower lip trembled, but she managed not to cry.

         She would really miss that bicycle.

         Then she saw anger flash in her brother's eyes. "I think I know who took it. You stay here," he ordered and walked away purposely toward the small project playground.

         Like most little sisters, Doris knew her brother was not her boss. She let Devon get a head start, then followed after him.

         The fenced-in area, bare of grass from years of small feet running and playing around the two-seat swing, monkey-bars and a drooping slide, was empty except for Devon and Willie Daniels when Doris arrived.

         Her brother lay sprawled out on the cold dirt and Willie, always a bully, was standing over him. Doris spotted the bicycle resting against the slide, behind Willie. A big boy for ten, Willie out-weighed Devon by forty pounds.

         Devon knuckled blood from his nose. "That's my bike, Willie. You stole it. Give it back or I'll..."

         "What you gonna do, Devon? You gonna tell your Mama?" Willie snorted. "No, you ain't...'cause I ain't lettin' you up 'til you swear not to tell nobody."

         Devon pushed up on his elbows. Willie's hard fist chunked against Devon's cheek, knocking him flat again. A mean look crept across Willie's features. He drew his foot back to kick Devon.

         Now Doris was small, but known throughout the neighborhood for having the ability to scream loud enough to put the lunch whistle at the steel plant to shame. She screamed now, shaking icicles from the apartment eaves.

         William covered his ears and glared at her fearfully. Apartment doors swung open in each direction for fifty yards. Adults hurried out onto their porches.

         "What's the matter, baby?" an elderly woman called out.

         "Willie? That you, Willie? Get away from that boy!" a woman Doris recognized as Willie's mother shouted.

         One neighbor's voice after another cut through the still, cold morning. Then a man strode quickly toward the playground with a belt in his hand. "You hurt that little girl, I'll whup you good."

         Willie stepped away from Devon. "I ain't hurtin' her, Daddy. Re-really," he stammered. "I'll be good!" the boy promised as his father took his arm and led him away, the boy dragging his heels.

         Devon got to his feet and brushed dirt from his jeans. "Thanks, Doris," he said.

         She hugged him tightly and together they walked the bicycle home. Two hugs in one day! Maybe he likes me after all! Doris thought happily.

         Her happiness was short-lived, however. That evening she caught Devon whispering to their mother. "It's mine, Mama... and I want to do it," Doris heard him say before they noticed her. They exchanged secretive glances and became quiet. Devon hurried into his jacket. "I'll be back later, Mama."

         "I want to go with Devon, Mama! Can I, Mama? Where you going so late, Devon? Let me come!" Doris pleaded.

         "You can't come. I got something I need to do. Besides," he said, frowning at Doris, "you're always under my feet...like a second shadow every time I turn around."

         The ornaments on the tree shivered in the gust of wind Devon let in when he closed the door behind himself.

         Doris's quivery lip twitched again. She looked up at her mother through moist eyes.

         "Honey, sometimes men just have to be by themselves. Don't let it get you down. Here...have a cookie," her mother offered, holding out the cookie jar shaped like a flour sack. She knew her freshly baked oatmeal cookies usually made everything all right.

         At first light the following morning, Devon shook Doris from a sound sleep. "Hey, pest, get dressed and come outside," he said. "We can play tag."

         Five minutes later she jumped from the porch and walked toward Devon where he stood peering into the open space between apartments. "Well, look at that, would'ja?" he said, his face a mask of total amazement, eyes wide. He stepped around the corner of the building.

         Doris hurried around the corner so fast she ran into him. Following his gaze she saw, chained to the water faucet, the world's most beautiful bicycle.

         Also the reddest.

         It was red like a fire engine. All over red. Cherry-apple red frame, spokes, handlebars; even the seat and pedals were a shiny, unblemished red. Her mouth dropped open and the chill air awakened a cavity in a front tooth.

         Devon put his arm around her shoulders and led her toward the bicycle. She was filled with trepidation. Usually, when Devon put his arm around her shoulders, it was to lead her into a trap -- a sneak attack by his friends armed with dirt clods, or to view a grass snake or lizard he knew would make her scream and run for her mother.

         But not this time. She felt that, somehow. His embrace seemed comforting, almost tender.

         A small, white piece of paper dangled from the handle bars of the bike, tied there with string. Devon took the paper in his fingers. "Know what it says on this paper, Doris?"

         She shook her head and stepped closer.

         "It says, 'To Doris. Sorry I couldn't leave this yesterday -- my sleigh had a flat. Love, Santa.'"

         She snapped straight so fast her neck popped. "Meee?"

         Devon looked left, right, down at his battered sneakers, then up at the pearl-gray sky. "Don't see no other Doris around. Must be you."

         Somehow knowing the combination, he spun the cylinder several times until the lock clicked open, removed the chain from between the spokes and offered her his hand. "Get on and ride," he urged.

         She did as he said, wheeling back and forth along the cracked sidewalks connecting the apartments. The cold air pin-pricked her face, but she paid it no mind. She could ride forever, she thought, the happiest, luckiest girl in the whole universe.

         A girl with the prettiest, shiniest shoes and the reddest bicycle.

         A girl who did not question her brother when he said his bicycle had been stolen again.

         A girl who, when she found the empty can of red spray paint in the trash the next day, knew for sure that her brother loved her as much as she loved him. And not just because it was Christmas.

The End

Dan Moon