Santa Claus Is for Real by Charles Edward Hall & Bret Witter

Santa Claus Is for Real by Charles Edward Hall & Bret Witter

Author:Charles Edward Hall & Bret Witter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books


CHAPTER

15

That night, I had a dream. It wasn’t about Santa or even Scrooge. Or maybe it was about both, I’m not sure.

In the dream, I was a six-year-old child again, sitting at the old wooden table in our cramped yellow kitchen. My big brother was sitting beside me, and Mom was serving all my favorites: chicken, ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy.

“Bow your head,” she said, taking her seat. “I’m going to say the blessing.”

I bent my head, and even thirty years distant in my bed in Manhattan I could smell that delicious food. It was the meal we had every afternoon on Christmas Eve.

And even after all those miles and all those years, I could still feel the smack on my cheek, the one that almost knocked me into my plate. I sat up and looked at my father, who was leaning in so close I could smell the whiskey on him.

“What did you do that for?” I asked.

“You weren’t listening to the prayer,” he said. “You were smelling that food.”

“Well, if you know that,” I said, “then you weren’t listening to the prayer either.”

He punched me so hard I could feel all the teeth come loose in my head. I fell into my brother, who yelled, “Get off!” and pushed me back toward Dad, and the next thing I knew I was facedown on the floor.

I scrambled halfway to the kitchen door before I had the courage to stand up. I looked back, but only my father was looking at me. I ran into the living room, grabbed the Christmas globe from the little table beside Mom’s chair, and smashed it to the ground. I heard the shattering of glass, but otherwise, the world was still. Nobody came to check on me. Nobody said a word.

Then I heard my father’s cutlery scraping his plate as he resumed his meal.

The next thing I knew, I was outside without my hat or coat, running up the hill in that great Kentucky snowstorm. I fell on my knees. I stared up at the sky.

I’m alone, I thought. I’m all alone.

I started to make a perfect snow angel. No, I’m not alone. I’m free.

• • •

I sat up. I looked around my small, dark apartment. I expected to see Santa Claus standing at the foot of my bed, like I’d seen him that afternoon. But nobody was there.

When I walked into Radio City Music Hall the next day, I was ready. Thirty years had passed since that Christmas Eve. Somehow I’d blocked it all out. But now I remembered. And I was going to face the bully; I was going to acknowledge my fears; and even if my father was long dead, I was going to banish his ghost once and for all. I wasn’t going to let Scrooge triumph in my heart.

I walked through the backstage area, my hands clenched into fists, then around the four tiers of seating, then through three floors of dressing rooms and past the sets



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