The Santa Tradition by Diane Burton - Part Three

 

The Santa Tradition - Part Three
by Diane Burton

   For the past twenty years, James’ dad had volunteered to play Santa for the children’s holiday party at the Civic Center. When George passed away, the guys at the firehouse asked—begged—James to take his dad’s place. He hadn’t given them his answer and the party was a week away.

   Josie and Mark were home for the semester break. We hadn’t told them about the letter. In fact, we hadn’t talked about it since we came home that devastating day three weeks ago. I was decorating the tree when the phone rang.

   Several minutes later, Mark walked into the family room with a puzzled expression. “That was Steve at the firehouse. He needs to know if Dad is taking Grandpa’s place as Santa this year.”

   “He has to,” Josie said as she handed me one of the sequined ornaments my mother-in-law made. “It’s our family tradition.”

   “Yeah, that’s what I said to Dad and he bit my head off.” Mark fisted his hands on his hips. “He said you threw out the Santa suit.”

   “What?” Josie dropped the Shrinky-Dink ornament she’d made in second grade. “Mo-ther. How could you?”

   Oh, right. Blame me. James and I were going to have that talk a lot sooner than planned. Whether he wanted to or not.

   “Your father is mistaken,” I said with extreme patience. “I had to repack the Santa suit in another box. It’s out in the garage.” Hidden among the myriad boxes and furniture from my in-laws’ house.

   Once James got motivated—his anger toward his parents had one positive effect—in three weeks we’d emptied the house, had the estate sale, hired a cleaning crew, and put the house on the market. Thanks to staging the house for Christmas, it sold yesterday.

   One of our problems solved. Now onto the next one. Getting James into the Christmas spirit. He didn’t want anything to do with it. He hid in his office watching football while I decorated our house.

Before I could warn the kids to leave their dad alone, they both rushed downstairs to his “man cave” aka his office.

   “Dad, Dad,” they hollered.

   “You can be Santa,” Josie yelled. “Mom said the Santa suit wasn’t thrown away.”

   “Yeah, Dad. The suit’s in the garage,” Mark added.

   Seconds later James tromped up the basement stairs. He went straight to the front closet and yanked out our jackets so hard the hangars clattered on the floor. The kids followed, bewilderment on their faces. When he threw my jacket at me, the two gave each other wary looks.

   “We need to talk, Megan.” He frog-marched me out to the deck, slamming the slider behind us.

   I slipped on the snow-covered deck and had to grab the railing instead of James who was already halfway down the steps. When I pulled on my jacket, I saw Josie and Mark staring through the glass door. I held up a finger and smiled. Everything’s fine. Mom will handle this.

   When I reached the bottom of the stairs, James grabbed my arm and trudged through the snow. Real considerate, my husband. He had on boots. I wore my fuzzy Yoda slippers.

   As soon as we got to the edge of the woods, he whirled me around. “I told you to throw out that damn Santa suit.”

   “Yeah? Well, I don’t have to listen to you. That suit is part of your family tradition.”

   “Obviously, not my family.”

   His sneer made me so mad all my pent up anxiety over his anger at his father exploded. I slugged him in the jaw. He reeled backward and landed in the snow.

   I shook my hand. Damn, that hurt. “You are a jerk.”

   After I pounced on him, I grabbed a handful of snow to soothe my swelling hand.

   As Josie and Mark came running outside, without coats, I had a better idea of what to do with the snow in my hand. I smushed it into James’ face.

   “Mom? Dad? What’s going on?” Josie cried.

   “This means war.” Jamie rolled me over and shoved snow down the front of my open jacket, into my V-neck Doctor Who T-shirt with a wreath on the front of the TARDIS. I never even saw him scoop up the wet stuff.

   I squealed and tried to get up. He snagged my ankle, making me fall facedown into the snow.

   Mark ran up and stood over us. “Have you two lost your mind?”

   I glanced at Jamie. A twinkle glinted in his eyes. I knew what that meant. As I scooped up some snow, he helped me to my feet. We each let go of a snowball. Our mental telepathy was dead on. He got Mark in the chest while mine hit Josie’s arm.

   Ten minutes later, we were all laughing as we tromped up the deck stairs. We probably should have gone in through the garage and shaken off the snow. Jamie took my wet jacket into the half bath and returned with a towel. Instead of throwing it at me, he gently rubbed my wet hair before making me sit at the kitchen island while he rubbed my even wetter feet.

   “What were you so mad about?” That was our Josie. No keeping things inside for her. “Dad? Why did you drag Mom outside?” Then she aimed her narrowed eyes at me. “I can’t believe you hit him.”

   That sobered everyone.

   “Your mother and I need to talk.” Jamie took my hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, then led me into our bedroom. After he closed the door, he leaned back against it. “You were right. I was being a jerk earlier. I’m sorry, but I—”

   “Don’t go spoiling a good apology by trying to justify it.” I sat on his mother’s cedar chest at the foot of our bed. “It is time we talked.”

   After crossing his arms, he pursed his lips the way he always did that meant he wasn’t going to like what I had to say but would listen.

   “I kept the Santa suit for Mark. You had no right to take that away from him. He loved your dad.” When James started to speak, I held up my hand. “George was your dad. He was Josie and Mark’s grandfather. By his actions, he proved he was a better father than you are.”

   He snapped his head up so fast it hit the door. “What the hell—”

   “You’re a great father because those children we’ve just scared half to death are your own flesh and blood. George was a great father when he didn’t have to be. He didn’t have to marry your mother. He did so because he loved her. And he loved you because you were part of her. Do not take away our children’s heritage because of your pity party.” I walked toward him. “Now please move so I can go out there and reassure Josie and Mark that we’re not getting a divorce.”

   “Divorce? Who said anything—”

   “Think about how you’ve been acting.”

   I told the kids their dad was still having a hard time losing Grandpa. And that I would call Steve at the firehouse and tell them to get someone else to play Santa this year.

   “No,” Mark said. “I want to do it. It’s our family tradition. If Dad doesn’t want to play Santa, I will.”

   On Saturday morning, I offered to help Mark with Santa’s beard, mustache, and wig.

   He gave me an odd look. “Thanks, Mom. Josie said she’d help me.”

   I was arranging the nativity set on the mantle when “Santa” came up behind me. In the mirror, I could see Josie had done a great job helping Mark with the whole shebang. But then he put his arms around me and said, “Have you been a good girl this year, little Meggie?”

   That wasn’t Mark’s voice nor Mark’s arms.

   Oh my gosh. “Jamie?”

   He shook his finger at me. “Why aren’t you dressed, Mrs. Claus?”

   “Yeah, Mom. How come you aren’t dressed?” Mark smirked. He and Josie were clad in elf costumes.

   “I don’t understand?”

   “Here, Mom.” Josie held out a red and white costume.

   Jamie clasped my shoulders. “I thought about what you said. I won’t muck up my apology this time. This was Dad’s.” He waved his hand over the Santa suit. “I thought it was time we made our own family tradition.”

That afternoon, we all rode the fire truck to the Civic Center. Mark and Josie stood on either side of us. I held Santa’s hand as he “Ho-ho-ho’d” and waved to those along the way. Jamie didn’t look the way his dad had in the Santa suit.

He looked even better.

Come back tomorrow to read Margo Hoornstra's story, Santa's Second Chance.

Diane Burton writes science fiction romance and romantic suspense. "The Santa Tradition" is her second short story since high school, *mumble* years ago. Read about Diane’s books at her website: http://www.dianeburton.com/

The Santa Tradition by Diane Burton - Part Two

The Santa Tradition - Part Two
by Diane Burton

   Of all the things James could have said, I didn’t expect that. “What do you mean George wasn’t your father?”

   He let me go. As he walked back to the sofa, I missed his warmth, his strength. He sunk into the old too-short sofa then reached for the yellow legal-size paper on the lamp table. His hand hovered over the paper as if he didn’t want to touch it. I recognized his dad’s—George’s—handwriting. He loved using a legal pad to write the newsy letters he sent to us when he and Mary went to Florida. They always began the same. “Your mother is off shopping . . .” And ended the same way four to five pages later. “Well, your mother is back . . .”

   James picked up the letter and thrust it at me. “Everything was a lie.”

Dear Jamie,

I always thought I would say this to your face. But if you’re reading this, it means I never did. Your mother couldn’t bring herself to tell you. I suppose we should have when you were young. But time flies, as they say, and then she was afraid you would be mad or worse ashamed of her. I begged her to tell you and while she was alive it was her story to tell. Not mine. Never mine.

Now that she’s gone, I guess it’s up to me. I’m not your father. I hate writing that. Worse I hate the man who is. Rather I hate what he did to your mother. Your real father took off after he found out she was pregnant. I’d always loved your mother—ever since the first day I saw her in kindergarten. My God, how long ago was that! She only saw me as her best friend.

Her folks wanted her to give up the baby. She cried on my shoulder that she didn’t want to. I knew then I wanted that baby—you—as much as I wanted her to marry me.

Somewhere in that box of cards and letters your mother kept is information about him. She wanted you to know who he was if you ever wanted to find him.

Maybe that’s why I never told you. Selfishly I couldn’t bear it if you went looking for him while I’m alive. Now . . . Well, it’s your choice.

Know this though—I’ve always thought of you as my own son. How I wish it had been so. You, Jamie, are the child of my heart.

Please forgive your mother for never telling you the truth about who you are. And if you can find it in your heart, forgive an old man for keeping silent.

Love, Dad

P.S. Without thinking, I signed this letter the way I always sign off. Maybe I should have written “Love, George.”

   Stunned by what I’d read, I dropped onto the sofa next to James and let the paper flutter to the floor. I wrapped my arm around his stiff shoulders. For several minutes we sat there in silence. What was there to say? Suddenly, I realized that nothing else mattered—not the cleaning, not the packing. James needed me more than I ever thought possible.

   “How could they keep this from me?” The anguish in his voice tore at my heart.

   “Jamie, he was your father. A father sticks around. He’s there for the good and the bad. The man whose genes you carry wasn’t really your father. George was.”

   Abruptly, James shrugged off my arm, my comfort, and stood. He whirled on me. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing Merry Sunshine? My life has been turned upside down and you give me platitudes.”

   I felt like I’d been stabbed in the heart. That fast, he’d raced through denial into the second stage of grief—anger. I couldn’t blame him. He’d been dealt a triple whammy. Job loss, George’s death, and now this. I’d spoken too soon. He wasn’t ready to hear logic. Holding onto my hurt, I let him vent.

   “I’ll clean out the damn attic. The sooner we get rid of this place the better.” He strode through the living room. When he got to the hall, he yanked so hard to pull down the folding stairs to the attic they sprang back into place with a bang.

   He needed space. I needed to know what to do to help. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I was trying to “fix” him the way he tried to fix me when Mom died. He needed to work things out for himself. That didn’t mean I was going to give up.

   I picked up George’s letter and read it again. I heard the torment he must have felt as he wrote. How I wished he had told James in person. Yet, I understood why he hadn’t. I wasn’t making excuses for him or Mary. I would have to be patient—not my strong suit—and let James find his way.

   If I’d known how hard that would be, I would’ve given him that well-deserved kick in the pants.

   A box landed on the hallway floor with a thud.

   James yelled down, “Throw that in the trash.”

   Finally, he was making decisions. When I got to the stairs, I realized how mistaken I was. Spilling out of the broken box was the Santa suit.

Come back tomorrow for the conclusion of "The Santa Tradition."

The Santa Tradition by Diane Burton- Part One

The Santa Tradition - Part One
by Diane Burton

I'd never seen a Santa suit used in quite that way. I was tired, grubby, and sweaty, probably had cobwebs in my hair from packing. But the faded snapshot made me forget all that. James would love this picture of his dad dressed as Santa on top of the hook-and-ladder truck. He must have had a great time back at the firehouse--out of sight of the children he entertained each year. The pants hung from the ladder and the beard waved from a side mirror. He wore boxers decorated with elves under the Santa top. His grin captured the essence of the man I loved as much as my own father.

   "James?" I called as I climbed the basement stairs. "You have to see this."
   I found sitting on his mother’s godawful blue-flowered sofa. His head hung low, shoulders hunched, more defeated than I’d ever seen him. Worse than when the company decided after twenty-five years they didn’t need him anymore.

   He’d weathered the Great Recession, taking on the extra work from others they’d already let go. It wasn’t unusual for him to work twelve to fourteen hours a day. Being downsized was almost a relief. But after nearly a year of sending out resumes, going on interviews, and receiving polite rejection letters, James was a downtrodden man. Not the vibrant, carefree guy I married thirty years ago.

   Losing his dad three months ago compounded his depression. Mind you, I’m not a doctor. But just like a Mom knows better than doctors when a child is sick, I knew my husband was depressed. I’d even suggested he talk to his doctor, which of course James rejected. “Nothing matter with me.” I interpreted that as “I’m a guy and guys don’t need help.”

   Everyone needs help now and then. Or grief counseling. Not my guy.
   "Take a look at this picture." I held it out.
   He didn't even look up.

   “Is everything all right?” I asked.

   He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

   “James? What’s going on?”

   Again, no answer.

   When I knelt on one knee in front of him, he stared off into space, not seeing me, not seeing anything. I touched his hand dangling between his jeans-clad knees.

   “Are you finished in the attic?” I asked.

   He blinked, returning to this world. “Huh? Sorry, Meg. Did you say something?”

   “I asked if you’d finished packing up the things in the attic.”

   “Uh, no. Didn’t start.”

   When he offered no further explanation, I lost it. I stood, backed into the stack of boxes I’d packed that morning, and placed my hands on my hips. “I have been working down in the basement for the past four hours, going through all the junk your folks never threw away. The least you could do—since it’s your parents’ house—is help.”

   With the slowness of an old man, not one of forty-eight, he pushed himself off the sofa. “I’m sorry, Meg. I’ll get back to work.”

   When he didn’t move toward the attic, I said, “Okay, Jamie. What’s going on?”

   I knew from my own experience that grief from losing a parent can manifest itself in different ways. When my mom died, I plunged into work—settling her estate, cleaning out her condo then selling it. I kept my grief at bay by being busy. That only worked for so long. Then James’ mother passed and all my pent-up grief came to the fore. Poor guy, he didn’t know what to do with me. How he wanted to fix me! To make me feel better. If only.

   Eventually, the grief eased, but it took time. In my heart, I knew he needed time to work through the grief of losing his father so soon after losing his job. But we’d put off dealing with sixty years’ of accumulation by people so affected by the Depression they never threw out anything. I’d tried to convince him we needed to get his parents’ house listed while the market was still on the upswing. I didn’t add that we could use the money from the sale.

   Thanksgiving, early this year, had been rather quiet. James hadn’t wanted me to accept my sister’s invitation. He wanted to stay home. So it was just the four of us. Josie and Mark, home from college, acted like they couldn’t wait to go back. Most of the time, tears formed in Josie’s eyes at the mere mention of her beloved grandfather. Mark, so like his father, didn’t talk.

   Christmas was right around the corner. It would not be a repeat. Not if I could help it. By golly, we were going to finish the packing, move everything we wanted to keep into our garage and basement then get this house on the market. We had to. My dear, sweet father-in-law had remortgaged the house to finance his wife’s nursing home care.

   Three months of carrying two mortgages and the expenses of two houses, plus the kids’ college tuitions had stretched our budget to the breaking point. Between my job at a nonprofit and his temporary job, we couldn’t do it. Our savings were depleted. We might not make any money on the house sale, but at least we wouldn’t have all the expenses.

   When James discovered what his father had done, he’d been pole-axed. We could manage, Cheerleader Meg had said. Once we got the house on the market, our troubles would be over. Rah, rah, rah.

   Major problem. James didn’t want to make decisions on what to keep, what to throw away, and what to put in the estate sale. He’d left it all up to me. I just couldn’t manage everything. I dug a tissue out of my jeans’ pocket, turned my back on the man I loved, and blew my nose. Surreptitiously, or so I thought, I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye.

   Strong hands gripped my shoulders. James pulled me back against him and wrapped his arms around me. “Don’t break down on me now, Meggie. I need your strength.”

   My throat clogged. I squeezed my eyes shut to hold the tears at bay. I patted his arm around my middle. “Okay.”

   I didn’t tell him I was tired of being the strong one.

   We used to take turns. He’d be strong when I needed it and I did the same. I learned long ago that marriage was not a fifty-fifty proposition. Sometimes one person gave a hundred percent. And sometimes the other had to give. Since he lost his job, I felt like I was giving and giving. Isn’t it time we reversed that deal?

   I wanted to kick him in his still well-shaped butt.

   James hadn’t let himself go soft as many executives did. He’d always worked out. Much better than I ever did. With free gym membership because of my job, he continued his routine. As much as I loved being held against his strong chest, the work awaited both of us. And it wasn’t getting done while he held me in his arms.

   When I tried to pull away, he tightened his hold. “Don’t,” he said with unexpected sharpness.

   “This house—”

   “—can wait. I need you, Meg.” A shudder rippled through him.

   I turned in his arms, needing to see his face. Something was very wrong. When I looked at his ravaged expression, I wished I hadn’t turned around.

   “What’s wrong, Jamie?” I cupped his bristly jaw with both hands. “Tell me.”

   “He wasn’t my father.”

Return tomorrow for Part Two of The Santa Tradition.