Vallery sat on the bottom step with her chin propped in her fists. A look of misery etched her small face. The Christmas tree stood in the front window. Its lights glowed and twinkled. Above the roaring fire, six stockings limply hung awaiting their treasures. Joy should have filled her little heart. However, the more she thought, the more despondent she felt.
Brushing a tear from her sad blue eyes, Vallery stood to her feet. Opening the front door, the four-year-old stepped outside. The snowman she and her sister, Edith, built yesterday afternoon glistened in the front yard. His hat sat at a jaunty angle; his carrot nose lay on the ground beside him. Cautiously, she stepped into the front yard and replaced it. Then, hugging herself tightly, she returned to her warm home and regained the bottom step.
Would Santa arrive tonight? Vallery wondered. All through the month of December, she anticipated the Jolly Elf’s appearance. It was her favorite time of the year. Or it had been until Xaviar ruined it.
The trouble started early in the morning. Momma gave Vallery a pad of paper and a box of crayons. Sitting at the kitchen island, the little girl began drawing pictures of Santa Claus. She wanted to prop the nicest one alongside the plate of cookies near the Christmas tree. Then Xaviar bound into the room.
“What are you doing, squirt?” her older brother questioned. Grabbing her pad, he ruffled through the pages. Frowning, he threw it onto the island. “Santa Claus, huh?”
Nodding her head vigorously, Vallery pulled her drawing closer and picked up a red crayon.
Dismissively, Xaviar sauntered toward the refrigerator and pulled out a half gallon of milk. Tipping it to his lips, he took a long swig. Fascinated, the little girl watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed.
“There’s no Santa Claus, Val,” the fourteen-year-old boy flatly stated. Returning the milk to the fridge, he slammed the door to emphasis his point.
“There is so,” Vallery countered, turning huge sapphire eyes toward her sibling. Nevertheless, apprehension began to dawn on her.
“You’re such a baby,” Xaviar stated, returning to stand beside her. “Edith doesn’t believe in Santa nor does Mackenzie. You’re the only one.”
“Leave me alone, Zavy,” the child cried, leaping from her stool. Shoving her sibling in the stomach, she marched past him.
Plunking down on the bottom step, Vallery propped her chin in her fists and pouted. Her home had never been a happy one. Mackenzie and Xaviarwere the children of her father’s first marriage; Edith arrived with his second. Her mother was his third wife. Although nine-year- old Edith resided with them permanently, the older children resided with their own mother. It was their year to spend the holidays with their father.
Ordinarily, a simmer of discontent permeated the Maynard family. Although her parents lavished love on her, it was the Ex’s who caused all the trouble. Their constant demands for more alimony and child support created a stressful situation. Too young to understand, Vallery felt the oppressive mood particularly when Mackenzie and Xaviar visited. Still, her mother tried to lighten the mood at Christmas time.
“If Mack or Zavy say anything to disturb you,” momma had admonished four days ago, “try not to cause a fuss, Val. Santa is watching you.”
“Yes, momma,” the little girl whispered, lowering her head. In order to keep peace, it was always up to her to behave. Indeed, it was a perplexing task for one so young.
Rising from the step, the child climbed to the second floor. Turning to the left, she entered her bedroom. Edith sat on one of the beds reading “The Cricket on the Hearth” by Charles Dickens. Vallery climbed up beside her and gazed at the page. Then, snuggling close to her sister, she leaned her head against her shoulder.
“Is there a Santa Claus, Edie,” she finally asked.
Studiously, Edith placed her bookmark and closed her novel. Then taking off her reading glasses, she closed them into their case. Examining her younger sibling, she considered her options. An intelligent little girl, she was prone to think of an answer before blurting one out. However, she found herself caught between the truth and the legend. She didn’t want to upset her little sister, but she wanted to be honest also.
“Zavy says there is no Santa,” Vallery murmured as she turned wistful eyes upward.
Suddenly Edith’s cheeks burned bright red. During her younger days, Xaviar teased her about Santa Claus also. It had upset her in the same way it had upset Vallery. The hurt remained for several years.
“Don’t listen to Zavy,” Edith vehemently declared. “He’s a windbag. He doesn’t know when to shut up. If you believe in Santa Claus, he has to be real for you.”
“Yeah, okay.” Val agreed, flopping onto her pillow. Grasping her teddy bear, she felt better already.
“Who wants to make gingerbread men?” momma sang out as she swooped into the room.
“Me!” Vallery cried out, leaping from her bed. “Can we make a huge one for Santa?”
“Certainly,” her mother consented, reaching out to take her hand. “Are you coming, Edith?” She turned her winning smile toward her step-child.
For a moment, the older girl hesitated. She was content to remain in her room with her book. However, the eager look on Vallery’s face decided her. Once again replacing her bookmark, she rose. Then, limping after the mother and daughter duo, she followed them into the kitchen.
Smiling, Vallery hung back to walk downstairs beside her sister. Edith was a frail child. Her left leg was an inch shorter than the right. It was the result of the car accident that took her mother’s life.
In the kitchen, momma began gathering the ingredients for the gingerbread men. As she lifted the mixer bowl from the cabinet, she began to sing “Holly Jolly Christmas.” Vallery joined in. It was her favorite holiday song. She enjoyed the cheerfulness of the tune.
“Would you like to join us?” momma asked Xaviar as he marched through the kitchen. “We’re making gingerbread men.”11Please respect copyright.PENANAR5YLOysfjg
“You gotta be kidding,” the disgruntled teen muttered beneath his breath as he slammed the screen door behind him.
As Xaviar left, Mackenzie entered. Wearing a plaid winter coat with a furry collar, the elder Maynard daughter was tall and lean. A long blonde ponytail hung over her shoulder. Her red tam o’shanter matched her coat. Smiling, she patted Vallery on the head as she passed.
“We’re making cookies, Mack,” momma cheerfully stated. “We could use some girl time. Want to join us?”
“I’d love to, Haille, but I’m meeting Chloe and Hannah at the mall,” the sixteen-year-old girl exclaimed, exuberantly. “We’re going to hang out. You know, do some X-mas shopping and that stuff.” Dashing into the hall, the sound of pounding footsteps in the hall filled the kitchen.
Vallery allowed her shoulders to sink. She didn’t like for Mack to use momma’s real name. And she didn’t like the term X-mas. Although Mackenzie was nicer than Xaviar, she was too casual with her exclamations.
In another moment, Vallery dug her hands in the cookie dough and began forming a round ball for the gingerbread man’s head. When Edith admonished her for taking too much, she explained about making a huge one for Santa. Despite her protests, momma took half the dough away from her.
“We want some left over for more men,” momma stated with a laugh.
Val thought her mother was pretty with her bobbed blonde hair and her cheeks rosy from the warm kitchen. White snowflakes patterned her blue apron. Smudges of flour marred the pockets where she had wiped off her hands. Her appearance created a cozy, at home feeling.
Finally, when the tray of cookies was baking in the oven, the little girl asked her mother, “Is there really a Santa Claus, momma?”
“Of course there’s a Santa Claus,” momma stated, her smile widening. “Didn’t you see him at the mall last week?”11Please respect copyright.PENANAZkWsn0U5mb
“That’s Mr. Harvey from the toy store,” Xaviar rudely announced. No one had seen him reenter the kitchen. “He wears that stupid red suit and fake white beard every year. It’s so lame.” To emphasize his point, he rolled his eyes into his head.
While momma and Edith threw looks of disgust at the older boy, Vallery’s face crumpled as she began to bawl. Sliding off her stool, she raced from the room and upstairs. In her bedroom, she flung herself onto her pillow and sobbed. Why did Xaviar have to be so mean? Why did he have to spend Christmas with them? Why couldn’t he stay at home and be miserable there?
“Would you like to decorate your gingerbread man?” momma asked, perching on the edge of the bed. Slowly she rubbed her child’s back in circular motions.
“I don’t want to,” Vallery cried, turning her face to the wall. “There’s no Santa to eat it on Christmas Eve.”
“There is so,” momma contradicted Xaviar. “If you truly believe in Santa Claus, he has to be real.”
“Really, momma?”
“Yes, really.”
Slowly the child sat up in bed, and, with her small fists, rubbed the tears from her eyes. Then, grasping her mother’s hand, she timidly returned to the kitchen. To her relief, Xaviar had disappeared. Peacefully sitting on her stool, Edith busily decorated her cookies. With alacrity, Vallery joined her.
When daddy came home from work, Vallery crawled into his lap. The big recliner faced the fireplace. Stretching out her legs, she felt the warmth of the roaring fire. The crook of her father’s arm was comforting. In a small lisping voice, the little girl told him about Xaviar’s insistence about Santa Claus.
“If Santa Claus didn’t exist, how do you think all the presents arrive on Christmas Eve?” daddy asked as he pressed his arm around Vallery’s shoulders.
“I don’t know,” Val solemnly answered. “Santa has to bring them.”
“That’s right,” her father replied. “Santa Claus is magic. He comes down everyone’s chimney and puts presents beneath the tree.”
“I’m glad he’s real,” the little girl whispered. Reaching up, she kissed her daddy’s cheek.
After dinner, Vallery cornered Xaviar as he was exiting the upstairs bathroom. Poking her index finger into his stomach, she set him right about Santa Claus.
“Daddy said he was real, and daddy wouldn’t lie, Xavy,” she exclaimed with her fists against her hips.
“Yeah, little miss smarty britches,” Xaviar smugly countered, “I’ll tell you what. You sneak down after everyone’s in bed. You’ll find dad and Haille putting out all the presents. They’ll drink the hot chocolate and eat the cookies. Then, when they are all finished, they will kiss under the mistletoe. That’s how it works.”
“Is not,” Vallery hotly protested. “Santa will be there.”
When the big hand on her bedside clock pointed at the one, Vallery threw back her covers and stood up. Cautiously she glanced toward Edith’s bed. The older girl lay cuddled up on her side; she was fast asleep. Crossing the hall, she checked on Mackenzie then she pushed open Xaviar’s door. They were both sleeping. In the big bedroom, momma and daddy pressed tightly together in the spooning position. On tiptoes, the little girl descended the stairs. The glow of the Christmas tree and the crackle of the fire drew her to the living room door. Cautiously, she peered inside. Festively wrapped presents littered the floor surrounding the tree. Fat stockings hung from the fireplace. Disappointed, the little girl’s shoulders sagged. She expected to catch Santa busily at his task. Instead, momma and daddy must have put everything out before they went to bed.
Slowly, Vallery turned to ascend the stairs. Huge tears hung in her sapphire eyes. Xaviar was right; there was no Santa Claus. All the expectations leading up the Christmas day were for nothing. Tentatively, she raised her foot to the first riser. Then, overcome by sadness, she plunked onto the bottom stair. Propping her fists beneath her chin, she allowed her sorrow to overcome her.
“Come here, Vallery,” a deep resonant voice called her from the living room.
As though in a dream, the little girl drifted toward the voice. Her eyes flew wide open as she gasped at the man in red. Sitting in daddy’s recliner, he held the cookie plate in his lap. A half-eaten ginger man lay in its center. On the coffee table sat a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
Slowly, Vallery padded toward the white bearded elf. The plastic bottoms of her footed Christmas pajamas slapped against the hardwood floor. Lightly, she rested her hand on the red-clad knee.
Placing the cookie plate on the table, Santa Claus lifted the small child onto his knee. Cuddling her into the crook of his arm, he began to speak.
“A long time ago, a little girl named Virginia believed in Santa Claus. Her little friends said I wasn’t real. It upset the little girl just the same way Xaviar upset you,” Santa stated in his soft, smooth voice. Virginia wrote a letter to Francis Church who was the editor of the New York Sun. This is in part what he had to say:
“Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would the world be if there was no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, expect in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
“And so, you see, Vallery, I do exist,” Santa Claus concluded, smiling and hugging the child against his gingerbread scented body. “I will come every Christmas Eve to fill your stocking and bring you presents as long as you want me to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Santa,” the little girl muttered, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Now hurry off to bed and get plenty of sleep.” Santa set her on the floor. Patting her pajama clad bottom, he set her on her way.
Dutifully, Vallery padded away. Taking one last long look backwards, she smiled at Santa and waved. Before long, sugarplums were dancing in her head. Xaviar was wrong. Santa Claus was real.
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