The Christmas Wish

By

John Bird

A winter wind descended from a cold gray sky and ripped through Michael’s clothes, igniting a chill that seemed to spread outward from the center of his bones. Michael clutched the schoolbooks closer to his chest as each wave of shivers washed over his body.  As he trudged down the sidewalk, his mind was filled with anticipation.

It had been a very hard year.  Stockton was a hard place to grow up in the best of times and 1932…the depths of the great depression…was far from the best of times.  Michael’s family was better off than some, but money was always tight.  Michael’s clothes had already been through two older brothers and were patched and threadbare.    But today was Christmas Eve and Michael had struggled all year to be good.  Tomorrow his reward awaited him.  Just one more day.

So intent was he that he barely noticed the new pain above his left ear, reacting only when the rock skipped off the sidewalk in front of him.  Michael turned toward the Pearson house in time to see Richard launch another rock toward him. Instinctively Michael held up the books to block the rock.  The impact of the rock on the frozen fingers of Michael’s right hand caused a pain so intense that Michael cried out as the books tumbled toward the sidewalk, scattering papers as they hit.  As Michael bent down to pick up the rock at his feet, he could hear Richard’s laughter turn to cries for help.  Richard was in full retreat toward the house as Michael cocked his arm to return the rock from whence it came, but the appearance of Richard’s mother at the door loosened Michael’s grip, and the rock fell harmlessly at his feet.

“Leave me alone, Richard”, Michael shouted as he chased the papers scattering on the wind.

“Just stay away from my house, oakie trash”, came the reply as Richard’s mother hustled him into the house.  As Michael bent to gather the last of the papers blood drops spattered on the pages.  Touching his head where the rock had hit, Michael felt wetness oozing down the side of his face.  Pressing his hand tightly over the wound, Michael headed home.

As he entered the front door, Michael was careful not to drip blood on the carpet.  The carpet is old and frayed, as is all the furniture, but Michael knew how hard his mother, Nora, worked to keep the house clean and the last thing he wanted was to incur her wrath on Christmas Eve. As he closed the door Michael could hear yelling from upstairs.  Looking up the staircase Michael saw his older brother, James, running down the stairs with Daniel, the oldest, in pursuit.  As Daniel closed on James at the foot of the stairs, Michael realized too late that he was in their path.  As the three tumbled to the floor, the two older boys turned their attention to Michael.

“Stupid little jerk”, yelled James as he pummeled Michael’s back.

“Stay out of the way”, Daniel’s fist found Michael’s forehead.

“You boys stop that right now”, as Michael heard his mother’s voice he knew rescue was at hand.  Soon the older boys have been pulled off of Michael, who is lifted to his feet by his sister, Helen.

“It’s his fault.  He got in the way”, declared Daniel.

“Yeah, well you started it”, James replied as he pointed at Daniel.

“I told you to leave my stuff alone” Daniel grabbed James by the shirt.

“Enough!  Stop it, both of you!”  Their mother’s words were punctuated by a sharp slap to Daniel’s cheek.  It was then that she noticed the blood on Michael’s face.

“Look what you’ve done.  Helen, get me some iodine and a bandage from the medicine cabinet.  Both of you in here, now.”  With that Mother took Michael’s arm and marched him into the kitchen, followed by the older boys.

The kitchen was alive with the smells of baking.  Mother pulled Michael over to the sink and began washing the blood from his face.

“You two should be ashamed of yourselves.  I warned you about rough housing and now look what you’ve done.”

“They didn’t do this.  Richard Pearson hit me in the head with a rock.”  Michael winced as his mother applied the iodine Helen had brought from the medicine cabinet.

“Richard Pearson did that?” James face lit up, “That little brat needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Don’t you worry, Michael”, said Daniel as he and James headed for the door, “We’ll take care of that rascal”.

“You do no such thing”, Mother voice rising froze the boys in their tracks, “We don’t need any trouble with the neighbors, least of all the Pearsons.”

“Richard Pearson’s just a snotty little rich kid”, snarled Daniel, “He thinks he’s better’n us just because his dad owns the department store and his family’s got money.”

“All the more reason we don’t need any trouble, ” Mother’s voice was calm now.

“That’s ok,” Michael stated defiantly, “Richard’s gonna be real sorry when Christmas comes and Santa Claus passes his house.”

“Santa Claus?” James burst into laughter, “Only babies believe in Santa Claus?”

“Don’t go saying that stuff around my friends”, Daniel says in a solemn voice, “you’re embarrassing enough as it is.”

“I believe you two can spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning your room…and it had better be done before your father gets home,” Mother declared as, on cue, Helen grabbed the two boys by their shirts and hustled them out of the room.

“Don’t pay any attention to those two,” his mother’s voiced soothed as she finished bandaging the wound, “It’s a sad day when children don’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Do you…” Michael’s voice stopped mid-question, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

“Do I what, Michael?”

“Do you think we can go downtown now?”

“Michael, it’s freezing outside”.

“You said you would take me down to Pearson’s Department Store to see Santa.”

“I’ve got all this baking to finish.  Maybe another time.”

“It’s Christmas Eve…there is no more time.  You promised.”

“Let me get my coat,” sighed his mother as Helen entered the kitchen, “Helen, the pies come out of the oven in twenty minutes, then the cookies go in.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Michael’s father, Art, worked as a truck driver in the sugar beet fields of the San Joaquin delta.  Migrant workers, mostly Mexican, harvested the beets and loaded them into trucks, which carried the beets to the refinery for processing into sugar.  Art’s employer, Mr. Alexis, was a cold, hard man who saw no difference between, men, machinery, and the dirt under his feet…merely tools with which to reap his fortune.  As he stood with Lewis, his foreman, watching the harvest, Alexis pointed to a group of bracceros talking among themselves in Spanish.

“Those men, Lewis, what are they saying?”

“It’s Christmas Eve and they miss they’re families back home.”

“They’d better get this crop in, or they’ll be back with their families…penniless as the day they crawled out of that squalor.”

“Both the men and machines are pushed to the limit.  Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to give them Christmas off.”

“If these men don’t want to work, there’s plenty of others that do.  Damn wetbacks.  Why can’t they speak English?”

“Because if they did you’d have to pay them more.”

Alexis turned to Lewis with an icy stare.

“You don’t like me, do you?  I don’t care.  None of you like me, because I’m rich.  Because I do what it takes to be a success.  Well, long after all of you have gone to your miserable graves, I’ll be known as a great man in this town…because I’m rich.”  Suddenly Alexis pointed to a man standing next to one of the trucks.  “Who’s that man?”

“Art Smith.”

“I saw that man in town last night talking to some Wobblies on the street.  I won’t have any union troublemakers working for me.”

“I’ll have a talk with him.”  Lewis then walked over to the truck where Smith confronts him.

“The brakes on this truck are almost gone.”

“I’ll get them fixed when I get a chance.”

“You’re gonna get somebody killed.”

“Ok, that’s enough.  And if I were you I would be more careful about being seen talking to Wobblies.”

“They approached me.  It was Dave Larsen and some of his Teamster buddies.  I told them I wasn’t joining.”

“Well, Alexis saw you talking to them and he’s looking for an excuse to fire you.  So if you want to keep your job you’ll keep your mouth shut and get this truck moving.”

The sidewalk was as cold as before, but Michael didn’t seem to mind.  After a few blocks, however, he realized that his mother seems to be taking a rather circuitous route downtown.

“It would be quicker if we went that way,” Michael said as he pointed down the street.

“That way leads through Skid Row,” his mother replied as she lead him by the hand across the intersection.

“I go that way all the time and no one ever bothers me,” said Michael as he returned his hand to his coat pocket.

His mother’s hand tightened her grip on his as they reached the curb.  Stopping, she turned to face him.  “That’s not a safe place for a young boy.  There are bad people down there. I want you to promise me that you will never go down there again.”

“Yes, mother.”  Michael stared at the sidewalk as they continued along their way.

The tulle fog hung thick along the levee road, a treacherously thin path bounded by the river on one side and a steep embankment to the fields below on the other.  As he pushed his truck trough the fog Smith stewed over his confrontation with Lewis.  As the truck rounded a curve Smith saw a family of migrant workers walking straight into his headlights. Smith slammed his foot down hard on the brake pedal, which went to the floorboard.  As the family scrambled toward the embankment Smith swerved to miss them, plunging the truck off the road and into the river.

Inside the crowded Department store holiday shopping had reached a frenzy.  As they passed the dress counter Michael overheard a well-dressed woman shouting at the clerk.

“How can you be sold out.  My daughter has her heart set on that Shirley Temple dress.  All her friends are going to have them and what am I supposed to tell her.”

“I’m very sorry, ma’am, I’d be happy to give you a rain check.”

“A lot of good a rain check will do me.  You’ve ruined my Christmas!”
Just then Michael caught sight of Santa, sitting in his great red chair at the foot of a huge Christmas tree that stretched up through the mezzanine so that the star on top almost touched the ceiling.  The tree was decked with so many lights and tinsel and ornaments that Michael’s heart raced at the sight of it.  At the edge of the mezzanine a model train circled above their heads on a track, whistling periodically.  From Santa’s chair a line of children with their mothers stretched half way across the store.  Most of the children were younger than Michael and nearly all were better dressed.  Michael’s mother’s grip tightened on his hand.

“This is going to take all afternoon.  Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Please, mom.  We came all the way down here.  I have to do this,” replied Michael.

After what seemed like several afternoons Michael and his mother reached the front of the line.  As he sat on Santa’s lap Michael noticed that Santa’s suit seemed almost as worn and ill fitting as his own clothes.

“And what’s your name, young man?”  The strange odor that accompanied these words caused Michael to recoil for a moment.

“Michael.”

“And what can Santa do for you?”

“I would like a bicycle, please.”

“A bike?  That’s a tall order.”

“Please…please…I’ve been really good all year.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.  You run along now.”

Art Smith hooked the chain to the bed of the truck and signaled to Lewis.

“Ok, back her out easy!”  Lewis shouted as the tractor tightened the slack in the chain.  As the truck climbed slowly back up the levee Alexis’ car appeared out of the fog.  As he got out of the car Alexis picked up one of the sugar beets, which were strewn all over, and flung it vehemently into the river.  Advancing toward the truck, Alexis demanded, “Who is responsible for this?”

“They were on the road,” Smith pointed at the migrant family. “The brakes failed.  I had no choice.”

“You sacrificed your load to save a pack of worthless wetbacks?”  Alexis seethed with rage.  “You’re fired!”

“Fine…I’ll take my pay and leave.”  A crowd had gathered around the two men.

“Your wages won’t nearly cover the damages.  Get the hell off my land, you commie saboteur, before I have you thrown in jail.”

“Why you…” Smith lunged toward Alexis who instinctively ducked behind Lewis.

“Come on, Art.  You don’t want to spend Christmas in jail,” Lewis pleaded as he struggled to restrain him.    As the other men grabbed hold Art realized there was nothing to be gained.  Pushing them away, he began the long walk back to town.  As he disappeared into the fog Smith heard Alexis bellow, “Any man who’s not back to work in five seconds can join him.”

The tree stood proudly in its place of honor.  The boys hustled around it, placing the homemade wooden ornaments in a manner that would require rearranging later.  Helen was in charge of stringing the garland of popcorn and tin foil.  The smells of dinner floated in from the kitchen, along with the sounds of banging pots and the oven door being opened and closed.

“Father’s late”, said Michael, “I wonder where he is.”

“Probably out shopping,” responded Daniel.

“He’s been shopping all afternoon?”  The anticipation in James’ voice was hard to misinterpret.

“The stores downtown are mobbed,” Helen calmly replied.  “He’ll be home soon.”

In their excitement the boys occasionally bumped into each other, and it wasn’t long before James decided bumping was more fun than hanging ornaments.  It didn’t take long for Daniel to decide that bumping wasn’t much fun, causing him to shove James forcefully.  James stumbled backward into Michael and the two went tumbling to the floor, with Daniel pouncing on top.

“What’s going on out there,” Mother’s voice roared from the kitchen as Helen moved to separate the boys.  As Mother emerged from the kitchen the front door opened and their father moped in.
“You’re late.” Nora said as she looked toward him.  His clothes were still wet and muddy and he was shivering, but it was the quiet pain of his expression that caught her eye.  “Is everything all right?”

“There was an accident at work, but I’m ok.”  Art struggled to compose himself but could feel the effort failing.  “I’ll go change,” Art said as he retreated upstairs.

“Yes, let’s get you out of those clothes,” Nora answered as she followed him up the stairs.

As Art peeled off the wet shirt he heard the sound of bath water being drawn across the hall.  The door opened and Nora entered, closing the door behind her.

“So…what happened?”

“The brakes went out on the truck.  The truck went into the river.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but Alexis fired me.”

Nora’s eyes spat fire.  “That evil man.  It wasn’t your fault.  On Christmas Eve?”

Tears well up in Art’s eyes.  “Nora, he kept my wages.  There’s no money for presents.  How can I face the children?”

Nora’s shoulders slumped.  She looked at Art.  Tears rolled down his face as he stood shivering in his underwear.  She put her arms around him, his wet skin pressed against her dress.

“Let me talk to the children.  It’ll be all right.  We must be strong.  We’re a family.”  Nora moved to the door.  “There’s a hot bath waiting.  Come down when you ready.”

That night the family gathered by the tree, which sparkled as the candlelight reflected off the tin foil.  A fire crackled in the fireplace and the air was drenched with the aroma of hot cider and cookies.   Christmas carols hummed from the radio by the window, to the accompaniment of the children’s excited chatter.  Nora quietly turned to Helen.

“Can I talk to you in the kitchen?”  Nora lead Helen out of the room.  When they returned a few minutes later, Helen was strangely somber.  Nora then summoned Daniel to the kitchen, and upon their return summoned James.  As James returned he was seething and Nora was visibly upset.

“Michael…”

“I hope Santa brings me a new bike!” blurted Michael, overcome by the excitement.  Suddenly the rage inside James boiled over.  As he pummeled Michael on the floor Daniel joined the fracas.

“That’s enough!”  Screamed Nora as Art and Helen separated the boys.  “What’s wrong with you, it’s Christmas Eve!  To bed, all of you!”  As they headed upstairs Helen escorted Michael to protect him from the others.  The parents sat quietly until the children were upstairs.  Finally Art spoke.

“We have to tell him.”

“I know.  I just can’t do it tonight.  It’ll keep ’til morning.  Let’s go to bed.”

As the first shafts of light entered the room Michael woke abruptly.  Michael thought to wake his brothers, but remembering the beating from the night before, thought better of it. Dressing quickly, Michael slipped out of the room and raced down the stairs.  At the bottom of the stairs he stopped cold and stared disbelieving at the tree, the space beneath it barren as the night before.  A floorboard creaked at the top of the stairs and Michael looked up to see his father and mother standing there.

“Michael.”  His mother’s soft voice acted as a trigger, releasing the tears, which welled up in his eyes.  Michael bolted to the door, seeking the solitude of the outside world.

As he stood in the front yard on that cold Christmas morning, the anguish overcame him and his tears erupted into a sobbing which shook his body as if it were jelly. Suddenly a sound came piercing through the frigid December air and sent a chill up Michael’s spine.  It was a clear, singular, unmistakable sound…it was the sound of a bicycle horn.  Michael looked toward where the sound came from, and there at the corner was Richard Pearson riding in circles on a shiny new bike.  Disbelief drew Michael to the corner like a magnet where, upon seeing him, Richard twists the knife.

“Hey, oakie!  Look what Santa brought me for Christmas!”

Flush with rage, Michael was unsure how the rock found his hand, but he knew what it was there for.  Richard also knew it’s purpose and started pedaling full speed back toward his house.  As Richard reached his yard Michael let the rock fly with the force of a years worth of suppressed hostility.  But the blindness of his anger betrayed Michael’s aim, and as the rock sailed over Richard’s head and through a window on the Pearson house, anger turned to panic.  The sound of breaking glass reverberated through the neighborhood, follow by the sound of footsteps as Michael fled into the cold Christmas morning.

When Michael stopped running he found himself run deep into Skid Row.  The place was quiet and mostly deserted at this hour of the morning, a dreary collection of fleabag hotels and seedy shops.  As Michael walked down the sidewalk he spied here and there some one sleeping in a doorway.  On one corner some men were loading into one of Alexis’ trucks to head out to the fields.  The only other person awake on the street was a wino sitting on a bench and drinking from a bottle in a paper bag.  There was something vaguely familiar about the wino, and as Michael cautiously approached, the old man beckoned to him.

“Come here, son.  Have a sit.”  Michael remembered his promise to his mother, but this was a morning of broken promises.  With cautious defiance Michael sat on the bench.

“So, what’s a young boy doing in this neighborhood at this hour when he should be home having Christmas with his family?”

“To hell with Christmas.  I hate Christmas.”

“That’s some pretty strong language.  I don’t know that Santa would approve of such talk.”

“To hell with Santa.  Santa’s a lie.  Just a trick parent’s use so their kid’s will be good.  I was good all year…getting teased by other kids and pounded by my stupid brothers…all I wanted was a bike.  And what do I get?  Nothing!  I was good all year for nothing.  That rich spoiled brat, Richard Pearson, he gets a bike.  Meanest kid in town.  I hate him, and I hate Christmas and I hate Santa Claus, and I hate my stupid family.”

“Sounds like a hard life.  So your brothers pick on you all the time?”

“Some times they’re ok.  They stick up for me some times.  But now that they’re older the think they’re tough guy’s.  They’re not so tough.  My sister can lick either one of them.”

“You’re sister must be pretty mean.”

“She’s nice most of the time, but she bosses us around a lot.  And mom let’s her get away with it.”

“That doesn’t sound fair.  Sounds like your mother’s pretty mean.”

“No not really.  I mean, she’s got a rule for everything, but she takes good care of us.”

“How about your dad?  Is he around?”

“Yeah, except when he has to work.   He has to work all the time, and we don’t have very much money. I wish he had a better job.”

“Sounds a lot like my family.”

“You have a family?”

“Had one…still have one.  Just haven’t seen them in a while.”

“Why not?”

“Something happened…I got mad…said some things I wished I hadn’t…did some things I wished I hadn’t.  Afterwards I didn’t feel like I could face them again, so I left.”

“What happened?” Michael asked.  “What made you so mad?”

“You know, it’s been so long now I don’t rightly remember,” mused the wino as he took another pull of the bottle, “but I’m sure it wasn’t something as important as a bicycle.”  As he exhaled his breath caused Michael to recoil for a moment.  As he did he recognized the foul odor.  He stared closely at the wino’s haggard face with it’s bright red nose.

“Well, I guess I better get going,” Michael stood to walk back down the sidewalk.

“Merry Christmas, son.”

“Merry Christmas.”

As Michael entered the front door of his house his mother was waiting for him.

“Where have you been?”

“I just went for a walk.”

“Your sister and your brothers are out searching the town for you.  Do you know how worried I was.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry.”

“You father wants to talk to you.  Art, Michael’s home.”

His father walked downstairs and stood over Michael.

“Do you want to explain what happened with the Pearson’s window?”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“You didn’t mean to throw that rock?”

“I didn’t mean to hit the window.”

“Well, we’re going down to the Pearson’s, and you can explain it to them.  And when we get back you will spend the rest of the day in your room.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael answered as he secretly bemoaned his fate.  With that his father pushed Michael out the door.

At the house on the corner Richard’s father answered the door.

“Merry Christmas, won’t you come in.”

“Thank you,” Art replied as he escorted Michael inside.  The Pearson’s house was decked out for the holidays in grand style.  Crystal ornaments hung from the chandelier in the foyer, and garlands draped the balustrade on the staircase.  Through the french doors in the living room Michael could see a tree which looked almost as big as the one in the department store, covered with tinsel and lights and ornaments.  Beyond the tree a piece of cardboard had been taped over the broken window.

“Sorry to bother you,” Art said, “I believe my son has something to say to you.”  Art’s hand tightened on Michael’s shoulder.

“I’m very sorry about breaking your window.”

“I’m less concerned about the window than the intended target.”  Mr. Pearson turned toward the living room.  “Richard, will you come out here, please.”  He turned again to face the Smith’s.  “A window is easily replaced…but a child is irreplaceable.”  Richard entered the foyer through the french doors.  “I’m sure that what ever the provocation, Michael would never want to cause Richard serious injury.”

Michael felt his father’s hand once again tighten on his shoulder.

“I’m very sorry I threw the rock at you, Richard.”

“I also know that there was provocation.  I am told that cut on your head was caused by my son, and I have seen to his punishment, and we’re are both sorry for that, aren’t we, Richard?”

“Yes…I’m sorry”

“Richard, I believe your mother has left cookies and milk for you and our guest.  Would you like to take Michael to the Kitchen while I talk with Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, sir,” groaned Richard and led Michael down the hallway.

“Can I get you some coffee, or something?” Mr. Pearson asked as he opened the doors to the living room and motioned inside.

“No, thank you,” replied Art as he entered the room.  “Mr. Pearson, I’ll be happy to fix that window.  I don’t think I’ll be able to buy the glass ’til tomorrow.

“Don’t worry about the window.  I ran into Lewis downtown last night and he told me about the accident.  He said you risked your life to save that family and lost your job because it.  That’s a tough break.”

“Well we’ve all had our share of tough breaks the last couple of years.”

“That’s true, but I’m feeling like things are starting to turn around.  In fact I’m thinking of hiring a new delivery driver down at the store.  Union scale.  You interested in the job?”

“Only if you let me fix the window,” Art said as he extended his hand to shake Pearson’s.

Art and Michael entered their house to find Helen setting up a dartboard in the living room.

“I was passing the Waterfront Tavern and they were throwing it out,” Helen chirped as she hung the board on the wall.

“That tavern isn’t any place you should be walking by,” warned her mother.

“We were going to play teams,” said James, “but we need a fourth.  Can Michael play?”

Michael looked at his father.

“Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?”  Art’s eyes stared deep into Michael’s.

“Yes, sir,” answered Michael as he lowered his eyes.

“Well…it is Christmas,” his father grinned. “Who am I to spoil the fun?”  And with that Michael ran to the dartboard to join in the games and the laughter.

The morning after Christmas Michael and his brothers went fishing.  There, in the weeds by the river, Michael stumbled across the rusting remains of an old bicycle.  The front forks and wheel were hopelessly bent and the gooseneck was cracked, indicating that the bike had met its demise in a violent frontal impact.  Both drive gears were rusted solid and the rubber tires and leather seat had long since surrendered to the forces of nature.  Michael and his brothers carried the carcass home, much to the consternation of their mother, and Michael spent most of his free time that Christmas vacation in the garage with a jar of naval jelly and a wire brush. On a shelf in the garage Michael found an old can of bright green paint, which he brushed on the frame with as steady a hand as he could muster on those cold winter days. Michael scoured the vacant lots and junk yards for parts…a wheel here, a seat there.  In back of the gas station over on Pacific he picked through a pile of old tires until he found a mismatched set that were still serviceable.  On the day of his first paycheck from Pearson’s, Art presented Michael with a new set of inner tubes.  It wasn’t the bike he had wished for, but it was his first bike, and Michael loved that bike.  Then one day Michael parked it out front of the grocery store, and when he came out it was gone.  He searched until dark, but Michael never saw that bike again.

Michael had many bikes after that, until bikes gave way to cars, but that first bike was always special.  But more special was the gift he received that Christmas…a gift that outlasted all the bikes and all the cars, a gift which endured through many Christmas’ to come, in good times and bad.  It was the gift of family, of courage, of forgiveness, of love.  It was a gift which he shared with all he knew, as it was meant to be shared.  And now I have shared it with you.  Merry Christmas.