“I’m getting a train.” Brad’s eyes glowed and his face lit up. “I was snooping and lifted a quilt. I saw the box. A diesel.”
I envied him and narrowed my shrewd, young eyes. It’s time to be bold. I’d find out. Later tonight.
While the rest of the family watched TV that night, I tiptoed upstairs to my parents’ room and stopped before the door. It wasn’t precisely trespassing. Mom and Dad never kept anyone out. But it was their room and it beckoned, dark and full of mystery. The presents had to be here; they couldn’t be anywhere else.
I entered. Where do I look first? Under the bed? The closet? Of course, that had to be it, the mother lode. I crept to the closed door, but my hands stayed at my side.
Do this, and it’s all over. I wanted to believe in Santa. I listened to the radar reports over the radio on Christmas Eve, proof that he’s real. But I began to recognize the same reports year after year. If I find presents, Santa’s gone forever. If I don’t look, maybe he still exists. Elves. Flying reindeer. Toys, wonderful toys by the sleigh load. I backed away from the closet and sneaked out of the room. Someday, I might find out Santa’s just a pleasant story. But not this night.
“Did you find anything?” Brad asked the next day.
“Nah.” He didn’t need to know of my decision. “Did you look at your train?”
He kicked an unoffending bit of snow. “It was just an empty box.”
Kids can’t fathom it, but parents were children once and they remember a lot. They’re also smart enough to scatter false clues. Enough to baffle the smartest of inquisitive boys and keep them wondering. Is Santa real?
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.