My True Love Gave To Me: Twelve Holiday Stories

by Perkins, Stephanie

  “How about that,” Gracie murmured. “Double-booked venue, freak snowstorm, trapped animals. And now no director. Things are getting worse by the second.” She clucked her tongue. “It would be easy to give up. No one would blame us. Or…”

  “Or…?”

  She let go of my arm, practically bouncing. “You know how to make things go wrong. You excel at it.” From anyone else, I’d have taken that personally. “Tell me you can’t figure out how to make tonight happen.”

  “Are you trying to find a way to make your father accept me or something?” I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. “Are you trying to fix me?”

  “Why? Are you broken?”

  Gracie tilted her head.

  Parts of me were. I felt like Gracie could see every single torn-up edge. I shrugged.

  “You said you were trying to change,” she reminded me.

  “I said maybe.”

  I was glad she wasn’t holding my hand. My palms were a rain forest.

  “You’re so blinded by negative expectations that you can’t see the truth. Pranks, jokes—they don’t make you bad.” She angled her body toward me. “They make you you. You have a lot to offer, Vaughn. And Christmas is about new beginnings.”

  “What about you, Gracie? Since I have so much to offer, would you be willing to start something with me? Or are you afraid I’ll ruin your reputation?”

  “What makes you think that I won’t ruin yours?”

  I choked on my own spit.

  Gracie gestured toward the chaos onstage. “So?”

  I counted the people backstage, the props. Thought about the possibilities “Let’s make it happen.”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  “Another dollar,” Pastor Robinson hollered, before returning to his phone call.

  I laughed. “Isn’t that one in the Bible, too?”

  “He’s not been very forgiving lately,” she said through her smile, as she gave her father the thumbs-up. “I think he’s aiming for Hawaii next summer.”

  I had a flash of Gracie in a bikini, followed by one of Pastor Robinson in Speedos. I shook my head in a reflex action to push both pictures out of my brain. “You should get into costume. Where’s your foam child?”

  “One of the baby angels is using it for a pillow.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward her father. “Hey, Dad! Vaughn has an idea.”

  * * *

  Pastor Robinson agreed to go forward.

  The traffic reports from the north of town were growing worse by the second. Things to the south weren’t much better, but the traffic was moving. Pastor Robinson’s phone lit up with calls from stranded cast members. Gracie and her dad were trying to figure out exactly which cast members were missing.

  I was listening, but I was also thinking. Crazy-Sherlock thinking. Looking from the Civil War soldiers to the nativity costumes, from the arena to the stage.

  Gracie watched me. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? You’re doing your brain thing. Right now.”

  I ignored her. “If the pageant is going to be short of players, and the Rebel Yell is, too, we could make a hybrid.”

  Pastor Robinson frowned. “You mean like General Grant and General Lee and Santa should give the presents to the Christ child?”

  I hadn’t meant that at all, but I stopped for a moment to picture it.

  “No, Dad, the Wise Men costumes are here,” Gracie explained. “We could just get someone from the Rebel Yell to put them on.”

  “That could work,” he said.

  “And,” I was rolling now, “if both casts are down by half, maybe the audiences will be, too. We could combine the shows. And since your congregation can’t barrel race”—I looked to him for confirmation, and he shook his head—“then maybe we can get the Rebel Yell employees to volunteer for us.”

  “I like that idea. I like it a lot. Let me feel them out.”

  I didn’t mention that I was pretty sure I’d have to recruit waitresses to fill in for the missing angels. The baby angels. The waitresses would look more like prostitutes in their costumes.

  At least we had shepherd’s hooks. If things got too scandalous, we could always pull them off the stage.

  Gracie didn’t say I had to make a classy pageant happen. Just a pageant.

  “Okay, what else?” She had a clipboard and a pencil. It was nice to see her taking my success so seriously, but the clipboard reminded me of a bigger problem.

  “The playbook.” It still sat on the director’s stool, in complete disarray, pages sticking out everywhere. “We don’t know what order to put things in. The Rebel Yell people will need markers to know where to go.”

  “I can help with that.”

  The voice was deep, and it could only come from one person.

  Shelby’s blond hair had grown out since his football season buzz cut, and it was sticking up everywhere. His face was unshaven, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his shirt wasn’t buttoned right. I’d never seen him look unkempt before.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. In truth, I blurted it. I felt a little more kindly toward Shelby than usual.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry I made those birds crap on your car.” I’d never apologized, and it felt right to do it now. “It wasn’t cool, and I didn’t have a reason. Not a valid one anyway.”

  Gracie dropped the clipboard and stepped in front of me. “I told him about your girlfriend.”

  “Did you tell him about the Mini Cooper?” Shelby asked, urgently.

  Gracie shook her head. “That’s your issue.”

  “Dude.” Shelby stepped around her and grabbed me, looking intently into my eyes. “I only drive the Mini Cooper because I have to. My dad gets weird ideas about things”—he jerked his head toward the lassos and clown wigs that were hanging on a nearby Peg-Board—“and that car is one of them. He surprised me with it, and he was so happy … I just wish you’d set it on fire instead of the church.”

  “Relax, big boy. I didn’t mean to set anything on fire.”

  Gracie stepped in front of me again and knocked off Shelby’s giant, sweaty hands from my shoulders. “But you forgive him, right?”

  Shelby’s body was large, but his brain was quick. He looked from me to Gracie. “Seriously? You two?”

  “Can you help with the book or not?” Her hands were on her hips. “Because I’m not having this conversation right now, but I will remind you that you owe me.”

  “Very true.” Shelby dropped his head. “Fine, hand it over. I know I can put those stage markings in the right place. They’ve always looked like football plays to me.”

  Gracie gave it to him, and he sat on the stool, heavily, as if he were exhausted. It creaked under his weight. “I’ll let you know when I’m done,” he called out. “And Gracie? We’ll be having a talk later.”

  She waved him off and pulled me to the side of the stage. “That was an impressive apology from you. Unexpected.”

  We were right beside a corner. A small, dark corner. A corner that wasn’t in her father’s line of vision. And she was impressed with me.

  “Was it reward worthy?” I asked, looking from her to the corner and back again.

  “You are cheeky.”

  “I acknowledge advantageous situations.”

  “Cheeky. And smart, too.” She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me into the darkness.

  I was glad she hadn’t put her costume back on. It’s not like I had her pressed up against the wall or anything, but I was closer to her than I’d ever been. It exceeded expectations. Her hair smelled girly, like spring.

  She still had my shirt wrapped around her fist.

  “I know I’m trying to make better life choices,” I said, “but I’d commit a crime every day if it meant I got to do this.”

  “That’s not logical.” She let go of my shirt. “If you committed daily crimes, the only time we’d have together would be an hour on Sundays.”

  I wanted to make a conjugal visit joke,
but I didn’t think we were there yet. “So you’re saying you want to spend time with me?”

  She answered with a giggle. Gracie wasn’t a giggler.

  “You’re nervous.”

  “I’m … I’ve never … the only kiss I’ve ever had was with Milo Crutcher in sixth grade, and he stuck his whole tongue in my mouth. I understand his intentions now, but I didn’t then. So, I’ve just … sort of…” She gestured awkwardly with her hands. It was adorable. “I’ve avoided trying it again.”

  She thought I was going to kiss her, and she wasn’t running away.

  “That’s a shame.” I touched her face, ran my thumb along her cheekbone. “Although I’m glad he ruined it for you. I’ll be happy to be the one to set things right.”

  “I b-bet you would.”

  I removed my hand from her cheek. “Your teeth are chattering. I’m sorry—”

  “Hey.” She grabbed my wrist. “I’m the one who made the move.”

  “And I appreciate it.” I tipped up her chin with one finger. “But this probably isn’t the time or place for this, and maybe I want to buy you a steak first.”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” she said, but she’d stopped shaking.

  I smiled. “I’ll buy you a salad.”

  Then I gave her a peck on the forehead and stepped into the light.

  * * *

  I’d behaved for thirty-one hours, shown restraint with Gracie, and had an intelligent conversation with her father. I’d found tablecloths to cover the legs of the waitresses-now-angels, persuaded Lee and Grant to put on wigs and robes (two of the Wise Men were stuck in traffic), and attached cotton balls to sawhorses to create sheep.

  I’d wielded a glue gun to finish hemming Gracie’s costume—with no hit to my masculinity at all—and borrowed an eighth-grade gamer from the middle school choir to run lights. I’d untucked the robe from the back of an unaware shepherd’s pants, removed the Confederate caps from the horses-now-donkeys, and located Benadryl for a nervous stage mother.

  Talk about your Christmas miracles. There was only one problem.

  No Joseph.

  “Did we make him mad?” I asked Gracie. We’d found the playbook, perfectly organized, but Shelby had disappeared. “Is this my fault, too?”

  “No, he’s not that kind of guy.” She threw her hands up into the air. “We never dated, not even once. Something’s wrong.”

  We didn’t have any extra bodies to stand in as Joseph. Gracie’s father was outside handling the tickets and the traffic, and … that would be gross, anyway. I couldn’t even pull an overgrown middle-schooler from the choir, because he was their only tenor.

  I was at the end of my alternatives when Pastor Robinson reappeared. “We found Shelby,” he said. “Passed out under a pile of burlap. He’s running a high fever, and he’s delirious. Keeps talking about Democrats and New Jersey and kissing.”

  “So we don’t have a Joseph.” Gracie kept her eyes on her father, but her hand moved to mine.

  “No, we don’t.” He was very obviously not looking at me, either.

  Oh, no.

  “Come on.” I took a step back. “No way. No one in this town will buy me as Joseph. They’ll boo at the nativity. You can’t have people booing at the nativity. And I might be a troublemaker, but what I do is underhanded. Sneaky. I don’t like people looking at me. And people would have to look at me.” I was babbling, but the last thing I wanted to do was put on a robe and a fake beard and pretend to be the father of Jesus.

  “It’s okay, Vaughn. You don’t have to do it.” Gracie squeezed my hand. “We have time to figure something out.”

  “Ten minutes!” It was the eighth-grade gamer on the earpiece.

  “We could use one of the Wise Men,” Gracie suggested. “Pull someone out of the crowd to take his place. All he has to do is stand there.”

  Pastor Robinson nodded. “That could work. We might have to open the curtain a few minutes late—”

  “I’ll do it.” Was that coming from me? It was. “I’ll be Joseph.”

  “Son, you don’t have to. I promise,” Pastor Robinson said. He meant it, and not because he’d be ashamed for me to take the role. I could tell that he was thinking about me, my feelings. And he’d called me son. “Performing wasn’t a part of your deal.”

  I looked from Gracie to her father, and all I saw on their faces was concern. Not judgment, not disappointment, not expectation. Nothing.

  Just love.

  “Directing the pageant wasn’t part of the deal, either,” I said.

  “This is different,” Gracie said. “No one wants you to be uncomfortable—”

  “I want to.” I held up my hand when Gracie started to argue. “No. I really want to.” I turned to her father. “The least I can do is put on a fake beard and stand up for what you believe in.”

  Gracie was biting her lip. I might have seen tears in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” Pastor Robinson said. And then he hugged me.

  “Right.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So where’s the beard?”

  * * *

  Gracie and I were alone on the stage, waiting for the curtain to rise, just a young couple from Nazareth on our way to Bethlehem to be counted in the census. Minus a donkey, but some things couldn’t be helped. Gracie told me the donkey thing wasn’t in the Bible anyway.

  I was sweaty and nervous, but Gracie was smiling from ear to ear. It made the whole thing worth it.

  “I’d say good luck.” I fiddled with a glue strip and slapped on the mustache. “But it’s ‘break a leg,’ right?” My beard flipped over. “Crap.”

  Gracie laughed and reached out to fix it. Or so I thought.

  “There are other things you can do for luck.” She stood on her tiptoes, lifted her chin, and placed a kiss on my lips. It was soft and sweet.

  My knees went weak. Like, so weak I had to lean on her. “That was a surprise. Don’t get me wrong, a welcome surprise. But still.”

  “I’m sorry. Did I take it too far?” she asked softly.

  “No,” I said. The curtain began to rise. “You took it exactly far enough.”

  If you do a search for “US cities named Christmas” (which, get a life, weirdo), you’ll get five main results. Arizona, Florida, Kentucky, Michigan, and Mississippi each had someone who decided, “Hey, let’s name our city after Christmas, because then it’ll be Christmas all year round!”

  If you ever stumble across one of their graves, you are obligated to spit on it, because honestly.

  However, on the I-15, between the glittering cityscape of Barstow and the stunning metropolis of Baker, there’s a crumbling freeway exit that’s so small and depressing, even Google doesn’t know about it. And here, cradled in the bosom of the ugly brown desert, is my home: Christmas, California.

  Technically, it’s not a city. It’s not even a town. It’s a “census-designated place.”

  “Where are you from, Maria?” I’ll be asked someday, and I’ll be able to say with utter accuracy, “Just some place.”

  Christmas is slipping into a pit of obsolescence. That pit would be the local boron mine, where fifty workers literally squeeze their living from rocks. Someday the boron will run out, and our census-designated place will finally be allowed to die.

  As I sit in the passenger side of my mom’s boyfriend’s eighteen-year-old Chevy Nova, the December sunshine coldly brilliant, I pray that day comes soon. It’s a forty-five-minute drive from the nearest high school, which means I get an hour and a half of quality time with Rick every day.

  Our script:

  Maria enters the car. Rick removes a tape from the deck, then puts in one of two cassette tapes, Johnny Cash or Hank Williams.

  “How was your day?” Rick asks.

  “Fine,” Maria answers.

  “Homework?”

  “Doing it now.”

  Repeat every day for the last three and a half years.

  Today, as we pull off the highway and onto the bustling main strip
(a car repair shop, a gas station, a series of slumping duplexes, and the Christmas Café), Rick breaks script.

  “Paloma found a new cook.”

  I narrow my eyes suspiciously at the dull brick exterior of the Christmas Café, which isn’t a café at all. It’s a diner. But the Christmas Diner isn’t alliterative, and saints forbid anything about the place not be ridiculous.

  Ted, the last cook, died last week. He’d worked here since it was opened thirty years ago by Rick’s mom. Dottie lives in a retirement home in Florida. Even though my mom has been with Rick for eight years, Dottie still refers to her as “that nice Mexican.” That nice Mexican runs the diner—covers the ordering, keeps track of the accounting, forces her daughter to work for tips alone—basically does everything Dottie is too busy being retired to bother with. She also works full-time at the mine with Rick.

  I keep trying to feel sad about Ted, but we barely knew each other, even after three years of working together. Still, it’ll be strange not having him there. He was more of a fixture than a person. Like if I walked in and the freezer was just … gone. Another reason I need to get out of here, before I become stuck like Ted, stuck like Rick, stuck like my mom. Everyone here is miserable, and we’re all just punching our time cards until we die.

  Or, in my case, until May, when I graduate and leave Christmas forever.

  * * *

  Rick drops me off in front of the duplex, then heads straight for the late shift at the mine. They actually let me take the car when I turned sixteen, but I got in two accidents (both my fault), so it’s still cheaper for Rick to drive me than for them to insure me. Cheaper trumps all.

  I unlock the door and enter the dim, chilly stairwell. My mom doesn’t believe in heating. It’s a belief strongly supported by Rick. During the winter, it’s colder inside than it is outside. I shrug into the jacket that I leave by the door, check the mail—always neatly divided into the Sanchez and the Miller piles—and climb upstairs to the kitchen. The fridge is plastered with so many years of my report cards, they’ve formed a sort of wallpaper. I push past the milk labeled “Rick,” the yogurt labeled “Rick,” the eggs labeled “Rick,” and find a small container of unlabeled leftover turkey. It has the flavor and consistency of cardboard. I scoop it into the trash, still hungry.