Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes

by Robert Devereaux

  In this silent sadness, he grew acutely aware of his unyielding stance toward so many issues. He had always wanted things clear-cut. Yet here he was, ready to embrace the obverse view and champion it just as vehemently and with just as fiery a voice. Could he not entertain doubt even for a little while? What a relief from tired old habit that would be.

  Just then, Wendy passed through the bedroom door, which ought to have startled him but did not. “Hello,” she said like an old acquaintance. Santa Claus strode in after her wearing a forced smile. “Good,” said he. “You’re a little softer. So am I. Wonderful, isn’t it, what a cooling-off period can do?”

  Santa’s less-than-complete acceptance of him brought back Ty’s stubbornness. Holier than thou. Besides, Santa looked, how to put it, like one given over to carnal delights, a lover of the flesh, generous to children yes, but generous in his appetites as well, a Henry the Eighth, a Falstaff, a walking advertisement for hedonism. And yet, a little boy. It was absurd to let such a creature influence him so profoundly. “Appetites,” said Ty, raising a finger to make the point. “Addiction to things carnal. I’ll grant you it’s inborn and not a choice. But the same could be said for alcoholism.”

  Santa turned to Wendy. “You’re a genius, sweetheart.” Then to Ty, “It’s a question of instinct. I’ll tell you the truth, little Ty all grown up, my heart isn’t fully engaged in this task, because I’m afraid you adults are hopeless, stuck in habit, trapped in judgment—and your kind, you preachers, are the worst! But I must be generous, mustn’t I? Wendy believes in the possibility of change. And I believe in Wendy. So I too will strive to be open to change. Okay, darling, show Ty the scenes you showed me.”

  Wendy smiled and nodded, then brought the church interior into view. “Mister Taylor, sir, see these two people sitting one right behind the other in your pews?”

  “Of course,” said Ty. “That’s Bret Dornan and behind him Sarah Brand. He sells insurance. She works in a bakery, as I recall.”

  “Now look closer.” Ty looked and saw how they were constituted, the deep desires in them. “They’ll both leave your church.”

  “They won’t.”

  “Watch.” Snatches of their lives passed before him. He saw Sarah Brand bolt down a snifter of whiskey, again, again, freshening her breath to cover how much, how early, and how often she drank. She fought her addiction, sought help, buddied up with a fellow alcoholic, kicked the habit, fell again, rose again, this time succeeded, admitted to herself she had to manage this thing lifelong, and did so. All the while, Ty was privy to the weakness in her will, places in brain and body where urges lurked and desires beckoned, especially when stress or anxiety were at their height.

  Interwoven with those moments, Ty watched Bret Dornan age as well. But while Sarah’s urges ate away at her health, Bret’s had a different cast. He longed, as all human beings do, to be touched. But the touch he longed for happened to be male. Ty felt Bret’s guilt and shame, approved of them, then felt his own shame for judging him so. For he saw that Bret’s urges were as natural as Sarah’s were perverse. “He acts out of desperation at first,” said Wendy, as they watched Bret visit bars, hang out in parks, pick up and be picked up. “He tries to change.” Brett at a counseling center, subjecting himself to aversion therapy. “Then he finds a support group, they help him see how natural his impulses are, his desire to love and be loved. He learns to live alone, to love himself, see there, he finds a church which accepts and embraces him just as he is, he confides in the minister that a smile, a nod, and a kind word from him have helped Bret become whole.” Bret was now older, in his early thirties. Ty observed, as Wendy provided her narration, Bret’s pursuit of other interests, climbing in the Rockies, horseback riding, acting classes, attending the screening of classic films at the university and art theaters and, an hour north in Denver, at the Mayan, the Esquire. Ty saw him meet someone his age, pursue love, be loved. He delighted as love bloomed in his former parishioner. A moment later, it occurred to him that Bret’s love interest was male, but it no longer seemed to make a bit of difference. No, that wasn’t so. His own prejudices, drummed into him as a youth and adopted and promulgated thereafter, cast a warped light over the private moments Wendy showed him. But what this light illumined was not perverse at all.

  “It’s love, isn’t it?” said Ty.

  Santa replied, “The very thing that Christ urged. It’s just that mortals are polymorphous in how they express that love.”

  “I’m sorry I caused Bret so much pain. But people tend to be pretty resilient, do they not?”

  “Unfortunately, Mister Taylor,” said Wendy, “not all of them do.”

  Santa’s voice grew harsh. “Especially the very young.”

  Wendy gestured and there stood Ty at the pulpit. But beyond him, picked out by special light, were the children touched by the beguiling ribbons of his words, as before. But now, the boys and girls grew in time lapse, shifting pews—and always the ribbons pierced their hearts. He saw bored toddlers and older kids, Gayle and Tara Pine among them, absorb his lessons as they grew, devolve into haters, echo imperfectly in their minds his words against sodomites, not knowing precisely what a sodomite was, but learning soon enough to focus the misplaced fears that Ty had nurtured in them. There were three or four children, likewise putting on mass and stature under his gaze, who donned heavy cloaks of shame and guilt, who slumped as they grew, who knew—even as they denied it—that they were different, that it was them that Reverend Taylor railed against so often, or rather, that in their hidden hearts, Satan had established a stronghold.

  The child whose inward slump was most pronounced was the younger Stratton boy. Ty watched him curl inward in worry and fret, then dare a little defiance. Jamie became an adolescent, and a spark of tentative pride grew. Ty found himself rooting for the child, even though it was against his sermons that Jamie struggled. Abruptly, Jamie vanished from the pews. A spotlight held on his empty place. Then the church dimmed and faded.

  In its stead arose Grandview Memorial Gardens and a burial plot. Ty stood in a small circle of mourners. “Whose funeral is this?” he asked. Then he noticed that the Strattons held center stage, Walter, his wife Kathy, and their older son grown beyond his current age. “It’s Jamie’s, isn’t it?”

  “He took his own life,” said Santa.

  A chill rode up Ty’s back and scruffed him by the neck. “But it couldn’t have been my words that drove him to it. We just saw his spirit resisting them.”

  Then Wendy showed Ty thundering at the pulpit. Phrases fell from his lips. Juxtaposed, Walter and Kathy Stratton berated their son in near-identical phrases, in biblical passages he had cited continually across the years. Ty watched Jamie’s spirit wither before the onslaught of his parents’ condemnation, of Ty’s condemnation, of the crushing drumbeat of societal condemnation—pounding into him the lie that not they but he was perverse, so that living grew gradually impossible.

  There returned at last the funeral party and Ty’s face, mock-pious and filled with scorn, hating the child even in his grave. It made him nauseous to see himself this way. The bedroom with its enchanted snow and its distant jingle of bells replaced the graveyard scene, but Ty wept. “My God,” he said. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  Wendy patted his hand. “It’ll be all right, Mister Taylor.”

  Her kindness made him weep the harder.

  “I can change, I swear it.”

  “You can,” said Santa, “and you will. I believe it with all my heart. It’s already begun. Now sleep. We’ll come by once more before morning. Pleasant dreams, little one.”

  Ty wiped his eyes and said, “Thank you.”

  But Santa and Wendy were already halfway to the door, and a deep sleep cradled Ty gently in its arms.

  Chapter 16. Perversions and Reversals

  FRITZ HAD ENTERED the workshop to retrieve a custom-made drill bit for work on the third replica of the Strattons’ bedroom when he heard Santa’s sleigh jingle in.
Indeed, he saw it sweep by a picture window and come to an abrupt stop in the snow. So he wasn’t surprised when Santa strode in. What surprised him, to the point of shock, was Santa’s mood.

  He looked stern and acted—how could it be?—grumpy. From workbench to workbench he went, snatching toys from the hands of one elf or another. As he reached the door, he looked back and said, “All of you, out by the replicas, now!”

  The door slammed after him. At once, Fritz and the others hopped to. “I wonder what we did wrong,” he said to Herbert as they hurried outside. Herbert merely shrugged in puzzlement and followed him.

  In the distance, Wendy was sitting in the sleigh stroking Snowball and Nightwind, who had picked their haughty way through deep snow from the cottage to greet her.

  Santa surveyed the replicas, his eyes flashing here and there. When he came to the Strattons’ replica, he bounded onto the platform and set all but one of the toys down. “Don’t dawdle. Santa’s helpers do not dawdle. Can everyone hear me? Good.”

  Fritz felt uneasy. He could not recall seeing Santa so agitated. Was that true? In the year of Rachel and Wendy’s coming, during that lapse of elfin memory, perhaps he had acted so then.

  “Look at this doll. Shoddy construction, a half-hearted paint job. Brother elves, we have always prided ourselves on superior work. Craftsmen who don’t care or are distracted let defects go by, do they not? Take this dump truck. The action is less than smooth, the tires do not spin free, the tailgate sometimes sticks, not opening at all, you see? For all our age and experience, you and I are children at heart. It’s essential that our work be infused with such joy, the recipient feels it in his or her bones.

  “These replicas are no less important than our toys. They may be more important. But you are falling down. You’re failing me. Every last one of you. Fritz, Karlheinz, Max, I entrusted this task to you, and it has been mismanaged. I will not allow such stumbling, do you hear me?”

  The elves nodded and hung their heads, their doffed caps like limp leaves in their hands.

  Fritz stood there in shock. Saint Nicholas had shamed him and his bunkmates before the community. Not that they didn’t deserve it, but this was most unlike their master. What was preventing him from seeing the damage Gregor was causing? Why didn’t he step in and set things right?

  “You had better hear. And heed! Now Wendy and I are going to head out for one last visit to our mortals. I want every inch of these rooms spotless, perfectly jointed, flawlessly painted, done to a turn. These final replicas are intended to evoke childhood memories. A child’s sensory recall is vivid and well-nigh impeccable. Every detail must be exact. I want nothing that spoils the effect, no wood shavings scattered about, no loose screws, none of that. Do you understand?”

  “We do, Santa,” said Fritz and the others. Herbert, wide-eyed, beside him, nodded vigorously.

  “Now, I have no idea what sort of bug has burrowed its way up inside you. If I need to, I’ll handhold you through it. But you’re responsible elves. You can work out whatever problems are percolating through this community. Do it. Resolve them. Gather your scattered wits, bend every effort to producing work that is nothing less than superb. Start with these replicas. Then bring your renewed resolve back into the workshop. You are not mortal grown-ups; you are not slackers on the job. So stop pretending you are. Now clear the way. Wendy and I have mortals to visit.”

  And he strode through the crowd, pressing toys into their makers’ hands and setting his course for the sleigh. Snowball and Nightwind hopped down from Wendy’s lap as Gregor and his brothers stepped away from the reindeer. A vicious whipsmack asterisked the air above their antlers, and up they rose. Though Santa did not wave farewell, Wendy gave a tiny finger-twiddle when he wasn’t looking. Then they headed back the way they had come, until the sleigh was a smudge and a speck and then nothing at all.

  Fritz felt numb. In the moments just endured, something seemed to have died. He had the feeling Gregor was gloating.

  “Let’s go, Herbert,” he said.

  But it quickly became clear that no one was going anywhere.

  * * *

  “All right,” said Gregor, bounding onto the platform Santa had vacated, “gather ‘round, all of you.” They had been shamed, and Gregor wasn’t about to lose a chance to hammer home his message.

  His brothers emerged from the workshop carrying Santa’s lectern. They brought it to the platform and set it up before him, then stood at his left and right with folded arms.

  “Now,” said Gregor, rapping the lectern sharply with his fist. “You heard what Santa said. Time and again, I have railed against a vile habit, a habit that has run rampart through our community and at last degraded our work. Our esteem in the eyes of the good saint who relies upon our labor has eroded. Barring a miracle, it will soon be washed away entirely. Is that what you want? Is it?”

  “No, Gregor,” they mumbled.

  “Nor do I. But you, unlike me, lack self-control. Do you think Gregor is never tempted to sneak a finger up his nose? I am not so impervious to temptation as that. What I am is ever vigilant, vigilant to a fault.”

  This of course was nonsense, and he knew it. But getting away with it thrilled him. And perhaps claiming so in public would make it true. If nothing else, it established his moral supremacy and brought Fritz into further disrepute.

  “At the merest hint of temptation, my brothers, I squelch it, I pulverize it, I toss its ashes into the dustbin of never! Never shall Gregor sully his fingers with the vile snail-stuff of mucus, never shall that germ-riddled gloop pass the sacred portal of my lips, never profane my tongue, never outrage my taste buds, never slither down my throat. For I, and you, and all of us are meant for nobler things.”

  Inwardly he preened. I’m a far better speaker than Santa Claus, he thought. Perhaps toppling Fritz and imposing stricter order on his helpers will sufficiently elevate me, that taking Santa’s place enters the realm of possibility.

  “To some of you, Gregor may seem obsessed, a johnny-one-note, ever harping on this single problem. Do you know why I do it? Anyone.”

  The watchmaker raised his hand. “To make us better elves?”

  “That’s right, Franz. Perfectly expressed. To make us better elves. You've been worse elves lately. You have been horrendous elves. By God, a lesser guardian of your moral well-being would have thrown in the towel long ago. Shame on you. Shame on you all. I point out one shortcoming and what do you do? You come even shorter! You increase the frequency of your misbehavior. In the back there, you know who you are, keep your hands away from your face! Our skilled watchmaker says, to make you better elves. And he is right.

  “But what does that mean? It means being less like grown-up mortals, those post-childhood slaves to habit. A wise man named Sam Beckett once said, habit is a great deadener. And so it is. Habits deaden. But practices freely elected enliven. Let one habit in, open the door a hairline crack, and its brother habits swiftly follow. They buzz about, they distract, they eat up time and energy, focus and intent, championing sloth where diligence and industry once reigned. We cannot allow it, my brothers. For the sake of the children, we must not allow it. Henceforth I shall redouble my efforts on your behalf. My eagle eye, beaming restraints as sturdy as leather, shall help rein you in. If such be obsession, why then Gregor is obsessed. He freely admits it.” Gregor opened his hands in appeal. “But to be obsessed in so worthy a cause is nobly to be obsessed. It is to be touched, dare I say it, by the hand of God Almighty himself. The tip of God’s gargantuan finger has found his servant Gregor and conveyed him to his mouth; down through God's digestive tract travels Gregor, transformed, brought forth as divine waste and returned to you with renewed purpose. I shall be your harness, dear friends, I your traces, I the whip that keeps your attention focused in the proper direction. Under my guidance shall your hooves beat with confidence against the wind, your antlers loft high in proud purpose. Together, as one, nostrils flaring and unprobed, shall we traverse eternal night
, our ever-replenished sleigh gliding through unimpeded atmosphere. Together we will beat this obsession, together trample habit in the dust, reviving once more our finest selves. Do it, said Santa. Do it, say I. We can, my brothers, and we will!” He finished with a flurry, his audience entranced.

  Good, he thought, but I won’t allow them to raise me up, as they do Santa. No telling where those hands of theirs have been. The elves kept a respectable distance as he and his brothers cut a swath through them and made for the stables. No, he thought, they shall not raise me up, though the idea had in fact occurred to none of them.

  * * *

  Kathy awoke on a sunny mountain trail standing beside the other dreamers. It was a warm fall afternoon, the trees riotous with yellow and orange, among russet hawthorn and defiantly blue-green spruce.

  Robed in white as before, they held hands in a circle. A smiling Ty Taylor said, “Let us give thanks for God’s blessings. He has given us the opportunity for radical change, in the place where prejudice and ill will take root. He has shown us one of our sins, its consequences, and how we might abandon it and move toward true righteousness.”

  “I’ve changed,” said Matt. “That’s for sure.”

  A nearby stand of aspens rustled its thin gold coins. “I think we’ve changed as well,” said Kathy, and Walter agreed.

  They seemed to be somewhere in the Rockies. Down the mountain, vistas opened into people’s lives. “Marvelous,” said the preacher, and Kathy knew that, as before, their vision was shared. The conversations that came to their ears, though they overlapped a hundredfold, were in all cases clear and easy to comprehend. The words were mundane, full of jokes and topical references—yet they connected people, and those connections were buoyed by undercurrents of love. Love was something Kathy prized in her life, and here it was, man to woman, man to man, woman to woman. This was no ordinary dream. It would not fade into forgetfulness, or if it did, the essence would burn in her, day by day. It was a blessing, one she marveled she had been chosen to receive.