by Joe Wheeler
It was an open boxcar, and likely Reade had seen the sheriff already, but the sheriff called out Reade’s name anyhow. Then he pulled himself up into the car.
It took half a minute for the sheriff to get used to the half light, but all that time Stephen Reade didn’t move or try to get past him through the door. He just sat huddled up in his corner, pretending like he wasn’t there.
Sheriff Olsen went over to him and put his hands under Reade’s elbows and pulled him to his feet. Reade didn’t say anything when the sheriff shoved him down off the boxcar into the snow. But when they were in the sheriff’s car, the train gave a whistle and Reade said, in a whisper, “I was close to making it.”
The sheriff drove around behind where the Ladies’ Shakespeare Study Society had put a row of evergreens. He kept the heater going, and after a couple of minutes Stephen Reade stopped shaking some. The sheriff got out the vacuum bottle and poured coffee into its cap.
All of a sudden Reade gave a groan. “Let me out of here! For their sake, you’ve got to let me get away!” He started to rock back and forth, with his hands holding tight to his knees. “You’ve got to believe me! I’m no good for those kids! I’ve lost my nerve. I’m frightened. I’m frightened sick!”
For a long time the sheriff just sat next to Stephen Reade, wanting one minute to break the guy’s neck for him, and the next minute to put his arm around him, and not knowing any of the time what was right to do.
After a couple of minutes he said, “A while back, you claimed I didn’t know what it was like to be scared. Well, sometimes I get scared, too. Take like this afternoon. This afternoon I got to dress up crazy and hand out presents to a whole roomful of kids. Last night I didn’t sleep so good either, worrying about it.”
Stephen Reade snorted.
“Well, it ain’t easy like maybe you think,” Sheriff John went on. “I have to get up on a platform, and all the kids’ll be staring at me, and sometimes their folks come too.”
“You certainly make it sound tragic.”
“OK, if you don’t figure it’s so hard, you do it. I’ll make a bargain with you. You be Santa Claus for me, and I’ll find you a job. And while you’re doing a good turn for both me and yourself, Ellen and Robbie and Letty will sure get a kick out of seeing their pa acting Santa Claus to all the kids in town.”
For a long time Reade just sat staring through the windshield. Then he said, with his voice low and sober, “You couldn’t find me a job. There isn’t a man in the whole county who’d be half-wit enough to hire the loony that made hash out of Merske’s farm. And you know it.” Then he faced around to the sheriff. “But I’ll play at being Santa Claus if you want me to. I’ve been owing you some sort of thanks for a couple of years.”
Ten minutes later, the sheriff had Stephen Reade holed up in the washroom opposite his office. He pointed out where the outfit was hanging in the corner. “You better put the whiskers and cap on, too, while you got a mirror,” he said. “I’ll keep watch outside.”
Sheriff Olsen closed the washroom door and stepped back almost into his deputy’s arms.
“What you got in there?” Mart Dahlberg said.
“Stephen Reade. He’s going to be Santa Claus.”
“You crazy or something?” Mart asked. “You’ve been Santa Claus for five years. What you want to go and give your part to that dope for?”
“Look, Mart, don’t yell. Reade’s feeling awful low, see? Getting evicted and not having a job or nothing. And I kinda figured handing out the presents to all the kids would maybe pep him up some.”
“The committee won’t let him.”
“The committee won’t know until it’s too late,” the sheriff explained. “Maybe I figured crazy, but I had to figure something. And, anyhow, he promised his kids a good surprise.”
Mart gave a gentle pat on the sheriff’s back. “Well,” he said, “I can pray for you, but I don’t figure it will help much.”
Twenty minutes later, Sheriff Olsen poked his head into the kitchen behind the church’s big recreation room.
Mrs. Bengtson looked around from washing cocoa cups. “The eating’s done with, John,” she said. “And they’re singing carols while they wait for you.”
Sheriff Olsen said, “Thanks.” He motioned Stephen Reade to slip past through the kitchen to the door that opened out on the little stage. Then he moved himself, quiet and unnoticed, around to the back of the recreation room.
The piano was playing “Silent Night” and the place was jam-packed. The sheriff took off his hat and wiped his face. Then he sat down at the end of the bench that held Johanna and the three Reade kids. He smiled across the heads of the three kids at Johanna, and then he closed his hand over the hot paw that little Ellen had wriggled onto his knee.
Up on the stage the tree was a beautiful sight. It was nine feet tall, and the committee had decorated it with pretty balls, lights, and popcorn chains. Under the tree were the presents. The wrapping paper had all come from Merske’s Dry Goods Store because this year Sam Merske was chairman of the committee and most of the presents had been bought at his store. Some of the paper was white and had green bells on it and some was red with white bells, and each bell had printed on it one of the letters of MERSKE. And they were a beautiful sight, too. But sitting next to the presents, low under the tree, hunched up like a discouraged rabbit, was Santa Claus.
Sheriff Olsen flattened his hat out on his knee. Mart had been right. Wearing a beard on his chin and putting stuffing over his stomach weren’t going to put pep into Stephen Reade. All they were going to do was spoil the show for the children and make Reade feel more miserable even than before! Then the music stopped and the sheriff folded his hat in two. Mart had said he would pray and maybe he wasn’t forgetting to.
All of a sudden a little kid down front squealed, “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus!” And after that, the whole room was full of loving squeals and chirpings and calls of “Hi, Santa!”
Stephen Reade straightened up his shoulders a bit and then he reached out a hand for one of the packages. Sheriff Olsen began to feel some better. At least, Reade was remembering what he was up on the stage for, and maybe the kids wouldn’t notice that Santa Claus didn’t have his whole heart in the business.
Then a voice said, hoarse and angry, “Move over,” and Sam Merske plunked himself down at the end of the bench.
Sheriff Olsen gave a low groan, and Merske said, “Surprised to see me, huh?”
“Kinda,” the sheriff muttered.
“You got the nerve to be sitting here,” Merske said. “Who you got up there behind those whiskers?”
Sheriff Olsen wet his lips and then he opened his mouth, figuring to say it was a friend. But Ellen Reade was quicker at opening hers. Ellen leaned over the sheriff’s knees and lifted her face up, eager and excited.
“It’s my father, Mr. Merske,” she whispered. “Isn’t he wonderful?” Then she gave a sigh like she was stuffed full of a good dinner, and turned back to stare at the stage again.
Sheriff Olsen stared at the stage too, but the tree and Santa Claus and the little boy who was getting his present were all blurred together because of the awful way the sheriff was feeling.
Sam Merske said, “So you put Stephen Reade up there in the whiskers and clothes and things that I supplied. Ain’t that just beautiful?”
On the stage, a little girl was getting her package, and being a little girl, was remembering to say “Thank you.”
Sam Merske said, “I’ll get you for this. Putting a dead beat up there to hand out stuff that’s wrapped with my paper and tied with my string! A no-good loafer that’ll ruin the whole show! A no-good—”
His voice was getting louder, and the sheriff stuck his elbow hard into Sam Merske’s ribs to make him shut up before the Reade kids could hear what he was saying.
But just shutting him up for now wasn’t going to help. There were an awful lot of ways Merske could shame Stephen Reade in front of his children—like taking away the
table and chairs that Ellen had counted on belonging to her family.
Sheriff Olsen tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. His throat was dry the same as his mouth. But his face and neck were so wet it would have taken a couple of bath towels to mop them.
It wasn’t just a dumb thing the sheriff had gone and done; it was a plain crazy thing.
“Look, Sam,” the sheriff whispered, “I gotta talk with you outside.”
“Not with me,” Merske said. “I’m sitting right here until I can lay my hands personal on that bum.”
“Crazy” was what his deputy had called the sheriff’s scheme. But Mart Dahlberg had been kind and generous. “Wicked” was the word he ought to have used.
And then all of a sudden a little boy began to yowl.
“It’s Johnny Pilshek,” Ellen said. “He’s mad ’cause Louie Horbetz got a cowboy hat and all he got was mittens.”
Every year it happened like that. Two or maybe three or four kids would complain about their presents, and that was why the committee always hid half a dozen boxes of something such as crayons under the sheet to give them. But Stephen Reade didn’t know about the extras, because the sheriff had forgotten to tell him.
Johnny Pilshek marched back up on the stage. He stuck out his lower lip and shoved the mittens at Santa Claus. “I don’t want mittens,” Johnny howled. “Mittens aren’t a real present.”
Santa Claus took the mittens and inspected them. “Most mittens aren’t a real present,” he said, “but these mittens are something special. They’re made of interwoven, reprocessed wool, Johnny. That’s what the label says. And we had to order them especially for you at the North Pole, Johnny! Everywhere, boys have been asking me to bring them this special kind of mitten, but we haven’t been able to supply the demand.”
“I’ve got mittens already,” Johnny muttered. “I don’t want no more.”
Santa reached out and took one of Johnny’s hands and inspected it careful as he had the mittens.
“Certainly you’ve got mittens already, Johnny. But they aren’t like these. Do you know why we had these made for you, Johnny? We had these made for you because your hands are rather special. You’ve got to keep those fingers of yours supple, Johnny. A baseball player, when he’s your age, gets his fingers stiff from the cold, and what happens? He winds up in the minor leagues, that’s what happens.”
He put the mittens back into Johnny’s hand. “And we don’t want you in anything except the major teams, Johnny.”
“Gee,” said Johnny. Then he turned around and walked down off the platform, flexing the fingers of his right hand, slow and thoughtful all the way.
Sheriff Olsen let out the breath he’d been holding; he could see now how Stephen Reade had made a living for his wife and kids out of going from door to door with magazines and hosiery and vacuum cleaners. The sheriff looked down at Ellen, and Ellen looked up at the sheriff and gave a big smile.
“He sure is wonderful!” the sheriff whispered to her.
And then a little girl sitting next to Johnny Pilshek stood up and asked, solemn and polite, if she could bring her present back too. She’d wrapped it up in the paper again, and she kept it hidden behind her until she was up on the stage.
“I think it’s a mistake,” she said in an unhappy kind of a whisper. “What I got wasn’t meant for a girl.”
Santa took the package. “We don’t often make a mistake, April,” he told her, “but let’s see.” He opened the package up on his knees.
“I don’t mind it’s being a muffler,” April said, “but that one’s meant for a boy. I know, because it’s just like one they’ve got in Mr. Merske’s store in the boy’s section for 69 cents. And it’s not one bit pretty, either.”
Stephen Reade held up the heavy gray scarf. “You’re right, April,” he said. “This was made for a boy and it’s not one bit pretty. All the same, we chose it for you. And here’s the reason why. It was chosen especially to protect your voice.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to wear it.”
“You’re pretty, April, and someday you’ll be even prettier. But this is a fact. To get into the movies or on TV you’ve got to have a pretty face, but you’ve got to have something else too. You’ve got to have a pretty voice, one that’s been properly protected by”—he turned over one corner of the scarf—“by 40 percent wool, 60 percent cotton, vat-dyed.”
He draped the thing over April’s arm, and after a little bit, April began to stroke it.
“Should I wear it all the time, Santa?”
“No. Just when the temperature’s below freezing, April. Have your mother check the thermometer every time you go out, and when it’s below 32, then you wear it.”
“Yes, sir—I mean, yes, thank you, Santa Claus.”
Five minutes later, the lady who played the piano sat down again and started in on “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” On the stage Stephen Reade was standing up, singing, and motioning with his arms for everybody to join in. But the sheriff couldn’t join in. He couldn’t even open his mouth, let alone get any singing out.
Stephen Reade had done what the sheriff had asked him to, and he’d made a good job of it. And in return the sheriff had got Reade and his kids in a worse fix than ever.
The sheriff turned and looked at Sam Merske. He wasn’t singing either—just scowling and muttering to himself.
The sheriff wet his lips. “Sam,” he said.
Merske turned and glared. “So that was the gag,” he said. “Pretty slick, pretty slick, arranging for him to give me a personal demonstration of his selling ability. Pretty slick.”
“Huh?” said the sheriff, and when the song ended and the next one hadn’t yet begun, he said, “Huh?” again.
“OK,” said Merske, “you win this time. He gets the job.”
“What do you mean?” the sheriff asked slow and careful. “You mean you’re fixing to give Stephen Reade a job in your store?”
“With the competition I’ve got from the mail orders, I’d give a shoplifter a job if he could sell like that guy can. He may not be a farmer, but he’s a real salesman.” Then he scratched at the top of his head and glared some more at the sheriff. “What gets me is that I never put you down for having either the brains or the brass to swing a deal like that. How’d you hit on it?”
Sheriff Olsen didn’t answer. It would take an awful lot of talking to explain to Merske how sometimes things worked out fine even without any brains to help you. And, besides, the piano was getting started on “Jingle Bells,” which was a tune the sheriff knew extra well.
Sheriff Olsen opened his mouth wide. He could tell from the way the folks in front turned around to frown at him that he was drowning them out. But he didn’t care. There wasn’t any better time than a week before Christmas, he figured, for bursting out loud and merry …
A Gift from
the Heart
NORMAN VINCENT PEALE
What do you give to someone who already has everything money can buy? In our affluent society, this is anything but an uncommon question.
Norman Vincent Peale, so recently laid to rest, was for most of this past century one of the most beloved—and certainly most read—preachers in America. As pastor of New York’s prestigious Marble Collegiate Church, he gained a national following. Later, he became the guiding spirit of one of the most cherished inspirational magazines we have, Guideposts.
But out of all his vast output, nothing is reread with more frequency—or tears—than this brief true story.
New York City, where I live, is impressive at any time, but as Christmas approaches, it’s overwhelming. Store windows blaze with light and color, furs and jewels. Golden angels, 40 feet tall, hover over Fifth Avenue. Wealth, power, opulence … nothing in the world can match this fabulous display.
Through the gleaming canyons, people hurry to find last-minute gifts. Money seems to be no problem. If there’s a problem, it’s that the recipients so often have everything they need or want that it
’s hard to find anything suitable, anything that will really say “I love you.”
Last December, as Christ’s birthday drew near, a stranger was faced with just that problem. She had come from Switzerland to live in an American home and perfect her English. In return, she was willing to act as secretary, mind the grandchildren, do anything she was asked. She was just a girl in her late teens. Her name was Ursula.
One of the tasks her employers gave Ursula was keeping track of Christmas presents as they arrived. There were many, and all would require acknowledgment. Ursula kept a faithful record, but with a growing sense of concern. She was grateful to her American friends; she wanted to show her gratitude by giving them a Christmas present. But nothing that she could buy with her small allowance could compare with the gifts she was recording daily. Besides, even without these gifts, it seemed to her that her employers already had everything.
At night, from her window, Ursula could see the snowy expanse of Central Park, and beyond it the jagged skyline of the city. Far below, in the restless streets, taxis hooted and traffic lights winked red and green. It was so different from the silent majesty of the Alps that at times she had to blink back tears of the homesickness she was careful never to show. It was in the solitude of her little room, a few days before Christmas, that her secret idea came to Ursula.
It was almost as if a voice spoke clearly, inside her head. “It’s true,” said the voice, “that many people in this city have much more than you do. But surely there are many who have far less. If you will think about this, you may find a solution to what’s troubling you.”
Ursula thought long and hard. Finally on her day off, which was Christmas Eve, she went to a great department store. She moved slowly along the crowded aisles, selecting and rejecting things in her mind. At last she bought something, and had it wrapped in gaily colored paper. She went out into the gray twilight and looked helplessly around. Finally, she went up to a doorman, resplendent in blue and gold. “Excuse, please,” she said in her hesitant English, “can you tell me where to find a poor street?”