Pride comes before a fall. She heard her father’s voice in the back of her mind. Once again it seemed he was right. As soon as you think you’re on top, you get knocked down. Knocked down and stomped on. What she needed to do was get out of here – and fast. Before she brought any more humiliation on herself or others. She cringed to think of what Cassidy would say . . . or Beth . . . or Sally and Jemima. No, the best thing was to get away quickly.
She opened her purse to count out her cash. After splurging with her first paycheck – buying new pajamas for Jemima as well as a few groceries and a cheap wristwatch for herself, she had just under a hundred dollars left. Enough to get her to a new town perhaps. But what then? She wouldn’t even have a place to live. And to get a job two weeks before Christmas? Not likely. Still, it might be better to be homeless and unknown somewhere else than to stay here.
Oh, why had it gone like this? What could she have done differently?
She thought about how she’d filled out the job application – that silly asterisk idea. Why hadn’t she just been forthcoming with the truth? Because she knew it would’ve stopped her from getting hired – and she’d needed the job.
But what if she’d attempted to explain her situation to Camilla right at the beginning, that day in her office? Would that have prevented this? She would never know.
Lena paced back and forth in her room the same way she used to do in prison. Really, it wasn’t much different. Once again she was trapped, snared like before . . . sucked in by her own stupidity.
CHAPTER
12
By midafternoon, Lena vaguely wondered if Harrington’s would find another Mrs. Santa to replace her. For the children’s sake, she hoped so. And she hoped it would be a good one. Maybe Cassidy had worked her magic and someone special was already in the basement with dozens of children squirming in line at the North Pole. Hopefully the little ones with preschool field trips scheduled wouldn’t be disappointed either.
Thinking of the children made her sad. She missed their innocent smiles and bright-eyed, expectant faces. She missed their quiet confessions and secret wishes. She even missed the ornery ones who questioned her identity and wanted to know why Santa hadn’t come himself. Perhaps she missed them the most.
She also missed Cassidy and felt concerned that this unfortunate turn of events might be hard on the sincere young girl. But Camilla seemed a levelheaded woman and she obviously loved her daughter – surely she’d find a way to soften the blow. Lena hoped so. She wished Cassidy could know the truth – that Lena hadn’t really done anything wrong. Well, other than that asterisk business, which was just plain dumb. But she wished Cassidy could be assured that her Mrs. Santa idea had been sort of inspired after all, and that Lena actually had felt like Mrs. Santa. And that playing that role had begun to heal something deep inside her. She wished she could thank Cassidy somehow.
But she would respect Camilla’s edict and never step foot in Harrington’s again . . . never see her daughter again. She didn’t even blame Camilla. Not really.
Pacing again, Lena continued to search for an answer. Some solution to her messed-up life. But no matter how hard she thought, there seemed to be no way out. Her life, unlike math and numbers, never seemed to add up right anymore. In fact, at this moment being in prison seemed preferable to suffering the pain she’d experienced while on the outside.
For a moment she even considered really breaking a law – like robbing a bank – so she could go back. Of course, she knew that was crazy, and she could just imagine the headlines: “Mrs. Santa Arrested in Bank Heist.” But she also realized this might be how some other ex-cons felt – like what was the use? As if she still had a ball and chain shackled around her ankle and yet everyone expected her to swim to the opposite shore.
Finally she knew she had to get out of her room before her own mind and endless questioning drove her right over the edge. She needed air and space. She started to pull on the red Santa coat then realized she didn’t want to be recognized – she didn’t want to be associated with Mrs. Santa. So she changed back into her frumpy release outfit of black polyester pants, red acrylic sweater, and purple parka with the broken zipper. She even put on the scuffed black pumps. Really, wasn’t this more fitting for an ex-con with a felon record?
She hurried down the stairs and outside and started walking fast – with her head down so she didn’t have to look at anyone, could pretend no one was looking at her. She didn’t care where she went, she just wanted to go away. She remembered the scene from Forrest Gump, how in his despair Forrest had run all the way across the country. She wished she could do that right now. Just run and keep on running for thousands of miles. Flee this town . . . escape this life.
She eventually found herself sitting on an icy park bench in New Haven City Park, exhausted and cold and even more hopeless. The sky was growing dusky and the park was deserted. Lena began to shiver so fiercely that her teeth actually chattered. She’d heard stories of hypothermia and recalled that it was supposedly a fairly painless sort of death. Once past the cold, the body would actually begin to feel warm and then the brain would become very sleepy, and then came sleep . . . blissful, final sleep.
The sky grew darker, and with no one to notice her, Lena stretched out on the cement park bench, letting its damp cold seep into her already chilled body. Closing her eyes, she imagined she were dead. Wouldn’t that be the easy way out? Shiver a while, then sleep . . . and never wake. Rest in peace . . . the end. It seemed simple enough.
If only she could be sure . . . if she just had some assurance that she really would rest in peace. Or perhaps even end up in a happier place. But how was she to know where she might end up afterward? That was her main concern. Especially having grown up in a church where she’d been scolded and warned about what happened after death when you weren’t good. But she didn’t want to think about that.
To distract herself, she attempted to pray, but the only words that came were from an old childhood prayer. It was a bedtime prayer she would recite for her parents on nights when they were too tired to insist upon a “real” prayer. She had never really understood this particular prayer and had, in fact, felt it was rather disturbing since she hadn’t wanted to die in the middle of the night. But a lot had changed since then. Perhaps she no longer cared. So she said the words aloud, over and over like a mantra.
Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
Should I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Suddenly these words brought a small portion of comfort. She breathed deeply, willing her body to stop shivering as she continued to repeat this prayer over and over. She wanted to believe that promise – that God really would take her soul. If only it were true – if only she could die in her sleep and still be safe – what a blessed relief that would be.
But what if she ended up someplace else? What if those horrifying hellfire and brimstone sermons she’d heard, first from her father and later from her husband, really were true? What if God was angry at her? What if he felt she had squandered her life and wasted what she’d been given, and now he was angry with her? What if he demanded some recompense or payment – but she had none, nothing to show for herself? What then?
Trembling in the cold, she felt these frightening thoughts tumbling around inside of her. What if?
Then a quiet calm came over her. Or . . . what if – as some people seemed to believe – God was kind and forgiving and generous and loving? And heaven was real and eternity mattered? And what if she missed out on all that goodness and wonder because she’d never really grasped it? Kind of like a human oversight . . . or being off by one number in a long equation and getting the whole thing wrong as a result. What if?
Still shivering, she sat up and pondered this theory, this what if? Being a mathematical sort of a person, she decided to tally things up. On one side of her brain she listed the people in her life who had hurt and discouraged her
– her parents, her husband, her childhood church, the legal system, prison . . . Right alongside them she listed what they represented – things like anger, unforgiveness, judgment, punishment, hatred, strife.
On the other side of her brain she listed the people in her life who had helped and encouraged her – her grandmother, a few teachers, Mrs. Stanfield, Moira, Sally, Jemima, Cassidy, Beth . . . And alongside them she listed the things they represented – kindness, generosity, hope, forgiveness, love.
Suddenly it seemed crystal clear. Why would she embrace the belief system of people who had given her only pain and grief? Why should she accept their flawed image of an angry, judgmental, and punitive God? A God she wanted nothing to do with. A God who would grind her out beneath the heel of his boot. What reason did she have to believe people like that – to blindly accept their God?
But the ones who’d befriended her, trusted her, loved her, and encouraged her . . . of course she should trust them. She’d be a fool not to. And likewise she should trust their hopeful image of a kind, loving, and gracious God. It simply added up. It made sense to her.
“If that’s who you are, God . . .” She stood, lifting her hands up toward the darkened sky. “If you truly are loving, forgiving, generous, and kind . . . that’s what I want, what I need – the kind of father I’ve always dreamed of, the kind of God I can trust my life with.” Tears streaked down her cheeks. “And it’s a messed-up life for sure, but if you can do something with it, please do. In the meantime, I won’t give up. I promise you, I won’t give in. With your help and your strength, I won’t give up.”
Feeling like she’d just fought and won the toughest battle of her life, she marched back to the boardinghouse, where to her relief, all was quiet. She slipped upstairs, took a hot shower, and went to bed.
Lena awoke in the morning to a tap-tapping on her door. Surprised to see it was already light outside, she cracked open the door to see Sally standing in the hallway with a disappointed frown. “Is it true?” she asked.
“What?” Lena opened the door wider.
“The news.” Sally glanced over to the bathroom. “Jemima’s in the shower right now, so she can’t hear – so tell me, is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“That you’re really a felon?”
Lena took in a slow breath, preparing herself to tell everything. “It’s true I was convicted of a felony, but it’s also true I didn’t do what I was charged with. But I didn’t fight it either. My ex-husband was a pastor of a church, and after I was arrested for embezzlement, which I did not do, I believed him when he said he’d fix everything. As it turned out, he was the one who’d taken the money and then he blamed me. I was stupid and took the fall. Then he stole even more money from me. And after I was locked up, he ran off with his mistress – another member of the church who was quite wealthy.”
Sally blinked. “Really?”
Lena nodded.
“Well, I believe you. And for some reason that makes sense. But why didn’t you do something at the time? Why didn’t you get a good lawyer or something? Your husband sounds like a jerk. He should’ve gotten caught and gone to prison.”
Lena looked into Sally’s eyes. “Kind of like your husband?”
Sally sighed. “Yeah, I guess I get your drift.”
“So how did you hear about my story?”
“The local news. Some whistle-blower woman said she knew you from another town and was outraged that you were Mrs. Santa. She said it was her duty to come forward, that it was for the sake of the children, but to be honest, it sounded more like she wanted to rat out Mrs. Santa by running to the press. Of course, by then they’d found out you’d been fired at Harrington’s and that made even bigger news. You’re the talk of the town, Lena.”
“It figures.”
Sally put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay though?”
Lena forced a smile. “Yes, I actually am okay. Better than ever, in fact.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. And now I’m free to help with Jemima – that is, if you trust your daughter with an ex-con with a felon record.”
“Of course I do. And Jemima loves you. But I’m all ready anyway, so I’ll get her to school. Would you want to pick her up at 2:30? I work until 9:00 tonight.”
“Not a problem.”
“Maybe you’ll want to come by the café for dinner.”
Lena’s first instinct was to decline. She still didn’t want to be seen in public as the ex-con Mrs. Santa with a prison record – the talk of the town. Yet, at the same time, she was ready to stand up for herself and tell the truth to anyone who cared to listen.
“Sure,” she agreed. “That would be nice.”
By midmorning, Lena decided that if she was going to stay in town, she would need to find a new job. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she also believed that this time God would be helping her. Maybe he’d been helping her all along but she hadn’t known it.
She dressed carefully just in case she got the chance to be interviewed – either for a job or by the news media. And although it felt like she was taping a target to her backside, she pulled on the red coat.
Fortunately the boardinghouse was quiet when she slipped downstairs and outside. Across the street, she bought a newspaper from a machine and then hurried around the corner to a coffee shop. She ordered the house coffee and a cranberry muffin. Her plan was to sit there undisturbed and to study the “Help Wanted” section.
“Hey, are you Mrs. Santa?” the girl behind the counter asked as she counted out Lena’s change.
“Not anymore,” Lena confessed.
The girl frowned as she closed the till. “I actually thought it was kind of mean that Harrington’s fired you. I mean, you did your time, right?”
Lena nodded as she slipped the change into her purse.
“So what’s the big deal? Why couldn’t you keep on being Mrs. Santa? It looked like the kids really liked you too. I remember when I was about three and my mom forced me to sit on Santa’s lap, and he stunk like booze and sweat and who knows what else. It was gross.” She poured the coffee. “The dude totally creeped me out and I could’ve been warped about Christmas for good.”
Lena suppressed a smile.
The girl wiped some spilled coffee with a rag. “Seriously, I had Santa issues for a while. I mean, who knew what kind of history that guy had? For all my mom knew, he might’ve been a pervert wanted for child molestation.” She set the cup on the counter with a loud thunk.
Lena blinked. “You just never know.” She smiled at the irony of a smiley face tattoo on the girl’s wrist.
She smiled back. “And you seem like a nice lady to me. They just need to get over it.”
“Thanks.” Lena picked up her coffee. “Too bad everyone doesn’t see it that way.”
“Well, they should.”
Lena went over to a corner table and unfolded the newspaper, and there on the front page was an article about Mrs. Santa. Naturally, someone had dug out her old mug shot, which was actually not bad, considering she was eight years younger and her hair had been nicely styled at the time. Of course, her expression was sad. Sad and confused.
She wasn’t going to read the article but then reconsidered. Hadn’t she buried her head in the sand long enough? To her surprise and relief, it wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. It seemed that some people, like the coffee girl, thought it was silly that she’d been fired. Others, like Justine Grant, sounded like Lena should be tarred and feathered and driven out of town.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Justine was quoted as saying, “that a woman like Lena Markham, someone who’d done time in prison for stealing money from a church, was now working with innocent children. And that she’d have the nerve to dress up like Mrs. Santa, of all things. Well, it’s outrageous, and I just had to stand up for what’s right.”
She read on down to the comment made by Camilla Harrington. “We have a job application that includes a question abou
t criminal history, and had I known Ms. Markham was a convicted felon, I would not have hired her in the first place.” The reporter then asked if she believed that Ms. Markham had intentionally deceived Camilla to get the job. “No,” Camilla answered, “not intentionally. But she hadn’t been forthcoming either. We wish Ms. Markham no ill, but we felt it prudent to let her go.” When asked if a replacement had been found, Camilla said they were still looking.
Lena flipped to the classified section. But the “Help Wanted” column contained only four job descriptions. One for an electrician, one for a bartender, one for a truck driver, and one for an LPN. She closed the paper and sighed. Well, she hadn’t expected it to be easy. But she wasn’t going to give up either. The classifieds weren’t the only places to find a job. Some towns had state employment offices. Some had temporary employment services. Someone somewhere had to be hiring – even if it was sweeping floors or doing laundry.
After she finished her coffee and muffin, she cleared her own table and stopped by to speak to the girl again. “Do you know if there’s an employment division in town?”
“You’re looking for a job?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my boyfriend’s dad is looking for a part-time receptionist. He’s an accountant and tax season is coming, so he needs help between January and April. I thought about it for myself, but I don’t want to give up this job for only a few months of work. Still, it would be better than nothing. If you don’t mind answering phones and stuff.”
Lena pressed her lips together and nodded. “I could do that.” She wanted to add “and a lot more.” But maybe this was a chance for her to get a foot in the door.
The girl wrote down a name and number. “The only reason I can remember the number is because most of the town has the same prefix, and then it’s the letters t-a-x-s, like taxes with no e.”
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