A Christmas Carol

Chucky, Cathy and I are gazing out of the kitchen window on a misty evening in late Autumn. We are expecting daddy to come walking down the street at any moment. I, in particular, await anxiously for his arrival because of what happened in school that day. The air is thick with the scent of ozone mixed with fresh putty. The maintenance man used the putty to seal the gaps around the window frame the day before. The rain starts as a drizzle but the streets are wet immediately. The car's headlights reflect a glossy shine on the wet asphalt. The sounds of the cars swishing through the darkening streets somewhat calms my nerves. Where is daddy? What is keeping him so long? We three begin to call dibs on cars being driven on 7th Avenue imagining that all we claim belongs to us. "That's my Ford Fairlane! ", Chucky exclaims. You had to call the cars by their right name or else you would lose the call. Chucky has the advantage because he knows cars and models better than I. "That's my Chevy!" I call out. Poor Cathy, our youngest sister, could only cry out the color of the car and we graciously let her have it. My heart isn't really in the game. I am worried. What if daddy can't help me? What if bed time comes before he gets home? I have to use the bathroom. I leave the window and on my way back into the kitchen I hear Chucky and Cathy exclaim the daddy song. "Here comes daddy come daddy! Here comes daddy come daddy!!"

I loved Christmas carols and knew them all by heart. Even though it was the middle of November our minds were already on Christmas. A girl in my third grade class had a miniature sized red Christmas carol book. The cutest thing I ever saw complete with embossed Christmas relief motifs on the front cover. During recess I approached her and said, "Ooh, that is such a nice book". She just looked at me as if to say, "Yep. And it belongs to me. "It has Christmas carols in it?" "Yep", she replied. "How many does it have? Can I see it?" She held it in her hand and showed it to me. "Can I hold it?" "No." she answered. "Please??" Recess was almost over. She relented. I took the book from her hands and began to sing the songs. The bell rang. "Can I hold it until after school is over?" With a mean scowl she warned me, "Okay but you better not let the teacher catch you."  "I promise!"  Begrudgingly she let me hold her book. I was grateful; ecstatic. I don't know what was being taught that afternoon. Arithmetic?, Geography?, Perhaps Spelling? I was singing Christmas carols from a sweet little red Christmas carol book with pages crisp and slightly yellowed. And my brain was filled with the eternal bliss of the Christmas spirit. However, I had the presence of mind to occasionally give the teacher furtive glances making sure she didn't catch me. I was enjoying myself and I was a slick sneaky success!

"What have you got there Charla?" my teacher asked extending her hand to relieve me of the sweet tiny treasure. The lovely Christmas carol music faded from my mind and in its place was the threatening scowl of the girl who let me hold her book. I felt her eyes burning the back of my neck and back. Oh Lord! help me after all was I not singing about your Son??

Time is a cruel master. It is swift when you're having fun. Little kids protest most vociferously when their mother tells them it is time for them leave the playground. Adults want to party endlessly while in the grip of hedonistic revelry. Conversely, it moves without any indication of progress when the excruciating torment of giving birth is upon a pregnant woman. The day the teacher took the girl's book I wished that time could have stood still. At 1 pm I was worried, at 2 pm I was scared, at 2:45 pm I began to sweat and my heart was racing. Three o'clock! Dismissal time. That's when panic set in. There was no where to run and hide. Caught and frozen in fear she approached me. "You let the teacher take my Christmas carol book." I couldn't utter a word all I could manage was a pitiful little moan in my dry throat. She continued in this real scary and menacing voice, "Tomorrow you better bring me a quarter to pay for that book and if you don't this is what you're gonna get." With that she hauled off and punched me dead on my shoulder and boy did it hurt so bad! Where on earth was I going to get a quarter? My mother didn't have a quarter because she was always asking daddy for money and daddy didn't have a quarter because he always answered her and said, "I aint got no money Bee At Trice." (Beatrice)

Daddy came in the house. After speaking to mommy and the kids he came into the living room where I was sitting on the couch. "Hey girl." "Hi daddy." He went in the back of the house I guess to use the bathroom or something. When he came back into the living room I stood, looked up at him and asked, "Daddy do you have a quarter?" When I think about it now he was kind of cool. He never asked me what I needed a quarter for...He simply reached inside of his pocket, pulled out a shiny silver quarter, opened his big hand and all my problems melted away as I took that big lovely quarter out of the middle of my savior's hand.  

I slept peacefully that night and the next morning I happily went to school...I saw that tyrant and gave her the quarter which satisfied her. When we got in the classroom the teacher gave the book back to her. That extortionist got a quarter, her book back and a free punching bag all in the course of two days.