The two of them sat there eating spiced cashews from the small plastic tub. One of the caring had left them along with a gigantic pile of Thai noodles and curried chicken. Neither of them had much of an appetite for the good food that they’d been gifted, but the bottle of single-pot Irish whiskey was sure good with the Cashews.
“I wonder why nobody makes a spicy cashew whiskey. It’s sure a good flavor.”
The other Santa shook his head slowly. The liquor was starting to make him mellow. “They call that Fireball, my friend. It’s cinnamon whiskey designed for teenage girls and twenty-three year old rodeo wannabees. No normal human drinks the stuff. But my daughter-in-law left a bottle last year. Let me go fetch it.”
“Sounds like something they both would have liked. Come to think of it, we would have killed the bottle when we were young.”
“I didn’t know your wife was a rodeo wannabee. But I knew you were a clown.”
The liquor was working on both of them, because in spite of the tragedy, they both laughed until they had snot running down their beards. It wasn’t pretty.
“Let’s eat something real before we fall over and die of stupid. I don’t think the girls would welcome us in Heaven if we showed up on Christmas day with acute alcohol poisoning.”
The first Santa shook his head sadly. Softly he said, “Neither one wants us up there with them. We gotta keep going for them.”
“And the dogs.”
“Definitely the dogs.”
Both men looked to where their assembled dogs were playing in the corner. Six lunatics engaged in a lop-sided tug-of-war. The big red one was the size of the five little white ones. All of them were having a blast.
“No funeral for either. Unless you want to preach. The lockdown is tighter than ever. Would you? You got the mojo. You’ve had it since we we went to Vietnam.”
The younger man, who was also gray-bearded and starting to stoop with age, nodded his head. 71 didn’t seem old until last Monday when both their wives died of the Chinese Virus.
“I’d be proud to preach for both of them. Since we can’t hold a service, maybe we should do it now. They’re going to be cremated tomorrow, seems appropriate.”
“I always thought being Santa on Christmas Eve was a tough job. But running the crematorium the day after Christmas? Whew, that’s a real challenge.”
Both men got up and bowed their heads.
“God, I know you needed them up there for something. Don’t know what the rush was, but since we both believe in you, we’re taking it as well as we can. But COVID the week of your birth?”
Both men wiped tears from their eyes. The younger man continued, “We worship you, and thank you for the birth of your son. We know we’ll catch up with our wives soon enough. But it hurts. First we didn’t see any children in person this year, and then even the virtual visits grew less fun as our wives struggled to breathe. Thank you for the strength to continue. Bless them and take them into your kingdom. We ask this in Your Son’s name. Amen.”
The two topped their glasses and toasted their wives.
“This is pretty pathetic. Two Santa’s drinking girl whiskey on Christmas. But we can’t go visit, and we’re stuck with each other until we get out of our quarantine.”
“Yup. But you know, if I have to lose a wife and get stuck with anyone in the world, I’m glad it’s you. After this, I don’t know anyone with more in common than us. Neighbors since we were kids. Now we’re old men.”
“Amen to that. Let’s see if we can find a mass streaming somewhere. I need a little more Jesus. And, maybe, a couple more cashews and the last of that whiskey. I’m hoping 2021 is a huge improvement.”
“It has to be. But even if it isn’t, God’s still in charge. Now, how about some butter pecan ice cream to go with that whiskey. We might as well make it festive – they’d want that.”
“Hey, speaking of festive, I was saving this for my wife, but …”
“Yeah. I think there’s going to be a lot of that in the next few weeks.”
He stifled a sob. Once he’d composed himself a bit, he grabbed the mouse on the side table and the television remote. Turning it on, he clicked through the menu until he found his bookmark. The screen lit up with the famed peacock logo, and the two turned to smile at each other.”
“Man. We were both out in the boonies that Christmas. I remember Ann Margaret in that mini-dress. Remember how hard it rained that day?”
“I thought I was going to drown in that mud. I didn’t spot you until we were leaving. That was a good time. God bless all of them. They made it seem like home for a minute or two.”
The show ended, and both of them had tears in their eyes. Not just for the loss of their wives, but for the loss of innocence. And a simpler time.
“That was great. I’d forgotten how good those shows were.”
“There’s about five more I found. I’m not going anywhere. And you still haven’t rolled out to the kitchen to get the ice cream. It’s on the second shelf of the freezer.”
On his way to the kitchen, the second man turned to his friend and said, “I love you. I’m glad we’re here together. We’ll make it. I know we will. Merry Christmas, Santa.”
John Carmody had been Santa for 20 years. Ironically, 2020 was his 20th anniversary as Santa.
In that time he’d risen to the peak of his profession. Perhaps not the most wealthy Santa that had ever worn the red suit, but he had a solid client base, and was on his second generation of children, for some of the five year-olds that had sat on his lap were now bringing their own children to see the only man they’d ever known as Santa. More than a couple of them had continued to visit him as teens and college students, so there were strings of pictures that stretched 18 years in those cases. The first photos were with their parents, the most recent with their own child, and the new grandparents. Those were the things by which John measured his success: hearts touched and love shared.
But 2020 had been a terrible year for the 62-year-old man. His wife of thirty years had died of cancer just after New Years, and his house had seemed so huge with the loss. She was not just his spouse, but his best friend, and the only woman in the world who could snap him back when his britches got too big.
The lockdown had been especially hard for him, especially when five of his fellow Santas had passed from illness during the month of April. Were they COVID deaths? Nobody would ever know. Fat guys in their seventies were “a given” and no time was wasted in forensic diagnosis. What hurt was that these were the men who had mentored him and taught him all he needed to know about being Santa.
Spring came, and the world exploded in violence. John just loaded up his guns and waited as the rioting and looting got within three blocks of his home. But the need to defend himself never arose. The city he loved so dearly for so long was gone, burned and boarded. When the restrictions lifted in late June, there were none of his old haunts left to haunt.
July had pretty much iced the Christmas cookies when his giant Irish Setter Rudolph had been hit by a car. Someone had tried to burglarize his tool shed and left the backyard gate open. Rudolph went for a stroll and died instantly when he ran in front of a car driven by a young father hauling his kids to the park. John didn’t begrudge the driver’s actions, but he’d sure like to find the person who’d left his gates open.
The rest of the summer was filled with an occasional Zoom visit with friends, but mainly spent sitting on his patio reading from his tablet, and waiting for something to change. Summer turned to fall, and John was driven inside with the first rains of October. He hadn’t been outside the house except to get groceries since, and the latest lockdown had pushed him toward the edge. He was isolated, lonely, and drifting toward depression. It seemed every week brought news of some new calamity in the world, or the illness of a friend. Even if it wasn’t the Chinese virus, his friends were all prime targets for stroke, heart attack, cancer, and generally getting old.
Worst of all, in the great scheme of John’s life, his annual whirlwind of visits to children had vanished. There were no doors waiting for him to knock, no sneaky approaches to video doorbells, no peals of laughter and screams of delight when the herd of four-year-olds were sent to answer the door at the party. Instead of 30 visits each year, he was making 4 by video conference: his nights and weekends had never seemed emptier.
But Christmas eve was especially painful. Every Santa he knew loved the day. It either spelled the end of their season at the mall, or visits to favored families that evening. Neither of which would be the case for John. The virus had done away with human contact, and so he pulled some pork chops from the freezer, peeled potatoes for au gratin, and looked for a new thriller to read on his tablet.
After he’d cleaned up his porridge bowl from breakfast, he checked his email and was surprised to find two messages there inviting him to virtually visit families he’d known for a decade. The links were for the early afternoon, and he put them on his computer so that he wouldn’t forget. A smile crossed his face for the first time in a week. Something to look forward to at last.
The first visit was a veritable gala. He reminisced about their first visit ten years before when the child was quite ill and the prognosis terrible. While they were chatting other windows started to pop up in the waiting room. Within ten minutes there were twenty others in line to chat. He was sure he’d gotten something wrong, and felt bad for messing people up. As he ended the first call, his phone rang.
“Santa John, it’s Brianna from Hope Kids. You may have noticed all the families waiting to talk to you. I know we probably presumed too much, tricked you, and you probably don’t have time to take the calls, but these are all families you’ve spent time with over the last eighteen years. All of them consider you family. We were not quite sneaky enough, but we set it all up on our Zoom account. Are you okay with talking to them?”
John wiped his eyes. It wouldn’t do to cry on camera. “Yes. I want to talk to them all.”
For the next three hours, the families laughed, cried, and prayed with John. They were like his own children in so many ways. He’d grown to love them, and hadn’t realized how much he’d missed seeing them all this year. Only a handful had signed up for the video meetings in November, but it appeared the rest were here today.
John ended the call with his families and got up to make a cup of coffee and put the pork chops and potatoes into the oven. His phone pinged while the coffee splattered into his cup. He opened the message and saw that it was from Cali’s mom, Suzanne.
Many years before he’d been asked at the last minute to visit a desperately ill little girl who’s prognosis was terrible. She was having dozens of epileptic seizures each day, and it was killing her. Her mother had contacted the local Santa club and asked if anyone would visit her daughter, whom they’d brought home for what might be her last Christmas.
John had taken the call from the coordinator and accepted the task. The family lived near his home and it was for a short visit. He’d save them for last on Christmas Eve, the very next night. It might be sad, but John had always tried to give back to the public instead of just taking checks.
After talking to Suzanne, the mother, he turned his car toward the store and did some shopping. Nothing fancy, just some treats and a few stuffed bears for the kids. Mom was going to hide the Christmas presents outside for him to stuff in his bag.
Well, the visit wound up lasting an hour, and Santa John left for home with tears in his eyes and a gigantic pan of Hmong eggrolls in his bag. Mom had prepared a feast to thank him for the visit since he wouldn’t take payment. It was gourmet level stuff and all cooked just before he arrived.
For the next four years he visited the family and had a great time each Christmas eve. Cali got better each year and the other kids were moving to higher education. The family was doing well.
But for the last two years he hadn’t visited for a combination of reasons – and it had left a hole in Christmas Eve for both sides. Now, the message from Suzanne had brightened his day, and she wondered if he was going to be home in an hour: she had something to bring him.
He hoped it was eggroll time, and replied that he was home for the evening.
Forty minutes later she arrived with a gigantic box full of homemade Pho (Vietnamese noodle soup), persimmons, and turkey curry. And a necklace that Cali had made in therapy. He put it around his neck immediately and smiled broadly. It was the nicest thing that had happened that year.
The two old friends stood on the porch at a distance because of the virus and laughed and cried about the love they shared for each other. John knew that he had touched some people along the way, but sometimes forgot how powerful Santa’s love was in tough times.
After he watched her drive away, John went into the kitchen and put the porkchops and potatoes back into the fridge – he had enough hot Pho to keep him fed for at least three days. There were even a dozen quail eggs from Suzanne’s private coop for the next day.
Looking at the containers, John was a little sad that his wife and dog were not there to help him eat this amazing bounty. He had decided to open one of the containers and freeze the rest, and as he reached for the freezer’s handle the doorbell rang. He set the hot container back on the counter and sighed.
John walked to the front door, but could see nothing beyond the Christmas lights glowing on the porch. He opened the inner door and walked onto the three-season porch, wondering who would be knocking on his door on a dark and snowy night like this.
He opened the door, but saw nobody on the steps. A shout of “Surprise!” rang from the space to his left, and out of the darkness came his daughter Maisie, her husband Ed, and his grandson Nigel.
“Dad, we were in the neighborhood and wondered if you’d like to have dinner with us.”
John sat down on the bench next to the front door and wondered if he’d lost his marbles.
Ed stepped into the three-season porch, offered his hand to John, and said, “Sorry about that, John. Didn’t mean to freak you out. But we drove up from Iowa to spend tonight with you. If you’ll have us. We forgot that all the restaurants are closed, so we picked up hamburgers on the way.”
John, who’d recovered a bit, just smiled and hugged his son-in-law.
“Ed, God has prepared a banquet for us all. You guys come in, get comfortable, and we can eat as soon as you put your luggage upstairs. Have I got a meal for you. I hope you like soup.”
And for the rest of the holiday, John was alone no more. His heart was filled with love, and the renewal that Christ brings to the season.
All around the world, people celebrated Christmas with joy. But not a single soul was more full of love than John Carmody’s.
Merry Christmas everyone.
(Oh. And some of the characters and events in this story are very real.)
I realize that she has now crossed out the title and sent me an email letting me know exactly how many kinds of kraut there are. But she’s on my naughty list. You see, I studied German for years *don’t ask my wife* and I recognize almost ever morsel she mentions in her story. I’m off to the store shortly to load up on things my doctor says I shouldn’t eat.
Her story is great. She’s one of those who never gives up hope. And this story should restore a bit of it for you. If you look about the middle of the block, you’ll see George Bailey running home. Now, click on this link and go enjoy it!
Yesterday, in my usual whiney way of lamenting, I pointed out that Rob Cely had shamed me with his fine story. Looking back over the past week, all of the other members of the Fondue Writers Club have produced excellent works. Each has made me work a little harder on my story for Christmas Eve. Now, I will have one for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Seems only fair that Santa do some heavy lifting.
Now, today, Paul Bennett rolls in with a story that deserves it’s own Hallmark Movie. If you ding-dongs at Hallmark ever read this, or someone who does read these knows anyone at Hallmark, you’d better hire Dr. Bennett to write at least one movie.
But, I digress. His story is the kind that makes tough guys wipe away moisture from the eyes and say, “I’m not crying. Who’s cutting onions in my living room.” Yeah. That good. So click the link and read it. Then come back here and look at the stuff below the school bus.
“The Covid Quarantine Cantina is a clever and much-needed collection of short, almost-flash fiction by a gang of authors from the Athanatos Publishing Group: Joseph Courtemanche (also the Editor), Jamie Greening, Joe Shaw, Kathy Kexel, Derek Elkins, Robert Cely, and Paul Bennett. The collective idea here was that each of these authors pledged to write and publish a daily piece of fiction on each other’s blogs while stuck in quarantine during the 2020 pandemic. There were several goals here including a desire to keep writing instead of falling into a coronavirus funk, keep each other engaged on their author social media platforms, and, if all went well, capture a record of the times with some good fiction that might stand the test of time. None of them probably thought, back in the heady days of March 2020, that the quarantine and pandemic would last more than several weeks or months at most. But alas, it has stretched into 2021. And the first edition of collected short stories from this experiment, The Covid Quarantine Cantina, has arrived clocking in at nearly 400 pages of fun. And fun these stories are, written by some of the best writers in the little known “alternative Christian Fiction” world that prefers to keep things edgy, sometimes dark, never trite, sometimes literary and lyrical, and always inspirational in contrast to the bland offerings of the mainstream Christian publishing world. This stuff has crossover appeal, shall we say, without ever compromising on the Christian worldview. And I call it “almost-flash fiction” because several authors here clearly cheated with stories that are a bit lengthy for “Flash” but none the less are still shorter than a novella or novelette (thankfully, I hate weeding through a long dull story in the middle of an otherwise high-energy short story collection). There are multiple genres and story types represented here. The only thing binding these stories together is COVID-19. But since we are all living through Covid together and often end up sharing pandemic stories with each other in those rare instances when we can gather, it feels like one of those conversations. Everyone’s story and perspective is different. Everyone gets a chance to share. It works. And that surprised me, because so many short story collections do not work for that very reason. But this one does. And the writing! Author Joe Courtemanche (Assault on Saint Agnes, Nicolas of Haiti) has done a masterful job editing this project. But he is helped by the fact that these authors, although little known, are masterful writers indeed. All of them have books published by Anthony Horvath’s Athanatos imprints and give credit to Mr. Horvath for helping them to perfect their craft. All of them are outstanding storytellers with good ears for the human dimension of Covid-19 (even if some of the stories take place in another dimension). Pandemic fears, social disruptions, conspiracy theories, frustrations, tragedies and triumphs are all captured here. And through it all runs a strand of inspirational faith and hope that is much needed in these trying times. Like all good fiction, many of these stories will stay with you long after you’ve read them… and hopefully long after the pandemic nightmare of 2020 has passed us all by. There isn’t much good coming out of this pandemic. But this collection is a bright shining exception. And it’s with mixed emotions that I add, I hope there isn’t much material for a 2021 Covid Quarantine Cantina edition. But if there is, bring it on! The Covid Quarantine Cantina is highly, highly recommended reading.“
