Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes (7 page)

Besides, he had sent the Christ child down there with a transparent and unambiguous message of love and forgiveness, of redemption and a firm refusal to embrace the cruelties of dumbed-down moral lemmings—yet they were, on the whole, worse than ever! He had bestowed upon them the greatest symbol, ignoring the Buddha and other worthy avatars, of generosity of spirit they had ever beheld, a savior who had redeemed them through his suffering, resurrection, and rebirth. And still, they warred and hated and sat in judgment like tinpot gods, sniping at each other in the very
name
of that symbol.

So that night, when Santa Claus fell to his knees and renewed his mewling prayers, the Father swept into apoplexy. The Son soothed. The Divine Mother looked upon him with compassion. Angel choirs sang calming hymns as they soft-touched harp strings and fleecy clouds wisped along their wing tops.

But his anger soon passed. As Santa prayed and the Divine Mother observed him with compassion and the Son soothed, there came a shift. I’m God, he told himself. Not only can I
do
anything. I can
un
do anything. If I don’t like how certain actions unfold, I can fold them up tight, as though they had never been unfolded at all.

The Father knew of course that the reversal of any action, once set in motion, was likely not only to be challenging but to bring on the unforeseen. Despite the exceptions of the Easter Bunny’s priapic expunging and various resurrections, there were certain elaborate mosaics it were best not to rework, once the tiles were laid in.

But this day, the Father was in a giving mood. “If Santa really wants to complexify his life, so be it,” he said.

The Son, surprised and unsurprised, said, “Good. That’s as it should be.”

“For me, nothing is impossible.”

“True, Father.”

“I’ll throw him this one sop.”

“He’ll be grateful.”

“As well he might.” God gazed about in annoyance. “Where’s our bumbler?”

“I appear.” The archangel Michael bloomed full-blown before the throne, haloed and holy. His look bore, as always, a hint of contrition at having allowed Santa and the Tooth Fairy to cross paths while the Father vacationed nearly three decades before. His Hermes side had been tucked back inside, though not as deep as prudence might dictate.

They allowed Michael access to Santa’s prayers, the one now unreeling and those that had previously flown to heaven.

“Here’s your chance,” said the Father, “to get back into my good graces. You have carte blanche. Devise a plan to attack this problem, then implement it. Maintain modesty of purpose, and don’t overreach. Is that clear?”

Michael said it was. Then he bowed and forelocked and hosanna’d and hallelujah’d his gratitude until God waved that away.

“But...” said Michael.

“Go on.”

“Isn’t fixing all four of them more than is strictly necessary? Why not just the parents? Or
one
parent?”

“Do you dare question my will?” God’s robes billowed and grew dark. His eyes flared with righteous fire.

“Calm yourself, Father. Michael, it’s simply that Santa so loves these mortals, not the child alone, that he wants them all fixed.”

Michael had gone white and cowering, not daring to speak another word. Had he a bladder, it would have been voided.

Then the Father gave over all threat. “My Son, in whom I am well pleased, speaks true. We are stopping with these few.”

Fret fell from the archangel, who vowed every effort—carefully considered this time—to carry out the divine will. He bowed and rose on a wing and a prayer, then dropped intently earthward on his mission.

“Will he be all right?” wondered the Son.

God looked askance. “I think we
both
know the answer to
that!
”

Chapter 7. Angelic Bumbler Makes Good

MICHAEL WAS BESIDE HIMSELF WITH JOY. The opportunity for any of them to annunciate came but rarely. Why, the number of angelic annunciations all told could be counted on two hands; the ones he had been involved in, on a couple of fingers.

Moreover, if memory served, this was the first time any of them had annunciated to immortals. The one made by Gabriel to the Divine Mother had occurred during her mortal years, so that didn’t count.

The Father had simply said, without fanfare, “Go do it, Michael.” Now here he was, hurtling earthward, his wings alternately buckling for a dive and catching astral currents to slow and direct his descent.

As he approached the earth, there came thundering into his soul mortality’s great mumble and murmur, its hopes and fears, snips of envy and anger, each slothful tomorrow-is-time-enough, lustful I’ll-seduce-her, and greedy that-object-will-surely-complete-me. Mortals were a confused bunch, a riot of weeds punctuated by random lilies and roses, their potential massively wasted except for the few and far between. Such inertia pulled them all in every wrong direction. And too many errant impulses moved makers of critical decisions. The planet’s survival lay in the hands of madmen.

In one sense, then, naught but cacophony.

In another, the most complex interweaving of patterns possible.

The paths of righteousness in heaven were uncluttered by such diabolical chokeweed. Yet its denizens did not judge those who walked the earth. Judgment was the exclusive province of the all-knowing Father.

Beyond the riotous stew of emotions, Michael also took in the deeds, violent and benevolent alike—the raised fist, the forcings, the addictions, the words that hurt, the pen strokes that set money over people, knife plunges, gunshots, land mines that maimed or put paid to a life. He saw tender embraces as well, sacrifices for the common good, worthy churchmen who did what they could to battle backwardness and ossification in ecclesiastical hierarchies. But Michael’s task lay not in this hopelessly tangled writhe of spaghetti, but in one special place on earth, to which he now sped.

Below him, the enchanting community at the North Pole opened to reveal its wonders. Ah, yes. The simpler, more disciplined mental lives of elves. Of Anya and Rachel in workshop and cottage. Of Santa and Wendy taking their morning walk.

Michael shivered with delight.

He would be privileged to help Wendy, steeped now in anticipated disappointment; and Santa Claus, doleful in the certainty that he would shortly crush Wendy’s faith in him.

Michael, though not incapable of excess pride, skirted far from temptation, doing instead the angelic thing, which was to feel just the right amount of childlike pride in helping another creature, for the glory of God and his creation, and only incidentally noting the glory that would redound upon himself.

As he floated above unseen, Santa and Wendy passed clusters of fir trees through fresh-fallen snow to the Chapel. Santa’s anguish brought an ache to Michael’s heart.

“I must confess my limits to Wendy,” the elf was thinking. “She’ll see how circumscribed I am. No longer will she think me a godlike parent who can fulfill every promise. She’ll know my fallibility as I know it myself. I’ll admit failure, she’ll hold my hand and assure me she understands, and Jamie Stratton will choose death over the daily drumbeat of suffering. The moment of his death will torment me until it occurs, and ever afterwards.”

Wendy broke Michael’s heart. “My poor stepfather,” she thought, “has been crestfallen since my request. He has failed, and he must suspect that I know it. He’ll think he has fallen in my esteem. But the opposite is true. I don’t expect him to be Superman, and I’ll tell him so. Then we’ll weep for Jamie’s fate and agonize afterward, until we resign ourselves to accepting what we’re powerless to change.”

Michael felt utterly tickled, hovering in the treetops, knowing the joy he would shortly deliver. Oh, but how can I be sure, he wondered, my plan won’t go awry? I’ve bumbled before. Badly. Then he realized that the very asking was all anyone, God included, could expect of him. That question, posed and reposed, would keep him on course and quell his Hermes impulses.

Michael took a breath and prepared to manifest.

* * *

Wendy’s shiny red boots crunched fresh snow. The rich aroma of pine infused the air. Then they reached the Chapel, where Mommy had married Anya and Santa eight years before, and where she came often to feel vibrant and alive and thank God for her blessings. She knew what her stepfather was about to say, and she steeled herself, like a brave little girl, to hear it and
not
dissolve into tears but to accept, accept, accept and to love him even more for his attempts and for wanting to spare her disappointment.

Santa turned to her, his face somber. “Wendy,” he managed. Then he stopped and stared upward.

Wendy felt it almost as quickly. The sunshine grew brighter and more vibrant. There was a bounce in the air, a lilt, a fulfillment of ancient promises. Flower petals, white and pink, floated before her. No, not petals but feathers, laid down one upon the other, curving soft over wide high angles. The folds of a snow-white robe fell to the tops of two boyish feet planted shoulder-high in the air above the snow. And a halo’d head, cheeks unblemished, eyes awash with dew, smiled down at them. The angel’s hair was lustrous and shiny, its long auburn locks breaking over the shoulders just ahead of the prayerful arcs described by his wing tops.

“Behold,” said he. Wendy thrilled from head to toe. “I bring tidings of great joy from God himself, from the Son, and from the Divine Mother.”

Behind her, Santa held Wendy’s shoulders in a soft grip, no fear or protection in the gesture, but rather the need to touch her as they shared this visitation.

“To what do we...?” He faltered in awe.

“You were afraid that God would not answer your prayer. Your fears were unfounded. Probe not for reasons. But accept this my annunciation.”

The angel opened his hands and gazed upon Wendy with boundless love. “Wendy,” he said, “type of the perfect child, and Santa Claus, thou ever-replenished fount of generosity, on behalf of heaven itself, I grant you this boon: On the night before Thanksgiving, you will be granted leave to visit three households, to persuade those you visit to choose a different path, and thereby save the boy you would save. You know which households I mean?”

Wendy nodded, naming those whose cumulative barbs would drive Jamie Stratton to suicide.

“We wish to visit their bedrooms,” said Santa.

“It is God’s will,” said the angel, gesturing beyond them with a finger and the nod of his head. “Behind your workshop, where the hills slope into the forest, stand replicas of those bedrooms. However your helpers bedeck them, upon your appearing to the mortals, the same shall be overlaid upon the real bedroom as magic time envelops it. At the conclusion of each visit, sleep will claim those you have visited. For that one night shall they share a dreamscape, where their dreams will reinforce your message.”

Wendy thrilled as the angel charged them. There was no guarantee that the mortals would mend their ways. But if persuasion could turn just one of them, even a little, Jamie’s life might be spared.

“Thus has God decreed. Go forth. Bend your best efforts to the task.” Turning to leave, he spoke a parting word. “If you need further aid in this effort, simply speak aloud the name Michael, that’s me, and I will appear at once.”

He raised his hands in benediction. “Blessed be, o favored ones of the Lord. Thou art beloved of him and of all the world.”

Then his eyes lifted heavenward and he melded with the air. The scent of ozone and a lingering glow upon the landscape were the only hints he had been there.

“God be praised,” said Santa.

“Is it possible?” asked Wendy. “Can we do it?” But her words held no doubt. “We can,” she said, “and we will, to the limits of our power.”

Santa hugged her, his huge palms confident along her back. Then he took her hands and gazed at her with fervor. “God has touched us yet again, this time through the archangel. Our way was lost, but now is found. Wendy, sweetheart, I love you so. If Jamie is to be saved, it shall be through our agency. To the limits of our power indeed! Let’s go tell everyone at once. We have much planning to do before Thanksgiving.”

“We do.” Wendy had not seen her stepfather so excited in ages. Her spirits too were buoyed with expectation. “I have a few ideas.”

Santa laughed. “Let’s hear them,” he said, as they struck out homeward at a brisk pace.

* * *

As Michael rose toward heaven, he opened himself to doubt. Had he bumbled or in any way overstepped? He didn’t think so.

He knew from prior annunciations that angelic visits invariably raised hope in the visitants. As they were
meant
to do. Such hope guaranteed nothing. But in the worthiest, the knowledge that divinity supported a righteous course of action sparked resolve, determination, and the will to confront and defeat adversity.

How sweet Wendy had been, how grand and generous Santa, standing there in the snow, attuned to one another and enthralled at his every word.

Had he done well? He believed he had. Should he check with the Higher Ups? No. The Father had trusted him to redeem himself for past mistakes, and so he was determined to do.

The clouds thinned. Above the atmosphere he shot, rising through darkness and a sparkle of stars toward the Empyrean. If he entertained doubts, as indeed he did, they were divine, the emotional stuff which keeps one on course, filling in one’s plans with intelligent detail.

I did well, he thought. It was a nice touch, opening the door to future contact. More chances to annunciate.

From on high, Michael heard angelic voices and the faint sweep and pluck of harp strings. Redoubling his intent, he rose more swiftly toward his proper place in heaven.