The Kids Next Door
James had been talking about the North Pole since July. “What do reindeer eat?” he wanted to know. “Apples?”
Lily sighed. “Don’t be dumb, James. There’s no such thing as reindeer.”
“Yes there is. That’s how Santa drives his sleigh.”
“Santa isn’t real, I already told you.”
He stared at her. His face scrunched into a pink wad, slow motion. “Whuh huh huh.”
“If you cry,” Lily said, “I’ll lock you in your room. I’m serious.”
James tried to stop his chin from shaking. “I’ll tell,” he said.
“Tell who?” Lily asked. “I’m in charge.”
Later that night, after James had fallen asleep in bed with his clothes on, Lily took a pack of cigarettes from her sock drawer and went out to the porch. The Capaluppos’ dogs were in the yard again, barking. “Shut up,” she muttered. “Shut up shut up shut up.” Her breath curled away with the smoke.
Last spring James and Lily’s mother had bought an illustrated encyclopedia set from a salesman who pulled up to the door in a blue Volvo. The salesman stood in the doorway, sliding volumes from his briefcase and talking fast. Lily’s mother had been taken by the garish pictures of the Taj Mahal; she giggled, ran her finger along volume T, and yelled for Lily to get her cash out of the pickle jar.
James got all kinds of ideas from that encyclopedia. For a while it was the Amazon. Snakes, birds, exotic plants – he chattered like a goddamn monkey. Lily had tried to convince him that the encyclopedia was made-up, same as a story book. She was in sixth grade and she knew these things, so for a while he believed her. Then he didn’t. Then he did. Then he didn’t. After the Amazon he’d skipped B and gone to C, turning straight to Christmas.
Lily buried her cigarette butt under a snowdrift and went inside. The encyclopedia was crammed on a shelf in the back room, next to the table where the bills and mail piled up. The volumes were all out of order. She took down R and ripped out the page titled Reindeer.
North Pole.
Arctic.
Christmas.
She tore the pages into small rectangles and then smaller squares. A few fluttered to the floor. She scooped them into a plastic Price Chopper bag.
Santa Claus. Her hand hovered by S. Santa Claus wouldn’t be in the encyclopedia, would he? Oh but he was, four whole paragraphs complete with pictures of Santas around the world, some with red suits and some with white suits, some with beards and some with pipes, all of them stupid lies for stupid little brothers to believe in their sniveling little dreams. Lily wadded the Price Chopper bag into the kitchen garbage can and put the encyclopedia back on its shelf, replacing each volume exactly where it had been. She was asleep by the time her mother got home, on the bus before she woke.
No one said anything about the encyclopedia. James and Lily’s mother hadn’t looked at the books since the day she bought them, and if James noticed the missing pages he kept this to himself. It didn’t matter. He was still talking about the North Pole, Santa Claus and the reindeer, as if they lived on the next block. “Santa’s coming in five days,” he said.
“No he’s not,” said Lily.
“Yes he is,” said James. “And if you’re good he brings you presents. He brings you everything you ever wanted. He comes on his sleigh with the reindeer. He brings a bag full of presents to all the good boys and girls every Christmas.”
“Hey James,” Lily said. “What did you get for Christmas last year?”
James was silent.
“So shut up,” she said.
At school the next day she stole some red construction paper from Mrs. Brenner’s supply cabinet. That night she wrote a letter in careful script.
Dear James,
Sorry to break it to you. There are no reindeer and there is no Santa Claus. Also there are no elves. It’s time you got a clue. The North Pole is basically just like Massachusetts except even colder. Sorry.
Sincerely
The Mayor
North Pole
She put the letter in an envelope with a canceled stamp taped in the upper right corner. She wrote James’s name in big block letters on the front, and the following afternoon, when they were lying on the couch watching television, she volunteered to go outside and get the mail. James didn’t take his eyes off Oprah. Lily returned with a handful of sales circulars and a gust of cold air. “Something for you,” she said.
“For me?” James asked.
“Yeah.” Lily handed him the letter. She pretended to look away while he tore it open. “Coming up next,” Oprah was shouting over her audience’s applause, “we’ll find out how one millionaire is making Christmas a little bit merrier for families in need.”
There was a rustle. James was folding the letter in half, then in quarters, then again. The show had gone to a commercial and that always made the volume spike, so Lily saw her brother move his lips but couldn’t catch what he said, only saw him slide off the couch and run for the stairs, felt his feet thudding along the hallway to his room. Then the door slammed.
Outside it was too dark to see much, just the outline of peaked roofs and bare trees lined up against the sky, the dead shrubs weighted down with snow. In those houses there were supper smells, meat and onions browning. Lily changed the channel to see if there was something better on.
Like Christmas trees, Mary Phillips-Sandy is from Maine. She enjoys gingerbread, spiced cider, and being the editor of RuinedMusic.com.