“I really really don’t want to do this Christmas thing.” The youngest of my children said this, into the open air of our communal dinner table. The thing still showed scuffs of past owners.
I looked to my wife, hair lightly undone. She had yet to wash for the night, and her unkempt state lent her a light glow that accentuated her bronze skin. She looked at me, a look of concern on her face. She turned to our youngest, Nikolai. “Nikki, what are you talking about?”
“My new friend, Jake, told me that it’s almost Christmas. \I don’t want to do it.” He looked frightened. Our child spoke to us in English.
“Θεός, Hanna, we’ve been here barely a year and they’re already trying to assimilate us,” I murmured this to my wife, but she seemed to ignore me, instead, keeping her attention on our children, as she always had.
She said “Well, Nikki, just because we live here now doesn’t mean we have to follow their traditions. We can have our own holiday if you’re so worried about Christmas.”
“Μητέρα, you don’t understand.”
“Make me understand, Nikolai.” My wife’s eyes narrowed. I wondered if their use of English in our home upset her the way it did me.
“It’s the Santa Cause!” Nikki’s older sister blurted out.
I addressed our daughter. “Waiola, let your brother speak.”
“The Santa Claus…” Nikki emphasized, “...is this big white man, with a red nose and a fat tummy, and you have to make presents for him and put them under a tree, or he’ll come and eat your family.” He nearly screamed the last bit.
“Nikolai,” I said, “That can’t be real.”
“It’s so real! That’s what Jake said!”
I looked at Hanna. She looked like she was stifling a laugh or holding back a sob. I couldn’t tell with the look she gave, not me, but the room. I touched her hand, from across the way, and then I turned back to Nikki. “When do we have to do this by?”
“December the 25th!” He said.
I added up the costs, thought it over. How many presents would a Santa Claus possibly need to appease his desire for Greco flesh? I said “Okay. Let’s go to the store and get him some presents, I guess.”
Waiola stood. “I must do my hair! And dress up!”
“We’re just going to the store…”
My children darted from their spots at the table and down the hallway to the room they shared. I turned to Hanna, ready to joke with her, when I saw she was on the verge of tears.
“Αγάπη μου, my love, what’s wrong?” I asked her.
“I’m frightened. Why is America so frightening?”
I laughed, but then I realized I was crying too, and we cried, as husband and wife. I felt closer to her then, in that small moment when the children were gone and the house was stale like a tomb.
~
The cramped car that Hanna’s parents had bought us, after the grueling citizenship process, after finally being cleared to escape the violence back home, was burgundy, the color concealing a patchwork of dents and scrapes. It was cheap, but all we could really afford.
Our children would usually bicker in the back seat and sometimes I would have to turn and throw curses at them or, sometimes, small Gideon Bibles we’d collected in our short time in the country. But that day, December 23rd, they were quiet, sometimes pointing out the window at the decorations around town, snowflake lights.
No one bothered to tell us about this horrendous holiday until Nikki brought it up. I guess our neighbors and friends thought it was implied, but I knew nothing of it. Back in our home country, we just celebrated the birth of Jesus and ate donuts.
We arrived at the store, a small convenience store near our house that sold a few toys, frozen roses, and things like that. Things that, surely, would appease the Santa Claus. I got out and helped our children un-do their seatbelts. Hanna had left the car at some point I wasn’t aware of, and put her hand on my shoulder as I fiddled with their belt.
I got it undone, and the children hopped out onto the pavement. It was slickened black with someone else’s oil leak. They ran into the store, and their mother chased them inside. The sounds of giggling and chastising met my ears, and I smiled. I turned, in place, and watched the sky. It threatened snow. It implied snow. I wanted to see snow.
“My God.” I said, trying my Lord’s name out in the English tongue. It didn’t feel like my Jesus that way, but I said it a few more times anyways, and then followed my family inside.
~
Our children picked out a present a piece. Waiola got an off-brand Transformer, and Nikolai bought a Barbie doll in a box that had already been partially opened. They couldn’t have been a dollar each, I thought.
I asked them, at the checkout line “Do you really think that will be enough to keep the Santa Claus from eating our family?”
“Yes!” They did not hesitate.
“Christmas is freaking stupid,” I said, low enough for myself and the Santa Claus to hear.
My wife and I picked out presents too. I bought a silver-toothed comb that had a price tag wrapped around one end. It was cheap, and looked kind of nice, despite the fact it probably was used. My wife bought a hat, a low-pro baseball cap, that said “Red Sox: Since 1901.” I thought that was silly. I wear red socks, though, so maybe it made sense. Maybe more Americans wore red socks too, and they were really proud of it.
My wife and I selected a bottle of whiskey and a carton of eggnog.
We left the store with our bounty, my wallet feeling a tad lighter of American currency, and then drove back home for the night. Nikki and Waiola agreed that wrapping the presents would be smart, so they collected un-attended newspapers from driveways, squashed flat by car tires. Hanna and I watched them wrap the presents on our dining room table. I had one arm around her; the other I used to direct the children, saying things like “Fold that end into a triangle and then… yup, that is right.” I put the eggnog in the fridge, and Hanna left the whiskey in the tallest cabinet.
~
It snowed the next day.
We had not seen snow before, and our children slipped and squealed and screamed, sliding around in the white mush. I eyed the road, but it was covered in the white.
“Figures.”
“What is it?” Hanna asked me.
“Nothing. I…” I turned to my wife, her green eyes catching the snow-white light, and said “I wanted to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Like we usually do.”
“We still can.” She said.
“But it has snowed. I can’t go buy donuts.”
“It will melt.” She promised, and then she kissed my cheek before slipping back inside our house. I watched the sky, and knew she was right.
~
The snow receded from the road around 6pm. The kids played in it far into the evening until my wife scolded them, to come and sit and eat dinner at the table like a decent family.
There was a tree in our front yard and so we set our newspaper wrapped presents underneath it, after the kids had washed the dishes. We made a big deal of it. Hanna took photos that the kids hated; making them sit still was like pulling teeth.
Then, I asked, after the presents were set, “Do we have to say anything?”
“Wha-what?” Hanna asked.
“A seance, a “please-don’t-eat-us” ritual of some sort?”
Nikki shrugged. “Jakey didn’t mention anything like that.”
“Well.” I made a sweeping motion with my arms. “Into the house. Go to your room. I have a quick trip to make.”
Hanna met my eyes, nodded, and then repeated my command. The children re-entered the house and, as Hanna passed me, she tried a kiss on my cheek, but she missed and touched my mouth. I blushed, and she punched my shoulder.
“Be safe.”
“I will.”
~
Driving was a comforting action for me. It had rhythm, reason, rules. The three R’s of success. Our vehicle was rickety, but it still drove better than the truck we owned back in our home country. I comfortably spun the wheel, and led that burgundy Toyota into the parking lot of Davie’s Donuts.
The parking lot was empty.
I got out, though, turning off my car, and walked to the door. I peered inside. It was dark. A sign on the front said “Merry Christmas!” in Sharpie, and then “καλές διακοπές!” for his customers, like me.
I knocked on the door. “Davie, let me in. I need donuts. I need…”
Even if he were there, he couldn’t have heard me. I don’t think God could’ve heard me.
“βλασφημία your Christmas! βλασφημία!” I yelled, at the night sky. At America, maybe. “Your Christmas took everything from me! It took my God, it took my family, it…” I realized I wasn’t talking about Christmas anymore, but kept at it “It took my sense of dignity! It took and it took and it takes…” I banged my fist on the hood of my car. The car alarm started to go off, a shrill pattern that echoed through the post-snow air.
I stared at the car. It was dinged and broken. It was like looking into a mirror.
~
I drove back home, and slipped into the covers next to my wife. She touched my face. “You’ve been crying.”
“No.”
“What’s wrong, my husband?”
I turned to her. “Davie’s was closed.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.” She said, studying my face. “Aren’t we going to read from the Αγια Γραφη for our children?”
“What is the point?” I touched her cheek, then sat up. “Christmas has killed the joy of the season for me.”
“What, because of the Santa Claus? Or a donut store being closed?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know. You’re just too prideful.”
I knew she was right.
“Alright,” I said, “Where’s the Greek Bible?”
Hanna stood and walked to our closet, and grabbed a hefty, leather bound book, one of the few things we got to take to America from our home. I stopped her, on her way out our bedroom door.
I asked “Do you believe this Santa Claus is real?”
“A giant white male American that eats your family if you don’t give him stuff?” She said, “Sounds about right. And,” she pushed our door open, “This is America. Anything can happen.”
~
On the fateful day of Christmas, we all reluctantly got out of our beds, Hanna and I first, then our children. We wanted to spare them any ill-fate that may come their way, blocking the doorway in case the Santa Claus might be ready to pounce, perhaps because their gifts weren’t worthy enough.
But, no.
The presents were still there. I turned to Waiola. “Isn’t the Santa Claus supposed to take the presents?”
“I thought so. Maybe…” then she gasped, “Oh no, I think the Santa Claus isn’t real!”
Hanna laughed “And you’re upset about that?”
“I…” Waiola thought, “No, not really.”
“What do we do with these presents then?” Nikki asked no one in particular.
I looked at the packages, poorly wrapped in clearly-damp newspaper. “Well…” I said, stepping towards the tree, “How about this?” I grabbed up the four small packages and handed one to each of the children. “Happy Christmas.”
They each opened their gifts. Nikki got the Transformer, with a delighted gasp, and Waiola received the Barbie, which she hugged tightly.
I turned to Hanna, my beautiful, ever-faithful wife, and said “This one’s for you.” I knew the package I handed her contained the silver-toothed comb.
“You’re a brilliant man.”
“I know,” I said. And then I opened the present with the Red Sox hat, and put it on.
My kids hugged my knees and I nearly fell over. I looked down at them.
“What is this for?” I asked, delighted.
“Thank you for the best Happy Christmas ever!”
I smiled, so hard my cheeks began to hurt. “It’s not me.”
My wife hugged my neck and kissed the back of my head. “And when the kids are all asleep, we still have the whiskey.”
I turned to her and kissed her, full and deep, like God intended. She seemed surprised, but didn’t withdraw. The kids simultaneously shouted “Gross!” and then ran inside, after the promise of eggnog in the fridge. I took my wife’s hand and, looking at the tree, with bits of newspaper torn around its base, I asked Hanna “Why don’t Americans just do Christmas like this? It’s so much nicer.”
She laughed, and said “I do not know, my darling. Americans are weird.”
Hi guys! Long time no see! I whipped up this story for the Writer's Block's Holiday Competition with some extra special help from the extra special 
Thanks for reading! God bless and have a Happy 2019!
