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Authors: David Adams Richards
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December afternoon. Seeing the crotch out of his suit pants, his face covered in small pricks of greying beard, I had my first glimpse — my first real glimpse — of a povertyof spirit, and I associated it in my young mind with Abby Porier, with his suit pants too tight.
I knew something about the Voteurs. I knew Cheryl, who was in my class. I knew they had a son, Darren, who was Autumn’s age. I knew Diedre Whyne had come to them with the police one October night and the social services had filed a motion against the parents and wanted to bring Cheryl and her sister, Monica, to Covenant House, which Diedre ran for abused girls.
I looked at their wet shingled house smelling of pulp and darkness and the sad scent of smoke, like eggs on raw air. In the house the children looked raggedly from the single-pane windows. You could spy one, if you looked, at every window looking out at us. Cheryl, Monica, and Darren.
Worse than the dark unattended house having no decorations for Christmas, the children had placed one light behind the curtain, and a plastic Santa Claus was stuck to the window of the front door. Their door faced the bay, but like so many rural houses of the poor they were surrounded by land and owned no property, had the bay in front of them and never had a boat.
“Maybe you should take this box in, Sydney,” Father Porier said. There was a moment of silence. I wanted to yell to my Dad not to do it. Then Father sighed, looked over his shoulder, and told me to hand him the box from the back seat with the large boxed doll. Taking the box he got out of the car.
“I’ll kill you,” the man said.
Never minding this threat, my father walked across the smoke-scented yard as snow began to fall in dreary flakes over the old peaked roof.
Samson stood, raising his shovel as my father walked up the slippery steps, and started to move the handle back and forth four or five inches, as if taking aim with a baseball bat.I thought of the stations of the cross on the church windows as I stared at my father’s dark hair and thin neck. If Samson swung he would split my father’s head wide open.
“Here Comes Santa” was on the car radio and perhaps, who knows, on the radio inside the forlorn little house.
I suppose at that moment I was too amazed to think of my father as courageous.
The man held the shovel. “Take yer head off,” he said as he braced himself.
My father stopped, looked at him, and then continued up the cinder-covered icy steps, duty bound to deliver the damn box of groceries so we could get ours. Father was now at a height where the shovel would cut his head off at the neck, and then a moment later split his skull like a sawdust ball. But still he walked. Samson shouted, backed up, screamed. Still Father moved toward that tiny audience of dejected little faces, a strange Santa Claw bearing gifts.
Then Father stopped before Samson and waited. One moment, then two, then three passed. Suddenly the old spade shovel dropped. Voteur began to cry, and I could see his children watching this horrible Christmas special.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be taken advantage of, I can’t get any money,” Samson said. “I don’t want to beg — I was a good man once. I had job at McVicer — till the fires.”
“I know,” my father answered. “That’s why I brought you your groceries. I want to tell your children that these are groceries that came to them because of who you are and what you have done for them. It’s Christmas — for the children,” my father whispered.
Voteur gave a look, as if his face had crumbled, not by the harsh terrible words he had heard against him all his life and the mocking of his size, but by simple compassion. Dad patted Voteur roughly on the shoulder, handed him a package ofPlayer’s cigarettes (cigarettes that my father only smoked at Christmas), and went into the house.
Finally, after I’d been chewing the same stick of gum for three hours, we went back to
I knew something about the Voteurs. I knew Cheryl, who was in my class. I knew they had a son, Darren, who was Autumn’s age. I knew Diedre Whyne had come to them with the police one October night and the social services had filed a motion against the parents and wanted to bring Cheryl and her sister, Monica, to Covenant House, which Diedre ran for abused girls.
I looked at their wet shingled house smelling of pulp and darkness and the sad scent of smoke, like eggs on raw air. In the house the children looked raggedly from the single-pane windows. You could spy one, if you looked, at every window looking out at us. Cheryl, Monica, and Darren.
Worse than the dark unattended house having no decorations for Christmas, the children had placed one light behind the curtain, and a plastic Santa Claus was stuck to the window of the front door. Their door faced the bay, but like so many rural houses of the poor they were surrounded by land and owned no property, had the bay in front of them and never had a boat.
“Maybe you should take this box in, Sydney,” Father Porier said. There was a moment of silence. I wanted to yell to my Dad not to do it. Then Father sighed, looked over his shoulder, and told me to hand him the box from the back seat with the large boxed doll. Taking the box he got out of the car.
“I’ll kill you,” the man said.
Never minding this threat, my father walked across the smoke-scented yard as snow began to fall in dreary flakes over the old peaked roof.
Samson stood, raising his shovel as my father walked up the slippery steps, and started to move the handle back and forth four or five inches, as if taking aim with a baseball bat.I thought of the stations of the cross on the church windows as I stared at my father’s dark hair and thin neck. If Samson swung he would split my father’s head wide open.
“Here Comes Santa” was on the car radio and perhaps, who knows, on the radio inside the forlorn little house.
I suppose at that moment I was too amazed to think of my father as courageous.
The man held the shovel. “Take yer head off,” he said as he braced himself.
My father stopped, looked at him, and then continued up the cinder-covered icy steps, duty bound to deliver the damn box of groceries so we could get ours. Father was now at a height where the shovel would cut his head off at the neck, and then a moment later split his skull like a sawdust ball. But still he walked. Samson shouted, backed up, screamed. Still Father moved toward that tiny audience of dejected little faces, a strange Santa Claw bearing gifts.
Then Father stopped before Samson and waited. One moment, then two, then three passed. Suddenly the old spade shovel dropped. Voteur began to cry, and I could see his children watching this horrible Christmas special.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be taken advantage of, I can’t get any money,” Samson said. “I don’t want to beg — I was a good man once. I had job at McVicer — till the fires.”
“I know,” my father answered. “That’s why I brought you your groceries. I want to tell your children that these are groceries that came to them because of who you are and what you have done for them. It’s Christmas — for the children,” my father whispered.
Voteur gave a look, as if his face had crumbled, not by the harsh terrible words he had heard against him all his life and the mocking of his size, but by simple compassion. Dad patted Voteur roughly on the shoulder, handed him a package ofPlayer’s cigarettes (cigarettes that my father only smoked at Christmas), and went into the house.
Finally, after I’d been chewing the same stick of gum for three hours, we went back to
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