A Little Holiday Something, Pt. II

Back home, Kat had boxed up enough ornaments off of our tree to decorate any three. Life with our father had produced in us the desire, perhaps even the need, to celebrate even little occasions and to celebrate big occasions in as much grand style as we could afford. We figured we were owed. She had also plated up some of the Christmas cookies we’d baked a day or so before and was wrapping them in saran tied with curling ribbon.

“They’re out,” she informed me. “That Son of a Bitch went off to The Humdinger with his buddies, and Wendy had to go pick up the kids from the library.”

“Let’s go,” I said. Then I paused at the door and looked around.

“She won’t take this from us. She’ll think its charity.” I found just the thing. A plush toy rabbit – all white, with a pink bow tie. A neighbor kid had given it to me as a birthday present months before. Not knowing what else to do with the thing, I had stuck it in a corner by the sliding door to help keep the draft out. I put a Santa hat on it, grabbed a notepad and pencil off the coffee table, and we rushed out the door.

Breaking into the houses on our block was neither difficult nor uncommon. We, at least, were bringing things in, not taking things out. A jimmied window, a reach through to unlock the door, and we were in.

“There’s no tree stand, dammit,” I said.

“There’s no time anyway,” she pointed out.

We stood it up in a corner, well away from any heat source, and decorated quickly and quietly. Maybe not so quietly. Neither of us is known for our grace. As Kat fussed about with final touches, I sat on the arm of the sofa, took out notepad and pencil and wrote:

“I am Harvey George Bailey, the Christmas Bunny. Sure, Santa gets all the publicity, but I have a job to do too, ya know? Every year, I do what I can to spread joy and cheer. This year, I happened to be in the neighborhood, so what the hell?

Very Truly Yours,

HG Bailey
The Christmas Bunny”

I sat the toy under the tree, propped the note between his two plush paws, and we snuck out the same way we’d snuck in.

Back home, we pretended not to be waiting for Wendy to return. Kat took to reorganizing the remaining decorations on The Big Green Pipe-Cleaner to provide as much cover as they could. I went in the kitchen and comfort baked. Nothing passes the time like a bread-pudding. I had just closed the oven door when we heard the knock.

Standing in the doorway was Harvey George Bailey, being held by a tearful Wendy who seemed able to smile but not speak. After hugs and laughs and the wiping of tears, we sat down over eggnog and still more cookies, because in those days it didn’t feel like Christmas to me unless something was in the oven baking for 10-12 minutes at 350 degrees.

“Harvey George Bailey explained to me that he wanted to come back here to you,” Wendy explained. “He likes it here. He thinks you’ll help him in his career.” I took him and perched him beneath The Big Green Pipe-Cleaner by the front window. It was still a shit tree, I had one half of a two dollars, seventy-two cents between me and all alone, and the world was still full of asshole fathers, psycho ex-boyfriends, and assorted other sons of bitches, but that night, as the fireworks went off over The Magic Kingdom, they couldn't match the glow in our sparse, rented livingroom, and we shared something no one could take away.

I have seen more than 20 Christmases come and go since that night. My sister, committed to finding someone stronger and more independent in her life next time, went back out on her own. Her marriage didn't last and required a restraining order and several changes of address to leave behind. She volunteers once a week at a battered women's shelter. I kept clawing my way into the working class, finally made it, and today, I’m what people politely call “comfortable,” though it never feels comfortable. I have dreams of walking up to a cashier only to find I have no money on me. I'm still blonde, divorced, but I got a great kid out of the deal. Wendy finally left That Son of Bitch once her youngest graduated high school. She moved into a place of her own where her grown children would visit her. She got breast cancer. It spread to her brain. Until the day she died -- close to 10 years ago now -- she was never poor.

Now, the tree is up, even Kat approves of the distribution of the size, shape, and color of ornaments. The star has been placed on top, all the lights are twinkling. We're ready to settle in for eggnog or maybe a glass of mulled wine, and hot cocoa for the child. Sitting under the tree is a plush toy rabbit, once white, but now yellowed with age, his pink bow tie limp and frayed at the edges, his Santa hat missing most of its white trim. Kat has put him in his usual place, without a word, or even a meaningful look. Some things go deeper than that. The timer goes off on the oven. It's time to take the cookies out. I give Harvey George Bailey one more glance. I think he looks just fine.