window of the dining room. The place we
stayed, it was a big house—a friend of my dad’s owned it, but I
don’t remember him well. It had lots of servants and lots of land,
and huge rooms. I ran about in it for days; I thought I could get
lost.
Well, I saw her at the windows of the house
while we were eating. She was thin and scrawny, with sun-darkened
skin and these wide, night eyes that seemed to open up forever. Her
fingers were bony; I remember that because she lifted her hand and
touched the glass as if she wanted to reach through it. I called
out to her, but she was gone, and I grabbed my mother’s hand and
dragged her from the table to the window.
“It’s nothing,” my mother said, and drew me
back. But I knew better.
“She’s hungry,” I said. “It’s Christmas.” As
if those two words meant something, meant anything. I didn’t
understand the glance that my mother gave my father, but he shook
his head: No.
They didn’t have doorbells in that huge, old
house; they had something that you banged instead, hard. So I knew
it was her at the door when I heard that grand brass gong start to
hum. I slipped out from under my mother and ran towards the door.
Because I knew she was hungry, you see, and it was Christmas, and
of course we would feed her.
The servants didn’t see it that way, of
course. Neither did our host. To them, she was just another one of
the countless beggars that came at inopportune moments. And I even
understand it, sometimes—you don’t see me giving away all my
hard-earned money to every little street urchin with a hand held
out.
But whether I understand it or not doesn’t
matter. Because I feel it with a five year old’s shock and anger,
after all these years. They drove her
away
. I didn’t
understand what she was saying, of course, because I didn’t know
any Spanish back then. But I know now, because I learned enough to
try to speak to her later.
I’m hungry. Please. I’m hungry
. Like
a prayer or a litany. She had a thin, raspy voice; she coughed once
or twice although it wasn’t cold. I could see her ribs. I could see
the manservant shove her, hard, from the open door. Well, I was
five and I wasn’t too smart then, so I picked up the nearest thing
and started hitting him with it and hollering a lot. It was an
umbrella, and a five year old can’t damage more than pride.
And I just kept shouting, “It’s Christmas!
It’s Christmas!” until my mother came to take me away. My father
was furious. The host was embarrassed, and made a show of
remonstrating the servants, who were only doing their job.
I went back to the table like a mutinous
prisoner, and I was stubborn enough that I didn’t eat a thing. Not
that night, anyway. My mother was angry at my father, that much I
remember. Dinner kind of lost its momentum that night because of
the tantrum of one half-spoiled boy.
And Christmas lost its magic for that
boy.
* * *
Maybe it wouldn’t have, had she stayed away.
Maybe the toys and the food and the lights on the trees would have
sucked him right back into family comfort. Maybe Santa’s lap and
Santa’s ear would have encouraged him to feel the exact same way he
always had. I’ll never know. Because in the winter of my sixth
year, tucked under the covers and dreaming of Santa, I heard her
tapping at my windows.
Back then, I had my own small room on the
second storey of our house, and when I heard the tapping at the
window, well, I thought it was monsters or something. I gathered my
blankets around me like a shield, yanked ‘em off the bed, and then
trundled, slowly, over to the window.
And I saw her standing there, with her gaunt,
darkened cheeks and her wide, wide eyes. She was rapping the glass
with her thin, bony fingers and she said the same words over and
over again. I think I screamed, because I could see the northern
stars blinking right through her, and I knew what that meant, back
then.
My mother came first—she always did, moving
like a quiet
stayed, it was a big house—a friend of my dad’s owned it, but I
don’t remember him well. It had lots of servants and lots of land,
and huge rooms. I ran about in it for days; I thought I could get
lost.
Well, I saw her at the windows of the house
while we were eating. She was thin and scrawny, with sun-darkened
skin and these wide, night eyes that seemed to open up forever. Her
fingers were bony; I remember that because she lifted her hand and
touched the glass as if she wanted to reach through it. I called
out to her, but she was gone, and I grabbed my mother’s hand and
dragged her from the table to the window.
“It’s nothing,” my mother said, and drew me
back. But I knew better.
“She’s hungry,” I said. “It’s Christmas.” As
if those two words meant something, meant anything. I didn’t
understand the glance that my mother gave my father, but he shook
his head: No.
They didn’t have doorbells in that huge, old
house; they had something that you banged instead, hard. So I knew
it was her at the door when I heard that grand brass gong start to
hum. I slipped out from under my mother and ran towards the door.
Because I knew she was hungry, you see, and it was Christmas, and
of course we would feed her.
The servants didn’t see it that way, of
course. Neither did our host. To them, she was just another one of
the countless beggars that came at inopportune moments. And I even
understand it, sometimes—you don’t see me giving away all my
hard-earned money to every little street urchin with a hand held
out.
But whether I understand it or not doesn’t
matter. Because I feel it with a five year old’s shock and anger,
after all these years. They drove her
away
. I didn’t
understand what she was saying, of course, because I didn’t know
any Spanish back then. But I know now, because I learned enough to
try to speak to her later.
I’m hungry. Please. I’m hungry
. Like
a prayer or a litany. She had a thin, raspy voice; she coughed once
or twice although it wasn’t cold. I could see her ribs. I could see
the manservant shove her, hard, from the open door. Well, I was
five and I wasn’t too smart then, so I picked up the nearest thing
and started hitting him with it and hollering a lot. It was an
umbrella, and a five year old can’t damage more than pride.
And I just kept shouting, “It’s Christmas!
It’s Christmas!” until my mother came to take me away. My father
was furious. The host was embarrassed, and made a show of
remonstrating the servants, who were only doing their job.
I went back to the table like a mutinous
prisoner, and I was stubborn enough that I didn’t eat a thing. Not
that night, anyway. My mother was angry at my father, that much I
remember. Dinner kind of lost its momentum that night because of
the tantrum of one half-spoiled boy.
And Christmas lost its magic for that
boy.
* * *
Maybe it wouldn’t have, had she stayed away.
Maybe the toys and the food and the lights on the trees would have
sucked him right back into family comfort. Maybe Santa’s lap and
Santa’s ear would have encouraged him to feel the exact same way he
always had. I’ll never know. Because in the winter of my sixth
year, tucked under the covers and dreaming of Santa, I heard her
tapping at my windows.
Back then, I had my own small room on the
second storey of our house, and when I heard the tapping at the
window, well, I thought it was monsters or something. I gathered my
blankets around me like a shield, yanked ‘em off the bed, and then
trundled, slowly, over to the window.
And I saw her standing there, with her gaunt,
darkened cheeks and her wide, wide eyes. She was rapping the glass
with her thin, bony fingers and she said the same words over and
over again. I think I screamed, because I could see the northern
stars blinking right through her, and I knew what that meant, back
then.
My mother came first—she always did, moving
like a quiet
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