Johnny Wraith Stories

I was 10 years old. My brother was 6. It was snowing outside. We were in the car. My mother was driving. We drove uptown through the slush and the windshield wipers were working off the falling snow. We parked along the sidewalk and prepared to get out of the car, put a dime in the meter. We were going to get out, go inside J.C. Penney and see Santa Claus. He was the guy in the red suit and white beard. Most kids sit on his lap and cry. Some ask him for footballs, gumballs, basketballs, GI Joe dolls, but never clothes. Only toys.

But, my mother paused. She didn't get out of the car. We didn't get out of the car. She forbade us from getting out of the car before she did. Even at 10, I had to follow this rule. Maybe it was to set an example for my younger brother.

My mother turned to me, matter-of-factly. "Aren't you too old to see Santa now?"

I said "No." I didn't want to miss out on getting presents. Or, if I didn't tell Santa what I wanted, he might give me clothes, not toys. I wanted toys. An Atari. Puzzles. Stuff like that. Maybe a football, but no GI Joe. I was too old for GI Joe, and I knew that. Still too young for clothes, though.

My mother intoned. "Don't you understand? Santa Claus is not real. Even your brother knows that, and he is 6."

I turned and looked at my brother. He was nodding in agreement with my mother, matter-of-factly. His face was hidden by his hood, scarf, and the faux fur on his hood. His hood shook up and down in agreement. He had mittens on, and snow boots too. Too bad my brother had been taken by propaganda. I knew of the enemy. The enemy was out there, and the enemy liked to tell kids Santa was not real. But, this was the first time a trusted adult had taken the enemy's side. After all, I had seen Santa with my own eyes, every Christmas, at JC Penney, for as long as I could remember.

"Santa is NOT REAL," my mother screamed in frustration. She was not happy. I wasn't buying her propaganda.

But, her insistence made my blood suddenly grow cold. I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I just sat there quietly. I didn't know what to say, or what to do. A realization was hitting me. A bad one. Santa, reindeer, elves, a flying sleigh, a glowing nose. It didn't make sense, after all.

"Reindeer can't fly," my mother explained. "You are a smart boy. Why do you believe reindeer can fly at 10 years old?" Now my mother was kindly pleading, as if the gravity of the situation had suddenly calmed her. She didn't scream that time. And the truth was hitting me, harder and harder, as I just sat there. It really hurt. The silence was thick. Snow was still falling outside, covering the car's windows. It was getting darker.

I swallowed hard and spoke. "The Easter Bunny?"

"Not real," said my mother.

"Tooth Fairy?"

"No, not that either."

"Leprechauns?"

"NO."

Then it really hit me. "Jesus?"

"Johnny! How dare you ask that! Of course Jesus is real!" She screamed.

The silence came back. I thought hard for 30 seconds. My mom and brother watched. It was a long 30 seconds.

"Mom, if reindeer can't fly, then Jesus can't bring the dead back to life and angels can't fly either. If God existed, he could make an angel fly. The reverend at church has been lying to you about Jesus, just like you used to lie to me about Santa."

My face was slapped hard.

We didn't get out of the car. The engine and the wipers went back on.

We drove home in complete silence.

When my dad came home, out came THE WOODEN SPOON. After 30 minutes of non-stop pummelling, I professed my belief in Christ.