Home for the Holidays

The grayish light of dawn peeked through the cracks around the window blind, signaling the start of a new day. My groggy mind took only half a second to register . . . Christmas! I kicked back the covers to awaken my brothers. We tore down the hallway and spilled into the living room.

“Santa came! He came, he came!” Julio shouted, jumping up and down and diving under the tree to look at the five gifts lying there. George and Eustaquio tumbled in after him. I didn’t want to spoil the whole Santa thing for my younger brothers so I played along, my own heart thudding with excitement that he came—or rather came through. My father had come home for Christmas and brought presents for his family.

“Wait for your dad to come into the living room before you can get your toys,” Mom said as she entered the room, tying on her robe.

“The toys are there. Grab your toys and don’t make a mess,” Dad’s booming voice called from the living room doorway. “And make sure you clean up after yourself.” He spoke with coldness and a pretend smile on his face.

“Merry Christmas, boys,” Mom said as she bent down to kiss each of us on the cheek. “I’m gonna start breakfast.”

My father settled himself on the couch and popped open a beer—breakfast in a can as one of the older boys in the neighborhood called it. He ordered my little brothers to hold off on the gifts until he passed each one of us the present with our name on it. I knew he wanted to do the father thing, and that was cool. It was good to see him home with us for once after so many Christmases when he was an absentee dad.

“Here you go, John.” My father handed me a small gift wrapped in Christmas paper. It was

too small to be a GI Joe, but I didn’t care. I started to open the present and glanced up at Mom in the kitchen. She smiled back at me from the stove, where the smell of eggs frying wafted out into the living room.

My fingers struggled to tear open the gift, it was taped so much.

“Here, stupid, let me do it,” my father said, snatching the gift out of my hands. “What kind of a kid can’t even open his own Christmas present. Ay-yi-yi . . .” He made a hand gesture as if to slap me.

My heart, so full of joy at seeing my family all together on this special day, sank into the pit of my stomach. With his cruel, sarcastic comment, my father had killed whatever Christmas spirit resided in the Ramirez household.

I don’t even remember what my present was that Christmas morning—some trinket my father picked up at Cheap Charlie’s Store—but it didn’t matter. In that one instant of cruelty he had spoiled it all.

A few days after Christmas, my father long gone from our lives again, I was heading down the apartment stairwell when I spotted two brand-new GI Joes lying on a step. One of the neighbor boys must have been playing with his new Christmas toys and got called inside for supper. I scooped up the action figures and tucked them under my shirt, then made a dash for my aunt’s house where I could play with them unseen. These were coveted toys, and I was so desperate to have a GI Joe at any cost

—to feel like a regular boy—that I pushed away the nagging thoughts in my conscience that what I’d just done was wrong.

When the neighbor boy asked me if I’d seen his action figures a few days later, I lied and said no. Once again my conscience bothered me, and I felt the burning guilt of my crime, but I never confessed to it. Even though Mom had taught us carefully not to lie or steal, at that moment I didn’t care about the penalty I would pay or the beating I would receive if my mother ever found out.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 791