Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes (40 page)

“Take the Bible, much touted and much abused. Verses torn from context were once used to justify slavery. When that folly fell into disfavor, the Bible was tortured into justifying the prohibition of interracial marriage. And until this moment, the same prejudiced bunch, conveniently forgetting this history of ever-shifting interpretation, has condemned loving same-gender relationships. And all in my name. Better burn this Bible than blaspheme against the Godhead thus. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. No idols. None. A book held up as my unchanging word is an idol, and if thou wouldst be wise, thou shalt have none of it. Regard it as it is: a compendium of stories, some wondrous, some horrendous in their import. Its authors? Storytellers. Only to such mortals is it given to
pretend
to know my mind. And the best of these know they’re only pretending, and that playful pretending is the highest form of truth there is.

“But to take one’s pretense as gospel? To believe it utterly, condemning any other variant of belief as ungodly? By heaven, that is spiritual pride at its worst, and I ought to slaughter the whole pack of you this instant!

“You feel blessed, even as I berate you. You marvel at the burning bush, which is real, yet consumes not the combustible stuff of your dwelling place. And you feel dismay at my anger, even though not one of you will remember this visit. But hear me, while I have your ear, and hear me well.

“For this your sin of homophobia, of perversely judging adults who love one another as my Son long ago instructed this infuriating race of creatures to do, you were all headed straight for the hell you were so quick to condemn others to but thought you had escaped. Well, I have some bad news. Many of you are
still
headed there if you don’t take steps to reform the
rest
of your sin-sick lives—which, alas, you will not do despite a direct plea from Almighty God himself.

“Thank Santa Claus and his friends for removing at least
one
sorry blot from your soul. But habit, the Great Deadener, shall sap your resolve for more universal change, and back into the Great Bog o’ Shit shall you, by the weakness of your dronish will, slip.”

So towering was the Father’s fury, which towered still higher at the shame of beholding his botched creation close up, that he grew apoplectic. Fearing he would destroy them all in a fit of pique and regret having done so ever after, he swept away the millions of burning bushes and regained heaven. There upon his throne he brooded, his Son silent at his right hand, while he lost himself in thought.

And as he had foretold—for the Father knows all—the mortals at once forgot his visit and gloried in the aftertaste of the chocolate, as well as the change in them, which felt like the putting on of a new soul, or more precisely, the washing clean of the old. In abeyance, for the nonce, were their other failings. Instead they gloried in this new-struck gem at the heart of their being and rose to greet the day.

* * *

Santa witnessed the great transformation sitting before the fireplace with his family in the comfort of their cottage. Wendy projected soul after soul without a tinct of homophobia on that now spotless place in their hearts. As he watched, the backward laws of Iran, Cuba, and Saudi Arabia were stricken from the books and the crust of homophobic prejudice everywhere on earth was softened and dissolved by right reason.

Santa delighted in how complex, compassionate, and grown-up his stepdaughter was. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Perhaps it was clear now because he had fully accepted his failings. He could relax and open to Wendy entirely, knowing that she too no longer expected him to be forever a saint.

Santa could hardly believe how good he felt. Wonder filled him to observe this or that mortal. How different were his past glimpses of them, their damaged hearts as he deracinated the egg-seeds, and now the redeemed, blessed, chocolate-coated goodness that greeted him at every turn. Laughing to the point of tears, he was seized with the desire to grab his toes like a giggling infant.

Then he thought, Why not?

Sitting on the carpet, he kicked off his slippers, reached over his fat belly, and grabbed his big toes in their bright red wool socks, flexing them so that they slipped inside his fists. He giggled uncontrollably and took delight in that lack of control. Wendy clapped her hands and laughed, as did Anya and Rachel, to see her stepfather so happy.

After they had exchanged hugs and toasted one another with hot cider, Santa begged for the solitude of his workshop office. The elves busy at their benches cheered him anew when he strode through the door. He obliged with a short speech on the order of all’s-right-with-the-world-and-I’m-in-tiptop-shape-too. Then he vanished into his office and closed the door, lighting his great lantern and savoring the silence.

He had been reborn, quite literally.

It was good to acknowledge and embrace the Pan in him.

He had regrets, yes, but no guilt for his behavior eight years before and earlier. He would confess to his little girl and beg her forgiveness. That was the right thing to do.

He strode to the Coke dispenser, lifted the lid, and guided the neck of a clattering bottle along its metal tracks and out. The opener affixed to the side crimped the cap and snapped it off. Santa observed the familiar mist drift at the bottle’s mouth, like smoke lingering at the wanton O of a smoker’s lips.

Then he paused. Staring through the dark glass at the teeming bubbles that urged the bottle’s uplift, he peered past the fleeting pleasure promised by the cola’s tang.

And what he saw appalled him.

There were no proteins, vitamins, or minerals in this drink. Instead he saw phosphorus, which could deplete mortal bones of calcium; acids that etched tooth enamel, encouraged cavities, and might well lead to inflammation of the stomach and the duodenal lining. Then there were the caffeine and sugars, which provoked a tachycardial upbeat in the heart rate. And a dark brown dye (E-150, wasn’t it?) that went hand-in-hand with vitamin B-6 deficiency, hyperactivity, and depressed levels of blood glucose. The whole poison-laden concoction could cause insomnia, headaches, gastric ulcers, anxiety, and obesity. Far worse, week after week, its steady assault on bone calcium led to fractures in teenaged girls and osteoporosis in older women.

None of these ill effects redounded to him, of course. But that made his habit worse. Ever since Haddon Sundblom had spent decades depicting him in glossy magazine ads, a Coke bottle cradled in his hand, his image had nudged generations of boys and girls toward the frequent consumption of soft drinks.

Well, thought Santa, if millions of mortals can find it in their hearts to abandon the habit of homophobia once and for all, then jolly old Saint Nick, gone to hell, re-integrated, and reborn, can swear off the self-destructive swill he now holds in his hand.

And so he did.

He poured the contents of the bottle down the sink drain at his workbench. Then, calling in his favorite elf, he gestured toward the dispenser. “Do me something pressing, Fritz.”

“Anything you like.”

“Pour every bottle down the drain. Recycle the empties; here, take this one too. Then, if you would be so kind, you and some of your more muscular co-workers are to unplug this dispenser, cart it to some far-off place in the woods, and bury it six feet deep.”

Fritz goggled. “Six feet?”

“Deep enough so it’s out of sight forever.”

“Yes, sir.”

Within minutes, an obliging host of elves had emptied the thing (all that clattering as bottle after bottle traveled along the tracks and was lifted free), yanked the plug from the wall, taped the cord to the side, and struggled the dispenser onto a flatbed dolly equipped with skis that could be lowered when they were outside. Knecht Rupert stayed behind to sweep and mop the floor upon which it had sat for more than sixty years.

Santa pictured Fritz and the others sledding the dispenser into the woods. No doubt he would see the tracks and know in which direction they had headed. But he felt no temptation to go after it and retrieve it, and he knew that that temptation would never plague him again. There were the children to consider, their health, both as youngsters and as grown-ups. Until quite recently, he had ignored grown-ups, giving little thought to boys and girls on the cusp of adulthood.

Now he took a longer view.

Milk and cookies. They weren’t the greatest food either. Maybe a nibble at each house. Moderation was key. He would slim down, pay attention to diet, exercise more. The subliminal message would get through quickly enough to the world of mortals. And even if it helped only a little, forever swearing off Coca-Cola would remove a harmful association and upgrade his status as a role model. No ill will did Santa harbor toward those in the soft drink industry, nor toward anyone at all. He was simply withdrawing his image from the promotion of a product detrimental to human health.

The empty spot in his office? More space. Less clutter. A place for a cushion, somewhere he could sit and meditate on his good fortune, his integrated spirit, and how best to increase the world’s store of generosity.

Why wait?

Summoning master weaver Ludwig, he described what he wanted, a firm wide cushion covered in plush burgundy fabric, simple yet of the finest quality, dignified but not showy. From this cushion would arise plans of the utmost benevolence. Foregoing all expectation, he would invite those plans and they would come. Ludwig nodded at Santa’s instructions, clouds of confusion obscuring his features as usual. But Santa knew he would return with just the right item, as he always did, as everyone of them always did.

So it was within the hour. And Santa shut the door and sat and stilled his mind. Two images came up.

The first was of Wendy at the Chapel, as he bared his past and begged her forgiveness. That he would see to this very day.

The second was of the Easter Bunny standing at bedsides the night before, an aura of calm emanating from him and, from Santa, a complete lack of envy and loathing. One could despise the Easter Bunny’s past misdeeds yet not judge the transformed creature himself.

And life for the nonce was utter bliss.

Chapter 42. Making Spirits Bright

THE SON WAITED PATIENTLY BESIDE the throne (for what time had he to lose in eternity?) until the Father emerged from the depths of his brooding, turned his magnificent head, and said, “I created them with the best of intentions. Perfect I claimed this, my creation, to be. For perverse and foolish choices are as much a part of perfection as correct and wise ones.”

“You did. It is. They are.”

“On the other hand,” said the Father dolefully, “it may be time to reengage. Yes, yes, I know. I work my will, whose ways cannot be fathomed, through human agency. But hands-off simply isn’t working. Do you agree? Of course you agree. You’re an agreeable sort.”

If the Son had been capable of feeling insulted, he would have felt so now. No matter. Suppressed bemusement sufficed.

“There are blemishes,” admitted God. “They bear removing. Corrections are in order. Oh, perhaps not as dramatic as what occurred last night. By dribs and drabs. A sweeping gesture now and then, perhaps. Michael, incline thine ear.” At the hummed ‘M’ of his name the angel appeared, supple to the whims of the Almighty.

“It is mine to listen and obey.”

“Enough of that rot. I have a job for you.” And the Father set Michael the task of annunciating before Santa and Wendy one more time, setting forth new responsibilities. The details did not surprise the Son, though Michael brightened and flitted off toward earth.

“I suppose,” said the Father, “I’d better clear this with the
true
fount of creation.”

The Son watched him step down from his throne and draw near the Divine Mother. As he approached, the muscled thighs of Zeus emerged, a leather chiton, wild dark hair and a beard of swirls and ringlets, his great fists gripping thunderbolts. That regression evoked a counter-response from the Divine Mother, whose pristine virginity fell away, as did her blue robes. Out emerged the six mothers of Dionysus—the moon goddess Semele, Demeter, Io, Dione, Persephone, Lethe—and seventh, Eurynome, queen of all creation.

Shrugging out of his chiton, Zeus plunged his godhood deep into the six, but deepest of all into Eurynome. And from the seven impregnated bellies emerged one slinking creature of shame, the newborn embodiment of the Father’s guilt for a flawed creation.

To his throne he returned, his offspring slumping behind. The Son remained at God’s right hand, even as the younger son crawled abashedly onto his father’s lap. He spoke a few shy words in his ear, to which the divine head nodded.

“He needn’t whisper,” said the Son.

The hairless thing again whispered.

“In due time,” said the Father, his voice not as commanding as it had been. He patted the pinched shoulders of his newborn child. “That’s a lad.”

Well, thought the Son. Thy will be done.

* * *

In spying at the North Pole that Easter Day, Gronk resisted the urge to blow his cover and pummel his turncoat brother.

Not his task, he had been told. Spend the day and report back.

So Gronk bumbled about, checking in on Gregor the grump, gawking at the obscene perfection of the elves’ handiwork, green too with envy at the solicitude of Santa’s family toward one another, the older wife, the younger wife, the girl who was grown-up inside and who had fought bravely on the island. He hovered nearby when Santa swore off Coke forever and had the dispenser removed. He watched Snowball and Nightwind pounce on balls of red yarn in Wendy’s bedroom.

And he kept within earshot of Santa and Wendy on their afternoon walk. Deep in the woods, just as they were preparing to turn back, the sunlight suddenly muted itself, the air bloomed with the scent of rose petals, and Wendy gasped, “Look.” Before them, above the snow, appeared the archangel Michael in all his glory.