“Cookies For Santa”

The kids are decorating cookies when five-year-old Eric pipes up:

“My friend Jimmy says Santa isn’t real.”

“Jimmy doesn’t believe in Santa. If you don’t believe in him, then he isn’t real.”

“Well, I believe in him … but I have some questions.”

A bemused silence falls before Becky prompts him. “Like what?”

“Like how come we put out milk when he’d rather have a beer?”

“A beer? Who told you that?”

“Grandpa.”

Becky rolls her eyes, but Grandpa passed away last year and it would be disrespectful to say what she’s thinking.

“And what if he’d rather have a gingersnap or shortbread instead of a sugar cookie?”

“These aren’t sugar cookies,” Becky says. “They’re Christmas cookies, and Santa likes them best of all.”

“With a beer?”

“No, silly, with milk.”

“My teacher says the kids in England leave out mulled wine and mince pie.”

“That’s for Father Christmas, not for Santa Claus.”

“Aren’t they the same?” Eric asks, brow furrowed.

“Really,” Becky scolds him. “How could one person visit every house in every country in one night?”

“I was gonna ask that next.”

His sister speaks with the authority vested in an elder sibling. “Father Christmas goes to England, Père Noel goes to France, and Santa comes here. And if you don’t have Christmas at all, like in China, then you don’t get anything from anyone.”

“That sucks,” Eric declares.

“It makes Santa’s job easier, though,” Becky points out.

“I guess. So, what about the reindeer?”

She wipes a smear of neon green icing from her brother’s cheek. “What about them?”

“Why do they only get one carrot? We should leave out eight.”

“Yeah, but they’re tiny reindeer. Remember, in The Night Before Christmas? One carrot goes a long way.”

“I don’t remember carrots in The Night before Christmas,” Eric says, dubiously. “Or cookies, either,” he adds, eyeing the plate where iced snowflakes, stockings and snowmen are cementing themselves into a sticky pyramid. “How come the guy in that story doesn’t say about Rudolph?” he asks, suddenly.

“Rudolph isn’t in that story. He’s the ninth reindeer.”

Eric continues to frown at her, so Becky recites the reindeer names from the song. “ ‘Dasher’ and ‘Dancer’ and ‘Prancer’ and ‘Vixen’ …”

Eric snorts when she finishes. “If he’s the most famous reindeer of all, he should be in The Night Before Christmas.”

“Then so should Olive,” Becky says, daintily applying silver buttons to a snowman’s vest.

“Who’s Olive?” her brother demands.

“She’s in the song—‘Olive, the other reindeer’.” Becky laughs heartily at the joke, but Eric is annoyed.

“That’s stupid,” he says, crossly.

“You’re getting tired,” she decides. “Finish decorating your tree and we’ll get you ready for bed.”

He immediately starts whining—further evidence of waxing fatigue—but Becky is adamant. Babysitting five nights a week has made her an expert at reading the signs and a genius at manipulating him into obedience. Though Christmas Eve is only two nights away, she warns him, Santa watches up to the last minute.

Fearing for his status on the naughty-or-nice list, Eric is tucked into bed with no further argument.

Becky retreats to the kitchen and cleans up the decorating wreckage. She is standing at a sink full of purple water when her mother comes home from work. “Kettle’s hot,” she says as the door closes on the blustery winter night.

“Thank you, sweetie.” Mama hangs up her coat and comes to kiss the top of her daughter’s head. Becky is at the age of questioning Santa’s existence. She won’t be sure until Christmas morning, but right now, she remains doubtful. She casts a surreptitious glance at the bag her mother has dropped in the boot tray. It looks no weightier than usual.

“Did your brother behave?”

“Yeah. He was full of questions, though.”

Mama picks up a cookie—Becky’s fastidiously dressed snowman—and bites off his head. “Like what?”

“Like why we leave milk for Santa when he really wants a beer.”

Crumbs erupt as Mama laughs out loud. “Grandpa?” she asks when she can speak again.

“Yeah,” Becky says. She abandons the sink to pour hot water over this morning’s teabag. Her mother takes a seat at the table to finish her cookie. She looks tired, Becky thinks, and a little sad. They all miss Grandpa, but maybe Mama misses him the most. Though Becky doesn’t understand grown up words like “pension” and “finances”, she has noticed Mama’s more frequent use of the words “make do”. She dribbles milk into her mother’s tea. There isn’t enough in the carton to leave a glass for Santa unless Mama drinks her tea without it for the next two days.

Becky won’t have that.

She sets the cup in front of her mother. It’s a bold question, but one she is compelled ask. “Will Santa still come if we don’t leave milk and cookies for him?”

Mama is startled into meeting Becky’s gaze. “Of course he’ll come, muffin. You and your brother decorated these wonderful cookies for him, but even if you didn’t, even if we left nothing for him, he wouldn’t dare pass by my kids.”

Becky is more relieved than she imagined, so perhaps she isn’t quite ready to release the man in red.

Her mother watches her shoulders relax, and when she smiles, she is more beautiful than all the other mothers in Becky’s class. “I’ll tell you a secret, though,” she murmurs.

Becky leans close to hear.

“This Christmas Eve,” Mama whispers, “I think Santa will appreciate a coffee with his cookie.”