The big old house was cold, but the brothers were warm on that Christmas Eve when the little boy saw Santa Claus.
He was always a curious child, and it sometimes amazed him so many of the very gifts he had seen in the brightly decorated store windows or the Sears catalog turned up wrapped under the tree Christmas morning. As he began earning a little spending money, he began to realize that some of those things took much more than he could make selling newspapers or mowing lawns, and he wondered how Santa could afford them. It was hard sometimes to remind himself not to be too greedy when he wrote the obligatory letter to Santa Claus; there were some things he wanted that there was absolutely no way they could be made in a workshop at the North Pole, so he just knew they had to be purchased. His mama and papa always worried about money, and they only had to provide for their family; the little boy didn’t want to think about how much it must cost Santa to provide for every little kid in the world.
The little boy was skeptical about whether or not there was a Santa Claus; some of his friends denied Santa’s existence at all, while others were steadfast in their belief. They all knew the nice man in the “Santa house” downtown was actually one of their Sunday school teachers, but most of them didn’t want to ruin it for their younger siblings, but they discussed the topic amongst themselves. The whole chimney thing bugged him, since the old house had no open fireplaces. His parents assure him that Santa could always park on the porch roof, or even in the alley.
There were always so many secrets hidden around the old house during the Christmas season, and a nosy, sneaky little boy could find things without folks knowing he had been there, or so he thought. Sometimes he found treasures that turned up under the Christmas tree, but since he still had gifts that were true surprises, he didn’t mention his doubts to his parents.
He discussed the topic sometimes with his big brother, however, but his big brother assured him that there was indeed a Santa Claus, it wasn’t just Mama and Papa, and he didn’t want to talk too much about the subject, since Santa wouldn’t come if he thought the boy didn’t believe.
His brother had a bedroom that had once had a staircase outside on the second floor; their dad said it was once a sleeping porch that was enclosed when the house was apartments during World War II. While the stairs were gone, the door was still there, and the boy was strictly forbidden to go out on the roof by himself. His brother went out the door to smoke cigarettes, or to help the fuel oil man fill the big tank. When their sister got married and their oldest brother came to visit with his wife, they took a guitar and a cornet out on the roof and played and sang. The neighbors talked about it for weeks, and their mother was scandalized.
That was in the summertime, though; there was no sitting on the highest point of the roof on this winter’s night, when the frost was already shining on the shingles. It was a perfectly clear night, which made the stars brighter and the moon closer, and made everything seem colder than it was. The brothers were warm; before their mama chased them out of the living room, they were fortified with her homemade hot cocoa and cookies. She sent them away after she put the special angel on the tree, the angel she made from a doll pulled out of a trashcan before the boy was born.
The boy was bundled in heavy pajamas and a robe sewn by his mama. The only part about him that was really a little cold were his ears. His big brother had an electric heater that made his room toasty warm. The boy was not normally allowed in there, since his brother was almost grown and a little kid got in the way, but on this night he was excited at getting to sleep in the same room as his brother while they waited to see if they could spot Santa Claus.
His brother had a big multiband radio that could pick up stations from all over; sometimes he let the boy run down the dial, playing music of all kinds. Because they were up high and the radio had a long antenna, some nights they picked up stations from New York, Atlanta, and once, even Florida. One time the boy was playing with the radio and was fascinated to hear someone speaking Spanish. He had no idea where the Spanish station came from. He couldn’t understand a word that was said, but the boy remembered the announcer’s enthusiasm and how the music was kind of like the jazz their daddy enjoyed.
But on this night, Christmas Eve, the radio was tuned to the “state” radio station out of Raleigh, where the announcer was playing Christmas songs – and updating everyone on Santa’s progress from the North Pole.
The man on the radio was good; he said he had contacts with the airports and the military bases, and frequently offered updates where Santa had last been spotted. The boy’s brother reassured the boy that Santa had arrangements with the military, and he wouldn’t be mistaken for a Russian bomber and shot down on Christmas Eve.
Still the boy worried, while at the same time he wondered if Santa was actually real. His mama had explained that Santa was all about giving, and not being selfish, but the boy still confused the ideas with a real person.
Still and all, he was excited. It was Christmas Eve, and he was getting to spend the entire time with his brother, in his brother’s room.
They sat in the doorway to the roof, despite it being so cold, and looked at the stars. A few houses were decorated, and they could see the lights from the roof of their big old house, even those that were several blocks away. The wind was freshening a little.
The radio announcer broke in and said that Santa had checked in near Fort Bragg and Pope Air Force Base, really not that far away.
The boy was surprised when his brother suggested they step out onto the frozen rooftop. He felt the cold through his heavy socks and bedroom slippers, but it wasn’t that bad. His brother steadied him, then checked his watch again, then pointed to the southwest.
“Look,” he said. “Are those lights?”
Sure enough, there were twinkling lights, dipping and crisscrossing the blue-black sky, sometimes blocking the stars here and there. The lights weren’t moving like an airplane, and besides, no one would be flying an airplane on Christmas Eve (not even the Russians).
The boy watched the lights, amazed. It had to be Santa Claus. He imagined he could make out the shape of the sleigh and reindeer – but he didn’t think he was imagining them. In his mind and heart he saw them clearly silhouetted against the sky.
“We better get to bed,” his brother said. “You don’t want Santa to catch you looking for him.”
They bundled down beneath old quilts, warm and toasty. Sometime in the night, the boy thought he heard something on the roof, and looked out the window over the side porch. Through his half-open eyes, he could barely see red and green lights, obscured by the branches of his favorite oak tree. They looked like they were on the roof of the porch where he played on rainy days, beside his favorite tree.
The next morning, there were new toys, books, and clothes; school was out, of course, but when he saw some of his friends on the street and at church, several of them had seen the lights, too.
For another year or so, they believed.
It was years later that the boy found out about a local pilot, one of his father’s friends, who added lights to his airplane and put on the Christmas Eve show. Later, after his brother moved away from home, the boy discovered he could see the traffic lights several blocks away through the branches of the oak tree.
None of those things really mattered, though.
Even though he knew the true meaning of the holiday, he would never forget when for just one more time, two brothers on a rooftop still believed in Santa Claus.
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