American Christmas Ayanna Lonon // junior short story
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n In November, I usually work twelve hours plus overtime, so I can save up to buy Christmas gifts for my boys, but this year, I got laid off in late October. Things were really rough in November, but I never let my boys know it. At one point, I even set out to sell my greatgrandmother’s special china set. These slabs of quartz and feldspar have held sentimental value in my family for years, but my boys mean more to me than plates do, so I took them to the pawnshop solemnly, but without reluctance. But the man at the counter of the Everyday Pawn said they weren’t worth more than a pound of empty oyster shells and talked for fifteen more minutes about the time a woman with a baby on her hip tried to sell him a Ziplock bag full of empty oyster shells. I took the plates back home with me, but they now held no value—sentimental nor monetary—just a pile of decorative rocks. I still needed money though, so I took to donating blood plasma twice a week, and working the night shift at Waffle House. I never minded any of it, because my boys deserve their Christmas. In my house, we celebrate Christmas religiously, like true Americans. With my first son, I learned things the
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hard way. I’d always heard that toddlers were easiest to handle on Christmas because they can be restrained. On his third Christmas, I used zip ties to bind his wrists. By 10 o’clock, he’d gnawed through the plastic and eaten the whole homemade, slow-roasted pig I bought from Bi-Lo. He’s fifteen now, and I’m more experienced. On Christmas, I call the kids by age and not name, so I remember they are not themselves. Last night, I tied my younger boy’s wrists with nylon rope and muzzled him with a premium leather ChildLock. This morning I awoke shaking in my bed. When I opened the door, there was my sweet boy Four, facing away from it, throwing his head back against the wood, sending vibrations along the floor. I swept him up in my arms in praise, “Merry Christmas, sweet boy! Aren’t you a resourceful boy?” He gargled something through the muzzle that I did not catch. “It is probably best that you don’t try to speak, my love.” I knew the knocking woke Fifteen as well, because of the heinous energy in the air. American children aged thirteen to seventeen are tenacious on Christmas. I dared not try to tie or muzzle him, because even on the days leading up to Christmas, Fifteen is frightening, but I bolted his door closed while he slept. After what he did last year, I always save enough to hire a Holiday Helper, which is like a temporary nanny for families on holidays. I heard scratching behind Fifteen’s door and carried Four to the kitchen. It was 8:00 a.m. when my Helper arrived and plowed through the house with a duffel bag full of tools and whatnot. He put up the tree, wrapped
the gifts I bought, and briefed me on how to evade and defend against Ernest. I told him that it might help if he thought of the boy as “Fifteen,” and not Ernest. Ernest is a sweet boy’s name. By that time, I’d prepared the seven breakfast hens for the boys. The helper went to let Fifteen out, and I rushed to put his five breakfast hens and three gifts on the coffee table. He bounded out of his room, propelling himself off each foot with great leaps through the house like a feral kangaroo. Inside the first box, he found an iPhone 12, which he thrashed to the ground in disapproval. He lurched forward, and he snagged my left ear with his teeth. The Helper’s reaction time was unimpressive. Fifteen had already retreated with my ear clasped between his jaws by the time the Helper’s whip had tagged him. The corner of his upper lip twitched, “iPhone Twelve? Not Thirteen?” He spat my chewed ear back at me and extended his hand in want. I feared for my life as he opened the second box. It was a professional-grade camera that didn’t go on holiday sale. I got it for $2,999.99 and did it happily because I knew he would like it. He sucked his teeth and smacked his gums in delight. If he liked the third present, I would be in the clear. If not, he would strike me with a fatal blow, in a traditional display of disappointment. He took a break to eat the breakfast hens in big slovenly chomps, leaving a pile of bones in their stead. To my supreme delight, the third gift sent my sweet boy into a fit of serendipitous laughter. In his hand shone the key to a 2021 Cadillac Escalade. He struck the helper down, snatched me up by the shoulder, and toted me under his
right armpit outside. The dragon’s chrome rims and chocolate seats boasted superiority amongst the Honda Accords that the neighborhood was accustomed to. I even put a big red bow on the hood. My sweet boy smiled at me earnestly, and at last, I felt the tension leave my body. “Don’t you love it, Ern—” “Mama,” he grinned, “You should have just waited until my birthday in February and got me the 2022 model.” From behind his back, he produced the sternum bone of one of his breakfast hens, sharpened to a point. With an open palm, he pushed the bone-stake below my collar bone, clapping his hand flat onto my right breast. Not until then, had I ever imagined that this boy could be so much like me. In the same way that I had gone to great lengths to display my love for my boys, using every measure to get it done, he’d used the sternum bone of a breakfast hen. No matter the difference in what emotions we had chosen to demonstrate, we had done it the same. Through the tang of iron on my tongue, I sang to him so proudly. “What a resourceful boy you are. My sweet, merry boy.” Next year, I will be better prepared.
watercolor Audrey St. Onge // sophomore
roller rink iliad
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