off the truck and on their way to the new flat, I walked around to the front of the house where I surveyed the neighboring houses. I saw no children out. This was unusual in Brighton, where virtually all houses had two or three flats, each of which housed an Irish-American family with at least five children. But maybe it was too chilly for them to be out this morning. I pulled my navy blue car coat tighter.
Suddenly, a shadow covered me. I looked up and saw a girl with a big grin on her face. She had short, thick, blond hair.
“Hi,” said the girl. “My name is Debbie. I live on Upcrest Road.” She pointed past a neighboring house to a street parallel to my new long driveway.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Anne.” I hoped I sounded okay. At age six, I didn’t have the social graces for making new friends.
“Do you go to St. Columbkille?”
“Yeah.”
“What grade are you in?”
“Second.”
“I’m in fourth grade. Who’s your teacher?”
“Sister Sophia.”
“Oh, yeah, I had her in second grade. She’s sooo nice!”
“Yeah,” I said, hoping this girl wouldn’t think I was a baby with all these one-word answers. But even finding single words was a stretch for me.
“Do you want to play with me some time?” she asked.
“Sure!”
“Okay, I’ll ask my mom if you can come over this afternoon. And you should ask your mom, too.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing the answer would be “no.” My mother had already told me she needed my help unpacking. But I didn’t want this girl to know that my mother didn’t let me do things with friends. She’d find out soon enough.
“Okay, see you later!” Debbie called as she scampered off. She ran between two houses instead of going down our driveway. I watched as she went into a dark brown house.
Sure enough, my mother didn’t let me out to play that day with Debbie, nor the next. There was too much work to do with unpacking and settling in. But Debbie was not deterred, and she and I played together most days after school. On nice days, we’d walk the neighborhood or sit on my lawn. If Mr. Johnson was outside, the two of us would hang around him, hoping for stories of his early life in the Midwest. On cold or stormy days, we’d play at either of our houses with our Barbie dolls.
“Where are all the oranges I bought?” my mother asked one Saturday.
“I ate some,” I said.
“There were three there Thursday night. Did you eat three oranges yesterday?”
“I gave some to Debbie.”
“Jesus H. Christ, I don’t have enough money to feed the neighbor kids. Why did you give her food?”
“We were playing here. She said she was hungry.”
“If you’re going to have her over here, don’t give her any more food. I can’t afford it.”
I didn’t know how I’d tell Debbie that she couldn’t eat at my house. Instead, I learned how to choose foods that my mother would not likely notice were missing. Like saltine crackers with peanut butter or cereal with milk. Anything that she’d be less likely to count. So I could still be a little hostess with my friend but avoid my mother’s ire. Debbie did think it a little odd when I said we couldn’t have any fruit because it was all for my mother. She said her mother was always trying to get her and her brother to eat more fruit.
In late December, we stood at the kitchen table, admiring the Christmas cupcakes that Margie and I had just sprinkled with red and green sugar crystals. The kitchen was warm from the oven, which was emitting delightful smells of Toll House cookies. We were making enough Christmas goodies to feed a dozen people, but only the three of us would eat them.
Through the door I could see our tree in the living room, blinking lights sparkling off the tinsel, faded antique glass ornaments mixed with newer ones from the five-and-dime store. Some wrapped presents lay underneath, but the ones for me were still hidden away because I couldn’t resist stealthily opening them before the big day.
“Santa’s not real,” I announced.
The two women’s head swiveled sharply to look at me. My mother had a broad grin on her face. Margie’s face was drained of color, and her hand shook as she lifted her cigarette to her lips.
“Where did you hear that?” my mother asked.
“Debbie told me.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I know he’s make-believe.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course there’s a Santa,” Margie reassured me.
“All the kids say he’s not real.”
“How can you do this to me?” Margie asked. There were tears in her eyes.
“Do what to you?”
“How can you take Christmas away from me?”
“Christ, Margie, no one is taking Christmas away from you,” my mother replied.
“But she’s taking all the fun out of it now.”
“It will still be fun, Margie,” I said. I wanted to touch her arm, to let her know everything would be okay.
“I might as well return all the presents I bought for her,” Margie said to my mother.
“No, don’t do that!” I sobbed.
Margie grabbed her mug of black coffee and ashtray, cigarette dangling from her lips, and walked off to her room behind the kitchen. We could hear her crying through the walls.
My mother sighed. She looked at me.
“Jesus, she’s like a little kid sometimes.”
“Will she really take back all my presents?”
“I don’t know. I hope she doesn’t take mine back.”
I wanted to erase everything I’d said. I couldn’t understand why Margie was so upset, but clearly it was because I said Santa wasn’t real. I didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to make her cry. And I certainly didn’t want her to take back all my presents. I knew from sneaking into her closet that she bought the presents that were labelled from Santa. If she returned all my presents, I’d have only the one present from my mother. That was how it always was. My mother’s gift to me was usually something like a bathrobe or sweater. It would be wrapped in Christmas paper with a tag that read, “To Anne.
