Free Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux Page B

dresser, a squeaky-hinged closet, a grimy window stuck an inch open, winter or summer, then back to sleep.
    Somewhere in there, something changed.
    There was a scent of...of baby oil, or ocean air. Or was it Mom before she’d gone blowsy and doused herself with cheap perfume? Whatever it was made Matt calm and sad and glad all at the same time. When he opened his eyes, someone had lit a candle. Several, actually, poking up everywhere he looked. Matt sat up, gawked at his surroundings, and released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
    His bedroom, bathed in candle flame and some peculiar light, soft and coppery, was still the same room, yet it wasn’t at all. The stuck window had been flung wide, but the air was toasty warm, not the late November chill outside. The battleship gray walls had been painted a light rose color, girly stuff but Matt didn’t mind. His strewn clothing had been replaced by a plush, rich-bitch carpet, white like poodles, that looked as if, were he to leap off the bed, he’d sink in up to his waist. The mattress had misplaced its lumps and poking springs, the blankets were fresh, unpilled, and abundant with stuffing. I must be dreaming, he thought. Yet no dream had ever felt so real.
    Then Santa Claus, tall and chubby, a wide grin blooming out of his beard, materialized at the foot of the bed. Beside him stood a little girl in a green dress, her face wise and kind, her eyes twinkling. And Matt knew he was dreaming.
    “Huh,” he said, a gut punch of awe and wonder.
    “Hello, Matt,” said Santa.
    Matt sobbed at the beauty of his name.
    “That’s right. Adjust. Take your time. You’re not dreaming, by the way. This is my stepdaughter Wendy.”
    “I didn’t know you had one,” he managed, sounding as if he’d had the stuffing punched out of him.
    “Hi, Matt,” said the girl. Her voice, high-pitched and loving, made his throat choke up anew.
    “Hi,” he said.
    Santa came around the side of the bed, sat close by, and pulled Wendy onto his lap. “Matt,” he said, “can you guess why we’ve come?”
    In his heart, he knew. But he pushed the answer away. He played dumb so often, he believed he was dumb. That tactic had worked in the past to protect him, to keep away the pain of feeling anything. He shook his head, wanting these fantastically lovely creatures to go away, even as he wished they would stay forever.
    Santa laughed. “Let’s see if you can figure it out. I’ll give you a hint. You’re a naughty boy. And if you don’t straighten up, you’ll only get naughtier. But your future’s for our second visit.”
    They would be coming back. Two visits.
    With the sweep of Santa’s hand, the bed lurched forward without moving an inch. Matt’s view of the room vanished, or more precisely, his surroundings receded and his old man, pacing his jail cell, came into view.
    “It’s him,” said Matt, not concealing his distaste. As he said it, the sounds and smells of the prison arose. Harsh light gleamed on the bars and the stainless-steel toilet and sink. But what astonished Matt was that he could hear his father’s thoughts. He touched the old man’s mind, a rambling blither of resentments and dumb, dull rounds of pain and rage and sorrow, and a steel-plated resistance to regret.
    “It’s him all right,” said Santa. “Pete Beluzzo, grown up and gone bad. His smile at three months was just like yours at the same age. But his parents didn’t want him and they let him know that, by looks first, then by word and deed. Pete wasn’t about to deprive his son, when he had one, of that gift. Take a look at him, Matt. Tell me what you think of him.”
    Matt’s first impulse was to blast the grizzly old bastard with curses. You could heap blame on him all day long and barely cover the bases: smacking his mom around, backhanding Matt across the face and taking him down a whole lot of pegs, the whiskey, the dead-eyed buddies he brought home for beer and football, his open