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Sylvia
Jesus
is crying for you. You have betrayed him.
Jasmina
The
curtains are putting on a shadowplay, a Steller’s Jay bouncing on a redwood
branch like a springboard diver. I turn over and find a fold of papers on the
nightstand. This is a signal sent to me by Nighttime Jasmina. The first page
begins with handwriting.
For beautiful
Jasmina, in case I have ruined Christmas for her. Love from Saint Paul
An Agnostic Christmas
The
neighborhood that Scootie Jones grew up in was populated also by Santa Claus,
and his reindeer, and the three wise men, and General Electric. Scootie’s
cul-de-sac was one of those where the neighbors made of the December holidays a
dazzling, block-long forest of electrical lights. Even the Applebaums, who
erected a huge menorah covered in aluminum foil.
Of
all the neighbors, none were more enthusiastic nor better equipped than John
Sorenson. The Sorensons’ was the biggest house on the block, a sprawling
two-story affair with a balcony and a barn-style garage. He wrapped the balcony
railing with a zig-zag weave of colored lights. He strung the rooflines with
large outdoor bulbs, dangling from the eaves like ripe fruits. A Styrofoam
snowman greeted visitors at the head of the walk, and in the large front window
stood a fifteen-foot Douglas fir, banked in white lights, silver balls and silk
angels. The lawn hosted a nativity scene of illuminated figures, possessed of
that inner glow one might expect from a holy family. Their paperboy, Markie
Rodriguez, took great pleasure in placing the Chronicle in the crib so that it would appear the infant messiah
was perusing the headlines.
The
crowning achievement of John Sorenson’s holiday assemblage was a fully rigged
sleigh – Santa, reindeer, bag of gifts, three elves – lofted on a wire from the
TV antenna to the center beam of the garage. The effect was such that Santa
appeared to be circling the house in preparation for a landing. Every Christmas
Day at noon, the neighborhood kids gathered in the driveway as Mr. Sorenson
pulled a special cable and released a shower of candies and small toys on their
heads.
The
other twenty-two households followed suit, and the weeks preceding Christmas
attracted a steady stream of visitors. Every third year, the Chronicle sent a photographer and
featured the court in its holiday supplement.
The
only chink in the neighborhood’s collective armor was Scootie’s father, Harman
Jones. Declaring himself a “devout agnostic,” Harman declined to take part in
any activity which would seem to favor one religion over another. Thus, viewed
from above, Arbor Court resembled a long electrical smile with one tooth
missing. This caused no end of frustration to John Sorenson. A tense discussion
of the issue worked its way into the Yuletide rituals right along with caroling
and mistletoe. Harman Jones would be taking out the trash on the day after
Thanksgiving, and John Sorenson would just happen to be strolling by with his
poodle, Spikey.
“Hello,
Mr. Jones! How are you this morning? Did you have a fine Thanksgiving?”
“Very
fine, Mr. Sorenson. My wife makes a pumpkin pie that you would not believe. I
must have eaten five slices all by myself.”
“Wonderful,
wonderful.” John Sorenson ruffled Spikey’s head, working up courage for the
battle to come. “So tell me, Mr. Jones, have you given any thought to maybe
doing some decorating for the holidays?”
“Why
yes, Mr. Sorenson. We are getting a
tree. Fine pagan tradition, putting up an evergreen in the darkest time of the
year. And I do enjoy the smell of
it.”
“Well,
Mr. Jones, I was thinking in terms of outdoor decorating.”
“Oh,
that!” Harman Jones scratched his head in false contemplation. “Why, I can’t
see why I would do that, Mr. Sorenson, seeing as how I don’t have any particularly
religious feelings on the matter of Christmas.”
“Well,
Harman, I certainly wouldn’t expect you to change your feelings on the subject.
Not at all! I was just hoping you might perhaps put up a few lights. Nothing
complicated, just something to fit in with the general spirit of things.”
“The
general holy spirit of things.”
Thus,
the first shot was fired, and John Sorenson was free to speak bluntly. “Now
Harman, you know how beautiful the block looks all lit up every year. You know
the kids come from all over to see this thing. Wouldn’t you like to take part
in something that brings pleasure to the children?”
“Not
if it doesn’t agree with my religious beliefs.”
“But
you haven’t got any religious
beliefs!” said John Sorenson. “You told me so yourself.”
“What
I have told you is that I have chosen not to choose, and to put up a string of
lights in celebration of the Baby Christ would be an act favoring one line of
thought over all others. I won’t do it.”
“How
about a reindeer, or a snowman, or some candy canes? They’re not very
religious. I’ve got extras. I’ll loan you anything you need.”
“But
don’t you see, John? These are all things which have become tied up in one way
or another with a Christian holiday. Now, granted, that holiday was stolen from
the Roman pagan holiday of Saturnalia, but still, in this country, in this
context, it is a religious event. I know I’ve tried to explain this to you
before, John, but I derive a certain power in leading a life in which I know
that I do not need to have answers, and that is why I insist on things like
this. It leaves one’s intellectual and spiritual channels so much more open
than investing oneself in a specific, organized body of beliefs.”
By
this time, John Sorenson was teetering from one foot to the other, like a
captain on a foundering ship. He gathered himself for one last foray. “You’re a
stubborn man, Harman, and half the time I have no idea what the hell you’re
talking about. But just think about it. Please? It would mean so much to the
neighborhood.”
For
twelve years of Scootie Jones’ young life, the dialogue around the trash can
remained pretty much the same, a tiresome conference between a religious man, a
secular man, and a poodle who really couldn’t care less, so long as he was fed.
But then, one year, something changed. John Sorenson’s wife, Felicia, took up
the banner.
Thanksgiving
was larger than ever, with more relatives than Scootie knew he had crammed into
the Jones’ modest ranch-style home. The next day, his father had to cart six bags
of garbage out to the trash cans. Felicia Sorenson came by on bag number three,
poodle in tow.
“Good
morning, Harman.”
“Oh!
Good morning, Felicia. Hi, Spikey.” He set down his bag and fluffed the old
poodle’s head. “Where’s your husband? Did he finally give up on me?”
“He
did. But I didn’t. Listen, Harman Jones, this is a perfectly wonderful thing
the people in this neighborhood do, and folks really seem to enjoy it. I know
my husband’s a bit of a fanatic, but you know, in a life of bills and labor strikes
and all the crappy little things that get you down on a regular basis, the
holiday fair is one thing that really gets my hubby excited about life. And the
only thing that keeps it from being perfect is you, Harman. I know about your
religious sentiments and everything, but couldn’t you just once see your way to
putting up a string of lights or something? Look at the Applebaums – they’re
Jewish, and they don’t seem to mind taking part.”
“Ah,
but the Applebaums are religion-impaired, just as you are, Felicia. Mine is the
only free-minded household on the block, and God bless me but I see no reason
why I should add to my electrical bill just to provide a false sense of
neighborhood unity. Much as I would like to please you, I’m afraid I can’t go
against my beliefs.”
That
would have seemed a conclusive response, but Felicia Sorenson was no quitter,
and she was well-acquainted with the ways of persuasion. So, she tried another
tack.
“How
about this, Harman? I make a chocolate cake that my husband refers to as
Heaven’s Own. And you know how my husband feels about heaven. So here is my
deal: for every strand of lights, for every illuminated figure, for every
festive object you place on the front of this house, I will produce one of
Heaven’s Own and deliver it to your doorstep. If you do a really fine job, I
may just lend a few more personal tokens of affection as well.”
If
there were any doubt as to the exact meaning of this last comment, it was
erased by the sight of Felicia’s tongue stroking along the edge of her finely
shaped lips. Harman gave the matter more thought than usual.
“This
thing really means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Mrs. Sorenson?”
“When
the lights are up, Mr. Jones, my husband is happy. When my husband is happy,
I’m happy.”
“Well
then,” said Harman. “I suppose I will be putting up something for the holidays
this year.”
Felicia
Sorenson found herself fixed squarely between shock and jubilation. She burst
upon Harman and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Oh,
Harman! I knew you would do it. Thank you. Thank you so much!”
Harman,
cognizant of neighborhood gossips, held Felicia at arm’s length and wiped the
lipstick from his cheek.
“It’ll
be my pleasure,” he said. “Happy holidays, Mrs. Sorenson.”
“Happy
holidays, Harman! Come on, Spikey, let’s go tell Daddy!” Felicia and Spikey
trotted off down the street. Harman laughed and turned to fetch bag number
four.
Jilly
Skamadjian-Jones and her three children had no idea what force had gotten hold
of Harman. He locked himself up in his workshop, ignored all televised sporting
events, and refused to let anybody see what it was he was working on. Each
night, he would arrive home an hour late and slip some large object into the
garage before anybody could catch a glimpse. On the morning of December 5,
after the rest of the neighborhood had completed its transformation to Messiahs
‘R’ Us, Harman Jones called in sick to work when he did not seem to be sick at
all. The kids went off to school, Jilly went off to do some shopping, and
Harman went back to his mystery cave.
Just
imagine you are John Sorenson, respected banker, treasurer of the Santa Ana
Presbyterian Church, grand poobah of the Arbor Court holiday bonanza. Imagine
that the one holdout who has plagued your favorite time of year with his dark
front porch has finally agreed to hoist up his lights for the good of the
neighborhood. Every night you drive home in your Olds Cutlass, and you round
the corner at Valentine Street and you drive past your home in order to check
the Jones house. And then, one clear, cold evening, you round that corner and
you realize right away that something is different, because the front lawn that
has always been dark and plain is suddenly brilliant with color and light.
And
imagine that you drive slowly to the front of the Jones house, home of Harman
and Jilly and Jennifer and Steven and Leonard who they call Scootie, and you
have begged this man every day-after-Thanksgiving for the past decade-plus, and
finally there is something there and your heart is beating faster than a
one-horse open sleigh and you will give your wife the biggest kiss when you get
home… And then you take a look.
Perched
in the center of Harman Jones’ lawn is a barber pole, lit up from the inside,
festooned with tinsel, and on top, a single shining star. Positioned around the
pole are four luau-style tiki torches with electrical orange flames. Over the
garage door hangs a classic holiday snowscape interrupted by the large neon
letters of a popular brand of beer. Attached to the front door, at the spot
usually reserved for a wreath, is an illuminated clock from a fifties-style
diner, its hands fixed at twelve-twenty-five. Near the sidewalk, next to the
mailbox, stands a small billboard advertising the kind of after-shave commonly
endorsed by quarterbacks and home-run hitters. The front walk plays host to a
strip of bright green astroturf equipped with a putter, a dozen red and green
golf balls and an automatic putt return.
Finally,
spread along the front window there stand eight plastic pink flamingos, silver
bells around their necks, led by a stuffed Saint Bernard with a glowing red
nose. The team is reined up to the kind of vibrating electric rocket ship you
might find at the front of a supermarket. Astride the rocket ship is a
life-sized cardboard cutout of Gene Autrey in full cowboy gear. Gene has one
hand flung back, an old guitar strung around his neck, and a red cowboy hat
with a white puff on top. Over his shoulder he carries a large bag full of
laundry.
Harman
Jones never did receive Heaven’s Own or any other favors from Felicia Sorenson.
Somewhat disappointed that he had held to the letter of their contract yet
received nothing for his efforts, he took great satisfaction, nonetheless, in
having made his point. He received no further post-Thanksgiving visits from the
Sorensons – husband, wife or pooch – but continued to participate in the annual
holiday fair, consistently drawing the largest crowds in the neighborhood to
see his collection of post-modernist illuminated agnostic artworks.
Illustration by Frank Alan Bella
