Serenaded by the somber hum of warehouse lights, a boy, pallid and hard-knocked, surveys the seasonal shelf of the local thrift shop. It is mid-afternoon; no one really knows the day because it’s fallen in that hollow period between Christmas and New Year’s, along with a foot of snow. He knows it’s a foot because his frozen laces and damp jeans tell him so. Elsewhere in the store, his father searches for a shovel. The broom they’ve been using doesn’t work when it’s more than a light dusting.

The boy rifles through a row of bent plastic reindeer, chipped angels, and lost wise men. A Styrofoam holly berry rolls off the shelf, landing in the murky puddle at his feet. He finds a plate and a mug. Cookies for Santa the plate reads in gold embossed letters. He traces the “s” with his finger. He picks up the mug. Milk for Santa. He imagines the old man sipping from the mug, soot-covered, belly warm, and he wonders if this is the reason Santa never came.

His father beckons him from the cash, the shovel under his arm. The boy stuffs the mug and plate into his jacket—a feat, given that it’s two sizes too small. Sometimes when he zips the coat up to his neck, the bottom unzips. When this happens at school, he goes to the janitor for help. It’s a lady janitor with yellow fingers and a David Bowie face, withered and made up. She curses when she sees him coming. He understands it’s the zipper that vexes her, and not him. Sometimes she gives him half her sandwich. Her hands tremble like toys with low batteries.

The boy makes it to the cash without getting caught. He doesn’t know if his dad will be proud or angry with him for stealing, so he walks backward around the cart corral, sideways through the checkout, and out the door. His eyelashes turn to ice. A bus lumbers by and he wishes he had money to buy tickets, but they won’t get vitamin D that way. That’s why they walk. 

“Whatdidyouget?” All one word. That’s how his dad talks. 

The boy is scared to show him. He may not get his jacket re-zipped, and he’s already lagging behind. He can’t feel his ankles. If he stops to unearth the Santa-ware, his dad will already be across the street. 

“A plate and mug,” he says, huffing, puffing.

“For real?” dad says. “We got those.”

“These ones are for Santa.” The boy catches up to his dad, who presses a button so they can cross the boulevard. Cars toss slush and debris. It hits the boy’s face. He can taste the salt, the winter on his lips. When the light turns green and the walk signal illuminates, the boy knows to run. If they don’t, they get stuck on the median and have to wait for another light, which means his father has to double back and press the button again. His father doesn’t like leaving him alone on the median because the boy could blow away.

It’s hard to run fast when you’re holding a fancy mug and plate under your coat. They pass the median, the boy focusing on the shovel’s scuffed yellow blade, when the mug tumbles from the boy’s coat and bounces on the pavement. He should keep running. The light will turn red soon. Trucks, like freight trains, will get too close.

The handle has broken. He tries not to cry, staring at the golden nubs, like the ends of bones, left behind on the mug. His dad gives him a shove as the walk light ticks down, turns red.

His father doesn’t say much for the remainder of the walk home. They take a shortcut through the back of the tire store where his father sometimes works. He can change a full set of tires in fifteen minutes. Faster than any other dad at the shop, but he didn’t go to school to learn how, so he can only work there when someone’s called in sick.

When they reach the front yard of their duplex, his dad gives the shovel a test. The blade cuts through the snow like a meat slicer through bologna. His dad pats the shovel’s plastic ergonomic handle. With ease, he clears the entire walkway right up to the front door. The boy follows, the concrete unraveling before him like a red carpet. 

On the front step, his dad surveys his work.  He ruffles the boy’s hair and unlocks the door. Inside, they warm their hands on the toaster oven. His dad helps him strip off his wet jeans and gives him a pair of socks. They were giving out free socks at his dad’s work one day and they were stuffed with Lifesavers, dental floss, and a three-pack of razors, which his dad sold on Kijiji.

They have cereal for lunch. A new kind in a blue box that the boy has never seen. Oat Squares.

“Your mom’s fave,” his dad says.

When the boy comes to the table, the Milk for Santa mug is on his placemat. The handle teeters beside it, a broken moon.

“I scooped it up,” his dad mumbles. “We’ll get it fixed. Put it out next Christmas.”

The boy likes this. He will work hard at being extra good this year, collecting cigarette butts, making his own toast, picking the bits from the carpet when they can’t borrow a vacuum. Santa will come.

His dad puts his bowl in the sink, lights a cigarette, and turns on the TV—hockey—which the boy doesn’t play because he’s too short. He thinks about putting his bowl in the sink, like his dad, like he’s supposed to, but there’s still an oat square left in the bottom. He leaves it on the table. Maybe his mother will come, too. 

*