Advent Day 2: Chester the cat

The door opens with a creak and Santa walks into the little two-bedroom bungalow.

He sets his packages on the kitchen table and begins unloading the contents. He is silent, making not a sound until the cat comes from the living room and brushes against his leg. “Hello Chester,” he says softly, “Have we been a good kitty today?” The cat purrs and walks in a circle around the man’s feet.

His groceries put away, the man opens a can of food for the cat and places the contents carefully in his bowl. Stroking his long fur, he whispers, “There’s a good boy…” His voice trails off. He makes himself a cup of tea and retires to his living room, to his easy chair by the fireplace.

He sits there in the soft light of the Christmas tree, while the radio plays carols quietly in the background, almost imperceptible except for the silence in the house. He closes his eyes for a moment and reviews the day’s events. This is his time of year. He is a Mall Santa. In the “real world” he is a business consultant, a successful man. Successful enough that each year, after Thanksgiving, he takes a one month sabbatical from his office, and plays Santa full-time. He works ten-hour shifts at the mall across town, and when he’s not working, he visits children in hospitals, and orphanages and shelters, trying to bring them cheer and happiness. The money he makes playing Santa goes to secretly paying off the lay-away’s at the big box store in the lower income neighborhood he drives through each day. He spends the last month of each year this way, playing Santa and providing Christmas for children he’ll never meet.

He sips from his cup and looks longingly at the Nativity set on the coffee table. He remembers his wife buying it on their second Christmas together. He remembers it being there when their son was born, and how he thought of the little porcelain baby in a much different way, once he himself became a father.

She didn’t take it with her when she left. He always thought that strange. She took almost everything else. She took things that she didn’t even have connection too. But then, he wasn’t there when she left. He couldn’t really object to very much.

He reaches for the baby Jesus in the manger and takes him in his hand. He sits back in his chair and closes his eyes. That night comes back to haunt him once again. It was a night like this one…close to Christmas, chilly and full of Christmas spirit. He’d been out with a client and had too much to drink, yet again. He’d promised his wife he would stop drinking so much but he was under pressure building the business, and he was always with clients, and alcohol seemed to always be involved somehow. He was just doing what he’d seen his dad do, and his dad had been a great success.

It was his turn to pick up their son from school and so he shook hands with the client and headed toward his car. “Maybe I should call Liz,” he thought, “maybe I’ve had a little too much…” But he convinced himself he was okay and besides, she’d just rag on him again about the drinking. He rode to the elementary school with his window down, hoping the cold afternoon air would clear his head. He got to school without incident and waited dutifully until his son Danny appeared at the door, heading toward the car. Danny smiled when he saw his dad. He always smiled when he saw his dad. Danny loved his daddy fiercely, like all young boys do, and ran to meet him. He opened the car door and threw his backpack on the seat next to him. He climbed in a buckled up and off they went.

Big Dan asked his son about his day and they talked about Christmas. Danny dropped not-so-subtle hints about what presents he was hoping Santa would bring. Dan made a mental list and smiled to think that he’d already purchased a few of them. “I know my boy…” he thought, “better than the old man knew me, that’s for sure.”

This last thought troubled him and tears sprung to his eyes. He was lost in thought, when Danny said, “Dad can you shut your window? I’m freezing back here.” Dan had forgotten his window was down and immediately rolled it up. He felt sleepy as the heat began to have its effect. He remembers Danny asking him if he was okay. He remembers the headlights coming at him. After that…he can’t remember anything.

His wife met them at the hospital. Dan couldn’t recall getting there but his stomach sank. “Where is Danny?” he asked, over and over. “Where is my son?” he was incoherent and badly injured and the staff was far more concerned with his survival than with answering his questions. Eventually the pain medication took effect and he collapsed into sleep.

Dan awoke the next afternoon. There was a woman by his bedside. She wasn’t his wife, she was a police officer. She had some questions. She wanted to know how many drinks he’d had and how soon before driving, etc. Dan could think of nothing but his boy. The officer informed him that he was being charged with a DUI, and with the death of an eight-year-old boy. “Eight years old?” he thought, “Oh my God. Danny is eight years old. Oh my God I killed my son!’ Dan began to sob and call out his boy’s name. The officer raised her voice so he could hear her, “Mr. Symanski…Mr. Symanski!” When she had his attention, she spoke a little more softly; “Mr. Symanski your son is okay. The boy you killed was in the car you hit. You crossed the double lines on York road and hit another vehicle head-on. The boy was in that car.

Dan began to tremble, then came the sobs. He shook uncontrollably in his hospital bed. He cried for a long time. The officer remained there by his bedside until he’d composed himself. “Where is my son now?” he asked her. “Your wife took him home this morning. They kept him overnight for observation. Mr. Symanski, do you have an attorney?” Dan’s mind raced wildly. “Huh, an attorney? Y-yes…yes of course.” “Well I suggest you call him sir.” You’ll be here a few more days and when you are ready for discharge we’ll be placing you under arrest.” Dan nodded and closed his eyes. Hot tears rolled down the side of his face and filled his ears. The officer was finished here and turned to leave.

He got out of the hospital a week later. His wife was not there to greet him or take him home. She never came to visit and she never took his calls. He walked into their house to find it almost empty. No note, just a folder with the divorce papers, sitting on the kitchen table. The only words written were “Remember to feed Chester.”

That was seven years ago. Dan served eighteen months in prison for his crime. His wife never visited. He never heard from his boy. He’d been served with some papers while inside…papers terminating his parental rights. Dan didn’t put up any sort of fight. He was punishing himself for this horrible thing he’d done. He deserved to lose his son, he thought, he deserved to lose his wife. He wished he’d had died that night instead of that little boy.

That boy.

“Oh God…I killed a little boy.”

He would think about this every minute. He never stopped reliving the night’s events. Never. They haunted his dreams and tortured his days.

He got out on an April morning. It was a bright, sunny spring day as his friend Mike drove him home. Mike and his family had been taking care of Chester while Dan was in jail. Mike dropped him off at the house, and asked him if he wanted him to come in…just to make sure everything was okay. “No…” Dan whispered. “I’m okay. Thanks Mike. Thanks for everything.”

Dan walked in and Chester greeted him as he always did; by walking in circles around his legs and purring, looking for his dinner. Dan fed him dutifully and checked the fridge. Mike and his family had gone shopping and stocked it well. Dan collapsed in his easy chair…the very chair he sits in tonight.

Seven years have passed. None of it was remarkable except for the visit he got at Christmas that first year after he got out. There was a soft knock on the door. Dan opened it slowly, not expecting guests. On his porch stood a man and his wife. They looked to be about the same age as Dan, maybe a year or two younger. The man was silent for a long time. He cleared his throat. Dan noticed the man’s eyes were damp and red. Finally, after a few long seconds of awkward silence, the man introduced himself. “Mr. Symanski?” He began, “Mr. Symanski, I’m Tom. Tom Richards. This is my wife Debbie. Do you remember us?”

Dan went cold. For a brief instant, he didn’t recognize them or their name, but that memory lapse was fleeting. He knew who they were. He shrunk back in fear. Fear and disgust with himself. “Yes…” he whispered, “You’re the little boy’s dad. The little boy I…” Dan trailed off. He began to cry, and couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to run. He wanted to collapse right there on the steps. He wanted to go inside and grab his gun and hand it to this man and let him get his vengeance right there on his porch. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything. He was dumbstruck.

Tom Richards realized the plight of his sons’ killer. He knew he would not speak. Tom could have done almost anything in that moment and been justified. He could have extracted justice. He could have beaten Dan to a pulp. He could have done any of the things that any of us might have done and been in the right in doing them. But what he did next changed Dan’s life.

Tom paused a long time. He embraced his wife tightly, cleared his throat, and looked Dan straight in the eye. “Mr. Symanski…we didn’t come here tonight to confront you. We didn’t come here to attack you or seek our vengeance. Our son is dead. You took his life that night. That can’t be reversed. We hated you for that. We have cried and screamed and wept and sobbed and been through hell, Mr. Symanski. Your actions did this to us. This is our eighth Christmas without our son.” The man’s voice broke. His wife wept openly and buried her face in his chest.

Tom Richards paused, swallowed hard, and spoke again. “Mr. Symanski…we came here tonight to tell you,” he paused again. Dan was trembling, his legs feeling as if they would buckle. His jaw slack in fear and shame. “Mr. Symanski…” Tom Richards continued, “We want you to know we forgive you.”

Dan stood still for a moment. He shook his head slowly as if to clear the cobwebs. “What?” he muttered. “We forgive you.” Tom replied. “My wife and I…we are Christians. Jesus taught us that we need to forgive those who sin against us. It took us eight years to be able to say this, but we forgive you. We forgive you because of Jesus.”

Dan collapsed in a heap on his porch. He sobbed. He wailed. He came to a point where he made no sound at all…like Michael Corleone when he watches his own daughter die in front of him. The scream is within; too painful for human words.

He fell to his knees on his front porch and wailed. Tom Richards and his wife stepped back and gave him room. Tears that had been stored up for eight years…since the night of the accident, were coming out unhindered now. Tom knew there was nothing he could say. Not yet. He let Dan cry.

When Dan finally composed himself, they went inside. Tom and Debbie told him about their son. What he was like, the things he loved. How they missed him. After a couple of hours, they prayed for him. Dan had never prayed before. But he prayed that night.

When they left, he prayed some more. He asked God to forgive him. He asked God to maybe, bring his family back, or at least just let him see his son again.

Dan’s wife had taken Danny and moved to another city. She’d taken her maiden name back and changed Danny’s as well. Dan didn’t pursue them when he got out of prison. It was his way of punishing himself for what he’d done. He condemned himself to suffer their loss, as the Richards family had suffered so great a loss because of him.

That was seven Christmases ago. The Richards became his friends –inasmuch as one can befriend the man who killed their child. They had more children and tried to carry on. Dan grew to love them but never felt entirely comfortable around them. He never felt entirely forgiven either. Forgiveness is a hard thing to accept, it’s even harder to apply and harder still to apply to one’s life, when one’s sins are so egregious.

Dan returned to his job and a year after getting out of prison started his consultant firm. Each Christmas, he decorated and trimmed the tree and put out the little Nativity set on the coffee table. Each Christmas he waited for a knock on the door or for the phone to ring. He waited for Danny’s voice on the line. He waited to hear “Hi dad…Merry Christmas.” But he hasn’t heard it yet. He grew in his awkward Faith. He made peace with God at the cross. He is devoted, but quiet in his Christianity. He doesn’t know how many people would believe that God could forgive him, or even want God to forgive him.

Dan still does his penance. Playing Santa for a month, providing Christmases for the children of strangers, doing these things anonymously. He does this to pay for his crime. He does this to honor the memory of Tommy Richards Jr. He does this because he can’t keep Christmas with his own son.

He sits in his chair tonight, looking at the porcelain figure of the baby Jesus. He remembers when Danny was just a few days old…the way Jesus is depicted in the Nativity. “Jesus was a boy just like my son.” He thinks. Somehow, all these things he does for others at Christmas…he’s really doing them for this little baby.

Dan closes his eyes. He prays softly, his lips trembling beneath the Santa beard he forgot to take off. “Jesus,” he whispers in a tired, hoarse voice, “Let this be the year I see my boy.” He thinks of the children who sat on his lap today as the flashbulbs popped and their parents waved. He hears their sweet voices rattling off a list of hopes and dreams for Christmas. Every one of them sounded like Danny. “Danny is out there somewhere.” He thinks. “Let this be the year…” He weeps softly and falls asleep in his chair, as Chester the cat purrs at his feet.

Somewhere, in another city, a teenaged boy lies in bed, looking out his window at the stars…thinking about his dad, at Christmas.