You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas Read online

  You Better Not Cry

  Stories for Christmas

  AUGUSTEN

  BURROUGHS

  St. Martin’s Press New York

  The names and identifying characteristics of

  some people have been changed.

  This book is dedicated to the people of Australia

  who lost everything there is to lose in the

  February fires of 2009.

  And to everyone who still holds their breath to listen

  for the sound of distant sleigh bells in the sky.

  Author’s Note

  This book was written on a Linux-powered

  computer using open-source software that is

  available to everyone, free.

  Contents

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  You Better Not Cry

  And Two Eyes Made Out of Coal

  Claus and Effect

  Ask Again Later

  Why Do You Reward Me Thus?

  The Best and Only Everything

  Silent Night

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to my friends and family, publishers and management, both here in the United States and abroad. Most of all, I am grateful to my readers, who have made me feel so less alone in the world.

  I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six. Mother took me to see him in a department store, and he asked for my autograph.

  —Shirley Temple

  You Better Not Cry

  IT’S NOT THAT I was an outright nitwit of a child. It’s that the things even a nitwit could do with little or no instruction often confused me. Simple, everyday sorts of things tripped me up.

  Stacking metal chairs, for example. Everybody in class just seemed to know exactly how to fold the seat up into the back and then nest them all together like Pringles potato chips. I sat on the floor for ten minutes with one of the things as if somebody had told me to just stare at it. Concentrate hard, Augusten, try and turn it into an eggplant with your mind. You can do it!

  The other children appeared to be born with some sort of innate knowledge, as though the action of folding and stacking child-size metal school chairs was genetically encoded within each of them, like fingernails or a sigmoid colon.

  I seemed to lack the ability to comprehend the obvious. From the very beginning there had been warning signs.

  Like every kid just starting school, I had to memorize the Pledge of Allegiance—something that would in many towns today be considered prayer and therefore forbidden; akin to forcing a child to drink the blood of a sacrificial goat or unfurl a Tabriz prayer rug and kneel barefoot on it while facing Mecca.

  While I managed to learn the words, memorizing isn’t the same as understanding. And of course I was never tested on the meaning of the pledge. It must have simply been taken for granted that even the dimmest child would easily grasp the meaning of a phrase such as I pledge allegiance, especially when that phrase was spoken while standing at strict attention and facing the American flag, hand in a salute above the heart. There was so little room for misinterpretation. It was the Pledge of Allegiance, not Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

  Still. If one of the teachers had asked me to explain the meaning of those words—which I chanted parrot-minded and smiling each morning—they certainly would have been shocked to hear me admit that while I didn’t know exactly what it was about, I knew it had something to do with Pledge, the same furniture polish my mother used and that always, inexplicably, made me feel sunny. So each morning as I spoke those hallowed words, it was the bright yellow can with the glowing lemony scent that I pictured.

  It was another, more profound misunderstanding that caused so much trouble.

  As a young child I had Santa and Jesus all mixed up. I could identify Coke or Pepsi with just one sip, but I could not tell you for sure why they strapped Santa to a cross. Had he missed a house? Had a good little girl somewhere in the world not received the doll he’d promised her, making the father angry?

  My confusion may have stemmed from the fact that I was being raised without religion, except for a brief and entirely baffling period of Sunday school. But I certainly never detected any theological undertones in my Sunday school sessions. Mostly it was just a dank, gloomy day spent in the basement of the Unitarian Church where we were expected to play with old-time toys made out of metal; little figures like a nurse in a white uniform, a policeman, a child, a mother holding a skillet. The rest of the world had long ago moved on to plastic action figures; the newest ones with articulating arms and legs. Many were even holding guns. What kind of crazy school made kids spend the day in a basement and play with some dumb nurse with a little cap like they only wore on black-and-white Leave It to Beaver? About the only thing you could do with these old things was pick away the lead paint and nibble the flecks—tiny crunch, salty.

  They didn’t even have real teachers, just a bunch of ladies that were old and papery and drank all our apple juice.

  While I’d heard the words, Christian, Catholic, and Jewish I never connected them to Santa or Jesus. I assumed they were geographical terms, like Canadian or Military.

  Everything I knew of God and Jesus—along with Santa, for that matter—I knew from television.

  And this just confused the issue further. Because both Santa and Jesus appeared in continuous rotation on television at the same time each year—and both of them were pushing Christmas.

  Just after Thanksgiving it would begin: the parade of holiday specials. There was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Davey and Goliath’s “Christmas Lost & Found,” where they lived in what appeared to be a corrugated-steel storage unit. I loved dogs, but I despised that preachy, do-gooder of a cur, Goliath—always Davey’s killjoy.

  “C’mon, Goliath, let’s go grab a little girl by her ponytail and make her eat yellow snow.”

  “Gee, Day-vee, I’m not sure we should be doing that. That doesn’t sound sanitary. And cleanliness Day-vee, is next to godliness.”

  I swear. If I were Davey, I would have fed that thing a bowl of warm mayonnaise and nails.

  After Davey and Goliath it was on to The Grinch or Charlie Brown, before moving along to The Three Wise Men. It was a jumble of mixed messages: One minute, I was told the “magic” of Christmas was a jolly man in a red suit, slinging a sack filled with packages over his shoulder. And the next, it was drilled into my head that the real “meaning” of Christmas was Jesus, just a little baby on a stack of wheat. Then they would show him as a grown-up hippie dressed in a skimpy little outfit like the one Ginger wore on Gilligan’s Island. He walked around casting spells on kids with harelips and other deformities, and making cripples magically rise from their wheelchairs—which I assumed he had given to them for Christmas in the first place.

  So while it was Santa during prime time, those shadowy, almost-but-not-quite hours before were often given to Jesus.

  But in both, December twenty-fifth was the big day. Even I knew that much.

  What I didn’t know was why you might see Jesus in front of one house—even a whole barn scene with the wheat and everything—but then the next house might have a sleigh and reindeer and then Santa himself on the roof. Or sometimes, somebody would have it all: Jesus on the wheat, Santa on his sleigh, and even Frosty, waving at the traffic and starting to melt. They always showed him starting to melt.

  Frosty made me sad because everybody knew that he was going to die. That in and of itself was confusing, because why hadn’t Jesus visited him and used a spell? Jesus could have turned Frosty into a block of ice for all of eternity, i
f he wanted to.

  The music of the season further added to my confusion. How was I supposed to tell Santa and Jesus apart when we sang, “He knows when you’ve been bad or good,” when it was Jesus who watched you all the time? And then when we had to sing, “Oh, come let us adore him,” which one did they mean? I figured Santa, because it was on his lap we were allowed to sit. I imagined you’d probably get in trouble if you tried to sit on Jesus. From what I’d seen on TV, Jesus could touch you pretty much anywhere he wanted but you could get turned into a hedgehog if you touched him. My mother had a friend like that, one you couldn’t touch. She wasn’t able to turn you into a hedgehog or anything, but she would shriek if you bumped her elbow by accident, and even if you said you were sorry, you could see her trying with her eyes to turn you into something.

  So I wondered, was Santa Jesus’s father? That made sense to me except for the confusing matter with the Three Wise Men and Joseph.

  My understanding was that back in the olden-days before electricity and Santa, they made old bums hand out the presents. But in those days they had only junk to give—stinky incense, sticks, and little bits of camel-tail yarn. I figured these were the kinds of presents Jesus probably gave the cripples today. Gifts that the regular children, like myself, wouldn’t want or even notice were missing, but that the cripples would be thrilled to receive and could weave into pot holders.

  Then they had to go and throw Joseph at me. Who the hell was Joseph?

  It turned out, he was Mary’s husband, so that made him the father of Jesus. But I had been under the impression that God was Jesus’s father. So was Joseph God? Was Joseph also Santa?

  When Joseph just kind of vanished, I figured he was probably in the basement drinking, just like my own father.

  Sometimes, I would stand at my window at two in the morning and wave into the dark. “Come get me, Jesus, take me back up there with you to the toy farm,” I would whisper, making sure my lips were easy to read.

  Despite all my confusion I managed to make two distinctions: Santa was the one who climbed around on peoples’ roofs then entered their private homes at night as they slept, while Jesus was the one that made surprise visits—mostly to crippled kids and people who were crying. I thought they both might wear a red suit from time to time.

  At night when I prayed to Jesus, it was a jolly man in a red suit—with access to the world’s supply of presents—whom I imagined listening to my prayers and taking notes. And when I was afraid or needed serious assistance, I prayed to the skinny hippie Jesus coming down from the North Pole in maybe a VW Bus or on a broom where he could wave his hand over my head and make the problem go away.

  When the Abominable Snowman had cornered Rudolph in the glittering ice cave, I watched in rapt silence. “Jesus, where are you? Help them! Get a gun, Jesus, get a gun!”

  One sorry December my confusion reached a kind of tipping point and resulted in a brief hospitalization.

  My grandparents, gruff Jack and glamorous Carolyn, were driving up north from Lawrenceville, Georgia, to spend Christmas with us. They owned a silver Cadillac Fleetwood with bloodred leather seats. The interior of that car smelled so wonderful that when I went down south to visit them in the summer, I’d spend the first hour sitting in the back of the car in the driveway, sniffing the rarefied air: cigarettes, my grandmother’s Guerlain perfume, butterscotch hard candies, Lavoris mouthwash, and the seat leather all resting atop a hushed, gamey base note of mink.

  I loved mink. I would have worn it if allowed. In fact, I would have enjoyed a mink version of my one-piece hooded pajama set with attached feet. The idea of being covered in mink head-to-toe was thrilling.

  My brother said mink was “a waste of perfectly good predators needed to keep the vole, shrew, mouse, and frog populations at reasonable levels.” He said they should make coats out of house cats instead. “Cats are plentiful,” were his exact words. The idea of wearing a tabby cat coat was also appealing. But mink reminded me of my grandmother, so I still loved it most.

  All week it had been physically painful to wait for my grandparents’ arrival. It was impossible not to ask when they were coming, just like it was impossible not to look down the street in the direction of the bus when you were waiting for it. I had tried looking in the opposite direction but it itched my brain to an unbearable degree.

  “How many more days now?” I whined to my mother, clutching at my stomach, which was distended with cheese popcorn.

  She whined right back at me. “Please stop asking me that question, it’s only been an hour since you last asked and the answer has not changed. They will be here in six more days. And for God’s sake, stop licking my matches—put those down right now—they won’t strike if they’re wet.”

  I pictured, with a sinking, bottomless feeling in my chest, the moon. There would be one tonight. It was hours and hours away from appearing; only after all the sun had finally burned out and rolled away to the far side of the sky where we couldn’t see it; only after the sky itself bruised pink and violet-black would the moon show up. And then it wouldn’t do anything but hang there like a stop sign to all the people on Earth who could see it. And I would have to wait for six moons to come and go. Almost ten of them. “They might as well never come,” I said, miserably.

  “They will be here before you know it, you’ll see,” my mother said. Then she announced that she was opening a can of smoked oysters and would I like one?

  “Are there any pearls in there?”

  “I haven’t found one yet,” she said.

  “Then, no.”

  “But you remember what I told you about your granddaddy, my father, right?”

  I glared at her. I hated when she talked about him because she made him seem so nice, like the best grandfather of all, and he was dead and had always been dead except when I was a baby and he held me, which didn’t count because I couldn’t remember. It was like she was holding out a candy bar before dropping it into the toilet.

  “Remember how I told you he found a pearl in a can of oysters once?”

  I remembered. After I opened the twenty-four cans of oysters my mother had purchased on sale at Stop & Shop, looking for pearls, she yelled at me for so many days it would have been impossible to forget. “Yeah, he found a pearl. But it was broken,” I said.

  “It wasn’t broken,” she corrected. “It had been cooked. Along with the oysters in the can. But I still thought it was just the most magical thing I had ever seen. A pearl, right there in a can of oysters.”

  I once thought I found a piece of scrap metal inside a Hostess cupcake but that wasn’t the same.

  “Okay, now how long before they get here?” I asked.

  Six moons later I was standing in the kitchen about to eat a breakfast of fresh cake batter when the doorbell rang. It was as if I were a lab rat and had received an electric shock. My body jerked, causing the wooden mixing spoon in my hand to sway violently off course and I ended up with raw cake batter all over my nose and chin, glops of it splattered down the front of my shirt. I tossed the spoon onto the kitchen counter, wiped a pot holder across my face, threw it onto the stovetop, and ran from the room.

  When I opened the front door, my grandparents, Jack and Carolyn, were standing there on the landing, their arms linked. Beside my grandfather stood Jesus himself. He was almost as tall as my grandfather and he was dressed in his full regalia: red suit with white fur trim, black glossy boots. I could barely take it all in, let alone contain myself. If I had known the word for what had just descended, I certainly would have used it: the Rapture. I shrieked hysterically, “Jesus! It’s Jesus! Jeeeeeeeeee-zus!”

  My mother had joined me at the front door and was about to open her mouth in greeting when I screamed. My grandmother flinched and her smile evaporated. My grandfather winced and covered his left ear, the one closest to my trap. “What the hell? Somebody knock that boy alongside the head,” he bellowed over my din.

  My grandmother was distressed. She leaned forward an
d spoke over my shouts. “What are you saying about Jesus, honey?” Even when her voice was raised, her rich, melodic Southern accent made everything she said seem like ice cream scooped from a container—sweet, with gently rolled edges.

  I stabbed my index finger at the life-size plush toy. “It’s Jesus!”

  My grandmother stepped forward and lowered herself so that she was nearly at eye level with me. She smiled kindly. “This isn’t Jesus, sugar, it’s Santa, you see? He has a red suit and everything.” She turned her head and glanced over her shoulder at the stuffed Santa still standing beside her husband in the doorway. Then she looked back at me.

  “It’s a sin to call Santa Jesus. ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before thee.’ That’s from the King James Bible, honey. Don’t you read your King James, a big boy like you, eight years old? Aren’t you doing well in your Bible study classes?”

  For a fleeting instant, she had captured my attention. “King?” I said, picturing a diamond the size of a ham bone.

  My mother said, “He doesn’t attend Bible study, Carolyn.” But she was taking so much Mellaril that when she spoke, it sounded like her tongue had swollen to the size of a hog’s and also like she’d been drinking since the day before yesterday. “And I am tho thorry for hith outburtht, pleath come in.” She motioned with her trembling arm, extending her unsteady welcome into the house.

  As my grandparents walked guardedly past her, my grandfather hoisting Santa/Jesus around the waist and carrying him into the house sideways, it seemed my mother might fall over. Her face was frozen into an unfamiliar expression of almost plastic contentedness and calm, a small tight smile locked onto her lips. But I could see the panic in her eyes. She looked as if she had been hijacked by her face and was now trapped forever inside a pleasant, ordinary woman. She leaned her shoulder against the wall. “Woo you like a thuna sam-which?” she muttered, seemingly unaware that it was just after eight in the morning. I just stared at her and rolled my eyes.