CHRISTMAS IN JULY

By DixieHellcat

In the weeks after his stepfather’s death that July, Clayton found himself, for some odd reason, thinking a lot about Christmas. He recalled the years he hadn’t gotten much of anything, and the years his mom and Ray had gone out of their way to get him some thing he really wanted, like that cheap phone for his room. Even though it was the height of summer, he’d catch himself looking out the front windows of the house and thinking about the awful cheesy decorations Ray had insisted on putting up in the yard every December. They hadn’t always gotten along, granted, but Ray’s illness had forced Clayton to see the man he had called Dad, and himself, a little differently. This Christmas would certainly be changed, and the thought saddened Clayton, as much for his mom Faye who had loved Ray, and his little brother Brett who Dad had doted on, as for himself.

A few days before he headed back to Charlotte, Clayton stayed up late. Mom and Brett were in bed, and he grabbed a package of cookies and crashed on the couch. The quiet and aloneness was nice. Soon he’d be in his last year of college, and a little time to chill out before diving into that mad dash for the diploma sounded like just the thing. So he channel surfed, from Leno to Letterman to Jimmy Kimmel (who was funny in a perverse sort of way) and thought about a great many things and nothing in particular, and finally dozed off.

He didn’t wake up until he felt someone pick up the remote from his lap and turn the TV off. Light penetrated his closed eyelids. Dang, he thought sleepily, I must’ve been here all night. Mom’ll have a cow. The voice that called his name was not his mother’s, though, or even female or familiar. “Clayton?”

His eyes popped open, his heart pounding, and he struggled to sit up and straighten his glasses. Outside, it was still night. The light he had mistaken for morning sun surrounded the man who stood in the middle of the living room. He was short with a pleasant face, and dressed like an extra out of the Raleigh Little Theater’s production of Scrooge. “Don’t be afraid, Clayton. I’m not a burglar.”

After a moment’s shock, Clayton was mildly surprised to find he really wasn’t scared. What an entertaining dream: a nice distraction from the overheated emotions of recent days. “That’s good, since I’m not the sort of guy who could beat a burglar up very easily. So who are you?”

The little man grinned. “Well, um, I suppose you would call me an angel.”

“An angel?” Clayton scoffed. “Then where are your wings? And your horn, or whatever?”

“Our publicity has gotten totally out of hand,” the visitor groaned. “Nevertheless, to put it in terms you can best relate to, yes, I am an angel. I am a servant of the Most High.”

Whoa. Now that was heavy stuff. Clayton brushed cookie crumbs off his pajama pants. “Why am I dreaming about an angel?”

“Oh, you’re not dreaming. Or, you are, but you’re not. We have places to go, and your body will stay right where it is, sleeping. In fact, you probably won’t consciously remember any of this.”

That didn’t answer a thing, which was very annoying. “Well, why are you here? Is it…because of Dad?” I can’t even catch a break in my dreams!

“Oh, no. I’m here because of you. Some, as you would say, heavy stuff, is afoot.” The little man’s grin took on a mischievous quality, and Clayton almost blushed. If this guy knew his thoughts, thank goodness he hadn’t shown up in some other dreams he’d had! “More specifically, I am here in response to a request you made. There is a plan in the mind of the Lord to answer it, but it is going to involve a lot on your part. Consequently, the Almighty felt you should have some say in things.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. It’ll be easier to explain as we go along.” The man—the angel?—put out his hand.

Cautiously, Clayton got up and stuck his feet in his flip flops. As he reached for the outstretched hand, he looked back and saw himself, still sacked out on the couch. “Oh crap,” he gasped and jerked his hand back, staring in horror at the limp body. “I—I look dead. You said you’re here for me—please, no—Mom couldn’t take losing somebody else.”

The angel’s hand touched his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re fine. Watch.” He stood still, and the skinny form on the couch stirred, grunted and rolled over. It was incredibly weird to look at himself from outside. “If things go as they may, your mother will have to let you go soon enough, but not that way. So don’t worry. C’mon.”

The light flowed around them both now, like a warm afghan wrapped around Clayton and calming his fears. Still, when he turned his back on his own sleeping self, it felt strangely like leaving everything he had ever known.

When they walked out the front door, the world outside was still dark, but not the steamy stillness of a North Carolina summer night. Instead a chill wind made the trees sway in the front yard, where a big familiar figure stood, alternately laughing and grumbling as he tossed strings of lights over branches. “Dad,” Clayton whispered. A hundred words rose to his lips, all those things he had meant to say and never gotten the nerve to; but even as he took a step forward, the angel gripped his shoulder. When he turned to protest the little man shook his head.

“He can’t hear you, Clayton. He’s not here. We’re just looking back, like watching a video.” Frustrated, Clayton tried to detach himself, and just watch. There was Brett as a little boy, rolling around in heaps of fallen leaves; and there was his mom, younger and so pretty; and coming around the corner of the house, there was himself, about thirteen, the sullen gangly redheaded stepchild who never quite felt he fit in. “Let’s get a move on!” Ray yelled. “After supper we’ll come back and unwrap presents!”

Both boys whooped with delight and ran toward the big old family car. “No, they won’t,” Clayton snorted. “They’ll ride around and look at lights on houses half the night. Although, given the chance, I don’t think I’d turn that down, now. Just a chance for all of us to be together, and maybe …”

His voice trailed off. The angel nodded, and walked after the retreating car. The cold breeze hit Clayton in the face as he followed, and fogged his glasses. When he took them off, wiped them and put them back on, they were standing in a living room he recognized, the home of one of his cousins, brightly decorated for holidays. It was full of people, but the center of attention was a gawky boy of eight or nine, standing in the middle of the rug singing. Clayton chuckled at the sound. “I was still a soprano then,” he said. His parents sat to one side. A toddler Brett bounced on his mom’s knee while she beamed, and his dad tapped his foot to the tune and swelled with pride. Clayton wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before.

He could have stayed there, drinking in the faces of family now long gone, but his guide nudged him to move. This time when they went outside they were on a daylit street, watching a car drive by. With a move of the angel’s hand they were sitting in the back seat. The driver was a friend of Ray’s, and Ray sat beside him, Ray thin and ill, as he had looked weeks ago, just before he died. Clayton swallowed back a tear of remorse. I wish things could’ve been different between us.

The two men were talking. Ray spoke about Brett, how proud he was of his boy’s dreams of joining the Marines. Just about the time Clayton was starting to feel pretty sorry for himself, Ray looked out the window and sighed, “And my other son…” Hey, at least he acknowledged me that much. A strange smile came across his dad’s tired face, eager and sad at the same time. “My other boy is gonna be a famous singer,” he said. “He has the most incredible voice. It’s gonna happen. I just wish I could be here to see it.”

Clayton was so startled he hardly realized when they left the car. It’s just a dream, he reminded himself, but that didn’t stop him from feeling deeply touched. “I told you, this isn’t a dream!” the angel groaned, but good-naturedly.

Now they were back outside Clayton’s home. “Okay, then what is it? My name’s not Ebenezer!”

The angel laughed. “People have to see where they’ve been to know where they’re going.” He hesitated. “That’s what this is all about, Clayton. Let me show you a little of what is happening now, and you’ll understand better the choice before you.”

It seemed now that every step they took brought them to a new place. They looked into homes where people were stressed, and sad, and lonely, and hurt by violence. It wounded him to see that, but not as much as the children, the little ones with special needs, the ones he loved so much. He nearly wept to see them struggling for what they needed, left out as he had been. “Why are you doing this to me?” he cried. “I know these needs are out there. You don’t have to beat me up with it. I want to do something about it!”

“Exactly,” the angel said, his cheery face now sober. The place where they paused looked for all the world like the T-ball field where a young Clayton had singularly failed to distinguish himself as an athlete. “You’re studying special education, I know, and you work with these children. You also asked God for a chance to make a difference in their lives. God wants to answer your prayer in a big, big way; to honor what is in your heart, that love and burning for justice that is so like God’s own. There is an opportunity for you to bring that, not just to children here, but for people all over the world.”

Now Clayton knew he was dreaming. No one person could touch a planet that way, no ordinary person anyhow. Sure, a famous person could—a princess like Diana, or a saint like Mother Teresa—but not one geeky schoolteacher from the sticks of North Carolina. “How?” he challenged.

For answer, the angel reached out and laid the tips of his fingers lightly on Clayton’s throat. “Your voice,” he said simply.

“My voice? Okay, teachers use their voices every day, but—“

“No, Clayton. Your voice. That amazing gift God gave you, the music that made your parents so proud, the song inside you crying to get out.”

“You mean—singing?” Despite his skepticism, his heart lifted just at the thought. Singing made him so happy, and happier still when other people enjoyed it. “But singing can’t do that. It can’t get a kid in a wheelchair a playground they can access, or make a summer camp let a child with autism come and play alongside other children.”

He stepped away, almost angry; but the angel just said, “Is there anything God can’t do? Is there any tool God can’t use, if it is willingly placed in the Creator’s hands?”

Clayton bit his lip. “I’m sorry,’ he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just don’t understand.”

“You will. Come on, we have one more stop.”

They walked across left field and across the street, and suddenly they stood outside a concert hall, a small but classy place. The evening was cool, and throngs of people bundled up milled around the front doors ablaze with lights. A small crowd of women stood on the sidewalk excitedly talking. “This is going to be so great,” said one silver-haired lady. “I’ve seen him three times in the last year and a half, but in big arenas. I can’t wait to see him in a more intimate setting.”

“You wish it was a ‘more intimate’ setting,” teased another who had unfolded a walking cane into a stool and sat down. “Really intimate!”

“And have I ever denied that?” the first woman giggled, her cheeks pink. “Where he’s concerned, I’m every bit of fifteen years old.”

“Aren’t we all?” put in a third, wrapped in a fuzzy purple hat and scarf, before she let out a shriek of delight and rushed to hug a younger woman approaching the group.

The angel grinned. So did Clayton; the ladies’ enthusiasm was infectious. “Any of these people look familiar to you?” the angel suddenly asked him.

Clayton studied the shining faces around him. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “We just saw them. This lady here, her husband had just left her. And that one over there, her mother was really sick. And that man over there had just lost his job. They were all so unhappy!”

“Well, something’s made a difference for them, hasn’t it?” the angel asked with an arch look. The doors opened and people hurried in toward merchandise tables piled high with T-shirts and other goodies. His companion, however, walked around the side of the building and opened a small door to go in.

The hall was rapidly filling, and Clayton caught intriguing snatches of conversation.

“His foundation’s giving dozens of grants next year, all over the place.”

“The organizers of the charity auction thought his would go for, I don’t know, $300 or so? Hah! They sold for over $15,000!”

“Nearly half a million copies of his Christmas CD sold in two weeks!”

“UNICEF ambassador. Freakin’ UNICEF.”

“His book’s still on the New York Times bestseller list after, my God, how long?”

“Well, he lifted me right up!” a woman sitting down front in a wheelchair was delightedly recounting to a rapt audience of several dozen. “And danced with me, still singing, mind you, in front of everybody. He didn’t act afraid of my disability. That was what really got me.”

They paused at the corner of the stage, as an orchestra began to tune up behind the curtain. “Notice anything interesting about the makeup of the audience?” the angel asked

The hall seated a couple thousand, Clayton estimated, and normally he would have had to squint just to see past the first rows; but this was no normal situation. Somehow, he could see all the way up to the rafters, and what he saw was amazing. Throughout the crowd, people of all kinds sat side by side, equal in their anticipation. He spotted a young girl with Down’s syndrome; her parents sat on one side of her, but two girls with no apparent disability sat on her other side, and all three huddled over some book, a concert program he guessed, turning the pages and sighing and giggling together. A boy left his seat and crawled into his mother’s lap, swaying and staring at his fingers; she hugged him and rocked him and didn’t miss a beat of the animated conversation she was having with several other people, none of whom recoiled from the child’s autistic behaviors. “This is great. It’s really…” The right word was obvious. “Inclusive.”

“Making a difference,” the angel said again.

They walked backstage, which was buzzing with activity. A choir was warming up down one hallway. That’s it, Clayton thought. I could sing with a choir—but I still don’t see how that could make such an impact. A man walked quickly past them. “Hey, that’s Nick!”

Clayton’s longtime pal had a notepad stuck under his arm and a bottle of water in his hand. He knocked on a closed door. “Hey, man, here’s your water.” A muffled voice replied and he opened the door just enough to hand it through, then was off again. Clayton started to follow him, then saw a sight even more unexpected a short distance away.

“Mom?” he yelped and raced over to her, the angel hustling to keep up. Faye stood chatting with several other people he knew. She was dressed to kill in a fancy black evening pants suit. “She’s beautiful. But why is she here?”

“You’ll see. Come this way, there are some other folks I want you to meet.” The angel led the way, dodging busy couriers and musicians and business people. Around a corner, a group of people waited, men and women of all ages. A girl bobbed her head to a tune coming from her headphones, her lips moving silently with the unheard words. A little boy leaned on a little walker, his braced legs almost quivering with excitement, his parents grinning. Three middle-aged women hugged books and CDs to their chests and whispered to each other, as thrilled as the young girls sitting out front.

In a few moments, a large black man in a suit stopped in front of the group. “He’ll be here in just a minute,” he promised them and was answered by squeals and eager titters. When the man moved away, the angel and Clayton followed. They lost him briefly amid the fuss, and when they caught up he was standing at the door Nick had knocked on earlier. The door was now open and the big man was talking with a broad smile into the open doorway. “Does it look okay?” he cackled incredulously. “You are seriously stylin’, pal. Somebody get me a stick. I’m gonna have to beat the women back to keep ‘em off you tonight!”

“Knock it off, Jerome!” The laughing voice that replied stopped Clayton in his tracks. Unable to believe what he heard, and almost afraid to look, he moved slowly to the door. The man who stood inside the dressing room was impeccably dressed in a long dress jacket, neat pants and some of the coolest boots he’d ever seen. The hair was highlighted, short and spiky and hip, and the green eyes wore no glasses, but the face that looked back at Clayton was unmistakably his own.

While he stood with his jaw scraping the floor, the cheerful banter continued. “You still want to see these folks before the show starts, right?” asked Jerome.

“Yeah, I think some other people are comin’ afterwards. I’ll catch them before we leave.” The big man stood aside to let the other walk in front of him as they headed down the hallway. They stopped to greet people, and the stranger with Clayton’s face hugged and kissed his mom.

“Now, how long before I see you again, Clayton?” she scolded.

Clayton started and almost answered, but the tall stranger said, “It’ll be a while, Mom,” with regret in his voice. “Probably not till right before Christmas.”

She sighed. “Well, we’ll have that at least. My busy son, the pop star and international humanitarian.” He giggled. “I’ve given Jerome and Nick their orders. You behave yourself and get as much rest as you can. You’re not so big I can’t still bend you over my knee, you know.”

“Well, actually, I am,” he chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Wait here and I’ll get Jerome to walk you out to your seat in a few minutes, okay?”

Jerome and his charge walked around the corner, with Clayton behind them. When the waiting group saw them they started to call, “Clay—it’s Clay—ohhhh, Clay!!”

Clayton was thankful they were calling another name—it made the weirdness a little more bearable. Clay looked as pleased to meet the waiting fans as they were to see him. He started signing things, the books and CDs and posters and stuff that Clayton could now see all bore images of the same face: his, or Clay’s, or theirs, or whatever. The girl with the headphones pulled them off, and his voice rose faintly from them. He watched as Clay shook hands and grinned at cameras, and then knelt on the concrete floor, heedless of his fancy trousers, for a big hug from the little boy in the walker.

Finally, when everyone had had a moment of his attention, Clay said, “We’ll give you all time to get back to your seats before we get things started. Thanks for comin’ out, and for supporting the work we’re doing.” As two smiling security guards shepherded them out, he turned to Jerome. “Will you take Mom? I’m goin’ back to the dressing room for a sec. Let me know when they’re ready for me?”

“Sure. You feeling all right? We don’t need you sick again, Clay.”

“I’m fine. I just need to get my thoughts together before I go onstage.” He grinned. “Thanks for the concern, though. It’s nice to have a conscientious bodyguard. It’s better to have a friend who cares.”

“You betcha. Besides, your mama would have my hide otherwise.” Jerome clapped him on the shoulder and left.

Clay let out a little sigh and walked back to the dressing room. Clayton slipped through the closing door on his heels, then looked around to find the angel quietly following. “Sorry. I nearly forgot about you.” The angel shrugged as if to say ‘no big deal’. “I could be here?” Clayton breathed. “I could do this?”

“Yes. You can make people happy. You can be a catalyst too. You can lift them up, encourage them to use their own voices. And when the spotlight is turned on you, you can reflect it to show people what they need to see. Think of stardom as a lectern, if you like, and the world as your classroom. Instead of teaching the children with special needs, you’d be teaching the world about them.” It sounded challenging, and that appealed to him. He did love a challenge.

Clay sat down on the long, low couch in the dressing room. He took a swig of water from the bottle Nick had brought him (good grief, Clayton thought, does that mean Nick WORKS for me??), then leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I…he looks tired,” Clayton observed with a touch of foreboding; he loved to sleep.

“I won’t lie to you, Clayton. It’ll take a lot out of you, and none of it comes with a guarantee. God will not infringe on a human’s free choice. For this or something like it to come to pass, many people have to make the right choices—some of which will seem to be very wrong, at the time,” he added with a wry twist of his mouth. “Dark tones are as necessary as bright ones to the picture the Creator wants to paint with your life. There will be times when you’re weary, and hurt, and sick, and frustrated, and angry, and wonder why you even bother. People will insult you, lie about you, or criticize you for the stupidest things.”

“After the crap I took in grade school, I can handle anything,” Clayton scoffed.

“See what I mean?” The angel scooted an open jar of peanut butter to one side of a folding table and sat on the corner. “Even those hurtful times will be of use to you. Just know this: if you choose to answer this call, and maintain your trust in this plan, every thing that seems a setback, a failure, a bitter loss, will rebound to God’s glory and your benefit. When the worst appears to happen, it will turn out to have been for the best. And you will never be alone.”

Clayton crouched in the center of the small room, cluttered with empty styrofoam carry-out boxes and socks and cans of hair gunk. He looked at the man resting on the couch, and saw his lips move and heard his own voice faintly again. He’s praying, he thought, and was suddenly heartened.

What was this crazy dream trying to tell him? Maybe to be more flexible, to take more chances. He joked with his friends at school that he needed structure and routine so badly, he sometimes thought he might be a bit autistic himself. But what if this were real? He hated change and uncertainty. What a change this would be! He closed his eyes too. “What if I say no?”

“Then you will go on with your life, as you have planned it.”

“But it wouldn’t be the life God had planned for me.”

“No, but you may never know the difference. Your choice will be honored, whatever it is.”

“I’d never know the difference.” And I’d never know the difference I might have made. “If I wouldn’t remember any of this, how would I know what to choose?”

“You’ll know.” The angel’s tone was confident. “You’ll listen to the promptings of your soul. It will remember.”

Eyes still closed, Clayton eased down onto his knees. He didn’t like crowds, or partying, or instability. How could he live a star’s life? And yet, God must think him able, to offer him such an opportunity. He began to pray himself, thinking of all those faces lit up with joy. He envisioned what it might be like to walk out onto that stage, with a choir—and an orchestra, for goodness sake!—and sing. And, he was a bit embarrassed to admit to himself and God, he opened one eye briefly to sneak another peek at those incredibly cool shoes that probably cost a month’s worth of teacher salary.

Outside the door, voices joined in harmony on his favorite Christmas song, “Mary, Did You Know’. He wondered how she had decided to accept God’s call. Not that he would ever put himself in her category, but still, this was tough enough. He opened his eyes, and was startled to find Clay looking right at him. The other pair of green eyes met his and widened. Whoa, you’re not supposed to be able to see me—

Clay loved these quiet moments just before curtain time, when he could focus and gather himself. It took him only a little time now to bring the quiet into himself, and make a still place from which he could step out and raise his voice. Tonight was going to be a good one, he was sure. He had liked this hall the minute he walked in; there was something strangely familiar about it. Lord, please don’t let it be that I’m just gettin’ jaded. No longer than I’ve been in this business, I can’t already be to the point where every backstage looks like every other one! He laughed to himself. If anybody had told me I’d be doing this, even just a couple of years ago, I’d’ve had ‘em committed. How things change. That college kid who had wanted nothing more than to teach seemed sometimes so far away, but for some reason tonight the past felt very near. Maybe it was that Mom was here, or maybe just that it was Christmastime. Clay tried to imagine what his old self would have made of all this. When he opened his eyes, he could almost see that wide-eyed dork—the same dork he still saw in the mirror every morning, underneath all the makeover. The more things change, the more they don’t, he thought. Lord, help me remember I’m here because of You, not because of me.

A knock on the dressing room door roused him from his reverie. Jerome poked his head in. “You ready?”

It was time to do what he loved most. A smile took over Clay’s face, a smile so big it felt like it went all the way down to his toes and curled up on the ends, like the Grinch’s when he went good. “Yeah.”

The people in the audience, the people in need, weren’t the only ones aglow with joy, Clayton realized. He watched Clay eagerly head for the door, then turned to the angel and simply said, ‘Okay.”

The angel beamed. “The Most High will make your voice and your name to be a blessing to multitudes, Clayton.” Then he hopped down off the table. ‘Now come on, there’s a show to see!”

Clayton scrambled to get up—this was a major bonus! He expected them to stand in the concert hall and watch, but instead he found himself onstage, behind the edge of the curtain, beside the guy with the great shoes who wasn’t such a stranger after all. The house lights went out, and the roar that rose from thousands of throats was strong enough to make Clayton feel like his feet were lifting right off the stage…

“Clayton? Wake up, Clayton!” Daylight greeted Clayton when he opened his eyes, along with his mother standing over him, lying on the couch, with a scolding air.

“Mornin’, mom,” he mumbled, scratched his head and looked for the remote. Where the heck had he dropped it?

“How did you sleep a wink on that lumpy old thing, young man?”

“Oh, mom!” There was the dumb remote, all the way across the room, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember leaving it there. “I’m fine. How are you?” he added with a touch of concern.

“I’m all right. I slept better last night.”

“That’s good.” She did look a little brighter, but still disapproving as he sat up on the couch and stretched. “I slept great, Mom, honest. Like a log. Can’t remember a thing. Except…” He thought for a moment. “I dreamed about Christmas, I think. How crazy is that? Remember when Dad would decorate the yard so terribly?”

“It was not terrible!” she protested, but she smiled a little at the memory. That was good to see.

“Yes, it was!” He got up, laughing, and hugged her. “We’re gonna be okay, Mom.”

She nodded. “Don’t you need to start gettin’ things together to go back to school?”

“Yeah, I do. I want to clean up the hard drive on my laptop, for one thing.” Faye went off to work, while Clayton got himself a bowl of cereal and chased Brett off to race go-carts with his friends or something. With the house to himself, he sat down with his computer. He hummed while he deleted some old files, saved class notes to disks in case he needed them sometime, and got sidetracked playing a few games. He smiled when he found his progress notes on his work with Mike Bubel—he was really looking forward to doing more with the young autistic boy whose family had befriended him in Charlotte.

He poked around some more, and found some files he had almost forgotten about. They were songs he had recorded several years ago, with studio time his mom had given him as a gift. He played a couple. They didn’t sound bad, but he debated whether to just delete them. He couldn’t imagine why he might need them on his laptop—who would want to hear them? Clayton’s fingers hovered over the keys. “Nah,” he decided. “I’ll just leave ‘em…”

Merry Christmas to all who may dwell here, Merry Christmas if even just one, May the joy of the season surround you, Merry Christmas with love…

(and apologies for a few creative liberties)

(and thanks to God for giving us Clay, and thanks to Clay for giving us each other!)

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You can contact the author with your comments at theleewit@mindspring.com.

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