Hope Is Born Again
The sounds of locker doors slamming and feet running echoed in the wide hallway as the warning bell announcing the next period class rang through the loudspeakers.
Taylor opened his locker door and took out his math and Language Arts books.
"Hey, T," Sam Gates said and tapped his friend on the shoulder.
Taylor pulled back and closed the door. "Hi Sam. What's up?"
"Did you get your homework done?"
"Yeah, you?"
"Sort of." Sam hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder. "I wasn't sure what to write."
"That's easy. Just ask for what you want more than anything in the world." Turning the tumbler a couple of times, Taylor pulled on the handle to make sure it was secure. "Let's go before we're late."
The two boys made their way thru the sea of bodies until they got to the stairs. Single file, they descended.
"I don't know what I want," Sam confessed reluctantly.
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean; I don't know what I want. I got the coolest dad on earth, and I got great friends. I can't think of anything that I need."
"What about a new mom?"
"I guess. I don't know. I miss my mom and all, but I don't know..." They stopped by the water fountain. Sam leaned over and pressed the button to release a stream of water. Leaning down, he sipped enough to wet his whistle. Standing up, he wiped his hand across his mouth. "What about you? What did you ask for?"
"The same thing I've been asking for since I was little: A dad."
"So, what's the problem? How come you have to keep asking?" Sam wondered. The pair started walking again.
"I don't know. Maybe it's because I keep mailing it."
"Yeah, the post office sucks."
"Tell me about it. But this time I'm going to do something different," Taylor declared boldly. "I'm going to take it to Santa myself."
Eyes wide at his friend's boldness, Sam stared at his best friend in awe. "Wow! Really?"
"Can't get lost. Then he can tell me yes or no to my face."
"You think he's going to say yes?"
"He has to; he's Santa."
"So, you're going up to the North Pole?" Sam wondered.
Taylor made a face. "No. I'm making my mom take me to the mall on Saturday."
"You know that guy isn't the real Santa," Sam pointed out matter of factly.
Taylor tried to remain cool at the slight insult by laughing. "Duh. He's like the stand-in when Santa can't be there. You know, like an employee to help Santa get all the requests."
"A Santa union. That's cool. So, you think he'll get it?"
"I hope so. My mom is great, but there are things that you can only talk to a dad about," Taylor reasoned.
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Dads are pretty cool," Sam agreed. "I hope you get your wish. But what are you going to do when Mr. Finch wants us to mail our letter?"
Taylor shrugged. "That's simple. I wrote two."
"Cool."
The pair entered the classroom just as the final bell rang. Quickly they took their seats.
Adjusting his glasses, the non-descriptive, short man smiled at the thirty students who had been entrusted to him to teach and learn and nurture. He loved every moment of being able to plant the seed of knowledge in the brain of the new generation.
"Good morning class," Harold Finch greeted from his seat on the corner of the large wooden desk. "If you'll pull out your homework and pass it down, I'll take it." The rustling of paper filled the small room. Gathering the sheets of paper, Harold quickly counted them to make sure the number of papers matched the number of students.
"Okay. When I call your name, I want you to come forward and read your Christmas List out loud. Then you're going to fold it and put it in the envelope I'm providing, then when we're done, I'll take them to the post office on my way home tonight."
A murmur of excitement started low and began to build.
"Let's keep it down," Harold announced. He shuffled the papers so he could choose one randomly. Pulling out the sheet of notebook paper, he looked at the name, then at the students. "Taylor Carter."
Taylor sat up straight. "Yes, sir?"
"Front and centre." Harold held up the paper. Taylor stood up and walked to where his teacher stood. "Ready? Start us off."
Taylor looked down at the words he had printed in neat script on the line notebook paper. The request he had thought long and hard over was now about to be read in front of his peers and friends.
"Dear Santa," he began slowly, "When I was three, my dad died in an accident. I don't really remember him, but my mom says he was a really good guy who loved me with all of his heart. I keep his picture next to my bed, but it isn't like having him with me.
So I'm writing you to ask for a new dad. Preferably one who likes to play basketball and baseball, but if he just likes to watch them on TV, that's okay, too. I just want him to be really cool and understanding – oh, and to like me and my mom. Of course, Mom says that she isn't ready to marry again, but I think it's because she hasn't found the right guy. So, if you can make it so my mom and him fall in love, I would really appreciate it. Thank you.
Yours truly, Taylor Carter."
A hush fell over the class as Taylor finished the letter. With hopeful eyes, he looked at his teacher who gave a nod of approval.
"That was very good, Taylor. I'm sure that if there is a Santa Claus, you will get your wish answered," he complimented with a warm smile. He handed Taylor the letter and an envelope. "Get it ready, and I'll mail it."
"Thanks, Mr. Finch." Taylor folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope.
"You may take your seat." Harold shuffled the papers again. "Candace Cain," he called out.
As the young girl made her way to the front of the room, Taylor sat down at his desk.
"That was really good," Sam whispered as he leaned over quickly so he wouldn't get caught.
"Thanks." Taylor opened his folder and pulled out his notebook and flipped to the section where he had a copy of the letter. Touching it, he nodded.
"I just need to believe," he whispered softly.
******
"So, are you coming to the party on Saturday?" Lionel Fusco asked and looked at the tall man walking beside him.
"Probably not," John Reese said and scanned the area for anything out of the ordinary. It was colder than usual, but the wind wasn't blowing, so he was happy. Still, he would much rather prefer the warmth of the patrol car.
"Samantha is hoping you will."
"I don't think it's going to be a good idea," John evaded carefully.
"It's been five years, John. It's time to move on."
"Eh." John rubbed his gloved hands together. "I'm not ready."
"Yeah. That's why you turned down the date with that hot looking woman from City Hall a month ago," Lionel groused. "You should have your head examined."
"It's too soon."
Lionel spied the food cart. "Come on," he invited. "I'll buy you a hot chocolate." He opened the door and stepped out into the freezing cold air.
"I'm not thirsty," John protested as an afterthought. Hurrying around, he joined his partner on the sidewalk.
"You don't have to drink it; use it to warm your hands." Lionel walked over to the cart. "Two hot chocolates," he ordered. "And one pretzel."
The vendor took out a hot, fresh twisted bread from the warmer and wrapped it in wax paper. He handed it to Lionel. Then he turned around and readied two styrofoam cups. Pushing the lids down, he placed them on the counter.
"That will be seven dollars."
"Pay the man," Lionel told his partner.
"What?"
"I can't get to my wallet because my hands are full."
John considered arguing, then changed his mind. Taking his wallet out, he fished out a ten dollar bill and handed it over. He waited for his change.
"Thanks, partner," Lionel said and handed one of the cups to John. "It will come back to you in tenfold."
"I'd rather it come back to me in a ten dollar bill."
"Let's go check the school out before it gets dark."
"The high point of the beat," John muttered. "The screaming sounds of children on a playground."
"Aw, come on, pal. Don't you look at them and see the innocence we used to have?"
"Depends."
"That's because you don't have any kids." Lionel took a bite of the pretzel. "If you had a rug rat, you'd see it differently," he garbled around the mouthful of salty bread.
"I'll take your word on it." John sipped the scalding hot chocolate.
"Man, she really did a number on you."
"Let it go, Lionel."
Driving down the road, John maneuvered the patrol car down the slightly busy street, around a corner, and into a well to do neighbourhood. As they approached the large brick school building, they were suddenly on alert by the lone figure running down the pathway.
"What the -?" Lionel exclaimed as the person tried to hurry down the stairs, tripped, then went sprawling across the sidewalk. Immediately John threw the car in park, grabbed his cover, and hurried out to render assistance. Lionel was on his heels.
"Are you okay?" John called out to the man who was lying on his back like a helpless turtle.
"I am alright, but I can't get up."
"Here." John leaned down and extended a hand. "Take my hand." With a little maneuvering, the man was pulled up so he could stand on his feet.
"Thank you."
"Here." Lionel handed over the glasses to the man.
"I thank you, officers."
"Where's the fire?" John asked gently, but his trained eye was scanning the area for anything or anyone amiss who could have been chasing the man with intent to harm.
"No fire, Officer. Quite the contrary. I'm late."
"For a very important date?" Lionel quipped with a touch of humour.
"I was on my way to the post office, but I was detained by an unexpected meeting. Now I'm afraid that I won't make it in time."
"Uh, mister..."
"Harold Finch. I'm a teacher here."
"Mr. Finch," John began. "Maybe we can help. Lionel, give me a hand." Together the pair quickly scooped up every letter from the sidewalk and street. Harold held his briefcase open so the letters could be deposited inside. As the last letter went in, he closed the lid and locked it.
"Do you need a ride?" John asked politely.
"Not necessary Officer Reese, since the post office is just a block away." Harold looked at his watch. "If I hurry, I am sure I can get there before they lock the doors."
Turning on his heel, Harold quickly ambled down the sidewalk. Lionel and John watched as he disappeared from view.
"Well...that was..." Lionel searched for an appropriate word to describe what had just transpired. "...interesting," he finished and wiped his hand across his forehead.
"To say the least," John agreed. He tried not to read too much into what happened.
"That took all the energy out of me," Lionel stated. "I'm hungry."
"Yep. Always thinking with your stomach, Lionel."
"Well, I have a pretzel calling my name."
"What's Sam going to say?"
"Nothing. This is my reward for a job well done."
"That's called your paycheque, Lionel."
"Just the same." Lionel opened the door of the patrol car and stepped inside. "You coming? We still got rounds."
"On my...way..." John's voice trailed off as his eye caught a white piece of paper propped up by the wall. "What's this?" He knelt down and picked it up. He turned it over to read the bold lettering: SANTA CLAUS. NORTH POLE.
"Hurry up, Wonderboy," Lionel called thru the small crack in the window.
"On my way." John pocketed the envelope and hurried over to the car and slid inside. A call came over the radio. "Looks like break time is over," he said. "Radio that we're on our way," he told Lionel as he threw the engine into drive.