Asheville NC, April 1999

Anxious to find out how her brother was, Carol Mattox pushed open the door of the hospital room. But the sight of him gave her a terrible shock, as though someone – or something – had reached in, grabbed her heart, and twisted it.

Dimly she registered her family’s presence. She tried to put on a smile, although she could feel it wobbling. “Phil, it’s me, your pest of a sister. I got here as soon as I could.” He’d been asking for her, and she had traveled such a long way to see him. Feeling a rare helplessness, she took his hand, and he opened his eyes.

But he began to moan, and struggled to raise himself. It was a mournful noise, and reminded Carol of things she’d heard in rituals related to her work. Automatically, the trained part of her mind tried to characterize the sound, note it for future reference.

Then, to her consternation, Phil fought to pull the oxygen line from his nose. When she tried to keep it in place, he blurted out, “I saw him!”

Puzzled, she bent closer. “Saw who?”

Phil shouted, looking past her, “That Indian! You’ll know what to do about him.”

Startled, Carol drew back.

“No, don’t!” Screaming now, Phil lunged at her, his eyes wide and staring. “You’ll kill me!” With surprising strength, he fastened trembling hands around Carol’s neck, still without registering her presence.

With an effort, she pried loose his fingers and looked at the others, frightened.

Her mother said, scarlet lips shaking, “He keeps talking about it. Says he saw an Indian open the flood gate at the dam.”

Carol’s blood ran cold. “Could that have happened?”

“Of course not. Especially not an Indian wearing buckskins, with a gold nugget on a red hat.” Marcie’s lips now twisted with scorn. But the look she gave Carol’s father was uneasy.

“He’s just raving; it’s the drugs they’re giving him,” Stanley Mattox pronounced. “Go along with it, like we do.”

Phil collapsed back onto his bed and lay unmoving, now seeming barely conscious. What had he meant by, ‘You’ll know what to do?’ Carol wondered.

As she gazed in bewilderment at her parents, her grandmother whispered, “Don’t pretend he doesn’t know what he’s saying. I’m telling you, the Mattox Curse has killed him, too!”

On Christmas morning I ran into the kitchen where Daddy had put up a balsam tree.  And there stood my new bride doll!  I could see her, dressed all in white, under the tree. 

I reached for her, being careful not to crush her satin gown.  But when I picked her up her body felt soft, and crumpled over just like my old baby doll used to.  Looking closer, I saw she had on a baby’s bonnet, not a bridal veil, and her long, white dress was just a nightgown.  Her face had painted lips, and spots of rouge on her cheeks, but it was plump and round, and her eyes didn’t close.  Then I saw where her arm had been sewn back on and I flung her into the corner and ran back to bed, crying so hard I couldn’t stop.   

Daddy came in.  “Sugar, we told you Santy prob’ly couldn’t bring you a bride doll.”  When I kept crying, he left. 

After a while Mama came in.  “You need to be grateful for what you have, honey.  The Bible tells us to think about others, not ourselves.  That’s especially so right now, when people are even worse off than us in this war.  They’re hungry an’ dying.  Sometimes we just have to ‘make do,’ make the best of things.  You’ll understand better when you’re older.” 

I hated hearing that.  Anyway, I had a feeling it was not Santa Claus’s fault but my parents’, because I knew that Mama, not Santa, had fixed up my old doll.  Might there really be no Santa Claus after all, like mean ole Eb was always telling me?