The Advent Calendar
written by: Nancy Johnston
Mrs. Cowie clapped her hands three times to hush the Sunday schoolers. Matty held her fingers clasped tight in her lap. Her teacher didn’t tolerate high-jinks, chair-squirming, pencil-twirling. “You fidgety children,” she said, “get on my last nerve.” Today, she wasn’t glowering down at Matty through her glasses. Matty watched as Mrs. Cowie slowly snipped away the twine knots and unwrapped the butcher paper around a parcel. Matty leaned forward with the little kids who pushed their bellies against the table for a better look. The paper fell away and revealed the most beautiful Advent calendar Matty had ever seen.
“We don’t believe in Advent calendars,” her mummy had said, when Matty pointed at the Advent calendar display. The most beautiful was a picture of a red brick house with a snowy roof and Santa waving from his reindeer sleigh. Her mummy had taken her hand and pushed their grocery cart away down the aisle. “It’s too much money for tacky cardboard and stale chocolate.” But she had imagined this same Advent calendar displayed on her dresser where she could see it from her bed and get up early to open another tiny door.
“Today’s sermon will be about Advent.” Mrs. Cowie lifted up the calendar and the sparkles shone like real snow. “This Advent calendar was donated as a prize by Roy Nicolls, our Church deacon, and will be a special prize.” Mrs. Cowie balanced the big picture on her hip as she walked around the table. The other children around Matty were shifting in their chairs. From the tippy-top of the snowy roof to the number twenty-five on the welcome mat, the red brick house was decorated with tiny wreaths and shimmery gold garlands hung on all the twenty-five numbered windows and doors. Matty’s palms itched to hold it. She knew each door would pop open wide to reveal bright foil-wrapped chocolates or even wooden ornaments. It promised less disappointment than those plastic toys inside a box of Crackerjack.
Mrs. Cowie stopped behind Matty’s chair. “Your parents will be listening to the Sunday sermon upstairs where the minister will light the first Advent candle,” Mrs. Cowie said. Matty’s mummy wasn’t upstairs. She was at home, far too busy for Church. After Sunday school, she’d be waiting outside the side-door and always let her carry her purse on her shoulder. “Does anyone know what Advent means?”
That was the question Matty wanted to ask. Was Advent the countdown at Santa’s workshop? Why was it a calendar if it only had one month? Mrs. Cowie only ever let her ask one question during Bible story-time. Sunday school was not a place for questions, her teacher said. Matty had so many questions: Was it cold for Adam and Eve in Eden without any clothes? Did Moses have a wand like other wizards? Did Jesus serve up coleslaw with the fishes? After Sunday school, her mummy unfolded the special notes from Mrs. Cowie and left them in the ashtray.
Before any other kids could guess, Barry Macintyre stretched his arm almost out of his fuzzy yellow sweater. “Mrs. Cowie! It’s the first candle that gets lighted for when the baby Jesus gets born. Oh, oh and the candle is for the hope he brings. That’s Advent.”
“Very good, Barry.” Mrs. Cowie nodded and Barry turned to grin at Matty. He had a bit of oatmeal stuck to the corner of his mouth. Matty thought he looked like an Easter chick in his fuzzy sweater.
“The Advent candle lighting begins today to mark the start of Advent. The Sunday school picture today is about Mary and Joseph, the parents of the baby Jesus. I want you to color your pictures and make them tidy.” Mrs. Cowie paused like a gameshow announcer to get their attention. “The child who makes the neatest one can take the Advent calendar home. The second and third best pictures will be pinned up on our Church bulletin board.” A low rumble of whispers rose around her. Matty had seen it first and deserved it most.
Mrs. Cowie shuffled the stack of coloring pages and sent them around the table, starting with Barry. When the last bible-story page finally came round to her and she flattened out Mary and Joseph on the table. Mary stood at a doorway with her hand on her belly. That baby inside was kicking against her bladder. That’s what her mummy said when their neighbor Mrs. Kenner got up from the kitchen table. “She’s going to have a boy. He’s busy kicking her in the bladder.” Matty wasn’t much interested in Joseph. He was at his wood shop table. Poor Joseph was looking at his hammer. Mary must have told him: Get your wiggle on and make me a cradle!
Matty studied her bible-story page and thought about all the crayons she needed: blue for Mary’s dress of course, red for Joseph’s robe, browns for the woodshop, and a bit of golden sunshine through the window. Mrs. Cowie rattled the coffee can with the Sunday school crayons. The hollow rattle told Matty that she hadn’t opened that new crayon box high up on the shelf.
“Children, take only two crayons each for now. You can all share the rest.” Matty knew no one ever shared. She watched the crayon can go around and little hands lift out crayons. Her Joseph would wear a red and white plaid robe and Mary would wear her blue one with gold piping. Her Mary must have red hair, like her own mummy. Not spun up hard like her mummy because they didn’t have Finalnet hairspray back in the olden days.
The can of crayons went round slowly. Matty listened to the shake of the can as each of her competitors tipped it forward. She spotted a kid take orange and red crayon stubs. Her fingers tingled with the need for red. She could do a lot with red. Barry was already coloring with his blue and red crayons. He stopped to peel back the crayon paper before he pressed the crayon down and got his whole shoulder into it, pushing the wax across the page.
When the tin can was plunked down in front of her, Matty peered inside and saw only two half-crayons and a rainbow of wax crumbs. She tipped the can and out fell two yellow crayons and a rain of dust. It was the fake like the color of liquid toilet cleaner. She picked up a crayon and sighed. She swirled a sun outside the doorway and made an oval around Mary’s head. It might still be alright. She hesitated to make a halo for Joseph, but decided a small one was okay. Was Joseph a saint of something? Did Presbyterians have saints? He didn’t have much to do in the Christmas story. He fluffed up the straw in the manger so Mary didn’t have to put Jesus under a palm tree. Joseph maybe was important later for changing holy diapers.
“Everyone, it’s time for the sermon,” Mrs. Cowie said, interrupting the coloring. “I want you all to listen quietly to the sermon about the Advent story while you continue your coloring.” She clicked the knob of the speaker. The static gave way to a faint sound of singing from the choir. Then the furnace woke up with a whump next door and drowned out the organ. Mrs. Cowie patted her sweater pockets and headed to the classroom door. “I’m going to be in the hallway. You all behave like Christians.” She pointed her cigarette pack at Matty.
The room was quiet except for the scritch-scratch static and the occasional Amen. Matty couldn’t make out any churchy words from the minister. She touched the wax halo above Mary’s head. Dear Mary, pretty please send me a blue crayon to color the baby Jesus in your belly. Matty rested her crayon next to her picture. She looked at Barry and saw him set down his blue. “Are you finished with that blue crayon, Barry? Mrs. Cowie says we’re supposed to share.”
“I need it.” Barry picked the blue back up and pushed the tip so hard he was almost wrinkling his paper. He was only adding more wax up Joseph’s arms. The red crayon was locked inside his pudgy fist.
“Please? Can I borrow the blue, for a minute? You can have a yellow.” Matty used the please and thank you voice. “For halos and such.”
“No thank you. I don’t want to borrow your crayon.”
“But…”
“Matty, where’s your daddy? Is he dead?” Barry didn’t let go of the blue crayon even though his Joseph was done. Matty was startled. How did he know about her daddy? She didn’t ask her mummy questions anymore. He was like Joseph, barely in the story. Matty saw blue and red wax flakes on Barry’s upper lip.
“He’s not dead. He’s just not home anymore.” Matty had asked her mummy about him, she said, “Eat your breakfast” or “When you’re older” or “I’m trying to forget.”
“So you don’t have a daddy. My mom says that makes you a ….” Barry set down the blue crayon out of her reach. He leaned closer to her and almost touched her paper so he could whisper. He grinned as he spelled out the word: “B-A-S-T-A-R-D.”
Matty sucked in her breath. He’d been hoarding the word like a lint-covered candy stolen from his mother’s purse. She knew he’d been waiting until Mrs. Cowie was out of the room. If she heard him say that word, he’d get a hymnal patted across his bottom. “Am not,” Matty said. “Am not.”
“Are so.”
She set yellow crayon to her far right and balled up her fingers into tight fists. She scraped her chair back and faced him. “Only boys can be bastards. My mummy says: ‘Boys can be such bastards.’”
“You said a bad word,” he said, sucking in his waxy lip. “You said it out loud.”
“So did you.”
“No I didn’t. I only spelled it out. That doesn’t count.” Heads were turning their way now. “Anyways, my mum says you don’t have a real father. Your mom only pretends to be married.”
“That’s stupid, Barry. You’re stupid. How can you be pretend-married? I’ve seen a wedding picture with flowers and my mummy in a long veil.” The air in the room was getting hotter. She squeezed her eyebrows together remembering. Her mother used to let Matty take the wedding picture out of the cigar box and look at it. She was never telling Barry that the only thing left of her daddy was a hand on her mummy’s shoulder. He’d been torn away. In the remaining half-picture, her mother was smiling.
“My mom says you never ever had a daddy.”
“I did so have a daddy,” Matty said. All the other children were listening now. “My daddy is real. As real as Joseph.”
Barry shrugged his shoulders like he’d won something. “My mommy’s not a liar.”
Matty’s eyes itched at the corners when she looked at his know-it-all face. She reached across the space between them, and took his paper with his red-headed Joseph in the heavy blue wax coat. She held the paper high up above them. Before he could stop her, she tore it right down the middle. The paper made a satisfying ripping-sound when she separated Mary from Joseph. She dropped the two bible-story pieces right in front of Barry.
Barry scrunched up his face like he might cry. Matty knew he was pretending. He was squeezing his eyes open and shut to get his tears started. He pushed back his chair with a rattle. At that moment, Mrs. Cowie stepped back into Sunday school room and saw all their faces looking up expectantly. “What’s all this fuss?”
“Look what Matty did! She wrecked my picture,” Barry flapped his two picture pieces. Tears began to flow down his cheeks. “And she said a BAD word.”
Matty scrunched down in her seat and crossed her arms. She ignored the raised voices from everyone and turned her shoulder away from Barry. She focused her eyes on the magical Advent Calendar that might as well have been back in the IGA store. She was never ever going to open those twenty-five tiny doors and solve the hidden chocolate mysteries inside.
- The Advent Calendar - December 13, 2024
