by James Kendall  

The silence of the old truck’s cab is broken by the snick-snick of windshield wiper slashing snow from the glass. We sit here peering into a curtain of snow that somehow makes the night time darkness look brighter.  David reaches over and flips on the headlights, punching a hole through the low light the snow makes; the snowflakes slowly drift through the headlight’s beam.

David speaks softly, almost too soft to hear. “You hear that little kid? Those are about the best words I’ll hear all year.”  The soft glow of the dash lights makes his skin look like old parchment; his high cheekbones stand out like pale mounds in a field of yellowish gray. His facial skin always tightens and turns the yellowish shade when something is bothering him.

He looks over at me, “Grab that bottle out of the glove box. We might as well warm up. You know we’re going to catch some big time shit when we get home.”

The truck moves slowly down the dark tunnel the headlights burn through the snowfall. The warmth of the truck and the hot whiskey make me feel mellow. I lean my head back against the door and say, “Yeah, I know. I usually get my share of hell every time I go home. But after tonight it don’t matter, just let the words get hotter than hell; won’t be the first time and I don’t expect this will be the last.”  David looks at me, his pale blue eye twinkle when his now brown face breaks into its familiar grin.  He fascinates me; he has every right to be a bitter man, but he just keeps on smiling, even when he knows trouble is about to hit the fan.

He lost his left leg at the knee in Viet Nam. The Claymore mine that took his leg scattered pieces of an M-16 throughout his body and left his right leg looking like a practice pole for a troop of Boy Scouts with new axes. Some pieces of the M-16 were taken out, some pieces were left, and if he knows you well enough, at times, he’ll make a joke about it. He’ll laugh and say he’s the only man that’s been out of the service for years and still carries his weapon with him every day. The Claymore may have taken away a part of David, but it left the most important, his sense of how a person needs to meet life head on. The government now supplies the missing parts, and with a fiberglass left leg and steel brace on the right, his life now holds on for a wild ride.

It is late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve when I see his tall slender frame leave his truck and head toward my door; his hitching walk from the braced right leg leaves a trail of periods, the left leg leaves a trail of exclamation marks in the light snow covered yard. When I open the door, he’s grinning his lopsided grin; the big dimple in his right cheek marks the end of a light brown mouse-tailed mustache that lies above his upper lip.

“Hey double ugly. You remember all those 15-minute jobs that you’ve roped me into, the ones that usually last two days. Well, it’s pay back time. And I guarantee what I’ve got in mind won’t take no two days.” He’s smiling all the time; little crow’s feet bunch at the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, I remember turkey. Whata ya need,” I reply.

“You know the family that just moved into the old Lawrence farm. The one with those four little kids. I just heard a story that those kids want a pony for Christmas. There’s just one catch. Their mom and dad don’t have enough money to buy one. In fact, they barely got enough money to put food on the table. That’s the bad news.”

Neither David nor I have any children; I guess this is what gives us a weak spot where little children are concerned.  Now I know him and I know how his mind works, just like mine. Two guys wrapped a little too loose when it comes to Christmas and little kids.

“O.K. Mr. Horse Thief. Where we gonna get a pony on Christmas Eve?”  I’m not quite ready for the answer he gives me.

“Oh, I got the pony. Had it a long time and it’s not doing me any good. It’s just that it’s out at Dillon’s place and I need some help to catch it. Whata you say.”

“David, its Christmas Eve. We’re gonna catch hell from our wives if we’re out tonight.”

His voice is quiet, “We’re gonna catch hell anyway, you know that. We both catch hell every day. This time – just this one time – let’s do something to deserve it. You know how wives are; they ain’t happy unless they’re raising hell about something. So, whatta you say, let’s make them happy.” He’s grinning again.

I pick up my coat before he is finished speaking. “Well, this just might beat listening to my old lady squawk and crab at me half the night. So, are we gonna go catch us a pony, or are we gonna stand here and talk it to death?”

The old truck slips and slides as we drive over the back roads to Dillon’s farm. Dillon is David’s brother-in-law, and his farm is mostly hillside scrub-brush and gully land. Dillon has gone north to his visit his wife’s parents in another state; leaving no one there to help catch the pony, but then, I know David would ask me even if a dozen other people were there to help. Friend’s just help, they don’t pass judgment.

When we turn into the road leading to the farm, he leans over the wheel and peers into the falling snow. “We won’t have any trouble catching old Toby; our trouble will be finding him. He’ll come to you just like a big old dog. But if he’s down in one of those hollows, he may not hear us. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The truck lights cut through an empty barn lot with no sign of a pony. David opens the truck door and yells, “Tobeeee.” Nothing moves.

“Aah, he’s not here. Let me get a halter and we’ll drive down the ridge pasture. Maybe we can call him in.”

Once again, we slip and slide on our way, David stops to yell the pony’s name every few minutes. We are almost to the end of the long field when I see something moving through the trees at the end of the field, something heading toward our lights. “David I think I see him.”

A small fat Shetland pony with a winter coat so thick and heavy he looks like a small bear as he prances into the open field. His short legs start to churn when he see the voice calling is David. He runs up and stops; his nose twitches and with a small snicker, he shakes his head and then shakes his body, the snow gathered on his back flies away.

“Hey little buddy, you want to go for a ride,” David says.  “I think you gonna like it at a new home. Lots of kids to play with.” The little pony tries to nuzzle his head under David’s arm when he slips the halter over the pony’s nose. The pony enjoys being the center of so much attention.

“Jim, get those chute boards from under the truck bed. I think he’ll just lead right on up.” The pony’s nose pushes David up the inclined boards and on to the front of the truck. He ties the halter rope to the truck racks; the pony stands there, his head held high, the King of the Mountain. With his arm around the pony’s neck, he rubs the long hair covering the pony’s face. “You little ham. You know something gonna happen don’t you.”

“He’ll ride there,” said David.

As the truck jerks and slowly moves forward, he starts to hum that old song about Santa coming to town.

The sky has grown darker and the snow falls harder when we drive out of an empty barn lot. Toby stands tall, his head resting on the truck cabs; a king’s final look over his kingdom.

The darkness and heavy falling snow give us trouble finding the lane to the old Lawrence farm. We pass the turn and now turn back retracing our tracks; David slows the truck’s speed to a crawl.

We stop at an almost hidden gap in an over grown fence line; David tries to see through the falling snow, and then turns in, I can see a faint light through the snowfall. “I think this is it,” he says. “When we get up to the house, you go ask.”

The front door of the house opens at the sound of our motor straining on the drive up from the entrance of the hidden driveway; a man and woman step through a golden square of light out into the dark night; their forms outlined by a single naked light bulb centered in the open door.

“Is this the old Lawrence place,” I yell.  I hear a faint “yes” drift back through the falling snow.

I look at David, “This is it, slick.”

The couple wade through the snow and walk down to the yard gate, their skimpy clothing offers little protection from the cold night air; the man’s arm is around the woman to give her his small gift of warmth against the cold.

“You the folks that wanted a pony,” asks David as he climbs down from the truck cab?

The couple looks at him. “The kids wanted one. But we couldn’t find one we can afford,” said the man.

“Well now, I got one for you to see. I think he just might be the pony you’ve been looking for.” He climbs into the truck bed while I put the chute boards in place and then leads Toby down. The pony’s snow covered coat gleams in the faint light, twin plumes of steam stream from his nose as he tests the air for the smell of the man and woman. David puts his arm around the pony’s neck and said, “This is Toby; a good little pony and a better friend.”

“Is he gentle,” asks the woman?

“Lordie yes. Watch this.” He gives a little one-legged hop and lands sidesaddle on the small pony’s back; his heels touch the pony’s sides and Toby responds with a bouncing trot. The stiff legged gait jars David’s artificial leg loose and it falls to the ground. I hear a sharp intake of breath from the woman.  The man moves to help, but I put my hand out to him and say softly, “Hold it. He’s pretty touchy about his leg. If he wants our help, he’ll ask for it.”

David slides from the pony’s back and Toby stands patiently as he uses the pony for support to reach the leg. Toby works like a pro; one of David’s hands holds the artificial leg, the other clutches Toby’s mane as he hops back to the truck on his braced leg. They stop in front of the man and woman.

“Get on him,” said David. “Ride him.”

The couple looks at each other. They turn and once again look at him. “We don’t have much money. What do you want for him,” asks the woman?

David balances on one leg, a silly grin starts to spread over his face. I know what is coming, but then I guess I also have a silly grin plastered on my mug.

“You gonna make Santa mad,” he says, his grin spreading.

“What,” said the woman?

He stands there, his left hand holds his artificial leg, that goofy grin smeared over his face, his right hand slowly rubs Toby’s mane with gentle strokes. “I said you gonna get run over with a sled if you make Santa mad. He don’t ask for money when he gives a gift. And he did ask me and Jim to deliver this little pony to ya’ll. Said it wouldn’t look right for a pony to ride in a sled.”

A squeal follows the woman as she leaps for David; her arms fly around his neck and she plants one kiss after the other on his grin-split face. The man has David’s right hand moving up and down like a pump handle; he fights to keep his balance on the braced leg, and finally all three fall into a laughing crying pile.

Then it’s my turn, my head bounces up and down in time with my pumped hand; my face is covered with a half dozen tear sweetened kisses.

The woman turns and runs to the house calling the sleepy children out into the snowy night. David uses his artificial leg for support to get off the ground, and then hops over to the truck, flops down on the running board, and starts dusting the snow from the pad at the open end of his artificial leg.

The children move slowly as they come through the door, and then break into a run when they see the pony; their arms go around Toby’s neck and once again that night he is an elegant king, his wet nose planting wet kisses on each child’s upturned face.

David sits on the running board and watches the children as they hug Toby, his face seems permanently frozen with a wide split grin. His stump shows below his raised pant leg, his hands holds the artificial leg in position to seat on the stump.

One of the children asks in a shy voice, “Is that one legged man Santa?” The mother looks at us and said, “No, those men are two of Santa’s very special helpers.”

“Well what happened to his leg?”

I look at David, I can hear the quiver in my voice when I answer, “Oh, he probably found someone that needed it worse than he did.” He looks down, pushes his artificial leg to place, pulls his pant leg down, and then looks at me.

His eyes are locked on mine as I walk toward him, “Here, let me help you up, you damned old horse thief,” I say quietly as I take his arm in my hand. “It’s time for two of Santa’s very special helpers to hit the road.”   I can see tears in the corner of his eyes. He uses his free hand to dry his eyes when I pull him up.

“Damn cold wind is bothering my eyes,” he said softly.

I looked into his face, “Cold wind always bothers eyes around Christmas time.”

The ride back is quiet except for David’s occasional chuckle and his repeating the child’s question. The old truck carries two old broken down horse thieves home as they pass their bottle back and forth.

The drive is a slow one through the falling snow, and when we finally stop in front of my house, I glance at him, “Well Jesse James want to come on in for a cup of coffee? I’m not saying a thing to a living soul about what we did tonight and you know I’ll probably hang for drunkenness and horse thievery when I get inside. But you, my friend, if you go in with me, I’ll be in the presence of finest company I can think of when she strings me up.”

He once again flashes his big goofy grin. “I’m game,” he says, “let’s hit it through the door with our guns roaring and go out in a blaze of old time glory.”

When the door opens, my wife’s voice floats in the air, “That you Jim?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” I feel the knotted rope slip tighter around my neck.

“I guess you and David been out having a party ain’t you?”

“Naw,” yells David, his face once again lights up with his big grin. “We just been out stealing some horses and helping Santa deliver his presents.” Then he breaks out in a loud off key version of his Santa song.

With his arm over my shoulder and still singing in a loud off key voice, we walk inside – smiling – to face a judge. When it comes to a knotted rope, I get jumpy; but knotted ropes, they never seem to bother David, not one little bit.