The television says it's Christmas. Jimmy hears the familiar piano jazz of the Peanuts Christmas Special, soft and comforting like the hush of the snow that is starting to fall. The log burning down to embers in the fireplace is one of those cheap paper jobs since dad hasn't restocked the wood pile this winter. Mom, dressed in her pale green nightgown, is hanging the stockings. She pauses as she holds David's in her hand, runs her finger across a plastic race car sewn into the red felt. Mrs. Allen made a stocking for every kid in the neighborhood when they were born, embellished each with these tiny plastic trinkets. Boys got things like tiny footballs and motorbikes, girls dolls and kittens. None of the things on Jimmy and David's suited them. They were not really football and motorbike kind of boys.
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