The Bloodstained Cross
It was in the 1960s, I don't remember exactly what year, in December, and the harshness of winter had set in; snow had begun to pile up alongside roads, frost clung to trees, evergreen and dead and bare alike, and the winds swept a chilling air across the streets as if trying to confine all of humanity indoors. Outside, even in the heart of the city, nature, callous unfeeling nature, seemed given rein and reign and humanity was rendered by comparison insignificant and weak, bereft of all creative energies, enervated by the cold. Still they braved the elements, if only for fleeting moments as they went from the comfort of train and car to that of a warm building and back again when the time came, compelled to do so by the errands they had to run in light of the season. Within the walls of the department store the temperature was cozy and perfect, the cold only a memory, save the brief reminder when a new shopper entered its great wooden doors, their intricate mullioned patterned glass windows to the winter, and the bitter outside made its momentary intrusion.
So she stood a while in the great atrium looking over the decorative display which always took up so much of the space in wintertime; over the winged lines of spruce trees hanging with baubles and ringed with chunky lights of many hue which reflected particolored on the glossy marble walls of that palace of consumption and temple to commerce. But there in the midst of that paean to the season, in the midst of the scene, the centerpiece, the focus whereto all eyes were drawn and upon which all attention was called—there it was—there he was. An elderly man with a long white beard, dressed in red velvet trimmed with white fur, a matching hat, the iron nails like spikes driven through his forearms and feet, fixing him upon the bloodstained cross. Saint Nicholas—Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, so many names, but there condemned to death, crucified in the Christmas display of the department store. The beard made it hard to be sure of anything, but he seemed to carry a weary, resigned look atop the pained expression into which his face had become irrevocably twisted by his torment. Alive, at least at that moment, he sometimes shifted and, one imagined, groaned in agony but Christmas music drowned out any sounds which might have emanated from up on the cross and perhaps it was that he suffered in silence. He was the most pitiable creature and for a moment she wondered what the reason could be for such a torture. What could he have done to deserve that fate? What could anyone have done to deserve it?
Throughout the day, people just like her gathered round to look in awe and reverence, to take in that wretched sight, the spectacle of cruelty that was the slow agonizing death of a man in honor of Christmas, there in the lobby of the store—the crucifixion of jolly old Saint Nick. It was much advertised—for sure a sight to behold!—and many had come with a great excitement at the prospect of witnessing it that season, thrilled at the chance of being a part of the miracle of Christmas. But soon they all went on their ways to do the day's shopping; that had, of course, been the reason why any had ventured out in the cruelty of winter to a department store of all places. She knew she would have to give up her vigil, at some point, and follow the others off across the many floors of the building in search of this or that gift for her husband and children. Her husband's winter bonus had been particularly bountiful that year and a splurge for Christmas was in order.
Soon, so it was she found herself away from the atrium, with its polished marble walls, away from the Christmas display, from its many cheerful decorations which surrounded that central vision of carnage. She flitted about from department to department: some items of fashion in the latest styles for her daughter (and something a little more conservative for herself); flitted through tableware and kitchenware, through bedding and towels, and so on and so on. As she wandered through the stationery department on the third floor, looking at the various and sundry styles and brands for a suitable gift, she found her mind naturally wandering back to the lobby—and back to him. She wondered if he would still be alive upon the cross when she returned, and for how many hours or days he would survive in the end, and a strange desire came over her, not out of any malice or sordidness, to be there when died. Not as spectator, not as passerby, but as a human being, she wished to be there. A human, human to human, in his final moments.