The Capitol's Last Christmas

When I finally got up I found everybody in the living room. Grampa had given Mr. Mandrake a whole set of clothes. A coat, pants, a hat, gloves, long underwear, a sweater, socks and boots.

Mr. Mandrake was looking pretty spiffy.

Grampa was all dressed up in his winter coat, just like he was heading out on a long trip. My dad also had his coat on.

“Good morning, little miss,” Mr. Mandrake said to me, “I've got a little gift for you.” He gave me a quarter. “Turn it over,” he said. I turned it over and over again. Both sides were heads. Both pictures of Queen Elizabeth. “Every magician needs a two-headed coin,” he said. “Remember how I got heads every time last night? Now you can do it all day long. When you get the other person to try it, give them an ordinary quarter, not this one.” Wink.

“Well,” said Dad, “Shall we go?”

"Where are we goin'?" said Grampa.

"You're not going anywhere just yet, Sonny. Martha and I are taking Mr. Mandrake here up to the Capitol Theatre, where he's going to rehearse for a big magic show he's putting on there tonight."

"The Capitol Theatre!" Grampa said. "Now there's a place I'd like to
go someday!"

In the hall, after I put my coat on and we were leaving, I said, "But Dad, the Capitol Theatre is..."

Dad put his finger to his lips and did a silent "Shh."

[The mom reading this leaves a long pause here.]

In the car my dad told Mr. Mandrake (was that his real name, I wondered) that we could take him right downtown because we had some other important messages to do. A lie.

"And, oh yes," said Dad. "Here's the reward for bringing my father home." Dad handed Mr. Mandrake a $20 bill (another picture of Queen Elizabeth).

Mr. Mandrake said, "Thank you," and put the money in the pocket of the coat Grampa gave him and stared straight ahead.

A block away from the Capitol Theatre and around the corner on Albert Street, we pulled over and let Mr. Mandrake off.

The homeless Mr. Mandrake.

He muttered, "Thanks," and walked away without looking back, into the still, softly falling Christmas snow.

And I learned about another word that day from my dad.

Dignity.

I was imagining the Capitol Theatre now, through the quiet snow – the word "Closed" in big letters on the lightless marquee and the sad, blank, tall boarded-up windows. And inside, in the darkness, the marble stairs curving silent up to the thick, old rose red carpet and the huge chandelier, somewhere up there in the gloom, like a great ghost, and the naked fairies dancing in the blackened woods.
"He's got the bare necessities," my dad said on our way home. "A full belly, warm clothes, money in his pocket and – most important of all – his dignity."

Then we parked the car and went in the house, where Mom and Grampa were waiting to decorate the tree. Bing Crosby was singing "Adeste Fideles" on the record player.

And I hugged my home to my heart with deep, deep and lucky love.

[The mom hesitates before looking up from the page and, when she finally does, she gets a hearty round of applause.]