This time each year I remember Willie. On the kindergarten registration form there was a question mark in the space for his last name. His age was listed as 4 or 5 and his guardian's name was simply Rose. Someone had penciled in the margin: [Aunt? Grandmother?].

It was my second year as a volunteer with the Headstart Program in rural Virginia where I was assigned to pick up the children each morning and drive them to the little white building that served as our school house. There we spent three hours a day trying to make up for years of deprivation.

The pupils were primarily children of farm workers. Some of them had never been away from their homes. They had never been in a store, held a book or ridden in a car.

It didn't take long to realize that Willie was an exceptional child. While the other children squirmed in their seats at story time, he hung on every word with the same eagerness that he brought to finger painting and building blocks. He would walk around the room, running his hands over the books and toys. But after a few days we realized that something was very wrong. Willie never spoke.

He responded promptly to directions and communicated by nods and shrugs. He drew intricate pictures filled with color, which we praised elaborately, trying to get him to talk. But Willie would just fold his papers carefully and put them in the pocket of his sweater to take home to Rose.

Willie was the first child picked up and the last child to take home. Unlike the other children who endlessly jockeyed for position in the front seat of the car, Willie happily sat in the back seat right behind me. He would rest his chin on folded arms and gaze out the window, fascinated by everything he saw. As we drove along I would ask questions and point out things I thought would interest him but nothing made him talk.

Entering the holiday season, the children were filled with excitement. We made pine cone turkeys for Thanksgiving, and hung paper chains and cutout snowflakes in all the windows. Each morning the children would gather around the piano to sing Christmas songs and speculate about what Santa Claus would bring. Like kids everywhere their lists were long and their expectations high.

While the other children spent free time playing games, Willie spent every spare minute bent over the Sears Christmas Catalog. No matter how often I walked by his chair, he would be staring at the same page. One day as I knelt beside him, he answered my unasked question by pointing to the picture of a beautiful red fire engine with a detachable ladder and a little hose that could be unreeled from the side of the truck. I didn't know what to say so I just smiled and patted his shoulder.

We were told that a local charity would be providing food baskets and there was also an allowance for $15 worth of merchandise for each child. At the committee meeting, I lobbied hard for toys instead of new underwear and socks. There would be dolls for the girls and fire trucks for the boys. They would be given out at the school party on Friday night.

All that week there was a buzz, but when Friday night arrived, our little pupils were strangely subdued. Many of them had come with their entire families, and as they filed into the rows of metal chairs, they clung to their mothers' hands as if they had never been in the school before.

Willie was the only child I had to pick up for the party. We had just arrived and picked our way to two vacant seats in the back row, when the back door flew open.

Framed in the doorway was Santa Claus, resplendent in red velvet and white fur. Carrying a huge bag of packages over each shoulder, he strode to the front of the room, whirled on the heel of his shiny black boot and shouted, "MER-REE CHRISTMAS! I felt a small hand slip into mine. For the first time, Willie had come across something too big to handle alone.

Santa began to call out the names alphabetically. When Wanda's name was called, I could feel Willie trembling. His name came right after hers. I gave him a reassuring hug as I slipped him off my lap, but when his name was finally called, he pressed back against my knees.

"Is there a Willie here?" Santa shouted. "There's a present up here that has his name on it". Fixing his eyes on the long box Santa held above his head, Willie began to walk slowly up the aisle. "Have you been a good little boy, Willie?" boomed Santa. Hands hanging by his sides, Willie stared mutely at the floor. Somebody laughed as Santa repeated the question. "Have you been a good boy, Willie?" "Yes", I called from the back of the room.

The children had been instructed to wait until all the names had been called before they opened their gifts, so as soon as Willie's name was read pandemonium broke loose. Oblivious to it all, Willie walked slowly back to where I sat waiting for him. Kneeling on the floor, he quickly ripped off the tissue paper, but when he saw the familiar picture on the white cardboard box he froze.

As they had so many times before, his fingers traced the outline of the engine, the little detachable ladder and neatly wound hose. Then he carefully opened the box, which held his very own fire engine. Cradling the toy in his arms, he stood up and looked once more to the front of the room where Santa stood. Then in a raspy voice audible only to me Willie broke his long silence.

Over and over he whispered: "Thank you, Santa Claus. Thank you, Santa Claus. Thank you, Santa Claus".

© 2001 by Phyllis Stein

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