Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes by Robert Devereaux

Kathy said.
    “Joe’s a homo, and I’m a chump. But they say alcoholics hide it too, even from their friends. And smokers use breath mints.”
    The bedroom rushed up around them. Kathy patted Walter on the back. “Calm down, honey.” Then to Santa: “Is this proper for your little girl? Why show us this anyway?”
    In reply, Santa gestured and Kathy’s workplace came into view. The dyke from down the hall had dropped by for feedback on an article she had written, Jane Miller, her hair that shocking short crop of red that alerted other lezzies to her propensities. Jane was bold and shameless. She pressed every wrong button.
    Kathy stiffened. “Are you suggesting, you are, aren’t you, that I should accept this creature—who does unspeakable things with others of her ilk—as normal?” She was having a hard time. Here stood this miraculous elf, the epitome of goodness, long associated with the season of her Savior’s birth, confronting her with one of the most distasteful elements of the secular world.
    “Take a closer look,” said Santa.
    She did. And Jane Miller’s thoughts and impulses too were open to her. Anticipation of being with the boyfriend she lived with. Her complete lack of religious feeling, yet a fundamental decency at her core. A view of life Kathy could not parse.
    “Why,” said Kathy, “she isn’t a lesbian at all. She’s one of us. But then why does she make herself look so...so spartan? I’ve been narrow, haven’t I? I shouldn’t be so quick to judge or assume.”
    “Don’t judge,” said Santa. “Don’t assume at all.” The frown marks about her mouth were the last things Kathy saw as the work scene faded. “Simply love. It’s what Christ commanded.”
    “You know, Santa,” said Walter, “I’m starting to notice a thread in what you’re showing us. All this homo stuff. Listen, we’re just a normal family living day by day. I’m a good provider. We’re active in our church. We have two great kids. Kurt’s a killer athlete. And Jamie...well, Jamie excels at school. You’re trying to make us change, aren’t you? But why should we? These people have no right to special privileges. They ought to crawl back inside the closet, cover themselves in shame, and rein in their ungodly tendencies. But whatever they do, it has nothing to do with us. We’re upstanding Christians, we pick our friends carefully, and we’ve chosen to lead a life of righteousness. What more can be asked of us?”
    As Walter spoke, Kathy saw that Santa was fighting to keep from interrupting. Then he calmed himself, came over to Walter, put a hand on his shoulder, and said softly, “Behold your sons.”
    Once more the bedroom dissolved, and before them arose her boys’ bedroom. There lay Kurt, a soccer star at thirteen, his father’s pride and joy. Near him slept his more fragile, more studious brother Jamie, only eight.
    But Kathy saw more deeply into them than ever before.
    She had always marveled at the differences between them. Kurt was wild and unbounded, good but not great in his studies, a prankish humor about him, always looking years older than his age, a cut-up at Bible camp, starting to show an interest in girls but respectful toward them. She and Walter had been at pains to keep him away from the filth in movie theaters and the jungle noise that blared from car radios.
    Then she peered into Jamie, her mild boy, clinging to her much longer than Kurt as a toddler. Jamie was more intent, more serious, disliking physical activity. He had gravitated toward music, the good kind, classical and uplifting musicals from the past that taught moral lessons. She was struck by his determined devotion to the violin, a driving impulse in him even more than she had realized. But something else shocked her to the heart. “He’s eight years old,” she said, “how can he be...no, he can’t be.”
    “Who touched him?” asked Walter. “Tell me who it was. I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
    “No one