Once we got home, there was barely time to enjoy our presents. We had to go off to our grandparents’ house for our annual Christmas dinner. As we drove down the highway through town, I noticed that the f***ly was still there, standing outside the closed gas station.
My father was driving very slowly down the highway. The closer we got to the turnoff for my grandparents’ house, the slower the car went. Suddenly, my father U-turned in the middle of the road and said, “I can’t stand it！”
“What？” asked my mother.
“It’s those people back there at the Pan Am, standing in the rain. They’ve got children. It’s Christmas. I can’t stand it.”
When my father pulled into the service station, I saw that there were five of them: the parents and three children—two girls and a small boy.
My father rolled down his window. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Howdy,” the man replied. He was very tall and had to stoop slightly to peer into the car.
Jill, Sharon, and I stared at the children, and they stared back at us.
“You waiting on the bus？” my father asked.
The man said that they were. They were going to Birmingham, where he had a brother and prospects of a job.
“Well, that bus isn’t going to come along for several hours, and you’re getting wet standing here. Winborn’s just a couple miles up the road. They’ve got a shed with a cover there, and some benches,” my father said. “Why don’t you all get in the car and I’ll run you up there.”
The man thought about it for a moment, and then he beckoned to his f***ly. They climbed into the car. They had no luggage, only the clothes they were wearing.
Once they settled in, my father looked back over his shoulder and asked the children if Santa had found them yet. Three glum faces mutely gave him their answers.
“Well, I didn’t think so,” my father said, winking a