Christmas Pizza
By D. L. Gollnitz
A knock hit the front door of the small house.
Maria hurried to answer, calling out to Avaria, her little granddaughter, nicknamed Ava. “Hush, child. This might be your Tio Jesús!” she said to the child.
Yanking the door open, Maria hoped to see her son. The young man waiting on the uneven porch was tall, huddled into his shoulders. Snowflakes dotted his thick eyelashes and long dark hair extended below the red cap on his head. His breath formed a mist of condensation in front of him.
Maria shrunk away from the wind that blew a flurry into her face. “Oh Jesús, what are you doing standing there? Come –”
“Ma’am? One cheese, two cokes?” the young man asked.
Maria looked into his face. “You’re not my son.”
“No, ma’am. Nick’s Pizza delivery. I have your order.”
“You have the wrong house,” Maria said.
Ava came to her grandmother’s side, clinging to Maria’s tattered apron, the one that meant she was busy in the kitchen. “Abuela, you promised pizza,” she pleaded.
“Hush, get out of the cold, child.” Maria dipped her chin in embarrassment.
Ava sidled back into the living room and stood in front of the small Christmas tree, smiling at the only decorations, twelve glittery paper triangles that fluttered on their pipe cleaners in the draft from the open door. The tree smelled like Christmas, and she was proud of her artwork she’d made herself in Sunday School. They made her abuela happy, too.
Through the short hallway, Ava could overhear the conversation at the door. The delivery man asked about the address, and her abuela told him it was correct.
“But I didn’t call for pizza.”
Stepping closer, Ava could see the man squinting at a piece of paper taped to the pizza box and heard him say, “Says here the order came in thirty minutes ago.”
Maria closed the door without replying, tears welling in her dark eyes. Ava came nearer and hugged her grandmother. “It’s okay, Abuela. I forget things, too. Does Uncle Jesús make pizza?”
“I don’t know.”
In the living room, Ava and Maria sat together on the worn couch. Wind rattled the windows and fat snowflakes splattered against the glass. Ava pulled a quilt from the arm of the couch and draped it over her grandmother’s lap. She snuggled closer and closed her eyes.
Ava could feel her grandmother’s heavy breathing as Maria drifted into sleep.
A pounding on the door startled Ava, but Maria was undisturbed. Ava walked quietly to the door, curious but a little afraid of who might be waiting outside.
A pizza box and two cokes sat on the mat by the door almost out of reach of the snow. A bag of breadsticks perched on top of the box. Nick’s Pizza was spelled out in red on the bag along with “Merry Christmas” that someone had printed in big letters.
“Are you my Tio Jesús?” Ava called to the man’s back as he hurried away.
He turned toward her and waved. “Have a blessed night!” he shouted.
D. L. Gollnitz is a former educator, author of two published novels, and quilter. She was born in New England and now lives in the Midwest with her husband.