It was snowing lightly that Christmas Eve. On a back street near the railroad tracks in lower Tupper Lake a light glared from one of two second-story windows in an old frame house. The only decoration of the window was a partially drawn shade, its circular pull dangling. The window frame had been painted many times. Its checkered paint was badly chipped. Inside, curly-haired brown-eyed Susie sat huddled over a hot water radiator as she stared out watching snow soften the contours of Adirondack poverty.

Behind her, Brian had been whimpering quietly in front of the television for a long, long time. His alligator program interrupted for a Coca Cola commercial and he broke off to complain, �I�m hungry.� The four-year-old with the runny nose and weepy eyes turned up the pitch and wailed, �Wake momma up. Want my oatmeal. She gotta' git up.�

Susie, weighed down by her two years of seniority, started toward him but a wounded beast of an old Buick missing a headlight grabbed her attention. Snowflakes lit up like tiny feathers in the beam cast by its single eye as it crept to a stop in front of their shabby house. Her heart sank. Two teen-age boys in oversized hooded sweatshirts and nylon baseball jackets hurried into the alley and slammed the back door as they entered the flat beneath Brian and Susie. �It�s Mikey and Peter. One of their headlights gone out,� she said to Brian. �Wished it was the pizza man.�

The two runaway boys had moved in downstairs when the previous tenant went to jail on a burglary charge. So far the absentee landlord had not learned of these impromptu arrangements.

Susie, in her raveled purple sweater, turned again toward her charge. She put a forefinger to her lips and hissed, �Shhhhh,� then went to him and laid an arm around the little boy�s shoulders. �Momma need her rest. She just stopped coughing.� Susie smoothed Brian�s red hair and tucked his soiled sweatshirt into the elastic band of his dungarees. �There�s a little more flour. How �bout I make some bap?�

Brian wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up at Susie, adoring now instead of angry. �Can I help?�

�Sure can. You can stir.� They stood up from the worn carpet. Susie turned off the television. The Goodwill people had not included a remote when, in better days, their mother had proudly purchased this constant companion for the children.

In the kitchen Susie used a stepstool to retrieve a sauce pan and a spoon from the sink where several other partially-washed dishes and utensils lay. She filled a glass with water and set all three items neatly in a row on the kitchen floor in front of Brian. She brought out what was left of a five-pound sack of Gold Medal flour from the lower cupboard and poured those last few ounces of rich white powder into the pan. �Ready to stir?� she asked.

Brian, eyes popping with delight, reached for the spoon. �Now, should I now?�

�You stir an� I�ll add water. Stir easy.�

Soon they had about two ounces of paste. �Can I eat some?� Brian asked.

�Just a little. We can each taste a little. It�s better cooked up nice and brown.�

Brian put a big spoonful in his mouth and his eyes rolled in delight as he murmured �eehmm goob.�

�That�s too much!� Susie took the spoon away and made a tiny morsel for herself. She rolled it around her tongue and loved its morphing into sweetness as saliva diluted and digested it. �It�s good but wait till we cook it brown like Momma does.�

Susie used the stepstool to put the sauce pan on one of the stove�s electric burners and turned it on. �Go watch the TV. It�s got to cook a minute,� she said leading Brian by the hand back to the television. She snapped it on, intending to go back to cooking, but there was Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus and a whole bunch of elves around a dining room table laden with a turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. These two Adirondack urchins were transfixed. �What they eatin�?� asked Brian.

�That�s Santa�s family. They havin� a Christmas dinner.�

The elves were acting up, shooting peas at each other with spoons. Santa snuck a thumbfull of pumpkin pie. Mrs. Claus tried to get him to concentrate on carving the turkey.

Brian giggled. Both kids salivated and dreamed of such a meal of their own. �Do they have pizza for Christmas?� Brian pleaded. �I�d want some pepperonis on mine.�

�I don�t think they do but that�d be good. Look at that little elf with the peg leg. He�s sneakin� some of that red stuff.�

�Funny smell.� Brian said, sniffing and looking around.

Susie sprang to her feet and ran into the kitchen. There, smoke poured from the pan on the stove. She ran screaming into her mother�s bedroom. �Momma, the stove�s on fire.� She shook the unresponsive bundle buried in covers. �Momma, wake up; call the fire engine.� She ran back into the kitchen, grabbed a broom and knocked the smoking pan onto the floor. There was nothing left of the bap but a charred cinders.

Brian was screaming in terror. Susie rushed to the sink and got a glass of water that she threw on the still-smoking mess that hissed for a moment, and then stopped.

Susie pulled Brian to her, hushing him. �Shhh, quiet. It�s OK. Fire�s out.�

Brian peeked out from the cover of his sister�s sweater, took a breath and coughed on the smoke. Susie went to the bedroom door and closed it saying, �Guess Momma is real tired.�

Footsteps pounded up the back way and the kitchen door burst open with Peter and then Mikey close behind. Their heads were out of their sweatshirt hoods now. Peter, the lanky six-footer with long blond hair and a wisp of a moustache, was in the lead. �What�s going on? You tryin� to burn the house down? Where is your momma?� he shouted.

Mikey, his shaven head glistening like Mussolini�s in the glare of the bare overhead light bulb, was the slower moving and shorter of the two. He surveyed the scene and calmly said, �Pizzz, fire�s all out.�

But Peter had taken hold of Susie�s thin shoulders and was shaking her, �What�s going on here? You want to get the cops here? You want to get us thrown out on our asses. It�s cold out there. Where�s your Momma?�

Mikey stepped between them, quietly freeing Susie and facing Peter. �Cool it. Fire�s out. Don�t be wakin� up the neighbors.�

Susie grabbed Brian and the two of them hid behind Mikey. Mikey turned to them saying, �You two OK? Nobody burned?�

Susie said, �We�re OK, we was makin� bap but it got burned up.�

�Bap?� Mikey said. �You mean with milk and flour in a pan and you try to make it brown on the bottom?�

�Uh hu,� nodded Susie.

�My ma used to make bap when we were out of food coupons. Jesus, it was good. I couldn�t wait till we was out of coupons. Peter, you ever have bap?�

�No, I never had no bap and I don�t even believe you ever had a mother.�

�Well I did, till her old-fart boyfriend kick me out. I get a little bigger I�m going back and kick his ass out.�

Susie�s finger went to her lips �Shhh, you gotta be quiet. Momma sleepin�.�

Brian sucked his thumb.

�Huh, we don�t gotta' nothin�,� Peter said. He opened the ancient refrigerator. �Nothin� in here. Light don�t even go on.� He slammed the refrigerator closed then smirked, �Hey, you know what the mouse said when the old lady asked him what he was doin� in the fridge? He said �This is a Westinghouse, isn�t it? I�m just �westing.� Get it. He was �westing.� Ha ha.�

Susie put her shushing finger to her lips, �Shhh. Be quiet, Momma�s in there sleepin�.� and she pointed to the bedroom. Peter raised his shoulders, put a finger to his own lips and did a mocking tiptoe toward the living room.

Brian giggled at the sight.

Mikey laughed gently. �We could open some windows but there ain�t that much smoke and it�s cold out there.�

Peter called from the living room in a stage whisper, �Nice TV in here. We could get a couple of bucks for it at the Greek�s. Where�s the remote?�

�Don�t have a remote,� Susie answered.

Mikey moved to the living room door, �Greek won�t take it without a remote. Let�s get out of here.�

Brian trailed behind Peter, �You wanna' watch the alligator show?�

�Might be a good show,� Peter said lowering his lanky frame into a bean bag chair that was leaking plastic pellets. �Come on, sit on my lap, little tiger.� And Brian started toward him.

But Mikey was right there. �None of that stuff,� he said grabbing Peter�s thin arm. With a yank, he had him on his feet and moving toward the kitchen. �Come on, numb nuts, I gotta eat. Let�s go shake the Pizza Tree.�

Brian ducked out of the way into Susie�s arms and both of them echoed, �Pizza Tree?�

�You kids be good. Stay away from that stove. Let your momma do the cookin',� Mikey called as, in their Nike Air Zoom Vick Threes, the boys clumped through the kitchen and down the back stairs.

Susie and Brian pulled two bean bags together in front of the television and switched on �Krypto the Super Dog.� They pulled an afghan around them that their mother had stolen from her parent�s house when she first got pregnant and ran away.

Susie remembered the flour bag and went to the kitchen to bring it back. They tore it into pieces and got great pleasure licking off the remains of the flour. �Wish this was pizza,� Brian said.

�Or turkey. I wonder if there is a turkey tree, too,� his sister said as Krypto, the big hero dog, rescued his little black partner from ferocious �Pit-bully.�

Downstairs Mikey had a cell phone in his right hand while he inhaled deeply on a cigarette. He had found the cell during a previous shaking of the Pizza Tree. It was in a dumpster alongside the pineapple and salami pizza they had ordered. The phone reminded him of that delicious treat and his mouth watered. He could virtually taste the exotic mix of flavors. He and Peter had fed themselves with that trick all across the Adirondacks. They�d think of a weird pizza, order it over the phone, to be eaten in. When no one showed up and the proprietor despaired of selling it, he would throw it in the dumpster and the boys would dive in after. Trouble is, it can take all day to get served, Mikey thought.

Peter looked at him irritably. �Smokin�ll kill yah. Yah know that?�

�Yeah, so�ll not eatin�. What should I order?�

�We ain�t got no dough.�

�So we�ll dig it out of the dumpster.�

�I�m tired of that. That hamburger, cheddar cheese and sardines you dreamed up made me sick. Let�s bop some delivery guy. We�ll get some regular food and it will be hot.� Then he added, �Maybe he�ll be carrying some change too.�

Mikey thought for a moment, dragging in and then exhaling clouds of smoke into Peter�s face and laughing as Peter frantically waved the fumes away. Mikey said, �You hurt another pizza guy and we�ll be doin� jail time. You almost killed that last poor son-of-a-bitch with your ball bat.�

�Cause you�re too chicken to bop one.�

�Don�t make me bop you.�

�You try it some time.�

�Peter, all you need to do is scare the guy. He drops the food and runs. That�s what they tell �em to do. That�s what I done when I was working for Papa John�s. Don�t make no sense to fight for a couple bucks.�

�Just do it. Call that new place uptown. They won�t be so careful yet.�

�Where we gonna' nail him?�

�At that vacant shack down the street.�

�OK, OK, I�ll tell them it�s a ski party. Free beer and big crowd comin'. Need a lot of food."

Brian had fallen asleep under the afghan. Susie slipped back over to her window and gazed listlessly out. Then a car bearing a triangular sign on its roof, �Fat Sam's,� pulled to a stop and flashed a spotlight. Susie�s eyes riveted.

Mikey had made the pizza call and he and Peter hid themselves in the darkness of an alley a few doors down. Lights from neighboring windows tempered the snowy gloom. Mikey walked out of the yard and in a friendly voice called. �Got some pizza for the party? Bring it around here.�

A figure dressed in a bright red Santa suit and sporting a white beard popped out of the car and extracted two boxes and three bags. �Two pepperoni, large wings and four subs comin� up.�

Pizza Santa started down the alley with his load when Peter charged at him waving his baseball bat, yelling �Run you sucker.�

Susie leapt to her feet and exclaimed, �Look out!�

With a push of the bat Peter knocked the boxes and packages sprawling from Santa�s arms and Santa ran for his car.

Susie could not believe what she saw. Brian woke and started a lazy whimper as he came over beside her and tried to understand.

Peter was yelling again, �Wait a second, you. You got any money? Give it here,� as he ran after his victim.

Santa, a small but quick man, reached into his car, pulled out a pellet gun that was modeled after a military rifle but was a size too small to be convincing.

Mikey yelled, �Look out! Gun!�

Santa pumped the action and fired twice, hitting Peter once in the chest and once on the right cheek.

Peter hesitated, wiped blood from his cheek, and enraged, resumed his charge. He swung the bat and connected twice with Santa�s head. The blows produced sounds like melons hitting a brick floor. The man fell into the snow. His red hat gone, a crimson halo formed in the snow around his head.

Susie gasped. �They killed Santa. He was bringing pizza for Christmas!�

Brian said, �There�s pizza all over?�

Peter raised his bat to swing again at the still body but Mikey hung on to his arm. �Get the stuff. I think you killed him.�

�What about money?

�Forget it, someone�s out on the porch next door.�

The boys scooped up the boxes and bags of food. They ran through the snow into their own temporary quarters downstairs from the children and disappeared.

Inside the boys threw the food on the kitchen table and themselves, breathless, into rickety kitchen chairs.

�I told you, just scare him,� Mikey said.

�The prick had a gun.�

�It was a toy.�

�Yeah, look he shot me in the face,� said Peter pushing his face into Mikey�s and pointing at the quarter-inch bruise and the trickle of blood on his right cheek. �What if he hit me in the eye?�

�Come on, let�s eat. This stuff is getting cold. Put some in the oven.� Peter obediently turned the oven on low, put a bag of wings, a pizza and two subs into it and closed the door. Then they were transfixed by the wail of a siren and then two more. In the street outside there was a tumult as State Police and neighbors followed the tracks in the new snow into the house and poured in on them.

Upstairs Brian and Susie heard the sirens and watched an ambulance streak by, then two State Police cars with their red and white bubble gum machines casting beams of jarring red and white light to pierce the dark. The kids watched the show in excitement and then fear as the posse of police and neighbors invaded the house.

There were shouted voices and noisy footsteps downstairs as the boys were arrested, handcuffed and taken away. Then all was silent again except for Tom and Jerry on television. Brian and Susie looked at each other. This time Susie was at a loss. Finally Brian said, �Does Santa have a Pizza Tree?�

Maybe she answered, �Let�s look downstairs.�

�Should we tell Momma?�

�She still sleepin�.�

The two went silently down the dark back stairs and entered the first floor kitchen. The police had left the kitchen lights on but the place was deserted. They had taken along the food that remained on the table possibly for evidence.

The aroma of oregano, tomatoes and pepperoni still filled the kitchen and a little smoke came from the oven. Susie rushed to the stove and opened the oven door. She took a flowered hand towel from the cupboard and pulled the hot containers from the oven, spilling wings and subs and pizza in a cornucopia across the floor.

�It must have been a big Pizza Tree,� Brian crowed.

Susie said, �I guess so.�

�Can we have some?�

�We shouldn�t waste it.�

The children sat on the kitchen floor for their Christmas dinner and gorged on chicken wings, turkey subs and pepperoni pizza. Susie said, �Save some for Momma. She�ll be hungry when she wakes up.�

Back upstairs, Susie turned off the light that had flooded from their window and tucked the two of them into bed. Outside the snow had stopped and a bright moon shone on the deep snowy blanket that comforted their venerable home.