Christmas Carol & the Defenders of Claus
Page 3
One day while explaining the differences between the executive, legislative, and judicial branches, Mr. Winters stood in the back of the room, pausing in his usual wandering. Suddenly, as if someone had fired a starter gun for a 100-meter dash, he sprinted down the center aisle and leaped, landing squarely in the middle of his still-empty desk. Amelia looked at me and whispered, “What in the world?”
“The executive branch is headed by the president,” Mr. Winters said. “His powers are checked by the legislative and judicial branches.” He began to pace on the desk. “If we didn’t have this system of checks and balances, what might happen?” He turned to the class. “Vincent, my prince, do you know?” That was another thing: each girl was “dear heart” or “m’lady” and each boy “prince” or “m’lord.”
Vincent squirmed; the prince, as usual, didn’t have a royal clue. “Uh, the government would lose its balance and … uh, couldn’t write checks.” Amelia giggled and Vincent shot her an icy movie villain stare. She, of course, always knew the answer.
Mr. Winters laughed, but in a kind way. “In a manner of speaking, m’lord. But that’s not the kind of check I mean.” He turned to me. “How about you, dear heart, what do you think might happen?”
I had to tilt back to look up at Mr. Winters. “Well, the president might have too much power, and even if he made horrible decisions and treated people badly, no one could stop him.”
“Ding-ding-ding-ding! You win the prize, dear heart!” And Mr. Winters leaped from the top of his desk, his head grazing the ceiling, a joyous smile on his face. I could have sworn he floated. I thought back to the smiling old reindeer and how he seemed to fly. Mr. Winters hit the floor so softly he barely made a sound. He squatted to look at me, eye level. “Remember, m’lady, power corrupts. And absolute power corrupts absolutely. Do you know what that means?” He was so close I leaned back involuntarily. I shook my head. “No one should have too much power in this world,” Mr. Winters said. “Even someone who is essentially good.” His breath smelled like coffee, but I also caught the distinct aroma of candy cane. “When people get too much power, terrible things happen. Will you remember that, dear heart?” He was pleading now. The playfulness had gone from his voice. I felt a pang of fear, as if his words were a warning. “Will you remember, m’lady?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
Mr. Winters stared at me so hard I had to look away. Then he smiled and stood back up. “On to the judicial branch.” And around the room he went. Only then did I begin to breathe again.
CHAPTER 3
Falling Off a Skyscraper
Life as I knew it changed on my trip to New York City. My uncle was heading to Manhattan a few weeks before Christmas on his annual trip to the National Game and Toy Convention, where he would show off International Toy’s newest stuff and see what the competition had to offer. I had been begging him for years to take me.
“Carol, dear, it’s not fun time,” the Voice of Reason explained when I asked yet again. “This is work. I can’t be dragging around an eleven-year-old.”
“I’m twelve,” I said. (How could he not remember my age?)
“Yes, well, a twelve-year-old either.”
“Gus could watch me while you’re in meetings. It would be awesome seeing the new toys.”
“No, Carol,” he said firmly, and that ended the conversation. At least until Mr. Winters intervened. On our very first day of class, he had given us an assignment. “My most loyal subjects,” he pronounced grandly. “I want you to partner with a classmate and do a project on a holiday tradition. Christmas, Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, since it’s this week—whatever you prefer. Just make it fascinating.” I raised my hand in excitement. “Yes, m’lady,” Mr. Winters said.
“Would the lighting of the Christmas tree in New York City be OK?”
“Perfect!” Mr. Winters exclaimed. “As long as you’re passionate about it.”
Vincent laughed. “That shouldn’t be a problem for Christmas Carol.” My face burned as everyone giggled along with him, but my thoughts were already well beyond our tiny classroom. Every year I watched the lighting of the Rockefeller Center tree on TV, and every year I dreamed of standing under that tree and staring up at its towering beauty, its lights like twinkling stars. Even though I had never so much as strapped on a pair of ice skates, I imagined gliding around the rink next to the tree as falling snowflakes turned Manhattan into a magical winter kingdom. That would be my project—I knew Amelia would be willing to pair up. And an eyewitness account of it would guarantee an A. I began to formulate a plan.
Gus picked me up after school every day except Fridays, when my uncle required him for another task, something to do with weekly reports that needed to be hand delivered to International Toy executives. I didn’t know for sure. All I knew was that on Fridays I had to be in front of the school by 3:15, where my uncle would be waiting—impatient as always. I had been late once, two years back, when I stayed after class for help with fractions. It was only a couple of minutes, but that had been long enough for my uncle to come looking for me. “Carol, dear, you mustn’t keep me from work.”
So the Friday after Mr. Winters assigned the project, the day after Thanksgiving—yes, Broward made us come back to school the day after the holiday; can you believe that?—Amelia and I hung around after class pretending we needed to “discuss” what we wanted to do. Amelia was in on the plan and smiled as I asked Mr. Winters for advice. He launched into a lecture about filling the project with “gripping details,” finding an “angle no one else had even dared to dream of,” and “making those viewing the display as delighted about the subject as you are.” He was still talking, and gesturing crazily, when my uncle appeared at the classroom door and pointedly cleared his throat.
Mr. Winters practically leaped from his chair, rushing to my uncle and extending his hand. “Such an honor, kind sir. Welcome to my classroom!”
Uncle Christopher hesitantly took Mr. Winters’ hand. “Yes, well, thank you. Carol, dear, we must be going.” My uncle noticed Amelia. “Hello, Amanda.”
I rolled my eyes and said, “It’s Amelia, Uncle Chris.” He’d met her like a hundred times! But Amelia just waved politely.
My uncle turned toward our teacher. “I really must get to work.”
Mr. Winters seemed not to hear or simply ignored him. “Come, come, enter my haven of learning. This dearest of hearts for whom you care is a wonderful girl.” He pulled his guest by the arm. My uncle squirmed.
“That’s good to hear,” he said impatiently, “but I must go. Duty calls.”
“Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. The three of us were discussing the project on holiday traditions I’ve assigned. The girls are doing one on the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree.”
That’s when I made my move. “My uncle’s going to New York City next weekend, Mr. Winters.” I hoped that was all it would take.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. He was nearly shouting. My uncle tried to pull away from the strange man whose hand still gripped his arm. Mr. Winters suddenly gasped and yelled, “Eureka!” so loudly that my uncle flinched and Amelia and I jumped. “You must take Carol so she can see the tree for herself! Perhaps Amelia’s mother would even allow her to go.” (We had already floated the idea to Mrs. Jimenez. Her only objection had been the money. I don’t want to say I lied, but I, um, hinted that my very generous uncle might be willing to pay for the trip.)
My very generous uncle shot me a nasty glare. “It’s a business trip, Mr. Winters, and it will spill into the school week. It would not do for the children to miss school.”
Mr. Winters waved away the objection as he might an annoying gnat. “Oh, poppycock. Missing a day of school never hurt anyone, especially for a chance to immerse oneself in a new experience. Life is an eminently better educator. I hereby grant you leave to take them, m’lord.” Mr. Winters turned to us. “Now, m’ladies, I expect an amazing project. Mr. Glover is making a great sacrifice to take you on his trip.”
The teacher turned and grasped the hand of my uncle, who seemed shell-shocked. “You don’t know how much it pleases me to see all you do for this dearest of hearts.” He shook my uncle’s hand so emphatically that his whole body quaked. For the first time I could ever remember, my uncle was speechless.
A week later, from seats on International Toy’s private plane, Amelia and I watched from high above as Hillsboro faded in the distance. I thought to myself: Next stop, New York City. Thank you, Mr. Winters.
Uncle Christopher warned us about the cold. The temperature Saturday was supposed to be in the teens—and we prepared as best we could. Amelia and I wore brand-new lined winter jackets, knit hats with puffy balls on top, and thick woolen mittens that made our hands feel like two loaves of bread in a warm oven. (The winter wear was courtesy of my uncle, who could be a generous guy sometimes, even if he did keep calling Amelia “Amanda.”) When we stepped off the plane and the cold air hit me, I expected to be miserable. Instead I felt exhilarated, breathing deeply and filling my lungs with the crisp air as we crossed the tarmac to the airport terminal. I felt like I could sprint down the runway and lift off, soaring over the skyscrapers of Manhattan. This was my first adventure, and it was going to be in the greatest city in the world to see one of my favorite things in the world. I hoped the tree was everything I imagined.
Four hours later Amelia and I sat impatiently in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria hotel on Park Avenue and 49th Street. We were only a few blocks from Rockefeller Center! A few more blocks from Times Square! And only fifteen blocks from 34th Street, where the “Miracle” happened! Miracle on 34th Street was a movie I’d watched a gazillion times, and I’d made Amelia watch it with me on my iPad on the flight to New York. “Again, Carol?” she’d complained, but then was sucked into the story just like me. We watched in rapt silence as Uncle Christopher tapped away on his laptop behind the desk he’d had specially installed on the plane and Gus snored in the fold-down seat across the aisle. I wished I could be the little girl whose mom worked at Macy’s. I wished I could be in that courtroom to testify for the man who claimed to be the true Santa.
Christmas movies and shows were an obsession of mine. (I know, I know, a real shocker!) I never miss an airing of It’s a Wonderful Life. I know I’ll be watching A Charlie Brown Christmas till I’m ninety. Rudolph, Frosty, The Grinch, and even A Christmas Carol (no jokes, please!)—I love them all. But Miracle on 34th Street held a special place in my heart. Amelia asked me why when we were on the plane.
“I love how the mom’s heart melts,” I explained. “How she falls for the nice lawyer who defended Kris Kringle, how she believed in Santa at the end and the three of them became a family.” Amelia nodded, but said nothing.
I knew it was fantasy, that Santa Claus didn’t make families whole, but I dreamed about my father’s return, how we would spend Christmases together for the rest of our lives, even someday when I had kids of my own. Or even if that never happened, maybe my uncle’s heart would melt just a little. Maybe he’d do more than have his assistant pick out a bunch of gifts for me for Christmas. Maybe he’d be touched by Christmas magic and we’d make hot cocoa together and sing carols and decorate the tree. Maybe it would be just like in the movies and we’d be a real family. Our own little “Miracle.”
But real life wasn’t the movies, of course, and now we were waiting in the hotel lobby for my uncle, who was “networking” or “merging” or “branding” or something else I didn’t pay attention to and sounded incredibly boring. “Carol, dear, I told you this was a business trip,” he’d said when I groaned.
“But we want to see the tree,” I whined.
“Just wait here and I’ll be done soon.” He pointed to a man in a tuxedo playing Christmas songs at a grand piano in the beautifully decorated lobby. “Listen to the music.” He led us to seats near the piano, bought us each a soda, and disappeared.
The piano man smiled at us. I was trying to enjoy the music, currently an upbeat version of “Winter Wonder-land,” but I was so eager to see the city I thought I might explode. “What do you think the tree will be like?” I asked. My legs bounced in my seat, up and down, side to side, squeaking on the leather sofa.
Amelia slapped her hand on my right leg to stop it. “Ay dios mio, Carol, chill! I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”
I nodded, trying and failing to hold still. “You want to know how tall this year’s tree is?”
“Not really.”
“Ninety-eight feet,” I said. “One of the biggest ever. It’s a Norway spruce they brought from upstate New York on a custom trailer.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You want to know how many lights they’re using?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“Eighteen thousand.”
“Fascinating,” Amelia said.
“We can use all that for our report.”
Amelia sighed. “Yes, Carol.”
Thirty minutes later, when Amelia and I were lying back on the sofa, struggling not to fall asleep (Amelia actually snored at one point), my uncle at last appeared. I jumped up from my seat, stumbling and almost falling into him. “Can we go now? Can we see the tree?”
“Not yet, Carol.” Impatience oozed from his voice. “I have one more thing to take care of.”
“Argh!” I exclaimed.
My uncle raised an eyebrow ominously. “I don’t want to hear it, Carol. You knew what you were getting into.” He turned and hurried through the lobby, Amelia and I following him out of the Waldorf and into a taxi. I sat in the middle, and as we rode through the city, I gave my uncle the silent treatment, which, admittedly, wasn’t too effective. He preferred silence. I wanted to pout, folding my arms across my chest, but I was soon mesmerized by the sights of the city and forgot all about that.
I’d never seen so many people in my life, scurrying in every direction. I leaned over Amelia, straining against my seat belt to get a better look. We flew down Park Avenue, the driver whipping in and out of traffic, ignoring the angry horns of cars he cut off. He took a right on 42nd Street, rounding a massive structure I recognized immediately. (I had studied every detail of the city before our trip.) “Grand Central station!” A massive wreath with a giant red bow hung above the entrance. A Salvation Army Santa stood in front, ringing his bell. People streamed in and out and I wished I could join them, dying to get a look at the huge interior, which I’d seen in tons of movies. But we kept going down 42nd Street, heading toward Times Square.
On the left I spotted a brightly lit area with a huge Christmas tree towering over it. “Bryant Park!” I yelled, leaning past my uncle.
He sighed. “Carol, dear, must you scream in my ear?”
I ignored him, watching the crowds make their way through the park and its village of Christmas vendors, streaming toward the giant ice rink that I’d read was larger than the one at Rockefeller Center. Even in the cab, I caught a whiff of cinnamon and pumpkin pie and peppermint and freshly baked gingerbread. A short time later, we turned right at 34th Street and I suddenly realized where I was. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest. “Macy’s!” I screamed. The cab driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“Carol!” Uncle Christopher snapped. “For goodness sake, calm down!” He leaned toward the driver, who was probably happy to be rid of me. “Right here is fine.”
Amelia and I spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of Macy’s. And there they were, right in front of us, the world-famous Macy’s holiday window displays. We sprinted over, for once Amelia’s excitement matching my own. The displays were amazing: an intricate traditional scene of Santa and his elves in his workshop; a “Nutcracker Suite” with marching toy soldiers; a Jack Frost winter wonderland; a mosaic of letters to Santa; a Hanukkah display; and on and on.
“Come on, girls,” my uncle said. We reluctantly turned to follow him, assuming we were heading to some boring o
ffice building. Then I realized he was going in. Inside Macy’s! Another miracle on 34th Street!
Goodness gracious, I’d never seen so many Christmas decorations in all my life. We followed Uncle Christopher past a massive tree covered in tinsel. Big red Christmas balls dangled from the ceiling. Shoppers swarmed around massive displays of perfume, fancy bags, clothes, electronics, toys, and anything else you could imagine buying someone for Christmas. A series of green wreath-like arches formed a sort of tunnel down an aisle leading to a bank of elevators. My uncle took us to one guarded by a security guy wearing a Santa hat. Uncle Chris showed him an ID, and the guard waved us onto the elevator.
Uncle Chris hit the button for the eighth floor and up we went with a whoosh. The doors opened and my heart skipped a beat. A sign outside the door read SANTA LAND. So cool! An arrow pointed left, but my uncle turned right.
“Can we go to Santa Land, Uncle Christopher?”
He smirked. “Carol, dear, aren’t you a little old for that? You are eleven now.”
“I’m twelve!” I shouted. Goodness, what was wrong with him? Amelia giggled, then quickly became serious when Uncle Christopher glanced at her as we walked down a long hall.
“All the more reason,” he said. “Santa Land is for little kids.” We reached the end of the hall and my uncle stopped in front of a plain wooden door with a sign that read MACY’S TOY DIVISION. He pointed to two chairs. “Wait here. This won’t take long.”
I sighed, and Amelia and I settled into the chairs to wait. I couldn’t believe we were like one hundred yards from Santa Land (in Macy’s!) and had to sit outside an office. Only my uncle could make Christmastime at Macy’s boring. And I don’t know what your definition of “won’t take long” is, but I’ll bet it isn’t the same as my uncle’s. We sat there for an hour! I was this close to marching right into that office and demanding to see him, no matter the consequences, when Amelia elbowed me and nodded to the other end of the hall.