“With pleasure,” she said, looking at him with fondness and admiration. “Hold out your plate.”
* * *
“Take some more,” insisted Matt.
His mother looked at him. “Are you feeling okay, honey?”
“Sure am. Come on, Mom, it’ll get cold.”
She stared at her plate. Her eyes grew watery, but she blinked away her tears. “It tastes good. It was thoughtful of you to get it.”
Matt smiled. “Albertson’s best. Turkey slices, dressing, yams, pumpkin pie. The whole nine yards.”
A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray at his mother’s elbow. She took a drag, set it down, and picked up her fork. The tines toyed with the dressing. She lifted some to her mouth.
Matt watched her. She seemed worn, drawn, her lipstick less than perfectly applied. Whatever had happened in dreamland, it was staying with him in spades. He was capable of change. He had changed. And he could bring Mom along with him. Of that, he had no doubt.
“I’m going to be okay from now on, Mom.”
“Hm?”
“I’ve found my moral compass.”
“Right. Now I know you’re off your feed.”
“No, really. You’ll see. I’m going to apply myself. I’ll find better friends. We’ll get back on track, you and me both. And I’ll go visit Dad.”
She snorted. “That worthless son of a bitch.”
“Don’t. Please. He treated us lousy. But we’re going to be different. No more meanness. Even if we think mean, we don’t have to speak mean.”
His mom’s eyes teared up. “Matty? Is that my boy? I let you go straight to hell, didn’t I? But you’re climbing out again, all on your own. It’s enough to sober a poor woman up.”
“You can do that if you want. I want you to. You can sober up.”
“Uh huh, and pigs can fly.”
“Don’t say that. I’ll help you.”
“You will?”
“Yep.”
She broke down. It scared Matt, and it thrilled him, to see her fall apart. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“Nothing, Mom. You were yourself, is all. You’re my mom and we’re together, and we’re going to make the best of things. Day by day, we’re going to make the really swell best of things.”
Matt had never felt so sure of anything in his life. He got up and hugged his mom in her tired old dress and doused perfume. And she hugged him back, seizing him like the life preserver he was.
* * *
The oil lamp on Wendy’s nightstand bathed her parents in wondrous light. Snowball and Nightwind hunched at the foot of the bed, waiting for her tucking-in and for the lamp to be blown out so they could circle into cozy nests on her left and right.
Wendy sighed. “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it?”
“Thanks to you and Santa,” said her mother.
“Indeed,” said Anya.
Santa looked boyishly modest. Wendy felt closer to him than ever before. He was much more like his old self than she could remember.
“Do you guys want a glimpse into Jamie’s future?”
Her suggestion met with immediate approval.
“Okay.” Wendy sat up and brought to life moments with Jamie and his parents, Jamie triumphant on the violin, amusing episodes from high school and beyond. He studied at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, where he found and lost his first love. “But he’ll be all right later, when he meets Tom.” Wendy skipped ahead to that, their chance encounter at a mutual friend’s birthday gathering in Manhattan.
“It’s good to see him grown up,” said Santa, his voice cracking a little.
Anya said, “I’m proud of you both.”
“Me too,” said Rachel, giving Wendy an extra fierce hug. “Now it’s bedtime for all of us, don’t you think?”
Wendy said, “Uh huh,” and let the scenes fade away. She exchanged hugs and kisses with soft-whiskered Santa, Anya in her knit cap and flannel nightgown, and Mommy wearing a red silk nightshirt that fell to mid-thigh and rode up a little as they embraced.
Santa blew out the lamp. “Good night, fellow savior,” he said with a hearty chuckle. Then they stole from the bedroom and shut the door and at once two cozy cat bodies curved about to box Wendy in with their purrs.
She was too excited to fall asleep. She waited a bit, then brought up more of Jamie’s future, muting the volume so much she could barely hard to hear the mortals who passed before her.
Jamie’s life wasn’t perfect. But Wendy found herself transfixed by the imperfections, the meannesses visited upon this good little boy by bigoted people as he grew. They weren’t as ugly as the ones she and Santa and the Easter Bunny had averted. Still, they troubled her.
I wonder, she thought. Would I have become just as mean if I had stayed mortal? Nope, definitely not!
But she wasn’t all that different from those she observed, not in any fundamental way. So what stopped mortals from being more pleasant to one another? They spoke a whole bunch, in kindergarten and in their churches, mosques, and synagogues, about being good and kind. Why, even atheists, agnostics, and anarchists hewed to high moral standards. Everyone touted "acting nice" to their children. But when those children outgrew childhood, they followed the example of the generation before them, deeds, as always, trumping words. With rare exceptions, their heads of state turned into bloodsuckers and warmongers, embracing outright moral perversity while parroting religious platitudes about the sanctity of life and political tall tales that trumpeted their nation’s unstained virtues.
It was completely insane, when you thought about it.
Wendy furrowed her brow and thought about it a lot.
But eventually, fatigue caught up with her. Snowball and Nightwind settled into sleep, and Wendy’s eyes closed on the end of a very special Thanksgiving Day.
* * *
In the dead of night, Gronk crept into the elves’ quarters. He had been here before, of course, eavesdropping on the odd early-morning conversation or on post-lights-out bull sessions, bunk to bunk.
But never had he stolen in betwixt snort and snore, observing the sleep of the innocent, this mostly harmonious band of brothers who took incomprehensible delight in nonstop toy making. What was missing in the rough and tumble of his brothers, these elves had. And Gronk stewed in envy of them. Their motives remained a mystery, yet he craved their perfect life even as he knew he would never, failing divine miracle, attain it.
His unclipped toenails clicked on the heated tile floor, sharp to his ears, soundless to theirs. The high oak ceiling offered an artful patterning of skylights, through which a sky filled with stars bathed the dozing elves in silver hues. Here lay the mute Herbert, even his night sighs silent. Nearby, the triple bunk bed with Fritz atop Karlheinz atop Max. And yonder, Heinrich, the dollmaking sextuplets who went by one name, their long black beards lying upon their blankets like half a dozen martens, sleek and well-brushed.
Gronk reviewed the roster of helpers, seeking those with the least penchant for judgmentalism. It mattered not upon what subject their judgments dwelt. If he had any chance of sowing dissension among the ranks, these elves would be the ones to whisper to as they slept. What had Mommy told him to stir up? Ah yes, holier-than-thou-ism.
His best chance, he thought, surely lay with the elves most in awe of Gregor. So dropping to all fours, he brought his lips to the ears of the score of sleepers who stood foursquare behind the grump-meister of the stables.
“Thou art special,” whispered Gronk. “Because they are too dull to appreciate the merits of Gregor’s cause (or worse, resist it), thy brothers are far more dense in the pia mater than thou, that shineth in intelligence and perception. If only all elves could be like thee. What harmony would be restored to the North Pole then.”
It was exasperating work, this whispering at bedsides. The elves’ natural goodness beat back Gronk’s blandishments, even in the vulnerable and unguarded state of sleep.
But patience. Tonight was the first of
many nights. What though he burrowed but the tenth part of a hair into their simple noggins this night, he would make steady progress, building on past inveiglings, seeking in his daily spying the slightest sign of success—an eyebrow raised, a mumbled demurral, a look askance at a fellow elf.
By these would his whisperings be guided and encouraged.
Those who opposed Gregor? They too he visited, tickling their ears with foul suggestion. Many were utterly impervious, Fritz, Herbert, Franz, and Gustav among them, stalwart souls even in slumber. But others offered ingress. Johann carried signs of weakness in his face, and Knecht Rupert wore the hint of a frown as Gronk disturbed his dreams. To them, he muttered, “Gregor sins. He is a lonely scamp whose job gives him too much free time to plot mayhem and lord it over the rest of you. He puts on the mantle of power to cloak inadequacies. Why, he himself is a ferocious nosepicker, a rank hypocrite. How much better an elf art thou, that sees through his antics? Better than Gregor, better than his thuggish brothers, better than your simpleminded brethren, who are utterly confused by Gregor’s rants, or worse, embrace and promulgate them, heart and soul.”
All night long, Gronk slipped from bunk to bunk.
Doltish all, thought he. Pan’s compliant slaves, who had quite forgotten their lives as satyrs. They seemed like lost brothers to himself and his siblings. Creeping so close brought a further benefit: It gave the impression of camaraderie; it held off loneliness for the nonce. Gronk toyed in fancy. What if his words one day brought them full awake? What if they rose up and destroyed this balsawood world of perfection, the candles, the candy canes, the hot cider, the carols, the shine of tinsel, the rustle of wrapping paper, and the intricate craftsmanship of their creations—gone to hell in one frenzied hour, after which they turned their mayhem upon Santa Claus and his family, and at last, in the depravity of their madness, upon themselves, lost in a sea of hatred and blood?
Gronk chuckled at the vision. Dancing about in a silent night of envy, he continued making imperceptible gains at the receptive ears of these sweet-smelling sleepers.
PART TWO
Michael Does Good
Chapter 23. This Plum is Too Ripe
THE FOLLOWING DAY, AS HIS WORKSHOP buzzed with activity, Santa summoned master weaver Ludwig to the office. Ludwig was wise in the ways of elfdom, his conversation as richly textured, colorful, and appealing as the bolts of fabric that sprang to life when his fingers touched them.
“I was a bit harsh, flying in like that, wasn’t I, speaking to all of you that way?”
“Well, Santa,” said Ludwig with a squint and a thoughtful tug at his beard, “I can appreciate why. Shoddy is unacceptable. And we were off our feed. Still are, to a degree. Harsh? I’d say so. But you were on a divine mission, were you not? You can’t have the troops not pulling their weight when you’re on a divine mission. It reflects ill on the entire operation. Kinder in berating us you might have been. It isn’t like you, this impatience. Only a saint could suffer shoddy with equanimity; yet you are, or were, and continue to be a saint.”
“True.”
“One might be excused for wondering, if I may be so bold, what possible perturbations churn in your own soul.”
Santa bristled. “Master weaver, my good fellow, we are talking about my helpers—”
“I understand.”
“—not about me. I want to know if there’s anything more I can do to restore harmony.”
Ludwig pursed his lips and pondered. “Well, now,” he said with a sigh, putting a hand to the back of his neck. “I tell you, Santa, that’s a hard ‘un to answer. Thanks to certain unnamed elves who’ve got their eye on the ball, things are turning around. So they assure us, at any rate. Is there anxiety? A tad. About what, it were best not to say.”
“Why not? Why conceal it from me?”
“There’s a certain...embarrassment that would ensue. We are an ingrown group. Peculiarities develop, for reasons that defy knowing. But we have a handle on them. All will be well, and shortly, unless I much mistake.”
A smile came to Santa’s face. “Ah, Ludwig, you’re as elusive as a fistful of air.”
Ludwig maneuvered himself into a smile. “Elusive, am I? Well I don’t mean to be. But things work out the way they’re supposed to. We all have our tasks, our frets and joys and moments of idleness. But if our weaves get tangled, if the centipede tries to stop each leg from realizing its own nature in its own good time, there comes a stumbling, an unraveling, chaos heaped upon chaos. Best leave it alone. There’s a sorting out it were better not to force. Or so a craftsman’s instincts tell him.”
Thoughtful silence wrapped them about.
“I see,” said Santa. “All right, Ludwig. You may return to your weaving.” He leaned forward. “But if your craftsman’s instincts ever tell you something different, that door is always open.”
Ludwig nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s a comfort.”
Santa watched the master weaver bow and take his leave, not at all pleased with what had been said, what left unsaid. His and Wendy’s recent triumph, as noble as it was, could not counter the disturbances that festered inside the community and Santa’s heart.
He had a sudden urge to unload upon the Easter Bunny. A visit to that unworthy was due, though not yet. Keep your mind on your helpers, he thought. And on the issue. The one Ludwig so coyly sidestepped. Yet the vexatious rabbit lingered in his thoughts.
Santa raised his head, recalling a tang upon the tongue, a fizz in the nostrils. It was time for a Coke. His thirst was in desperate need of a good quenching.
Off he went to the squat red rectangular dispenser in one corner of his office. Harrigan Dispensing, Inc. was punched in raised metal letters painted in white script across its front.
A nagging itch, he thought, demands a good scratch.
* * *
Later that afternoon, the Easter Bunny sat hunched like a nervous pod in his exercise area. His nose twitched. His tail twitched. His ears caught the least disturbance: the distant hum of machinery, the brood and ruffle of innumerable hens, the romp and roll of pastel eggs down long smooth rosewood troughs toward storage bins deep underground.
At first he thought he was only imagining the sound of sleigh bells. He assured himself this auditory chimera merely reflected his guilt over...what? Something that refused all recollection. Though his life brimmed with joy and contentment, there was a leaden underlay of sorrow, of not-right-ness, to it.
What could be the cause?
Then the high jingle of bells, silver ones rounded into spheres and punched with an open cross, grew more distinct. Panic filled his heart. Santa Claus was coming and, as before, he would not be pleased. As before? The Easter Bunny could not recall a previous visit of any sort, yet his tummy hurt where a stab of hooves had once raised blood. His cheeks, across which the tip of an antler had seared a line of fire, likewise gave an involuntary twitch.
The ground trembled, a ring of light flared open, and through it dashed Lucifer carrying the somber old elf on his back.
Santa dismounted. “No need to panic,” he said upon seeing the Easter Bunny’s fright. “I’m not angry this time. You have a chair? No matter. Straw will suffice.” He made to sit on the ground.
“Outside, perhaps?”
“Good. After you, sir.”
The Easter Bunny hopped toward the entrance and found open ground among the trees in warm sunlight. An outcropping of rock afforded his visitor a seat. Nearby, Lucifer grazed among the mosses.
“Now sir, to my agenda.”
It felt odd to be called sir, but he said nothing.
“First, my thanks for your part in saving the child. Do I envy you your skill with insufferably dense and wayward mortals? Of course. I admit it. But each of us has talents uniquely ours, and no one can be all things to all people. So thank you. Wendy’s pleased, I’m pleased, and I’ll wager the Father’s pleased too. It’s always good to be on the side of the angels.
“That said, something about l
ast night’s collaboration troubled me. I sensed your hurt and confusion at my mood. And you, no doubt, were aware of my upset over you. Well, I think you deserve to know why I harbor such a deep—oh, call it what it is—distaste and loathing for you.”
The Easter Bunny choked up. “You loathe me?”
Santa nodded and went straight to the point. “You want to know why. I’ll tell you. You once had genitals.”
“I did?”
“But God erased them, along with all recollection of your misdeeds. Once not so long ago, you were lonely and lustful, you envied me my wives, my community of helpers, and my association with a cheerier time of the year than Easter; though in the end, of course, the underlying message of Easter is far cheerier and of greater import than Christmas’s.” He raised a hand. “No point in arguing that. I was told that you had been transformed, your crotch gone smooth beneath the fur, your hormones no longer raging, your memories of that time expunged. I was not told I could not stir up those memories. Therefore, open your eyes and see.”
Santa, an intensity to his look, gestured at the clearing. There the Easter Bunny saw himself stare hungrily into bedroom windows; engage in his burrow with a wire-mesh doll-bunny named Petunia; attempt to seduce Mrs. Claus by showing her the woodland hut Santa had built for his trysts with the Tooth Fairy, and then showing her the self-same lovers going at it. There then arose the Tooth Fairy’s island, where he heard himself snitch on Santa, who had jilted her for Rachel McGinnis, and witnessed the Tooth Fairy’s savage rape of him to enlist his services as her henchmen and spy.
Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes Page 18
