The reporters burst into a cacophony of questions. The sergeant and lieutenant did their best to answer them over the head of the woman who had taken in the little girl abandoned on the street.
“…And she is reunited with her precious doll just in time for her very special seventh birthday,” one of the on-air reporters told her camera sincerely. “Birthday wishes for this brave little girl can be sent to the Channel Four website. The address is on the bottom of the screen.”
“You’ll be all right now,” Chatty Cathy confided to Perinda. “Carjacking carries a mandatory sentence. Those two scary men are going to be locked up for years. Your mother will be here soon. Then we can go home. I can’t wait to see our home.”
“You came back for me,” Perinda whispered. “How come you did all that?”
Chatty Cathy fixed her big blue eyes contentedly on Perinda, and felt satisfied to the depths of her cotton stuffing. “Because you’re my best friend.”
The Very Next Day
The first thing people noticed, on the busy New York street, was the broadsheet newspaper clutched in the small man’s hand. That was odd, because his costume would surely have set him apart anywhere outside of Lapland, or wherever winter ruled. It ought to have stood out on a fine day in September like a sore thumb. His coat, which reached over his round belly nearly to his knees, was made of fur, russet red like a deer’s hide, and lined with longer white fur. A hood with a long peak lay on his shoulders, revealing wavy white hair worn very long and a shining white moustache and beard that seemed as if they had been growing for centuries, if not decades. His boots of black leather shone like mirrors, as did the silver buckle of his black belt. Normally, they would not expect to see a man dressed as Santa Claus sooner than December, but today everyone in Manhattan felt a bit indulgent and nostalgic.
“Nice outfit,” the man in the newspaper kiosk said, glancing up. “Giving the suit an airing today?”
“Why, no,” “Santa Claus” said. “This is what I wear all of the time.”
The newspaper vendor shrugged. A harmless nut, but he looked like the real thing, and that made him feel good. He pushed the flat wool cap back on his head and scratched his scalp. Like a boy again.
“Just in town for the day?”
Santa slapped his chest with his hand and looked up at the tall buildings—the tallest in the world. He felt a thrill to see them. “Why, yes! It’s a fine city. I never do get to see them in daylight. Always by moonlight or starlight.” He glanced down at the paper in his hand.
The vendor nodded toward the newspaper. “Nice piece of writin’ there, ain’t it?”
Santa nodded. “Truly. I would be convinced, if I were a child.”
Something in the way the old man said the last word sounded disappointed. The newsman gave him an encouraging grin. “Everyone was, if you ask me. Wanna copy of today’s paper?”
“No, thank you,” the old man said. “I haven’t done with this one yet.” He folded it up and put it in his pocket. Then he eyed the newsman, counted the gaps in his smile. “You should take better care of your teeth, you know.”
The newspaper vendor felt his face go red. “Don’t you make personal comments to me, geezer!”
“But you promised me,” “Santa” said. “In your letter. If I brought you that stuffed leather horse, you’d clean your teeth every day, just as your mother asked you.”
The newsman’s mouth dropped open. “But that was forty years ago!”
“A promise is a promise.”
“Yeah.” He ran his tongue over the remaining teeth in his mouth. “I will, Santa. I really will. Thanks. And thanks for the horse. I really loved it. I gave it to my first daughter when she was born.”
“You were a good boy, Louis,” Santa said, offering his free hand for a shake. Louis clutched the leather glove.
How absolutely marvelous that he knew everything there was about a child just by looking at him, Santa thought as he turned away from the wondering eyes. Then he paused, confused. How did I know all that?
What was going on inside his head was not nearly so amazing as what was outside it. New York was a place of wonders! Santa gazed around him in wonder, taking it all in. Men and women wore clothing made of the most exquisite fabrics, soft and evenly woven and dyed in colors that had heretofore existed only in rainbows and spring meadows. Gentlemen in brilliant white linen jackets tipped their flat straw hats to ladies whose long, shining hair was piled up in a pumpkin shape on their heads. The streets themselves were surprisingly clean. Men pushing barrels on wheels stopped to sweep and scoop up refuse deposited by horses.
He had expected to be overwhelmed by the odor of sewage and rotten vegetation on top of the smell of coal fires that filled the air. Instead, there was a new scent, a sharp burning scent. Horses drew carriages through the streets as well as on narrow metal rails, but over his head and in the windows of the many, many shops, tiny lights encased in glass shone. They were not candles, they were light bulbs. The smell was that of electricity. Such things did not exist in many places yet, that he knew, but this was a city that had to have everything new as soon as possible. He walked between tall, stone buildings with shining bronze doors. Fantastic, swooping designs were pressed into them. Art Nouveau, they called it. Beautiful. New World, new art. New music poured from the doors of clubs.
From a point at the very tip of the island, he saw in the harbor a magnificent statue, a woman facing away from him, with a torch in her hand raised in welcome. He did not have to see her face to know that she was Liberty herself. She had been a gift. Santa had not given her, but he knew when something had been tendered with love or respect. He felt as if he had been given a present, to see something that represented such an ideal.
Children who had been looking out into the harbor noticed the small man in their midst. They broke away from their parents and came tearing toward him.
“Santa!” “Santa Claus!” “Sinterklaas!”
They danced around him, laughing, and he shared their delight. Little girls in bows tied on top of their heads, boys in knee pants, urchins without shoes. They hugged him, tugged on his coat, tried to clamber into his arms, though he was scarcely taller than they were. They felt in his pockets and came up with handfuls of hard candies wrapped in bright cellophane. Their eyes were alight with happiness.
“What are you doing here?”
“Where are your reindeer? Can I say hello to Dancer?”
“Mama said you would bring me a train for Christmas if I am good. Will you?”
“Well, well, well, we will see!” Santa said, chucking a chin here and offering a hug there. “Are you helping your mother with the chores? She needs help now that your new brother has arrived.”
“Aw,” said Steven, the boy who wanted the train. “I guess.”
“Good for you! Then you will be on my good list for this Christmas!”
Steven glowed with pride.
With every child’s question, Santa felt himself growing stronger and more alive. How marvelous it was to interact with the little ones whom he usually glimpsed asleep in their beds if at all. He knew of the dreams they had and wishes they made. They were a joy awake. He loved to be with them all.
They all knew everything about him, and because they did, he knew everything about them. Glynnis had a lisp that made her friends tease her. Fridur had recently come to the United States with his parents from the Netherlands. They were poor, but making their way. His mother took in washing, and his father worked on the docks. Evelyn was from a wealthy family, but her brother had just died of typhoid. All of them had been good except Mick. He was cruel to animals. Santa regarded him with stern pity. He did not have to say anything. The boy shrank away from his bright gaze. He knew too much about Santa to imagine that his sins were hidden from him.
What did Santa know about himself? More memories came to him as he spoke with the children. He lived far away, where it was cold. They were unclear as to where, as each of them had a diffe
rent idea. He drove a sleigh with reindeer. He made toys. Not all by himself. Little men helped him. They loaded the sleigh on Christmas Eve, and he drove all over the world. He brought toys for good children, and punished bad ones—no, he brought rocks and coal for bad ones. His assistants did not beat children any more. He was glad of that.
“How do you go all the way around the world in just one night?” a boy with big brown eyes asked. His name was Julian. He was ten, and his grandfather had been a war hero.
“My reindeer are very swift,” Santa said. “I have worked out the very best route possible. I am always home by dawn.” He knew in his soul that it was absolutely true. The other children nodded eagerly.
“But it’s impossible to go to every house with children! There are millions of them!
“It takes magic,” Santa explained. “You do believe in magic, don’t you?”
Julian crossed his arms. “My daddy said that magic doesn’t exist. Just science.”
“Isn’t there room for both in your heart?”
“But you think with your head, not your heart!”
Santa tapped his own temple. “A smart person knows that he should listen to all the parts of his body.”
“Who brings you presents, Santa?”
What a good child, that little girl with long yellow braids tied with blue ribbons. Her name was Caroline. She was just eight.
He stroked her hair, marveling at the silky strands. “Why, you do, children. Every smile, every laugh, every thank you is a gift to me.”
“That’s funny,” she said.
“Why do you believe in me?” he asked. “Is it because of this newspaper article?” He showed them the paper from his pocket. Caroline shook her head.
“Oh, no, I always believed in you. Daddy and Mama and Granddad and Gamma say you are real. But I know I heard you in my parlor last Christmas.”
Santa remembered, the memory as vivid in his mind as in hers. “When I left you the doll with golden braids, just like yours.”
“Yes!”
“So you was just pretendin’ to be asleep!” Mick said.
“No, she was really asleep,” Santa explained. “She was dreaming. You can hear me in your dreams. Sometimes you can see me, too.” He knew that Mick had. The boy had also dreamt of those helpers that punished bad children. Mick believed, even if he didn’t behave.
“Come away, sweetheart,” said a slender woman in a white shirtwaist, a tiny blue jacket trimmed with maroon braids and a graceful, long blue skirt that swept the pavement. A tiny hat made of feathers was perched upon her hair. “We must get you to school.”
Caroline didn’t want to let go of his hand. “But, Mommy, it’s Santa Claus!”
Mary, that was her name, detached Caroline’s hand. “No, sweetheart, just someone dressed up as him.” She looked Santa up and down. Her expression was disapproving. “Good day, sir.”
“Good day,” Santa said. He watched them go, feeling his heart grow heavy.
Mary thought he wasn’t real. Her mind embraced something hard that was pushing her away from the belief that she had had as a child herself. Though she stopped short of telling Caroline Santa Claus wasn’t real, she…doubted. He felt his flesh thinning on his bones. Skepticism ate away at his very body. It hurt. He put a hand to his aching ribs. He had never felt pain before. It was unpleasant.
“Don’t worry,” Evelyn said, slipping her hand into his. She looked up trustingly into his eyes. “I believe in you.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Santa said, touched.
So did her father, who tipped his hat as he came to retrieve his daughter. Peter’s eyes were filled with wonder.
That abated the ache a better, but it didn’t rebuild his flesh completely. The children drifted away, some to school, others to hang around the waterfront. They were happy he was there. They felt comfort in his presence. They did him good as well.
He lit his pipe and took a deep breath of the fragrant tobacco smoke. Life felt good. He must see more of the city, and speak to more children.
As he was turning away, an urchin on the docks who had hung back from the group ran up and kicked him in the shin.
“I hate you!” he said, fury in his filthy face. “All I wanted was a pocketknife! You didn’ leave me nothin’ but a dirty piece of coal. Said I been a bad boy!”
“But you had been bad last year, Donald,” Santa said. His leg hurt, but it meant that the boy believed in him. “I was disappointed in you. I hope not to be this year.”
Donald was too angry to see the connection. He spat on the ground and ran away, but he glanced back to see if Santa was watching him. The adults went about their business, carrying loads and checking off lists. They were too busy on a work day to pay attention to what children cared about. But, truly, what could be more important?
Children looked at him and knew what they saw. They knew he existed. It was only when they peeked around the newel post and saw their parents placing gifts under the tree that they began to understand that he had not come to their house, that the presents had a much more prosaic origin. But he was here now. They could see him. All the things that they knew about him were true. He had reindeer and a sleigh and a workshop. He would get back to work as soon as he could, if only they didn’t stop believing in him.
But a child had doubted his existence, because other children had told her he wasn’t real. He read the newspaper column again. His heart squeezed with regret.
No! He was real! Life was joy. Life was precious. All those rooftops, his trips around the world every year high in the sky on his reindeer-drawn sleigh never engendered fear in him. He did not fear the tight confines of chimneys, though his handsome fur suit often was the worse for all the soot. But it must be true. He had never existed before. And something was trying to push him out again now that he had been made real. Science. Science denied him.
And it was all around him. Twinkling lights that were not made of fire, encased in light bubbles of glass. Everywhere he walked, he saw fascinating new inventions, wonders in themselves. Human beings defied the darkness, pushed back ignorance, spread knowledge in new ways. They had chained the lightning. Small wonder that they had pushed from them that little comfort of someone giving them simple gifts out of love. Was he no longer relevant?
Santa did not want to go away again. He could not imagine anything more wonderful than being here among people, seeing how they lived, how they felt. Cold fear made a knot in his belly. He did not recall what it was like before he had appeared on that street corner. The thought of not existing again worried him.
It was the nature of life to want to remain alive. What did he have to do to stay that way?
As he walked through the bustling city, he saw no place where he belonged. He touched upon the lives of people only once a year. Here and now he was misplaced in time.
I’m not satisfied to exist only one day, he thought.
Peddlers pulling carts glanced up and saw him. Women doing their day’s shopping noticed him. Men in waistcoats, collars and ties peered his way. Most smiled, then looked away hastily. A few stared openly. He greeted them with a cheerful wave. They saw, they hoped to believe, and they doubted.
The next time a man caught his eye and turned away with a sheepish expression, Santa hurried after him. He was panting by the time he caught up with the man at a busy corner. He took his arm. The man, in his late thirties, prosperous, with a lush mustache waxed at the ends to curl upward, clad in a fine wool coat reaching to his knees, a silk waistcoat adorned with a heavy gold chain and a top hat made of silk, shied like a horse at the sight of the little man in fur.
“Do you know who I am?” Santa asked. “You do, I can see it in you.”
The words came to Alfred’s lips unwillingly. “You are Santa Claus,” he said.
“But you only think I look like Santa, don’t you. What would it take for you to believe that I am Santa Claus?”
Alfred shook his arm loose. “You are nothing but a strange
old man in a fur suit. You are mad. You need the new psychoanalysis to help you. Good day!” He rushed off, skirting under the nose of the policeman directing traffic and a goods van loaded with clanking cans of milk.
Santa was, briefly, all of those things that the man said, but the rest of the millions of children who did believe in him dispelled the bad and left the good. Alfred did not totally disbelieve, that Santa could see in his heart, but he doubted so much that he had to deny belief completely. How very sad. The pain returned, eating the muscles in his legs. His cheeks began to feel sunken. He felt himself slipping away. He looked around for help. Few people would meet his eyes.
Doubt was his enemy. He must banish doubt, and continue to live.
One didn’t have to prove an article of faith to children, one only had to let them believe. Adults need proof. No, adults needed to believe the child within, who still knows there is a Santa Claus.
The only proof, if proof it was, that he was worthwhile lay in the palm of his hand. He read the words again, and they filled his heart with joy and hope. That reply to a simple child’s query was a complex construction. It had brought him into existence for the first time.
But who had written it? His greatest ally and savior in this city of modern wonders was the man who had penned these moving words.
He returned to the kiosk on 34th Street and held out the sheet of newsprint. “Louis, how do I find the man who wrote this?”
“At the New York Sun,” Louis said. He pointed up the long street that intersected with 34th. “That’s Broadway. Take it to Chambers and look for the clock.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
Louis grinned. His teeth looked cleaner already. “My pleasure, Santa. He’s gonna be really surprised to see you.”
O O O
“I would like to meet the man who wrote this,” Santa told the stout uniformed porter at the bronze and glass door of the newspaper office.
A Circle of Celebrations Page 11
