The big man sneered down at him from his great height. “I bet you do. A lot of crazies came out of the woodwork after yesterday’s editorial.” He eyed Santa skeptically. “Your outfit’s a lot better than most of ‘em. You can go ahead, if you want. It’ll give everyone a good laugh.”
He passed Santa along to a copyboy, who brought him to the city desk editor, who laughed hard enough to attract everyone within a three-desk radius. They all chuckled at Santa, but they agreed with the door porter, that it would be great fun to send him in to Mr. Church.
The doubters in the Sun office greatly outnumbered the believers. Santa could hardly push his way through the agony that ate away at him. It was only the uniformed black porter who took his arm who made it possible for him to get up the stairs to the third floor. His strength was in rags by the time he reached the female receptionist at the desk outside the editor’s office in the busy newsroom. She regarded him with sympathy but no understanding. Margaret had always been that way, Santa knew. It would do him no good to tell her so.
“Mr. Church is in a meeting. You may wait.” She gestured to a hardbacked chair against the wall.
If he had thought the streets of New York were noisy, they were silent as a winter’s night compared with the newsroom. Typewriters clattered under the fingers of men and women alike. Copyboys, many no older than ten, ran up and back with their arms laden with sheets of paper. Men shouted over the din at one another. Under his feet Santa felt the thrum of the presses, the heartbeat of the Sun.
At last, the door swung open. Two men in short plaid jackets emerged, shoving notebooks into their pockets. They eyed Santa speculatively as they went by. Matthew felt a wave of nostalgia, but Henry saw only an old man in a red fur coat. Santa understood. Henry covered the new scientific advances. He was on his way to meet Mr. Westinghouse. Matthew wrote about baseball, so he maintained faith and hope in a way that was almost childlike. Though he would have died on the rack before he would have admitted it to a living soul. He was off to see a Giants game that day at the Polo Grounds.
“Go in,” Margaret told Santa.
“Well, Mr. Claus,” Frank Church said, putting out a hand to Santa. He was a tall, spare man with bushy eyebrows. “My colleagues told me you were here.” He smiled, lifting the corners of his luxurious mustache a trifle. “Please, have a seat. I can give you a few moments. What may I do for you?”
“It is about your editorial,” Santa said, producing the newspaper.
Mr. Church looked amused. “Yes, I assumed that was so. What about it?”
“Well, to be straightforward, it seems to have brought me into existence. Your words moved me deeply. I assume that they moved thousands of your fellow New Yorkers to belief, and for that I thank you. So many people feeling the truth of your eloquent plea has caused me to appear in their midst. I rather like it, and want to continue to be. I have come to ask for your help.”
Frank nodded. “So you want me to believe that you are the true Santa Claus. Who sent you? Haley at the Times? It’d be just like him.”
Santa found his skepticism to be perfectly natural. He was a grown man who had seen tragedy and horror in his life, yet he felt Frank’s desperate hope to believe in the fairy tale that he had written about just the other day. He had grown to be an adult, yet a spark of faith and wonder remained.
“Mr. Haley did not send me. I am Santa Claus,” Santa said, reassuringly. “You should know what to look for. You expressed it most beautifully in your column.”
“I…” Frank did not know what to say. “It was for the sake of that child, you know. She ought to be allowed to remain a child as long as possible.”
“I do understand that,” Santa said. “But I should not have to explain to you how important it is for science and simplicity to coexist. One must not fear to be a little child again, when times of wonder are at hand.”
“You are not a simple thing, Mr. Claus,” Frank said. “You seem to be well-educated and a philosopher to boot, but I think I have to decline. I’m not equal to the task.” Frank’s defenses were growing. Santa felt Logic and Science teaming up to push him out of the world.
“I can prove my reality to you, but that would defeat the purpose, would it not?” He searched Frank’s face. “I think that I have my answer.”
The pains spread across his whole body now. His back and sides ached. His nerves were exposed, and his soul was starting to spread out again across the universe. How sad that he should not be able to enjoy this world a little longer. He fetched a breath, but it caught on the pain.
“Shall I call for the nurse?” Frank asked. He was not a heartless man, merely mortal and conflicted, as any human being was.
“No, it will pass, as I will. I thought you could help me to live longer.” Santa smiled. “I should be grateful for the day—and I am. It’s a gift I never knew. When one is an ideal, one’s feet never really touch the pavement, you see. I have seen electric lights, and liberty, and the joy in little children’s faces. It is enough.”
“There isn’t a touch of irony in you, is there?” Frank said, his brow drawn into a furrow. “How I wish I could be that way.”
“You have been, at times. As you were when you wrote that lovely piece. It is oblique suggestion, not proof, but I could sense your whole heart in it. You have always been that idealist. I admire that in you. That is why you chose journalism as your career. You believe in truth. You’d rather be honest than liked.”
“You were briefed very thoroughly about me,” Frank said. “Was it my wife told you my story? My brother?”
Santa smiled. “One of the things that I discovered today that people know about me is that I can see into their hearts. It is true. I…I was not going to do this, because it will spoil your natural faith, but it will quell your skepticism.” He reached into his pocket and took from it a carved wooden lamb. He set it on Frank Church’s desk. It was painted white and had a blue ribbon around its neck.
“You wanted this when you were very small, when you saw it in the Christ Child’s crèche. Your mother told you that it was not right for you to take it. I couldn’t give it to you then, but you shall have it now.”
Frank’s face went through a rainbow’s worth of expressions, from outrage to astonishment to grief to outright wonder. He took the lamb and ran a finger on its knobbly head. “No one knew that. No one could have remembered that.” He stood up. “I shall do whatever you wish, Santa. But come with me now! I shall take you to visit little Virginia. She’s the one who precipitated me into writing my piece. She will be delighted beyond reason to see that she was not wrong to believe.”
Santa held up a hand. “Oh, no, Frank. She’s the one person that does not need to meet me. You convinced her very thoroughly indeed with your poetry. Her friends are a trifle embarrassed that they doubted, as are their parents. It’s you who needed to be reassured. And me.”
Church’s eyes widened. “Why you? You are Santa Claus.”
“I am what all of you have made me. If you cease to believe, and you just proved how easy a thing that is to do, then I do not exist. I celebrate the birth of the Christ Child. How I do that and what people expect of me differs from person to person. Some resent me. Some hate me. What you wrote will help me be in this world for a little longer. I want to exist.”
“You shall,” Church said, his thin face passionate. “You live forever.”
“So you said in your lovely letter, sir. But these are New Yorkers. I feel as if I am fading already. No matter what we do here today, I cannot last. The shared belief that you caused is passing away. By tomorrow, I shall be a memory again, though a cherished one, I hope.”
Frank looked aghast. “No! I believe in you.”
Santa shook his head. It hurt a little to move. “But you doubt what you see. You cannot help it. It’s a natural thing. We cast aside that which does not allow us to walk freely, to explore, to make our own decisions, right or wrong. It is…human. They have to be free to say there is no San
ta Claus. But wonder, magic and love must always be allowed in children’s lives. If you help to give them that, and you have, I will always live a little. That will satisfy me. I did not think it would, but it does, because it is what children need. It is better for me to be a dream, to live in that unseen world you spoke of.”
“I will always assert the truth of your existence,” Frank Church assured him. “The veil to the unseen world is torn asunder, and I see the glory I wished was there.”
Santa felt the twinge of doubt that lessened the force of the statement. “Ah, no. You are already wondering if I am making a fool of you. You know the Santa you believed in would not do so. Your Santa keeps your letters, dreams and wishes to himself. But you needn’t believe me completely. Keep being a cynic, so you can prevent others being fooled. The moment you don’t doubt, then you stop being of use as a newsman, and I would not ruin a distinguished career such as the one you have built for yourself.”
Church laughed. “I feel sad, you know. You have given me the best Christmas gift of my life, and I do not mean the lamb. I wish I could give you what you want.”
Santa laid his finger beside his round little nose. “Ah, but you have. You gave me this day. To be manifested and see what I mean to people makes me wiser than I was. But let us smoke a pipe together and talk. Tell me about this wonderful city. Then, when the time is right, I shall depart, without regrets.”
Frank Church smiled. “Up the chimney?” he asked, with a nod toward the fireplace in the corner.
Santa laughed, his belly jiggling up and down with merriment. “Since that is what you wish for, it would be my pleasure.”
About the Author
Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as ‘spoiling cats.’ When not engaged upon this worthy occupation, she writes fantasy and science fiction books and short stories.
Before breaking away from gainful employment to write full time, Jody worked as a file clerk, bookkeeper at a small publishing house, freelance journalist, and photographer, accounting assistant and costume maker. For four years, she was on the technical operations staff of a local Chicago television station, ending as Technical Operations Manager.
Since 1987 she has published 45 books and more than 110 short stories. Although she is best known as a collaborator with other notable authors such as Anne McCaffrey (the Ship Who series, the Dinosaur Planet series), Robert Asprin (Dragons and the Myth-Adventures), John Ringo (Clan of the Claw) and Piers Anthony, Jody has numerous solo books to her credit, mostly fantasy and science fiction with a humorous bent. Her newest book is Fortunes of the Imperium (Baen Books), the second of the Lord Thomas Kinago books, which she describes as “Jeeves and Wooster in space.” Over the last twenty-five years or so, Jody has taught in numerous writing workshops and speaks at schools and libraries, and teaches the two-day writers’ workshop at DragonCon in Atlanta. When not writing, she enjoys baking, calligraphy, travel, photography and, of course, reading.
Jody lives in the northwest suburbs of Chicago with her husband, Bill Fawcett, and Jeremy, their cat.
jodylynnnye.com
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