Holiday Wolf Pack

by Bridget Essex

  “No, ma'am,” I tell her.

  “You're so free,” the woman sighs happily, wistfully.

  But George is steamrolling right ahead with his line of Santa questions. “Well, it's hard for bad little boys to get back on the good list, but you have to do your best before the holidays, okay?” advises Santa-George, and the boy nods quickly, giving him his gummy bear-colored smile.

  “I'll try!” the boy shouts again.

  “Okay!” George tells him with a smile. “What present do you want me to bring you, provided that you've done your best to be good?”

  “An X-box and a Wii U and Mario Kart and Super Smash Brothers, please!” the boy sings.

  “We'll see what I can do,” says George, giving his patented “hope your parents have money, kid” response before turning to me. “Now, smile to the camera!” he says, pointing to the digital camera in my hands.

  I click the button and take the picture, but the kid is blinking, so I take it one more time. I print out the photo for the mother, take her ten-dollar bill, and then the kid is running off with one of Santa's candy canes, dragging his mother toward the mall entrance.

  It's more of the same for hours. The kids range the gamut from really pleasant and sweet to screaming banshees to spoiled brats to funny kids to terrified kids to tiny children to teenaged girls who are getting the picture taken to post to their social media pages ironically.

  I'm pleasant to all of them, because I don't know the stories of their lives, and the most spoiled brat I encounter could have a reason for all of his or her spoiledness, but I have to admit: the Mother Theresa willpower starts to fade when I'm getting close to lunchtime and realize that I didn't remember to grab a breakfast bar from the cupboard; I was too rushed to get out the door.

  And now it's almost my lunch break. And I didn't bring a lunch, either.

  I groan a little, glancing at my wristwatch with chagrin. Great. This means that I won't be able to eat until I get off from work, which is at six...and that means, at that point, I'll be lightheaded from not having eaten, and ravenous, to boot.

  It's not the worst thing in the world to go all day without eating, but I'm still kicking myself. I have a couple of protein bars for “I'm late” emergencies that I keep in my kitchen cabinets, and if I'd only thought to bring one... Getting a lunch at one of the mall fast food places is sadly out of the question. I just don't have the money for it; I don't have any wiggle room in my budget. I never do.

  So lunchtime comes and goes, and my stomach starts growling. The closer we get to quitting time, the more my stomach protests, and by the time it's almost six, I'm hungry beyond belief.

  I hold up my camera to take a picture of the next kid and notice that George isn't looking into the lens like he normally does. The kid on his lap is squirming, and George is using his best calming tactics on the boy but only doing them halfheartedly as he glances past me, toward the front entrance of Santa's Toy Shop. His brows are up, and he looks genuinely surprised.

  I glance behind me, wondering if one of the kids is trying to climb the fake reindeer again, but then I pause, astonished.

  Because Jewel is there.

  She's standing in the middle of the aisle on the other side of the line of kids. Her hands are shoved deep into her leather jacket's pockets, her wet hair is drawn back into a thick, shimmering bun at the nape of neck, and she looks freshly showered. When she sees me glancing at her, she smiles—and it's the type of incandescent smile that puts the sun to shame.

  “Jewel!” I murmur, surprised (and grinning stupidly). “What are you doing here?” I ask, tossing the camera onto the mobile printer table and ducking under the velvet rope to make my way over to her.

  I'm so pleased to see her that I'm already flushed, my heartbeat having escalated the second I laid eyes on her. Jewel curves her shoulders forward in an elegant shrug as she smiles at me, her warm amber eyes flashing with sparks of gold underneath these florescent lights.

  “Kat, Becca is coming to take over for you in a second,” says George, beaming from his position on the Santa throne, bouncing the bratty kid on his knee. “It's quitting time for you, anyway, isn't it?”

  Jewel's eyes flick from me back to George up on the stage, flashing for a moment as she gazes at him. Something unspoken seems to pass between them. He gives her a courteous nod, and then he's asking the kid what he wants for the holidays.

  “Come on,” I tell Jewel with a big smile, and—impetuously—I duck forward and grab her hand, squeezing tightly before I turn and lead her down the department store's aisle, tugging her out into the mall.

  Because it is the Friday before Christmas, and because there are so few shopping days left, the mall—like the store itself—is packed with holiday shoppers determined to find that perfect gift for the people they love. There are kids having meltdowns everywhere, and, heck, some adults having meltdowns, too. Holidays carols are being pumped through the speakers overhead, and the whole place is heated to the temperature of hell.

  But there's glitter everywhere, sparkling reindeer cutouts suspended from the ceiling, twinkle lights dazzling merrily all around us...and even though I've seen this view hundreds of times, a mall at Christmas, and even though I've seen it so often, thanks to working here, that there's not a bit of Christmas magic left for me anymore...

  Well, when I turn back to glance at Jewel, I feel it. I feel it, unfurling in the pit of my stomach and spiraling out to every other part of me. That Christmas magic.

  I feel it just like I used to when I was a little kid, and my parents took me ice skating, stepping out onto the ice with me, holding my mittened hands tightly so that I wouldn't slip, and if I did slip, so that I wouldn't fall. I feel it like I used to when my family would gather for Christmas dinner, passing around the dishes while laughter merged with Bing Crosby crooning softly from the old-school record player that my parents still had. I feel it like I used to in college, when I would decorate my dorm room top to bottom with tinsel and lights and my snow globes, brought from home, watching White Christmas while the snow fell down softly outside, pillowing the world in white, and I ate ramen (even then) out of a Frosty the Snowman bowl.

  For half a heartbeat, all of these memories flood me. Some bittersweet, some tinged with sadness, some filled with pure and absolute joy, because that's how holiday memories are. You remember something that makes you laugh and makes you cry, right at the same instant, Christmases that came and went years apart but that are all connected together, because those were the days you experienced; those are the memories you made.

  But I realize I'm making a new memory right now, because I promise: I'm never going to forget this moment. Jewel hasn't let go of my hand, and I haven't let go of hers, and together we stand at the entrance to the mall. Honestly, we could be standing on the moon, and it wouldn't matter. At its very heart, Christmas is about magic, and that's what's spiraling around us at this moment, the bright, glittering magic of possibility and hope.

  “Why did you come to see me?” I ask Jewel, turning to face her. Jewel's smile is as bright as the glittering lights on the holidays trees in the center courtyard, covered in a million twinkle lights that flash merrily, seemingly in random bursts of joy.

  “It's corny,” says Jewel, wrinkling her nose in the most adorable fashion as she leans a little closer to me, wrapping a hand loosely around my waist, “but I couldn't wait to see you. And I was hoping you'd have dinner with me.”

  “As in...a date?” I ask her coyly, and her smile deepens as she chuckles at me.

  “Yes,” she says simply. “A date.”

  “It's not very romantic—a date at a mall. We're not teenagers,” I tease as, hand in hand, we begin to walk through the harried crowds toward the mall food court. “This isn't the eighties, either,” I laugh. “Mall-dating was big back then.”

  “A date is as romantic as you make it,” she says, almost solemn as she casts me a sidelong glance. “You love Christmas—and there's a lot of Christmas a
t the mall.”

  “Yes, you can get a helping Christmas cheer with your new flatscreen TV,” I acquiesce, “but also a lot of selfishness, a lot of meanness. Everyone thinking for themselves.” I gesture toward a man who just shoved another guy to get around him, the guy he'd shoved yelling expletives after him. “That's...not really the spirit of the holidays,” I murmur.

  “Admittedly,” says Jewel, her amber eyes flashing as she looks after the rude man. But then she steps near to me, her arm around my waist. “But look closer,” Jewel murmurs in my ear, her mouth hot against my skin, her breath heated and electric as it traces over my cheek, the scent of her cinnamon and the evergreen of the candle shop we're passing mixing together in delight.

  I look toward the place she's indicating with a nod of her head, a stray wisp of white-gold hair tracing its way down her bronze cheek. I somehow tear my gaze from her beautiful profile, and then I see what she was referring to.

  There's an offshoot of our local SPCA situated in the mall, smack dab between a pretzel place and a kid's toy store, and we're passing it right now. Right in the big bay window of the little SPCA shop is a room where potential adopters can meet the pet they're thinking of adopting and interact with it. Right now, there are two little girls in the window, sitting between their parents, and they're playing with an old golden retriever. I can tell the guy's old, because his muzzle is gray; he's skinny and gaunt. But there's such love in his eyes as he reaches his graying head toward the littlest girl and gives a patient, loving lick of her cheek, his scruffy tail thumping hard against the linoleum floor. The girl shrieks with delight, and then I think she's going to bowl him over with a hug, but the dad reaches out, shaking his head a little, a hand on her shoulder. The girl is super gentle, then, as she holds out her arms and puts them around the old dog, hugging him with such softness that I can feel my heart growing inside of me.

  The mother of the girls is nodding up to the SPCA volunteer, and the volunteer—with tears in her eyes—takes down more information on the application.

  The old guy is getting adopted for Christmas.

  I have tears in my eyes, too, as we pass the shop, and I sniffle a little. “Well, that was pretty awesome,” I admit, and then I'm glancing at Jewel, my heart rising a little in my chest. I know that I work in a mall, which means that I see some of the worst of humanity around the Christmas season: the kind of person who would scream at me for a solid twenty minutes, turning blue in the face, because I'm out of the “doorbuster” plaid slippers in her size. The kind of guy who would buy two of the same necklace, proudly telling me one was for his wife and one was for his mistress. Over the years, with little to look forward to, and leading a difficult life, I started to lose the ability to see the giving nature of folks around the holiday season.

  But there's something magic in the air as Jewel wraps an arm around my waist again, drawing me close, letting me lean my length against her body, radiating heat through her jeans and leather jacket.

  She bends close to me, ducking her head so that her nose is against my cheek. “Look again,” she whispers into my ear, and I raise my eyes, following her line of sight.

  There's an older woman sitting on the side of one of the mall's fountains. Her big carpetbag purse is in her lap, and she has her chin up, gazing across the sea of people with steady dignity. But her eyes are unfocused, and she's not really seeing them. Her back is hunched, her hands gnarled and wracked with arthritis, causing the fingers to curve inward painfully. The sea of people moves around her, but she sits, patient, waiting, while the people move around her, like water courses over a rock in a stream.

  Jewel pauses, her fingers gripping my waist gently, stilling me, and I pause, too, for a moment, glancing up at her with a brow raised.

  “Listen,” she whispers in my ear.

  “Hey, I see you taking that!” comes a shrill voice. Nearby, there's a mall kiosk, and it's decked out with rhinestone-covered cell phone cases. A wisp of a girl, fourteen at most, stands there with a stricken expression as the kiosk employee rounds on her, hands on hips, yelling at the top of her lungs. “I saw you put that case in your pocket!” the employee's yelling, “and I just called mall security!”

  The old woman turns her gaze and gets up, making her way slowly over to the kiosk. “I'm so sorry,” she tells the woman quietly—so quietly that, if we weren't standing close by, I'd never have been able to hear her, “but there must be a misunderstanding. I'd like to buy that case for the girl.”

  “Are you her grandma or something?” asks the employee, her hands still on her hips, now gazing at the old woman with the same suspicion that she was just leveling at the girl. The girl herself is quaking with fear but inching behind the old woman, toward the right, the direction that's away from the kiosk, like she's about to bolt off.

  “No, I'm not her grandmother...just—a friend,” says the old woman firmly, fishing around in her purse. “Here. And for your trouble, a little something extra,” she says, pressing a fifty-dollar bill into the surprised clerk's hand.

  The old woman turns and slowly makes her way back to the fountain to sit on its edge, groaning a little as she finally sits down, resting the carpetbag back on her lap with a sigh.

  The clerk and the girl are both dumbstruck, but then the clerk waves her hand at the girl. “Just—go. I'm not pressing, um, charges,” she says, a little dazed, and goes back to sitting on her stool, pocketing the fifty-dollar bill quickly.

  The girl, a moment ago, looked terrified beyond belief; now she looks defiant, a sneer on her face as she lifts her nose. I can see that her clothes are a little shabby, her hoodie worn at the wrists, gaping holes at the hems. Her eyes flash defiantly, and she stalks over to the old woman.

  “Why'd you do that?” she asks, her tone belligerent. But the old woman looks up at her with a soft smile.

  “Happy holidays,” she tells the girl with a shrug.

  “But...but I'm not some stupid charity case,” the girl persists. And then, with a touch of fear in her voice, she says, “I could have paid for that case. I could've.”

  “I'm sure you could, my dear,” says the old woman. And then she opens up the carpetbag on her lap. The girl takes a step back, like she's worried that the woman is about to hand her a religious tract or something, but that's not what the woman does. Instead, she inserts her gnarled hands into the depths of her purse, and then she pulls out another crisp, brand-new fifty-dollar bill. And she hands that bill to the girl.

  “What the hell?” says the girl suspiciously, though she still pockets the money. “What are you, some religious freak?” she asks, her tone low and uncertain.

  “No,” says the woman, with another smile. “I'm an eccentric old bat,” she tells the girl with a wink. “Happy holidays.”

  I think the girl is going to run, but she surprises me. “Thank you,” she tells the woman quietly. “Happy holidays.” And then she turns and walks away quickly.

  The old woman continues to sit contentedly on the lip of the fountain, staring out at the crowd of people but not really seeing them, a soft smile playing over her lips.

  “That's...that's crazy,” I tell Jewel, as we continue walking through the mall, hand in hand. “That lady was so nice... She didn't have to pay for the case, or give that girl the money—”

  “That's the thing about the holidays,” says Jewel, lifting her chin. “It brings out the kindness in people.”

  “I forget that sometimes,” I tell her, my voice low. “Life has been hard lately, so...I mean, I used to look for the good in everyone,” I tell her, shaking my head a little. “But then life beat me down too much, and I guess...well, I guess I just stopped seeing it.”

  “I'm not saying there aren't any bad things in the world. Bad things happen to people all the time,” Jewel tells me quietly, clenching her jaw. “But there are good people, too. Good people who are doing their best to make a difference. Good people who stand up for others who can't stand up for themselves, good people who giv
e kindness when you least expect it, kindness that can completely change a life. There is goodness in this world,” she tells me softly. “We just have to actively look for it.”

  Straight ahead of us is the biggest fountain in the mall. Every year, they fill the top and bottom bowls of the fountain with enormous glass (well, probably plastic) ornaments that float in the water, bobbing about merrily. The effect is striking and looks really pretty—it always makes me smile to see it. Jewel pauses next to this fountain now, grinning as she gazes at all of the ornaments in the water, swirling about as the fountain bubbles brightly.

  “Kat,” says Jewel, turning to look at me then. Her expression is still lighthearted, but it's turned serious. “I moved all of my stuff into the apartment today—I didn't have much, but it's all there now.” She puts her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, shrugging her shoulders forward into a soft curve that my eyes follow. “So...it's official,” she tells me with a warm smile. “I've moved in. And...” She trails off, clears her throat. “I wanted to tell you,” she murmurs, voice soft, eyes bright, “that last night was the most wonderful—”

  I'm holding my breath, I realize, because I let it out with a quick whoosh when I hear the all-too-familiar ringtone of the dogs barking “Jingle Bells” emanating from my purse on my shoulder. I have half a mind to let my phone keep on ringing, but I have no idea how long it'll ring for, and it's turned up all the way—so it's very loud.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I mutter miserably, as I dig my phone out of my purse and glance down at the screen, silencing it.

  Huh. Diane calling me. And, apparently, I have several missed calls from her. Like, ten.

  “I'm so sorry,” I tell Jewel, shaking my head. “It's my best friend on the line. She's called me a bunch of times. I'll just see what she wants.”

  “Of course,” says Jewel, taking a step backward. Whatever she was about to say is gone, and the magic of the moment has disappeared.

  I groan a little and take the call.

  “Hey, Diane,” I tell her, turning away as I press the phone to my ear.