“Returns!” Claus cried in horrified dismay, as Dooley stood in his living room and held the ruined toys out to him. “We’ve never had returns!”
Dooley nodded silently, his face downcast, knowing that Santa Claus must realize just as he did that there could only be one reason for it to have happened this year, when it had never happened before: Patch had been put in charge of the toymaking . . .
Anya sat in her chair by the fire, stunned, too upset even to speak. Her hands went on knitting rapidly, as if they were searching for a calm rhythm her mind had lost. How could Patch have done such a thing? She knew he had not done it on purpose, but still, to be so careless, to let such an enormous mistake happen They had trusted him so . . .
Dooley cleared his throat. “Maybe we should release some kind of statement . . . ?” he murmured to Claus. He was mindful of modern communications and the repercussions they made possible, ever since Patch had insisted that he install a television set in his communications center.
A timid rapping at the front door made them all turn as one, their faces falling further. Anya rose to her feet at last and reluctantly moved to answer the door.
Patch stood there, as she had known he would. His face was a mask of cheerful greeting, but she saw the dark, haunted gleam in his eyes. He knew as well as they did why he had been summoned; Dooley’s messenger had told him the news. But she could see that he was still doing his brash best to pretend nothing was wrong. Her heart went out to him; she knew how hard it must be for him to learn that he had made such a mistake . . . But they both already realized that he had caused terrible harm to Santa’s reputation. There was no way he could change or deny that. She stood aside wordlessly to let him enter.
“Oh,” Claus said, as Patch entered the room.
“Hi there,” Patch said feebly.
“Well,” Dooley murmured, twisting his belt uncomfortably, “I’ve got a lot to do.” He hurried to the open door, eager to be gone, knowing what a painful scene was about to follow.
The awkwardness of the situation was so thick that Anya could have cut it with a knife. She wrung her hands, looking from her husband’s face to Patch’s.
For a long moment neither Claus nor Patch spoke, but then, at the same moment:
“Well, it’s quite a—” Santa began.
“You see, the thing—” Patch burst out.
They both fell silent again, looking down in embarrassment.
Patch took a deep breath, his face as red as his apron. “The thing is—” he said again.
“I don’t care about my image,” Claus interrupted, trying desperately to find something to say that was not the obvious, “that’s never been my—”
“You see,” Patch ran on insistently, his voice straining with the knowledge of what he had to say; he was desperate to get it out before Santa was forced to say it for him, destroying the last shreds of his ego. “Being tied down to a desk suits some elves, y’know, but others of us are more—well, free spirits.”
“I’m sure you had no idea—” Claus forced the words out, knowing they must both acknowledge the grave seriousness of the situation, and sensing that Patch was unwilling, or unable, to do it. After all, it was the children who had been hurt the most by this. He wiped unaccustomed perspiration from his brow. “Patch, how can I say this?”
Before he could say the words Patch dreaded to hear, the elf interrupted again, frantically, “Can we have a man-to-elf talk here?” As he spoke he untied his bright red Assistant’s apron with fumbling hands, and began to take it off. Anya turned away from the sight, her eyes filling with unexpected tears.
“I just feel that red really isn’t my color,” Patch rattled on. “It just doesn’t suit my . . . um . . . complexion.” He held the apron out at arm’s length, offering it freely to Santa. But his hands twitched, almost jerking it back again, and the words of protest bust out before he could stop them, “Of course, if you don’t want—” His eyes pleaded for forgiveness, for a sign that Santa truly understood.
“No, no, I’ll take it,” Claus said hastily. And, before he lost his own resolution, he took the apron from Patch’s hand; turning away, he hurried to the cottage door. He opened it and went out without another word, closing it abruptly behind him.
Patch stood frozen where he was, his shoulders drooping, his heart breaking, his eyes glazed with shock. It had all happened so swiftly . . . He felt as if any moment the world would simply collapse out from under him, and he would fall forever.
At last Anya, still standing beside him in the silent room, said softly, “That broke his heart, you know. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.” Her hands were still clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her voice was both apologetic and faintly reproving.
“It wasn’t exactly a red-letter day for me, either,” Patch murmured. He looked up at her, his eyes brimming.
Anya twisted her hands, wanting very much to reach out and hug him, knowing it would be the worst thing she could do right now. “Will you be all right?” she asked, feeling as if the words were painfully inadequate. Who could even imagine what he would do next, after such a humiliating failure?
Patch pulled himself together with an effort, and grinned with false bravado. “Me? I couldn’t be happier.” He shrugged, and waved a dismissing hand, shooing the past away like a fly. “I mean, let’s face it, us free spirits, we can’t be burdened down with all that responsibility stuff.” He broke off again, seeing Anya’s expression, and cleared his throat. “Yes. Well,” he mumbled, suddenly looking down, “every elf has his place and mine should be in bed by now so I’ll just toddle off. ’Night, ma’am.” He touched his hat in polite farewell and, whistling a brave, shaky little tune, turned and hurried out of Santa’s home. Anya stood where she was for a long moment, feeling as if she had simply frozen into an icy statue. At last she sighed and shook her head, turning away to the window to look out at the rising hubbub down below.
Patch descended the spiral stairs from Santa Claus’s cottage on leaden feet. He looked out into the workshop area, where until today he had been more important than anyone but Santa himself. And now, watching, he saw Santa Claus with his back turned, handing the red Assistant’s apron to a smugly beaming Puffy, as dozens of other elves looked on. If word hadn’t gotten around earlier (and how the elves loved gossip), everyone would know his disgrace now. Santa certainly wasn’t wasting any time, he thought bitterly. He could not see Santa Claus’s face, see the sorrow that dimmed the usually sparkling blue eyes and pinched the once-merry smile as Puffy took the apron from Santa’s hands. Santa Claus was happy for Puffy, who was certainly a good and careful worker. But Patch . . . Patch had always been something special. If only he had been as responsible as he was clever . . . Santa sighed deeply as he turned away.
Patch held his face frozen in an expression of calm indifference, hiding the pain and embarrassment he felt from the watching elves as he hurried past their stares.
He made his way to the stables, where he still slept and kept his eye on the welfare of the reindeer. The reindeer watched in silent curiosity as he began to gather up his possessions. Alone at last except for the silent animals, Patch let his anger come pouring out at last. He had thought Santa cared about him. But Santa hadn’t cared about him at all! One little mistake, he thought, and Santa forgot all the good things he had ever done . . . But all the while Patch knew in his heart that it hadn’t been a little mistake at all . . . that it had been such a huge, irreparable mistake that no one could ever forgive him, especially himself. It had been such a terrible mistake that he couldn’t face admitting it, even to himself.
“Wait till he wakes up and finds his free spirit has spirited himself away,” he muttered to the reindeer, but more to himself. He had done a good job—he had given them just what they’d needed here—modernized their toy production. So there were a few bugs in the system . . . nobody was perfect. Santa could have given him a second chance. It wasn’t like he’d done i
t on purpose—
He pulled open the bright red doors of his storage cabinet, looking for a piece of cloth to tie up his belongings. As he searched the shelves he saw his copy of The Elf Rule Book. He pushed it aside impatiently. Behind it lay the glittering sack of magical stardust that he added to the reindeer’s feed every year. He stared at it, without really realizing that he was staring. “Oh, yes,” he went on, his voice sharp with hurt, “then you’ll hear the crying and moaning, but it’ll be too late. ‘I never appreciated old Patch,’ he’ll say—” Patch was unable even to speak Santa’s name. “ ‘Why didn’t I tell him in time?’ ” His voice rose, trembling. “He’ll never have an assistant as good as me!” All the emotion that he had held inside for so long burst out of him at once. “Let’s face it, he just doesn’t like me!”
All the feelings he had lived with for so long before Santa had come, feelings of being unappreciated and misunderstood, rose up in him again in a great wave—and with it, the unspoken fear that had always haunted him, that perhaps the elves who had criticized him were really right . . . He had thought that in Santa he had finally found the one person who truly appreciated him, but now even he had rejected him. Because Patch was too full of hurt and guilt to see things objectively, his grief and disappointment turned outward, and turned into blame.
Patch looked back at the reindeer, seeing the shared sorrow in their wide, somber brown eyes. They might not really understand all his words, but they certainly sensed his unhappiness and felt it as their own. A large tear trickled down Donner’s furry cheek. He stretched his neck, reaching out to Patch to comfort him.
At least the reindeer really did appreciate, and love, him . . . Patch’s angry frown softened as he thought suddenly of all that he was going to be leaving behind when he left here. “Oh, boys, I’m going to miss you. You know that, don’t you—” he murmured. Reaching out to put his arms around Donner’s neck, he hugged him tightly.
Late that night, when all the elfish village lay asleep, Patch crept out of his refuge in the stable and went silently across the Great Hall to the front gate. Pushing open the vast door he stepped out into the snow, and shut it firmly behind him. Looking resolutely ahead, he started to walk. He carried a single bundle on a stick slung over his shoulder as he left his home like a fugitive, without a single good-bye. The only sign of his departure was the quiet crunching of his footsteps in the snow.
He turned once, when he had walked several hundred yards, and, walking backward, looked up one last time at the enchanted home he was leaving for the strange new world that lay beyond its borders. As he watched, the great rippling Christmas tree of aurora, which only those who truly belonged within the enchanted village could see, slowly began to fade from sight.
Patch stopped, standing motionless with loss for a long moment, his eyes blinking, still searching for something they could no longer see. Then he turned away again, his dark eyes even darker with sorrow. If Santa and the others didn’t appreciate his talents, he would find a place where people did. “I’ll show him what I’m made of,” he muttered. “I’ll make him take notice, I will, I will.” He would prove all over again that he was the best toymaker ever. And then Santa would be begging him to come home. He had no idea where he was going or what he would do, but he was sure he would find his just deserts somewhere in the great world beyond.
He walked on across the bleak, frozen wasteland, turning his back on the village again. And as he walked, the sack slung over his shoulder glittered softly with its own light. It was not, after all, the bag of belongings that he had originally intended to take with him. Instead, it was a bag of the magic stardust. He had violated the final trust of all, turning his back on Santa and his former friends in every sense. He walked on, struggling against the clouds of snow raised by the gusting wind; his small, lonely figure grew smaller and smaller in the night. The last of him that could be seen, if anyone had been watching, was a glittering flicker of stardust.
Ten
The Capitol lay as serenely white as the snow-covered lawns and trees of Washington, D.C. The city rested peacefully on a crisp, blue-skyed winter day shortly after the New Year.
Within the halls of the Capitol, the eight U.S. Senate Subcommittee members seated at the long curving table still had their minds on the recent holidays—but not on thoughts of good cheer. The press, television crews, miscellaneous aides, and a gallery full of spectators filled the vast chamber, all watching and listening with great intentness as the investigation’s key figure, the man on the spot, began his testimony at last. The defendent in this particular instance was none other than the president of the B.Z. Toy Company, one of the largest toymakers in the nation.
B.Z. himself was now answering questions about the highly questionable business practices of the company he headed. Sitting before the committee members, clad in an expensive, conservatively styled business suit, and flanked by an ever-alert attorney, he concentrated on maintaining the appearance of confident respectability and injured innocence that he had worked so hard to perfect before his shaving mirror this morning. It had been hard then, and it was still hard, to make his long, pasty-looking face seem wholesome, or his hard, beady blue eyes look innocent; almost as hard as it was to cover his bald spot with the slicked-down strands of his thinning brown hair. He mopped perspiration from his brow surreptitiously, the strain clearly beginning to show on him. The committee’s questions were coming at him like bullets.
The chairman of the subcommittee was not a man to be easily taken in by superficial appearances of respectability. Having been in politics for most of his life, the chairman had become a fairly shrewd judge of human nature. And he judged the man before him to be venal, arrogant, abusive, and rotten to the core. This was a man who ran a toy company the way Attila the Hun would run a charity. The thought of one of his own grandchildren possibly receiving one of the toys on display before him now as a gift made his blood run cold.
“Now, sir,” the chairman said, his voice rising in righteous anger, “I am asking you if these two toys are manufactured by your corporation, the B.Z. Toy Company.”
B.Z. leaned toward his attorney—a thing he did so often the chairman was surprised that he didn’t have a permanent list in that direction—and the attorney whispered in his ear. “. . . Uh, they appear to be our products, Senator,” B.Z. said, glancing at the toys suspiciously.
An aide stepped up to the table on which the evidence—a sweet-faced doll in a frilly pink gown and a chubby, smiling stuffed panda—were displayed. The chairman nodded, and as cameras whirred and clicked, the aide set an ashtray containing a lit cigarette next to the doll. Within seconds, the doll’s flimsy, highly flammable dress began to smoke, and then suddenly burst into flames. The doll became a blazing torch; the astonished watchers gasped in horror.
“What do you say to that, sir?” the chairman asked, his eyes blazing with the fire of his outrage.
B.Z. pulled at the collar of his neat white shirt, loosening his discretely patterned tie. “Well, Senator, I always knew smoking was dangerous. Heh-heh . . .” He laughed feebly, groping in desperation for a joke that would distract the opposition and lighten up the heaviness of his miserable situation.
But the senators were plainly not amused. “This is not a laughing matter, sir!” the chairman said sharply. “This is a tragedy waiting to happen!” He looked up at the spectators in the gallery, at the whirring television cameras. He was sincerely concerned about this problem, but he was also—always—concerned about his own image with the public. This investigation could win him the hearts and the votes of parents everywhere, and he fully intended to take advantage of the opportunity. “You, sir,” he flared dramatically, “are a disgrace to your profession!” He waved his aide toward the table again.
B.Z. squirmed under the cameras’ merciless gaze. With every second that this went on, he was losing millions of dollars in sales. “With all respect, Senator—” he protested.
But the aide had already reach
ed the display table again. Picking up the stuffed panda, he yanked its head off as easily as he would have snapped a dry stick in two. He turned the panda over. The eager lenses of a dozen cameras zoomed in as the stuffing came pouring out—sawdust and lint, glittering with sharp nails and shards of broken glass.
“And I believe this toy is advertised as ‘suitable for three-year-olds’?!” the chairman said, his voice heavy with irony.
B.Z. canted even farther toward his attorney, whispering frantically, and then listening intently. He looked back at the chairman again, wiping his face, pulling his features into order like a man playing with Silly Putty. “Senator, I’m more astonished than you are to see this,” he said, shaking his head in what he meant to be innocent dismay. “I can only conclude that one of my employees, in a misguided effort to cut costs, made these errors in judgment. I guarantee that if these are not isolated examples, I’ll make sure it never occurs again.”
“Oh, come now—” one of the other senators on the panel interrupted, his tone expressing the skepticism he shared with everyone there.
“You’d better do more than that, sir,” the chairman snapped to B.Z. “You’d better recall every B.Z. Toy on the market or I’ll personally see to it that your license to manufacture and distribute in the United States is revoked.”
B.Z. mopped his brow again with his already sodden linen handkerchief. “Senator, may I—” he whined.
The chairman pounded the table loudly with his gavel, drowning out the sound of more execrable excuses from the human slug sitting before him. “Next witness!” he called, his gaze still fixed dramatically on the crowd.
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