Santa Claus The Movie

by Joan D. Vinge

  Santa stared at it, moving closer, mesmerized by the sight, like someone hypnotized by a snake. It certainly didn’t look like much. Could it really be so wonderful? . . . He put out his hand, reaching tentatively for the patchwork box; pulled it back again, somehow unwilling to actually touch his rival’s tiny present, even though his curiosity about what lay inside was almost unbearable. He dropped his own present on the far side of the tree. Hurriedly picking up his sack again, he disappeared up the chimney once more.

  And high above in the night Patch flew on, leaving a trail of puce smoke to mark his passage, and mar the sky. Leaning on his horn exultantly, Patch laughed in giddy glee as he roared between the starry towers of Manhattan to the strains of his very own Christmas theme.

  Santa climbed into his sleigh once more and started his reindeer away into the night, again at a much slower speed. Struggling to keep his flagging spirits up, he shouted to the reindeer the words he desperately needed to hear himself. “Well, don’t let it get you down, boys,” he called with false heartiness. “It’s still our night, all right.” He looked down across the nighttime landscape, which had always filled him with such pleasure. “There’s still all the beautiful trees and the windows welcoming us with their red and green—” He broke off suddenly. “Oh.”

  Down below, colored lights winked and flickered as they always had . . . but tonight they were all one color. Puce. Looking up and away to the south, he saw that even the Empire State Building was not wearing its traditional holiday crown of red and green, but shone with the same lurid pinkish-purple glow. B.Z.’s mercenary machinations had succeeded in reaching new heights of crass exploitation.

  Santa looked back again at the reindeer surging ahead of him through the sky, the only sight he was sure he could still trust. “Well . . .” he murmured, his heart sinking, “seems as if the public is a little more fickle than I—” He glanced down, as a motion his subconscious had been searching for all along registered in his thoughts. Abruptly his smile came back, as wide as ever. “Ah,” he sighed. “At least somebody down there likes me.”

  Far below him stood the small form of the boy Joe, waving wildly at him from the roof of a tenement.

  Santa shifted the reins, and the eight deer began to circle downward as one, to come in for a perfect landing on the rooftop below.

  Joe stood watching in silent wonder as Santa’s sleigh landed with perfect grace before him, some fifteen feet away across the roof.

  Santa Claus sat in his sleigh for a long moment, caught in the same awkward moment of self-conscious silence as the boy, both of them so filled with emotion that they were suddenly afraid any movement or word would make it overflow in embarrassing tears.

  At last Santa roused himself and climbed down from the sleigh. Tonight he did not move with his usual youthful energy, but instead seemed to move as if all the long years had caught up with him at once. “Joe,” he murmured, suddenly unsure of how to begin. “Hello.”

  Joe twitched his shoulders, equally uncertain, hiding behind the too-familiar cool manner that protected his real and very vulnerable feelings from hurt and disappointment. “Hey, how’s it goin’?” he said casually, his hands in his jacket pockets.

  Santa nodded, equally restrained, sensing Joe’s uncertainty; he tried to feel his way past it without saying the wrong thing. “Pretty well. Yourself?”

  “Oh, me, I’m . . . er . . .” Joe’s voice suddenly fell apart as his emotions surged upward so strongly that they shattered his cool pose and burst out of him in a rush. “I was afraid you’d forget about me,” he blurted, his eyes suddenly too full, like his heart. He ran to Santa Claus and threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly. It had been such a long, cold night; every minute had seemed to last for hours. But it had all been worth it; because he had finally found someone who didn’t let him down, someone worthy of his trust and love.

  “Well,” Santa murmured, hugging the boy to his heart, more deeply and profoundly moved by this moment than he had been by anything in a long time. “It seems I’ve still got one friend left.” And heaven knew, he felt as he had never needed one more than tonight.

  Joe pulled back, gazing up at him with wide brown eyes. “Oh, hey, are you kiddin’? I’m your pal for life, honest.” A frown of concern suddenly wrinkled his smooth young forehead. “Oh, hey, listen—” he said, suddenly remembering. “There was this weird guy on television, this patch-natch-scratch guy, and he said—”

  “I know, I know,” Santa said hastily. He patted Joe’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Joe relaxed, smiling again, glad to believe in Santa’s reassurance. If Santa wasn’t worried about competition, then he certainly wouldn’t be. After all, Santa was one of a kind. Who could compete with him? “Oh, that’s cool then.” He nodded, content, and looked away toward the waiting sleigh. “Hiya, Blitzen!” he called. “Donner, how’s it goin’, man? Hey, Comet, awright!”

  His three favorite reindeer looked toward him, shaking their heads in acknowledgment and smiling at his irrepressible grin.

  Santa stood watching Joe’s grinning face for a long moment, his own contentment and the confidence that had been beginning to fail him coming back to him in a rush. He could still bring joy and happiness into the lives of children, which was all he had ever wanted to do. He started back to the sleigh and climbed aboard. “Coming?” he called to the breathlessly waiting boy.

  “Neat!” Joe cried. He ran forward, not needing to be asked twice this year. He had spent a whole year dreaming about and waiting for this moment. He scrambled up into the sleigh beside Santa and settled himself comfortably in the seat.

  As he leaned back, Santa reached down beneath the seat and pulled something out. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, as if he were speaking of the weather. “This is for you.”

  He handed Joe the special handmade present he had put there especially for him.

  Joe took the present uncertainly, his face stunned with disbelief. “For me?” he whispered. “A present?”

  “Yup,” Santa said, smiling gently.

  Joe unwrapped the red-and-green paper with clumsy haste, revealing the carved figure of an elf. He stared at it in fascination, turning it around and around in his hands. He had never seen anything like it before. There was something so real about the small wooden figure that he almost expected to hear it speak to him. And what made it most wonderful of all was that it was the first Christmas present he had received since his mother died.

  “Excellent!” he said with a grin, unconsciously echoing Cornelia’s favorite expression. “Thanks.” He held Santa’s gaze for a long moment. Then, suddenly reminded of the girl, and feeling the need to say something more, he asked, “Did Corny get something? That . . . um . . . that girl,” he added, suddenly turning shy at Santa’s raised eyebrows and smile.

  “You see much of her?” Santa asked with careful casualness.

  Joe’s face reddened, and he gulped visibly. “Actually,” he murmured, finding his voice again, “yes, actually.” He had in fact seen her nearly every week during the entire past year. She had given him food and extra clothing, becoming more expertly streetwise at sneaking leftovers from the table than he had ever been at feeding himself. But even more important than the food, she had given him her friendship—the knowledge that there was someone in the world who liked him and valued his company. The two lonely children had become friends through their shared moment with one extraordinary person named Santa Claus. And, as they had discovered the many other surprising things that they had in common, they had forged a bond of friendship that was strong and true enough to overcome almost any difficulty.

  Santa grinned, touched and gently amused by Joe’s sudden happy embarrassment. It reminded him of his own faraway youth. Anya had been his childhood sweetheart . . . “Of course I’ve brought her something,” he said, remembering to answer Joe’s question. “Writes a lovely letter, that girl.” He thought fondly of her gracious thanks for his last visit to her ho
use, so unlike so many letters, that never said thank you at all. “Asked for a toy piano.” He glanced back at Joe again. “Well? C’mon?” he urged good-naturedly.

  “Huh?” Joe said, looking blank.

  “Where’s the ‘Yo’?” Santa gestured at the reindeer.

  “Oh, right!” Joe nodded, suddenly remembering. His heart leaped. He was going to drive the sleigh again! Taking a deep breath, he called out, loud and clear, “Yo!”

  The reindeer reared up and sprang away at his command, taking off into the sky. For both Joe and Santa, Christmas Eve had truly arrived at last.

  Thirteen

  The next morning dawned clear and crisp over the Big Apple and its sprawling suburbs. In homes and apartments all around the five boroughs—and all across the country, and all around the world, as morning came—children awoke and came running to discover what surprises had been left for them on tables, beside hearths, and beneath Christmas trees.

  In one sunny home in Queens, a blond tousle-headed little boy thumped down the steps into his living room, still in his pajamas, his eyes wide with excitement. He ran to the Christmas tree and, plopping down, seized the small patchwork present that waited there, ignoring everything else. He had seen the elf on television last night, and Patch had dazzled his five-year-old mind so utterly that he had not even thought of Santa Claus since then.

  Tearing the paper from the box, he opened it and looked inside. A small puce-colored lollipop waited there, as promised. It was the most wonderful lollipop he had ever seen, for it seemed to glow all by itself like the lights on the tree. At its center was a single tiny grain of stardust—the magical dust that was meant to enchant the feed of Santa’s own reindeer.

  The excited tot put the lollipop into his mouth and began to suck on it. It had a bland, sweet flavor that tasted vaguely like bubble gum, and vaguely like cherry, but not exactly like anything at all—a taste designed to appeal to children everywhere.

  The little boy took one step and then another as he ate the pop, beginning to wander toward the other packages under the tree. But as he took another step, something remarkable began to happen to him: He began to rise up into the air. He rose halfway to the ceiling with his next step, and hovered there, his mouth and eyes open wide in astonishment. And then his mouth stretched into a smile of pure delight. The Patch present was the most wonderful thing he had ever been given—it let him walk on air!

  He settled gently to the floor again, his face still filled with awe. Moving very cautiously, so that he did not float upward again, he went into the kitchen.

  His mother stood in the pantry, choosing ingredients for the pancakes she always made for Christmas breakfast because they were her son’s and her still-sleeping husband’s favorite. She heard the soft sound of her little boy’s feet come up behind her, and smiled.

  “Mommy, can I have a cookie?”

  She glanced down at him, and then up at the cookie canister on the shelf above her, purposely well out of reach. “Before breakfast?” she said, surprised at him. “Absolutely not!”

  And then she jerked back with a gasp of astonishment, as the two small, pudgy hands she knew so well suddenly reached past her shoulder from up above, and snatched the cookie jar from the shelf.

  A few hours later, down in Brooklyn, a boy and girl of twelve strolled down the snow-piled street together, walking side by side along a high wooden fence. Their heads bobbed in unison, at just equal heights above the fence top.

  “Gee,” the girl said, tossing her dark hair flirtatiously, “I never noticed you in the neighborhood before.” She was tall for her age, and she was surprised and very flattered by the sudden attention of a boy as tall as she was—there weren’t very many of them, yet.

  “Oh, yeah,” her new suitor said, swaggering a bit. “I’ve been here quite awhile. I sure noticed you.”

  The girl giggled. “You’re real cute,” she said, because he was. She wondered why in the world she’d never noticed him before.

  They reached the end of the fence and turned the corner, crossing the street to the row of neat brownstone apartments where she lived. She stole another shy glance at her new boyfriend’s handsome face, never thinking to look down at his feet . . . which she would have found hovering more than a foot off the ground. He was quite literally walking on air at her side, Patch’s lollipop magic letting him match her height as they walked. It was certainly the best Christmas present he’d ever gotten.

  And up in the Bronx, two six-foot-plus future basketball all-stars were playing a fast and furious game of one-on-one in an empty court at the local high school. An envious eight-year-old, barely half their height, stood behind the chain-link fence watching them and dreaming, as he had done so often before.

  But today he had found a special package under his Christmas tree, and it had the power to make his dreams come true. Suddenly he darted out from behind the fence like quicksilver. Crossing the court, he stole the ball from the older boys on a bounce pass, and began to dribble it frantically toward the hoop.

  “Hey, kid,” one of the high school boys shouted angrily, “gimme that ball!” He loomed over the eight-year-old, reaching out to block his shot—when suddenly the little pip-squeak soared past him and sprang five feet into the air to do a reverse twist and a slam-dunk that would have made Doctor J proud. The ball shot through the net and landed on the ground, bouncing away from him as the two older boys stood frozen, still staring because the kid was already disappearing across the empty schoolyard . . . and he still hadn’t come down!

  Out on Staten Island, a middle-aged matron heard her small and particularly bad-tempered dog yapping and barking hysterically in her front yard. He was notorious for his barking and for nipping the neighborhood children, whom she also disliked, so she did not rush to the door to see what he was barking so furiously about.

  If she had, she would have seen the next-door neighbors’ son floating five feet above the dog’s head, driving her beloved Nipper into a frenzy of frustration as the boy enjoyed his revenge on her much-hated nuisance of a pet.

  Patch’s gift was the Great Equalizer, the realization of every child’s fantasies.

  In only one home in all of New York City did the patchwork present lie unopened beneath the tree. Cornelia sat on the thick rug in the den, picking out the tune to “Jingle Bells” on her new toy piano, letting the melody conjure up for her the image of Santa’s merry, smiling face. She had slept soundly all through the night, in spite of her resolution to wake at the slightest sound and see him again. But in the morning his brightly wrapped gift had been waiting for her—the new piano, just as she had requested. (The thing Miss Tucker had steadfastly refused to buy for her, calling it a “noise nuisance.”) Also waiting for her had been the patchwork gift promised in last night’s repulsive commercial, and she had refused with stubborn loyalty to even touch it.

  Miss Tucker stood on the other side of the angel-hair bedecked Christmas tree, holding Patch’s gift out to her with impatient curiosity. “But don’t you even want to try it?” she insisted.

  “I certainly do not,” Cornelia said adamantly.

  Miss Tucker looked at the present with longing. She never got any presents, except for the very large brandy-soaked fruitcake she bought for herself. “Well . . .” she said hesitantly, “it seems a shame to let it go to waste . . .” She looked at Cornelia again. “Do you mind if I take it?” she asked at last.

  Cornelia didn’t even bother to look up. “I don’t care,” she said, still picking out the tune to “Jingle Bells” with single-minded care.

  Miss Tucker unwrapped the present with eager fingers, revealing the glittering puce lollipop within. Never a delicate eater—as her size and girth amply demonstrated—she pulled the whole lollipop from the stick in one bite, and crunched it up with her strong, horselike teeth, licking her lips.

  And then the magic began to happen with a vengeance. Like a hot-air balloon in the Macy’s parade, Miss Tucker began to drift up from the floor. �
��Whooo!” she gasped, clutching her head in astonishment.

  She hovered in the middle of the room, halfway between the floor and the high ornamental ceiling, the Goodyear Blimp incarnate.

  Cornelia stared in open disbelief as Miss Tucker began to flap her arms like wings, scooting across the room like a ponderous hen trying to stay airborne. “Ooooh!” she shrilled, laughing giddily for the first time either she or Cornelia could remember. “Look at me! I feel just like Mary Poppins.” In her own secret dreams she had always imagined being that ultimate nanny—so perfect in every way that she could even perform magic. Miss Tucker had never had a magical moment, or even a magical thought, in her life until now.

  Cornelia sat speechless on the floor. Her heart filled with sorrow for Santa . . . and although she would never admit it, not even to herself, a touch of envy as she watched Miss Tucker. How could anyone compete with a present that let you walk on air?

  Santa walked down the street of a small Midwestern town, moving through the real world by daylight for the first time in centuries. After he had said good-bye to Joe and gone on with his Christmas Eve journey, he had found a Patch present waiting for him—and for every child—in every home in the world. His feelings of depression and sorrow had come back full force, until at last he had decided not to return to the North Pole at dawn, as he had always done before. He had to wait until Christmas day arrived, and see for himself what was in Patch’s present. Was it truly so wonderful that it would make children everywhere turn their backs on the man who had loved them so unselfishly for longer than they could imagine?

  It was a strange and uncanny feeling to walk down a small-town street in the flesh, as a real person rather than a phantom out of legend. He looked right and left at the modern homes and office buildings, at the television antennas—his bane by night—sprouting everywhere, and the automobiles lying patiently under blankets of fresh snow. But even the marvelous strangeness of all he said could not lift the heaviness of his heart. He turned a corner, following the sidewalk aimlessly, and came face to face with a large metal trash can. Lying helter-skelter on top of the trash inside, just as they had landed when they were tossed there, were half a dozen of the distinctively wrapped red-and-green presents that he had so patiently and lovingly left for children in their own homes the night before. And now they were being thrown out, callously rejected by uncaring kids who had not even bothered to open them to see what was inside before throwing them away.