by A. L. Singer
And winking.
Susan sank below the windowsill. How creepy.
Thanksgiving Day, 11:27 A.M.
Victor Lamberg sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on the TV screen. The Santa float was pulling up in front of Cole's department store now. A swarm of people dotted the sidewalk—one block away from Shopper's Express, which was deserted.
He knew that his store would lose business on this day. He wondered how much.
"What's the crowd estimate?" he barked into his phone.
On the other end, standing in front of Cole's, was Jack Duff. Duff was Lamberg's chief of operations. Some people called him slimy. Lamberg preferred the word loyal.
"Cops say over a million," Duff's voice replied. "Last year it was about seven hundred fifty thousand."
Lamberg frowned. "Have the marketing department come up with a giveaway, something free. I don't want a mob outside Cole's in the morning."
"I hate to say this, Mr. Lamberg," Duff said, "but Cole's has one heck of a Santa Claus this year. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was the real article."
"You told me he was the same man they used last year!" Lamberg snapped. "You said he was a drunk."
"I saw him this morning. They must have switched him at the last minute for this new guy."
The door crashed open behind Lamberg. "Grandfather!" screamed Lamberg's four-year-old granddaughter. "I saw Santa Claus! He was right outside! I waved to him!"
Lamberg put his hand over the receiver. "That's very nice, Patrice. Grandfather will be with you in a moment."
"They said on TV that he's staying at Cole's while he's in New York," Patrice gushed. "That's right by our store!"
She raced back out.
Lamberg's face hardened. "Keep an eye on this, Mr. Duff," he said into the phone. "I don't want my plans damaged by an elderly cherub in a red suit."
"I'm on it, sir," Duff replied.
Lamberg slammed down the phone.
Bryan cut into the turkey with a carving knife. Juice flowed down the steaming, brown-glazed side of the bird.
Susan's mouth watered. "This is kind of like TV," she said. "Except I'd need a brother and a dog. And Bryan—"
"Mr. Bedford," Dorey corrected her.
"He said I could call him Bryan," Susan protested.
"Only if it's okay with your mother," Bryan
quickly added. He passed Susan a plate of turkey.
"Fine," Dorey said sharply
"Bryan would be the dad," Susan continued. "You'd be the mom, and we'd need either a kind of fat person who's our cook or a neighbor who's always at our house."
"Uh, can we talk about something else?" Dorey asked.
Bryan held out a full plate to Dorey. "For the chef."
"The vegetables are catered," Susan remarked "So is the dessert."
"Thank you, Susan," Dorey said with a sneer.
Bryan filled his own plate, then sat. "Do we give blessings in this home?"
"Not unless my grandparents are here," Susan answered.
"Would you mind if I did it?" Bryan asked. "It's kind of a tradition with me."
Dorey hesitated. "Go ahead."
Bryan and Susan lowered their heads. Reluctantly, Dorey did, too.
"We give our thanks for the warmth of this shelter, the food before us, and the closeness of the people we love," Bryan said. "We pray that these gifts we so gratefully receive might be shared many times over with those less fortunate than us."
Susan glanced up. Her mom's head was still bowed.
"Amen," Susan said—quietly, so Dorey wouldn't hear.
While they were praying, the man who called himself Kriss Kringle walked quietly home through the park.
November 25, 8:59 A.M.
30 Days To Christmas
Kids squirmed. Parents took deep breaths. The morning was clear and cloudless, and Broadway was packed, from 33rd to 34th streets. All eyes were on the enormous clock above the entrance to Cole's.
It was one minute before the official opening of the Christmas season.
On the eighth floor, Santa's Workshop was ready for action. A pathway wound through a snow-dappled village of busy mechanical elves, reindeer, and gingerbread houses.
For the next thirty days, kids from all over the world would walk down this path to see Santa Claus.
And Kriss Kringle was ready for them.
He was dressed in the finest scarlet wool flannel, sewn with gold thread and cuffed with fur. Eight sterling buttons fastened his coat, each containing the name of a reindeer. His boots were genuine leather, polished but well-worn. He wore a long black cape, fastened at the neck by a clasp with the word NOEL spelled out in sapphire chips. Every detail of Kringle's outfit was right down to the gold, wreath-shaped ring on his finger.
As he sat on the throne, his "helpers" all smiled at him. They were Cole's employees, dressed as elves—and they did not miss Tony Falacchi. Not one bit.
As the clock hand inched toward 9:00, they took their places. Denice and Tricia, two of the helpers who were also best friends, leaned in to each other. "Where'd they get this guy?" whispered Denice.
Tricia shrugged. "Don't know, but I hope they can keep him."
BONNNNG!
The front doors opened. People rushed in like a herd of wildebeest.
Kriss Kringle heard the eighth-floor elevator door open. The silence was broken by squeals of anticipation.
And by his own loud, merry, "Ho-ho-ho!"
At the same time, across the street, Shopper's Express opened its doors, too. Rock-and-roll Christmas carols blared onto the sidewalk. An electronic sign, built into the glass-and-steel entrance, flashed:
OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY!
FREE COFFEE!
FREE GUM GUNS!
Clack! Gulp.
Clack! Gulp.
Store workers stood outside the door, shooting gum into each other's mouths with plastic pistols.
Parents and children walked by in droves—and went straight across the street to Cole's.
A homeless man straggled over to Shopper's Express. "Cup of coffee?" he asked hopefully.
"Outta here!" snarled a worker.
The man shuffled away.
Inside a mother walked her daughter through the toy department. INTERACTIVE SANTA THIS WAY! a sign blinked. They shielded their eyes against the harsh, neon-lit displays, and walked around the stacks of boxes crowding the aisles.
Dzzzzit! Dzzzzit! All around them, electronic action figures zapped each other with guns.
Finally they reached Santa—a huge TV monitor. On it was the image of a young man with a goatee and red baseball cap. "What's up?" he asked.
"Tell Santa what you want," the mother urged her daughter.
The girl shook her head shyly.
"Maybe she'd like a Santa of her own gender," the image chirped. "You can punch up a She-Santa on the control panel."
"Do you want a woman Santa, sweetheart?" the mother asked.
The little girl looked lost and bewildered. She shook her head no.
Twenty stories up, Lamberg was watching. On his closed-circuit monitor, he saw the mom and daughter talking to the video. And he frowned.
Jack Duff shifted uncomfortably on Lamberg's sofa. He shot a glance at Alberta Leonard, Director of Marketing. She was sweating.
Lamberg swiveled away from the TV monitor and looked out the window. "Cole's is jammed. We're empty."
"They just had their parade," Alberta said. "Their awareness is through the roof. We'll catch up. Our polls indicate that people don't want a traditional Christmas. Excitement, speed, and price dictate where holiday money will be spent. Cole's Christmas strategy will fail."
"When?" Lamberg demanded.
"Our advertising just started," Alberta replied.
Duff chimed in, "Why couldn't we put a traditional Santa in our setting?"
"Will you let our program play out a little?"
Alberta snapped. "Cole's Santa is too old, too fat. It won't work."
For the next few days, the line of children at Santa's Workshop was tremendous.
"Dorothy," Kriss Kringle said to a little girl on his knee. "That's a lovely name. One of my elves is married to a gal named Dorothy. Do you know what you want for Christmas?"
"Yep," Dorothy replied. "A Patty Pollywog Transmutable Baby Frog that swims and sings."
Kriss Kringle chuckled. "Those are a lot of fun."
"Psssssst!"
The old man looked to his left. Dorothy's mom was shaking her head no. She leaned closer to him and whispered, "Don't make me look bad. Those things are seventy bucks. My husband's on half-pay. I can't afford it."
Softly, so that Dorothy wouldn't hear, Kriss Kringle replied, "Shopper's Express has them on sale for thirty-four ninety-nine with a five-dollar rebate. Is that reasonable?"
"Yes, thanks! Since when does Cole's send customers someplace else?"
"It doesn't really matter who sells the toys, so long as the children are happy," Kringle whispered. "And I'm sure that the good people at this store believe exactly as I do."
A warm smile spread across the mother's face. "That's the spirit."
"Now, Dorothy," Kringle said to the girl, "if you're a good girl and do what your mother says, you're going to have a Patty Pollywog."
Shellhammer beamed. He hadn't seen crowds like this in years. But his favorite part was standing by the exit, watching the expressions on the children's faces. They were ecstatic.
"You the boss?" a woman called out to him.
"I'm the general manager," Shellhammer replied.
"My kid asked Santa Claus for a Barf Gun. They're ninety bucks without batteries or barf!"
"Prices do go up," Shellhammer said
"Not at Bargain Village. Fifty-two fifty, and they throw in the batteries—according to your Santa Claus."
"Excuse me?" Shellhammer asked. He was sure he hadn't heard right.
"Your Santa's telling people where to go to shop. If you don't have it here, or it's too expensive, he's sending people to where they can get it, and at the right price."
Suddenly Shellhammer was feeling faint. "Ma'am, could you excuse me for a moment?"
His mind reeling, he darted down the hallway.
Kriss Kringle, indeed.
This man had to be fired at once!
November 29, 5:49 P.M.
26 Days To Christmas
"You tell your Santa he made a Cole's shopper out of me!" the woman yelled after Shellhammer. "I'm coming here for everything but toilet paper and bananas."
Shellhammer stopped short. He turned slowly around.
"Any store that puts a parent ahead of the almighty dollar at Christmas deserves my business, she continued, grinning. "You tell Mr. Cole, if he's still alive, that his Santa Claus ought to get a raise!"
With a friendly wave, she walked away.
Shellhammer watched her go. Thoughts jumbled around in his head.
Then he sped off—toward Dorey Walker's office.
He pushed the door open. "Santa Claus just gave me a great idea! Listen: What can we offer shoppers the discount places can't?"
Dorey looked up from her laptop, startled. "Uh higher prices"
"Service. And why are we different?"
"Higher prices?" Dorey asked.
"We care," Shellhammer barged on. "We're not some big barn full of bargains where you can't get a question answered. We offer friendly, traditional service. We're a company you can trust. And do you know how we prove it?"
"Lower prices."
"No! If Cole's doesn't have what you're looking for, we'll find it for you—even if it means sending you somewhere else. How's that sound?"
"Sounds like a great way to go out of business," Dorey remarked.
"Mr. Kringle's been doing it all morning and we've had nothing but compliments. We're going to the chairman with it."
Dorey's jaw dropped. "We?"
"Mr. Cole loves you. He listens to you about things like this. If we don't turn this store around, we're all gone—from the chairman to the janitor."
"I don't know. . . ."
Shellhammer leaned forward, his eyes blazing. "Do we save this grand old store, or do we see it stripped of everything but its name?"
Dorey thought for a moment. Then she slammed her laptop shut. "Let's go."
Across from Mr. Cole's long desk, Dorey could feel her knees shaking. It hadn't taken long to pitch their idea. But Cole was taking an hour to respond.
Well, at least it felt like an hour.
The dark mahogany walls seemed to be closing in. The office was like a museum of antiques—and Mr. Cole was one of them.
Cole was old. He was also heavy, and from the expression on his face, you'd think he had permanent indigestion. He leaned over his desk and glared over his wire-rimmed glasses.
"I like it," he growled. "It's bold. It's fresh. It'll drive Victor Lamberg nuts."
Dorey felt like screaming with joy.
"Can you be ready with this for the morning paper?" Cole asked.
Dorey gulped. The morning paper? Hoo, boy. This was going to be a long night.
November 30, 9:05 A.M.
25 Days To Christmas
HOW SANTA CLAUS
CHANGED THE WAY
COLE'S DOES BUSINESS!
Lamberg scanned the newspaper ad "service" . . . "truth" . . . "referrals to other stores" . . . "no pressure" . . .
And signed at the bottom by C. F. Cole!
Lamberg slammed his fist on his desk. "Why didn't you think of this?"
Jack Duff and Alberta Leonard stood across his desk, staring numbly at him.
"If this campaign is successful, Cole's is going to make a lot of money," Lamberg bellowed. "The more money they make, the harder it is for us to buy them out. I want something done about this!"
Duff and Alberta nodded so hard, Lamberg could feel the breeze.
Susan and Bryan were next in line at Santa's Workshop. Kriss Kringle was talking to a little boy, nodding deeply. The boy's mother stood nearby, dressed in a faded cloth coat that was torn but carefully mended.
"This seems like a pretty pointless exercise, Bryan," Susan said.
"Well, we were in the store, so I figured you might as well say hello to the old guy," Bryan replied.
"Why?"
"Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that there is a Santa Claus and you don't believe in him," Bryan said. "Is it worth the risk that you might not get anything for Christmas?"
Susan shrugged. "I didn't believe in him last year, and I got everything I asked my mother for, except for the overly violent and antisocial stuff."
"Well . . . you can get a free candy cane," Bryan tried.
"I'm trying to limit my intake of sugar."
Bryan nodded. This girl is some tough cookie, he thought.
Neither of them noticed the little boy hop off Kriss Kringle's lap. Nor did they see Kringle whisper to the mother, "Your son wants a bicycle. They're very expensive, but I want him to have one.
He reached into a pocket, pulled out a crisp, hundred-dollar bill, and put it in her hand.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She leaned over and gave the kind old man a kiss. "You are the real Santa Claus."
As the woman left, Bryan nudged Susan forward.
She stuck out her hand for him to shake. "Hello, sir."
Kriss Kringle grinned and shook her hand. Then he gently patted his knee, and Susan climbed onto it.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Susan Walker. What's yours?"
"Mine? I have many names. Kriss Kringle. Santa Claus. Father Christmas. St. Nicholas. In Holland I'm Sinterklaas. In Italy, Befana. I have to speak many languages because I travel a lot."
"My mom is Mrs. Walker, who runs the parade," Susan said. "I know how all this works You're an employee of Cole's. But you're a very good Santa Claus. Your beard's realistic."
"That's because it's real. Give it a tug."
Susan pulled on the beard a
nd nodded. Then she asked, "Your suit isn't the regular one, is it?"
"This is the real Santa suit," he said cheerfully.
Susan narrowed her eyes.
"Ask your dad if I'm real," Kringle suggested.
"I don't know where my dad is. That guy's my friend, Mr. Bedford. I don't have a dad anymore."
Kringle's brow creased. He nodded and cleared his throat. "Well . . . what would you like me to bring you for Christmas?"
"Nothing. My mother buys my gifts. If I don't want something too stupid or dangerous or—"
Susan suddenly stopped. Dorey was marching grimly toward them.
"Nice to see you again," Dorey said coldly to Kringle. "Susan, I think you've taken enough of the man's time. There's a very long line of customers. They come first."
Susan took her mom's hand and jumped off Kringle's lap.
"Nice to meet you, Susan," he said
"Nice to meet you, too."
As they walked away, Bryan gave Kringle an embarrassed smile. "Nonbelievers."
Kringle nodded politely. Then he watched Bryan tag along after Dorey and Susan.
He sighed and signaled for the next child in line.
Dorey and Susan zigzagged through customers.
"Are you mad?" Susan asked.
"No," Dorey said angrily.
"He's a nice old man. You know, his whiskers are real."
"Lots of men have real whiskers."
Bryan ran up behind them. "Dorey?" he called out. "I'm sorry. The baby-sitter wasn't feeling well, and she asked me if I'd bring Susan here. I figured we might as well say hello to Santa Claus."
"I didn't mind," Susan insisted. "It was kind of fun."
The three of them entered the outer section of Dorey's office. "Susan, would you mind sitting here with Myrna for a moment while I talk to Mr. Bedford?" Dorey asked.
Asked? It was more like commanded. Susan sank down on a chair opposite Myrna's desk while Bryan and Dorey went into the inner office.
Dorey closed the door behind her. She sat at her desk and crossed her arms. "If it mattered that she saw Santa Claus, I'd be more than happy to take her."
