by Alan Russell
Nick was grateful for that, but suspicious. “Why not?”
“I’m told money’s tight,” she said. “And because it’s a shorter Christmas season they didn’t want to distract the shoppers. Besides, they knew there would be no shortage of kids waiting to visit Santa today.”
She danced around the corner. Nick walked after her, and then came to a complete stop. The open area of the mall had been designed for display purposes, and extended upwards to all three levels. The atrium allowed for an enormous Christmas tree, topped by a winged angel, to stretch skyward. Gaily wrapped boxes sat at the foot of the tree. Among the branches were a number of special Christmas “nests,” and emerging from the eggs were toys and treats.
On the ground floor, a North Pole workshop had been brought to San Diego. Mechanical elves were pounding and assembling. Red carpet had been rolled out, and it led to Santa’s throne. Lining the way were figures of snowmen and carolers and reindeer. The carolers looked like something from a Dickens novel, with top hats, and long skirts, and longer scarves. Their mouths opened and closed in fish-like rhythm. Christmas carols were piped out of nearby speakers. Santa’s sleigh was there, and stretched out in front of it was a line of reindeer. At the head of it was the red-nosed one. Nick blanked on his name again, but the reindeer’s nose was glowing. It was probably, Nick thought, the same color as his face. There had to be at least a hundred children waiting to see Santa. They had already spotted him, and were pointing and cheering.
Nick panicked. It was more than stage fright. He had thought he could handle the occasional kid making a pitch to Santa, but this mob wasn’t anything he had bargained for.
“Wave,” said Angie, managing to put bite into the word even through her smile.
“I’m not ready for this.”
“Of course you are. They’re only children.”
“Yeah,” said Nick. “Have you ever seen anything more frightening?”
“This way, Santa,” said Angie, and she put her arm through his. Nick wondered if she felt his trembling. She must, even through all his padding. Nick wanted to pull away, but she was already leading him down the red-carpeted path toward his throne. Through her waving and calling she kept coaching him: “Wave. Smile. Speak.”
It was all a blur to Nick. There was another elf besides Angie working the area, and she led him by the hand to the sleigh. She introduced herself, but Nick was too dazed to catch her name. He felt like an actor in the throes of stage fright. What was he supposed to say? What were his lines?
Angie went to bring a little girl forward. The youngster looked to be about four, and half her body seemed to consist of big, blue eyes.
“This is Terry, Santa,” she said. “She’s been waiting a long time to see you, and she’s very anxious to tell you what she wants for Christmas.”
The girl and Santa looked at one another. Neither appeared very certain of the other. Angie had told him it was important to repeat the child’s name, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember it. He thought it was Mary, but it might have been Kerry, or even Geri. Or perhaps it was Terry. That sounded right, but he didn’t want to say the wrong name. Santa was supposed to know everything.
He looked at Angie for guidance. She made a little motion with her hands. He copied the gesture, his fingers opening up to signal welcome. That decided the girl. She came forward quickly, placing herself right into his hands, and then he lifted her into his lap.
Nick bit his lip, remembering the last time he had held a little girl in his arms. Remembering the blood. The doctors said she must have lost at least a pint of it before he brought her in. You never know how much that is until it’s spilling on you. He didn’t like thinking about what had happened. And besides, this was a different little girl.
Suddenly everyone was looking at him and there didn’t seem to be a thought in Nick’s head. He panicked and turned to Angie. She mouthed, “How old are you?”
He turned back to the girl. “So what’s your date of birth, Mary?”
Right away Nick knew he sounded too much like a cop interrogating a suspect, and that was even before the Elf whispered in his ear, “Terry.”
Nick tried again: “So how old are you, Terry?”
“Almost five.”
“And how’s the world treating you?”
The little girl’s face reflected her puzzlement. Nick gave much the same look to Angie, who mouthed the words, “Have you been good?”
“So,” said Nick, “have you been a good kid?”
“Yes,” said Terry.
Nick snuck Angie another look, and she whispered, “Toys.”
“I’ll bet you’re looking for a big haul this Christmas, right Geri?”
“Terry,” said Angie, “Santa wonders what kind of toys you want.”
The girl was prepared for that question. Nick listened to her long answer, which included Brace-a-lots, which were some kind of fancy bracelets, and Bead Seeds, which sounded like they were seeds that grew into beads when you watered them. Or maybe they were beads that looked like seeds. Nick knew enough to do a lot of head nodding. When she was done, he said, “All right, sounds great. Guess I better bring my extra big sleigh for all those toys, Terry.”
Nick was proud he finally got the kid’s name right. Angie wasn’t quite as pleased. “Santa is delighted you came to see him, Terry, but he might not be able to get you everything you asked for. What he wants you to do is try and be extra good between now and Christmas. Do you think you can do that?”
Terry nodded very seriously.
“Santa has something for you, Terry.” With her head Angie motioned to a box with the lettering, “For Santa’s Good Children.” Nick reached inside, pulled out a candy cane, and handed it to the girl.
And then another child was already being escorted up to him. Between helping the children up to Santa, getting smiles, taking pictures, collecting money, and spreading goodwill, the elves were even busier than he was, but Angie still found time to be his personal advisor. She told him not to lift the children up with his arms (“you’ll throw out your back”), and was quick with the breath mints (“Santa doesn’t have bad breath”), and kept him hydrated, frequently filling his mug with water.
The sweat was pouring off Nick. It was hot, difficult work, and he couldn’t believe how much he was perspiring. There was no place for his body to breathe. His head was covered with a wig and cap, his face smothered with a beard, his hands imprisoned in gloves, and his entire chest and stomach were mummified with batting.
The children kept coming. Some were terrified of him, and it took all the coaxing of moms and the elves to get them up in the sleigh, while other kids treated him like their long lost best friend. There were so many kids Nick felt overwhelmed. Everything was so busy and otherworldly it felt like he was in the middle of a Dr. Seuss book. A rhyme started percolating in his head:
Snotty nosed kids, most of them sick,
Coughing and hacking on poor St. Nick.
The little extorters, each with a rant,
Demanding, ‘I want this, and I want that.’
And oh how Santa wishes he heard the word ‘please,’
Before the Elves cued the shot and shouted, ‘cheese.’
To Santa’s lap come screamers, and weepers, and huggers,
Where oh where, are those muggers?
Nick took a moment to gauge the onlookers. He was hoping to see a few hardened criminals, but there were only smiling adults watching them. It was his bad luck.
“And this is Reed, Santa.”
Reed wasn’t one of the shy ones. He looked like a happy Jack-o’-lantern. He had orange hair, and a big smile, which showed about as many gaps as it did teeth. He jumped up and down as he approached the sleigh.
“Santa Claus! Santa Claus! Santa Claus!”
He landed in Nick’s lap, all adoring eyes, all wiggling enthusiasm. And then his expression changed, becoming frozen, and Nick felt something in his lap.
Something wet.
Reed looked up at Nick. He didn’t say “Uh-Oh.” He didn’t have to. The boy was holding his breath.
Nick was holding his as well. He’d been peed on. He stifled his urge to toss the kid off of him so he could wipe off his pants. The boy looked terrified, and Nick didn’t want to add to his trauma.
“It’s all right, Reed,” Nick said, his voice soft, talking only to the boy, making it their secret. “I’m used to getting wet at the North Pole.”
“There’s lots of snow there,” the boy said.
“Yeah, lots of snow.”
Only Angie seemed to have noticed what occurred. While Nick talked with Reed, Angie whispered to Reed’s mother, and handed her a large plastic bag. When Reed got off of the sleigh, Angie put up a sign that read: “Santa’s Feeding His Reindeer.” At the bottom of the sign were the words: “He’ll Return” and a clock. Angie set it for eleven.
Those waiting in line groaned. Tough, thought Nick. They hadn’t gotten peed on. It was a long walk back to the locker room. He covered up his stain with the candy cane bag.
Angie caught up with him halfway there. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Shot in the line of duty,” said Nick.
“We have another name for it. We call it, ‘Surf’s up.’ Do you surf?”
“I barely float.”
“You’re never too old to take up surfing. I started after my daughter Noël was born last year.”
The name of her daughter didn’t surprise Nick. If she had a son, he was probably named Rudolph. There. Nick had remembered the name of that damn reindeer.
“I’ll go get some club soda for the stain,” she said, “and you’ll be as good as new.”
“Don’t hurry,” Nick said.
Chapter 4
Jolly Old Saint Nicholas
When his shift finally ended, Nick didn’t even have the strength to totally strip out of his Santa outfit. He was sprawled atop a bench in the locker room, jacket and padding off, pants, boot covers and beard still on, when the door opened and Forster walked in. He felt like a heavyweight boxer unable to leave his corner to answer the bell.
At least he had finally stopped sweating. His Santa uniform was saturated with his perspiration. No wonder St. Nick lived in the North Pole. With that kind of outfit, he would have to.
Nick’s arms ached, and his back ached. Too much lifting. He had a killer headache and his ears were ringing. Some kids had spoken so softly he’d had to strain to hear them; others had seemingly taken on the challenge of shattering his eardrums. There had been a few screamers terrified of him, kids so frightened you’d think they were being taken to see Old Nick, not St. Nick.
Maybe he should call in sick tomorrow. This job made him feel inept. Like at the end of his shift when that kid had asked him: “Are you the real Santa Claus?”
The question kept echoing in his head. The boy had looked him in the eye and Nick hadn’t known how to answer. He supposed that was the kind of situation they went over in Santa School.
Of course he had done his best to finesse the question. “Santa has many helpers,” he said, but even to Nick those words had sounded lame.
The kid hadn’t bought his answer. He knew that Nick had dodged the question. You could tell he wanted to believe in Santa Claus, and that most of all he had wanted to believe Nick was the Santa Claus.
And so the boy had asked him again, “Are you the real Santa Claus?”
Maybe I should have been honest with him, thought Nick. Told him Santa was a crock. And then I could have disillusioned him on everything from the Easter Bunny to the Bill of Rights. But instead he’d just said, “Yes.”
Yes. One small word, and one more lie. Nick was surprised the lie bothered him. It certainly wasn’t his first.
Well, if the kid was still hanging around the mall, and if he was at all observant, he’d see that a very different looking Santa was now sitting in the sleigh. Maybe he’d go ask that new Santa what the true story was. That would be fine with Nick. Make some other Santa sweat instead of him.
The second shift Santa was a lot younger than Nick, a college drama major named Bret who had evidently seen The Miracle on 34th Street too many times. Santa Bret had been doing these weird breathing exercises in the locker room, and then had explained to Nick in a voice a lot bigger than his body that he was a method actor who believed in getting into the role.
“When I make my entrance,” he said dramatically, “I will not be playing Santa Claus, I will be Santa Claus.”
Nick hoped he’d get peed on.
Forster cleared his throat from the doorway. He knew better than to smile, though it probably took all his willpower not to. Nick was only too aware of how his tiredness was on display, and how ridiculous he looked sitting in his red pantaloons.
“I’m not talking to you,” Nick said.
“Angie tells me that you did a bang-up job for your first day, especially considering you didn’t have any training.”
“If I was talking to you,” Nick said, “I’d probably say, ‘who cares?’ And then I might say, ‘Gee, I’m so honored that I got the Elf seal of approval.’ But I’m not talking to you.”
“She says the kids took to you.”
“Then they had an unusual way of showing it. They came, they saw, and they peed. And they cried and screamed. I’d hate to see what they would have done if they hadn’t taken to me.”
“Angie says you’re a natural.”
Nick would have waved off the compliment if his arms weren’t so tired. “Consider the source.”
“I did.”
“Your Angie seems to be a little fanatical about the holidays.”
“She feels,” said Forster, “that the holidays are the time of year when people should give back to the community.”
“So she gives back as an elf? What’s her job in the off-season—professional cheerleader?”
“Angie’s an accountant the other eleven months of the year. She has her own business, a very successful one that allows her to schedule this time off.”
Nick shook his head. Something wasn’t right here. “Why?”
“Who knows?”
“Something’s got to be behind her Norman Vincent Peale act.”
“It’s no act.”
“Maybe you brought us together thinking I needed a role model for positive thinking.”
Forster shook his head. “I wish I was clever enough to engineer your paranoid theories, but the truth is I didn’t tell Angie anything about you except that you’re a cop. I needed a good pair of eyes, and you’re the best.”
“Not today. Not ever with this setup. Lady Godiva could have ridden by and I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“First couple days are always the hardest.”
“Tomorrow’s my last day, remember?”
Forster shrugged. Nick would have preferred it had he nodded.
“A kid asked me if I was the real Santa Claus,” said Nick. “What’s the answer to that one, Chief?”
“I suppose it depends on who’s doing the answering.”
“Is that one of those Zen kinds of answers? Someone who has Santa Claus in their soul is Santa Claus, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“I told him I was the real thing. The mall will probably get sued.”
“Probably.”
“Thing is, if the kid had asked me, ‘Are you the real Nick Pappas,’ I would have had just as much trouble answering.”
The two men had a history. Roots. Nick could say things to Forster that he couldn’t to anyone else.
“It was like part of me got misplaced sometime, somewhere, and I’m not who I should be. I’m not the real Nick Pappas.”
Nick sighed, and shook his head as if trying to clear it. “See what I mean? The real Nick Pappas wouldn’t be babbling like this.”
“You’re wrong. That’s what the real Nick Pappas used to do.”
“As a partner, I must have been a real pain.”
“Some things never change.”
“So the Elf told you I wasn’t half-bad, huh?”
“Better than half-bad. She told me when she was doing her song and dance this morning she turned around and saw you handing out candy canes and making with the happy feet.”
“Now I know you’re full of it,” said Nick. “I don’t dance.”
Chapter 5
Toyland
November 30
Exhaustion had taken care of Nick’s insomnia. For the first time in over a month he had needed to set his alarm clock, and when he awoke to its buzz, he just lay in bed for a minute listening to it. Maybe it didn’t sound as bad as he remembered it.
He ate a hurried breakfast of cereal and was surprised at his appetite. Ever since his suspension, food hadn’t appealed to him. He hardly took notice of the gun at the table. It was still sitting there, right next to the sugar. He was just too rushed to give it much mind.
The batting was still wet. He had meant to throw it in a dryer the night before, but hadn’t gotten around to it. And the Elf was right about its aroma. It already had a locker room smell, but he wasn’t going to sprinkle rosebuds on it, or whatever it was that Angie had suggested. He grabbed a can of deodorant, liberally sprayed it, and then took a few sample sniffs. It seemed okay. He filled a thermos with water, found some old breath mints, and hurried out to his car.
Nick had the eight to four shift. When he arrived at the mall, he was amazed that the parking lot was almost full. Didn’t people have anything better to do than shop? As he made his way to the locker room he actually found himself humming along to the holiday Muzak. Brainwashing, he thought, was an insidious thing. Or maybe he was just in a good mood because this was his last day on the job.
Putting the Santa suit on was much easier the second time around. The Elf had been a good teacher. He smoothed his wig and beard with his cap. Halfway through dressing, he gained an audience.
An older black man had silently entered the locker room and was leaning on his mop, a spectator to Nick’s transformation. The man wore an industrial outfit, with polyester navy pants and a light blue shirt embroidered with the name “Henry.”
