by Alan Russell
There was something about the picture that was familiar. And there was something that was a bit off-putting. This wasn’t a Christmas drawing of some country landscape; this was an urban Christmas. The drawing wasn’t awash in bright sunshine; it was darker. And the palm trees weren’t Christmas pines; their fronds looked like daggers.
Nick turned the drawing over and scanned the note. At first glance there wasn’t anything that made this note stand out from the others, nothing to warn him about the heartbreak inside.
Dear Santa,
You didn’t come visit me last year. I guess you couldn’t find us because we were moving around.
My mommy says you might not make it this year either, especially if we have to go back in the car. It’s slow at work, she says. That’s why her hours have been cut. She says you visit so many other boys and girls that you can’t get to everyone, but I hope you do find us. I really want a pink purse and a stuffed animal. My favorite stuffed animal would be a gorilla. I would also like some books of my own. I read all of the Magic Trunk Tales and I love the Four Seasons fantasy novels.
Please come visit me this year Santa.
Love,
Laura
Nick dropped the page and let it sit in his lap for a minute. He finally picked it up again with the edge of his fingertips, as if he was handling evidence, and read it a second time.
No return address. No last name. The writer knew cursive. Her letters were large, but well formed, the product of a young hand. There were no misspellings. She’d taken pains to make the letter as perfect as it could be.
Laura. Nick couldn’t remember talking to any Laura, but then he had seen so many children. And it was possible the letter had been dropped off during one of the other two Santas’ shifts.
He turned the letter over and once more studied the drawing. Santa Claus was the bright spot in a threatening world. The page had been neatly torn out of a composition pad.
Maybe the letter was a phony. People got their jollies in an awful lot of strange ways. Someone might have decided to dummy up a letter just for kicks. Now that he thought about it, the handwriting looked a little too good, and the vocabulary too large, and the sentiment too much, for a young kid. Everything was designed to pull at the heartstrings. And most kids couldn’t draw that well.
The letter was a phony, thought Nick. Or was it?
He remembered he had been seven or eight when he had stopped believing that there was a Santa Claus. Most of his friends had expressed their doubts about then. And this new generation was anything but naive. They seemed to be Doubting Thomases right out of the womb.
Could a seven- or eight-year-old create such a letter? It was possible, he supposed. Or maybe the kid was younger, and her mother had helped her to write it. Maybe the mother wanted to believe in Santa Claus as much as her daughter.
Nick dropped the letter again. That’s what happens when you open Pandora’s Box, he thought. The letters hadn’t been meant for him. He should have just let well enough alone. The problem with Christmas was that it was just another day and yet it brought all these expectations with it. To his thinking, the heartache and disappointment surpassed the joy.
The phone rang, and Nick’s first thought was Trouble comes in threes. He’d seen Raymond, gotten Laura’s note, and now there was this call. He didn’t have to answer the phone, but he couldn’t ignore it.
Forster must not have liked his growl. “Why is it that you always sound like a pit bull with an attitude?”
“What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want. Angie wanted to call you herself, but I said you didn’t like your number handed out. So she asked me to run her request by you, and then have you call her back.”
“What request?”
“She had your replacement all set for tomorrow. There was no problem with that. But something came up tonight. The second shift Santa messed up.”
Nick remembered the punk he had argued with in the locker room and wasn’t surprised. “What happened?”
“Seems there was this little boy sitting on his lap, and our Santa asked what he wanted for Christmas, and the kid said, ‘I want a baby brother.’ Our Santa gave the boy’s mother a good once over, and then announced, quite pointedly, ‘Have your mom come around when my shift ends tonight, and I’ll see what I can do about it.’ Mom wasn’t pleased.”
“I’m not filling in. That’s what she wants, isn’t it?”
“That was my impression.”
“It’s not my fault someone hired a rotten apple.”
“Don’t blame the messenger, Nico.”
“I did my promised two days.”
“Don’t tell me, tell Angie. She has a line on a few candidates, but she needs to interview them first.”
“This is crazy,” Nick said. “That Santa suit is like some kind of tar baby. I keep trying to get rid of it and it keeps sticking to me. If I was superstitious …”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m not superstitious.”
Nick believed that people who wanted to find omens found them. It was as simple as that. They believed because they wanted to believe. That wasn’t something he wanted, or was willing, to do.
“So, can I give Angie your num—”
“No.” The last thing Nick wanted was the head Elf calling him at home.
“Then you call her. She’s waiting on your answer.”
“Are you supposed to be softening me up for her? Playing the good cop?”
“I’m not playing anything, Nick. I’m too busy to be playing anything. I’m calling you from work, and my office is getting more crowded by the moment. In fact, a couple of San Diego’s finest just walked in.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Our bad boys struck here less than an hour ago.”
Chapter 10
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
December 1
When Angie picked up the phone Nick heard the sounds of her little girl in the background. What was her kid’s name? Noël, he remembered.
“Sorry to be calling so late,” he said.
“I’m glad you called.”
Hearing how the muggers had messed up the shopper had changed matters for Nick. They had preyed on a woman whose car was on the outskirts of the parking lot, had pulled up alongside her and struck her from behind by flinging open their car’s passenger door. They had followed up with a few savage kicks and then had stolen her purse and packages. Those scumbags needed to be nailed.
“Forster tells me you’re in need of a Santa, and he apparently still wants me working undercover.”
“Welcome back, Saint Nick,” said Angie, sounding entirely too cheerful.
“Just so you know, when we catch the bad guys I’m hanging up the Santa suit.”
Angie laughed. “See you tomorrow, Nick.”
She hung up before Nick could ask her what was so funny.
In between lap-sitters, Nick was trying to concentrate on his real job of looking out for bad guys. Naturally, last night’s assault had happened in an area where there was no video surveillance. Forster wasn’t sure if the bad guys had disabled the parking lot bullet camera, or if it had gone on the fritz. The victim had only seen the backs of the two assailants as they had run off, laughing. It galled Nick that they had been laughing. He couldn’t wait to nail those two.
Angie was busy at work taping up the letters to Santa. Nick had given her all the letters except for Laura’s. He had wanted to throw the letter away, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to do that. As much as he didn’t want to, he felt personally involved. The kid needed help—no kid deserved a miserable Christmas—and it was as if she had asked it of him. Nick decided now that the best way to rid himself of Laura’s letter was to give it to Angie. Maybe Pollyanna would have a good idea of how to deal with it.
The letter was in his pocket, but Angie interrupted his intentions once more. Instead of him passing her a letter, she gave him one.
“
Another note left in Santa’s mailbox,” she said.
“Wonderful,” said Nick.
He opened it up, and was relieved Laura hadn’t written again. It was just a letter from a kid wanting presents.
“Dear Santa,” read Nick, “I really, really, really want a skateboard. I want the one with lightning wheels. Yours truly, Ryan. P.S. I am the Ryan with red hair.”
Since it was quiet at the workshop, Angie must have decided it was a good time to tackle correspondence. She had her quill pen at the ready and looked at Nick expectantly: “Any thoughts, Santa?”
Nick shrugged, and then said, “Dear Ryan, red is my favorite color. Ho, ho, ho, Santa.”
“That’s perfect!” clapped Angie, and started writing.
He waited until she finished. That’s when Nick said, “I got a letter here that I don’t have the perfect answer to. In fact I don’t know what to say at all. Maybe you’ve got some ideas.”
Nick handed over Laura’s letter. As Angie read it, her smile wavered slightly, but never completely disappeared.
“So?” asked Nick.
“The obstacle is the path,” announced Angie.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If we close our eyes and concentrate,” she said, “we might be able to visualize a solution together.”
“Why don’t we just clap our hands for Tinker Bell?”
“It’s easy to be a skeptic, Nick.”
Angie closed her eyes. Nick rolled his. With her eyes still closed, Angie whispered, “Do you see anything?”
“Yeah,” Nick said, “I see me passing you Laura’s note and saying, ‘Lots of luck.’”
Angie opened her eyes and regarded him. “The letter came to you, Nick. I think there was a reason for that.”
“The letter came to me because you insisted I take it.”
Angie didn’t argue. With her infuriating smile she just waited him out, until, with a loud sigh, Nick reluctantly closed his eyes.
In a calm voice she advised, “Breathe in and out.”
“Is there any other way?” asked Nick.
Still, he tried to humor her, but after only a few seconds opened his eyes. Someone was shining a light. He lifted up a shading hand.
“What’s that light?” he asked.
“Follow it!” advised Angie.
The light was coming from a camera. A woman was holding a mike. “There’s a TV reporter,” he said.
Angie’s eyes were still closed. “That’s wonderful, Nick. You’ve tapped into the magic.”
“Open your eyes, Angie. We got company.”
The reporter was approaching the sleigh, one hand patting her highlighted hair to make sure it was in place. Nick gauged her to be mid-forties. She was wearing a designer suit of Christmas colors, but he assumed it was an empty suit. In his experience, most local TV reporters were as bubbly as champagne, and usually about as substantial as cotton candy.
The woman extended a hand to Angie. “Good afternoon,” she said, “I’m Charlotte Davis with News Three San Diego.”
“I’m Angie with the North Pole,” the Elf said. “You look so radiant in white!”
For just a moment, the reporter’s smile failed her. “But I’m not wearing white.”
“Not at the moment,” said Angie.
Nick hid his laugh behind his hand. It was nice seeing someone else on the receiving end of Angie’s non sequiturs.
“Anyway,” said Charlotte, recovering her smile, “I’m here to do a piece that we’re calling ‘My Visit with Santa.’”
“We were expecting you,” said Angie.
“You were?” said the puzzled reporter.
“We were visualizing a solution and you appeared,” said Angie.
Charlotte studied their faces. “Did my anchor put you up to this? He’s always pulling pranks.”
A smiling Angie shook her head, and Charlotte grimaced, then pulled out a steno pad and pointedly turned to Nick. “Spell your name for me, would you, Santa?”
Nick, with exaggerated clarity, spelled, “S-A-N-T-A.”
The reporter tapped her steno pad with suppressed annoyance. “Your real name, please.”
When Nick didn’t answer, Angie did: “He’s Nick.”
“Nick what?” asked Charlotte.
“He’s Saint Nick.”
By this time the reporter had lost her smile. “I don’t think my news director is going to buy that one.”
Nick had been afraid to offer his name because of his recent notoriety, but he saw the opportunity to remain anonymous for another reason. “When I’m sitting in the sleigh, Santa Claus is my real name.”
Charlotte raised her hands in surrender. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. Far be it from me to be the instrument for corrupting the belief system of minors. You can be the one and only Santa Claus.”
She turned to her cameraman who had been busy setting up. “You ready with the shot?”
He gave his thumbs up, and Charlotte turned back. “Okay,” she said, “the way we’ll do this is you’ll treat me like any youngster coming to see Santa. So I’ll need everyone to act normal and pretend the camera isn’t here.”
The presence of the camera had brought a growing crowd of onlookers over to the sleigh. Everyone but Nick looked excited to be part of the local news.
The reporter pulled out a compact, examined her makeup and hair, and then motioned to her cameraman that she was ready. When the camera light turned on, she became animated, her voice higher and more enthusiastic.
“Here at the Plaza Center it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. And you know what that means. Yes, Santa Claus has come to town!”
She waved at Nick and shouted, “Hi, Santa!”
Nick offered a half-hearted wave back.
Charlotte’s voice dropped to a confessional tone. “Now I must admit I’m a bit nervous about going to see Santa. It’s been a long time since I last saw him, and I’m worried about what he might ask me, like whether I’ve been a good girl or not. Truth to tell, I’m feeling a little bit Claus-trophobic, but it’s time to put aside those fears.”
Angie approached Charlotte, and asked if she was ready to go and see Santa.
“My moment of truth,” said Charlotte with mock-nervousness.
“Don’t be scared,” said Angie, “going to see Santa is fun.”
It was a good thing the camera wasn’t on Nick. All the treacle was making him scowl. As Angie and Charlotte approached the sleigh, the reporter exaggerated her mannerisms; she chewed her nails and made her steps tentative.
“Santa, this is Charlotte,” said Angie.
In a little voice the reporter said, “Hi, Santa.”
Charlotte signaled to the cameraman, and he cut the lights. Her cutesy voice completely vanished. “You get all that?”
“It looks good,” he said.
There were even more onlookers now. The upper walkways were crowded with lookie-loos. A distraction like this would be prime cover for the muggers, but Nick didn’t even try to look for the bad guys. There were just too many people.
“All right,” Charlotte said to the cameraman, “we’re going to need a close-up on me sitting in Santa’s lap. Shoot it so that I’m looking up into Santa’s face like I’m some kind of munchkin or something.”
As the cameraman worked to get the shot, Charlotte turned to Nick. “If it’s okay with you, Saint Nick,” she said, not sparing any sarcasm, “I’d like you to refer to me as young lady while I’m sitting in your lap. Then do the usual: ask me what I want for Christmas. That work for you?”
Nick tried to hide his smile. “As long as I’m not chewing gum while I’m talking, I should be able to manage that.”
This time it was Charlotte’s turn to hide her smile. She approached the sleigh, and turned to the cameraman. The lights were already on and he signaled for her to proceed. She took a tentative step up to the sleigh and Nick reached out a white-gloved hand.
“Come aboard, young lad
y,” he said, “ho, ho, ho.”
Charlotte turned to the camera and said, sotto voce, “Being called young lady already makes this a great visit! I can’t wait for Santa to ask me what I want for Christmas.”
She settled into Nick’s lap, and he asked, “Have you been a good girl, Charlotte?”
“Mostly,” squeaked the reporter, although her body language seemed to suggest otherwise.
“And what do you want for Christmas?” asked Nick.
“Well, you know what they say, Santa, diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
Using her eyes, Charlotte signaled the cameraman, and the lights went out. “My Christmas wish,” she called, “is that we don’t have to re-shoot.”
“Amen to that,” said Nick.
“I’m checking it …” said the cameraman. “Looks okay.”
“How’s the audio?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
Charlotte pulled a pair of glasses from the inside of her blazer, consulted her notes, and turned to Nick. “Word on the streets is that you’re the man to go to for a candy cane,” she said.
Nick answered so that only she could hear, “Yeah, I’m a regular sugar daddy.”
He handed her a candy cane, and she removed the wrapping. Once more she consulted her compact mirror, but this time she smeared her red lipstick to make it look like she had been hard at work on the candy cane.
After a signal, the camera lights went on again. Charlotte stopped licking the candy cane and looked guilty as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Oops,” she said, “I know I’ve had a great time here. How many men do you know who ask you for a gift list? This is Charlotte Davis, sitting in Santa’s lap at Plaza Center.” She stopped talking to the camera and turned back to Nick. “And you know what else I want, Santa?” she asked.
As soon as the camera lights went off, Charlotte got to her feet. Angie came forward, and with folded hands looked from Nick to the reporter. “I love weddings!” she announced.
Charlotte turned to Nick. “Am I missing something?”
