by Alan Russell
“Ephemeral,” said Nick, “all too ephemeral.”
Forster had taught him that word. Nick had been swatting at some insects one day and Forster had said he should ignore them. “Those are mayflies,” he had told him. “Their lives are so ephemeral they won’t live out the day.”
Nick had never forgotten that word. It was hard for him to imagine something being born, flying, dancing, mating, and dying in a single day.
“It’s going to be a hot one,” said Cruz, wiping his brow. “The snow might not even last the day, especially if it gets a lot of use.”
A single day, thought Nick. Like the mayflies.
“We could rope the area off if you want. I get the feeling you’re going to have a lot of company soon.”
“No.”
Cruz made a circle with his index finger to his crew. It was time to wrap things up.
“Some people make a real ceremony out of the snow,” Cruz said. “They stick a couple of bottles of champagne in it, ice ’em up, and then pop the corks. Other people like to throw the first snowball. They make a big production out of it, like they’re out at the stadium and they’re throwing that opening pitch.”
Nick made no move to make a snowball, and the closest thing he had to champagne was a warm Coke in his car. He looked from the snow up to the third floor windows.
“Is that where he is?” Cruz asked.
“Yeah.”
“Is he going to be coming down?”
“He’s too sick.”
The work crew had finished, leaving the snow pristine and untouched. The pine trees were frosted, and the bordering bushes wore little white caps. San Diego wasn’t any place for snow, but it still looked beautiful, at least for the moment.
Cruz tilted his head to the snow. “Go ahead and touch it.”
Nick reached down, picked up a handful, and made a ball of it. It had been a long time since he had touched snow. One winter’s day he’d driven his family to the mountain town of Julian so they could all see the white stuff. They had driven for two hours just to freeze their hands for a few minutes. It was the kind of thing families did.
He examined the snow, looked at it a little too long, as if he was reading tea leaves. What did he expect to see anyway? It was white and it was cold, but he had known that even before picking it up. He crushed the snowball into dust. He was reminded of one of Raymond’s snow globes.
Behind him, Nick heard a familiar voice reciting a poem about some snowball that a kid took to bed with him, and how not surprisingly it wet the bed. Standing there in full elf regalia was Angie.
What are you doing here?” Nick asked.
“I’m doing what comes naturally to an elf,” she said, reaching for some snow and then tossing it into the air. “I’m playing in the snow.”
They heard children approaching, their voices high-pitched and excited. The Pied Piper was calling to them. The staff had bundled them up under robes and gowns and hospital blankets, but the kids were throwing the coverings aside. In the midst of the snow, their illnesses were forgotten.
“You want me to keep ’em off?” Cruz asked.
Nick shook his head. Angie stepped out to greet the kids and shouted, “It’s snow time!”
It was clear that many of the children had never seen snow before, but that didn’t stop a snow fight from breaking out within seconds of their arrival. More and more children were running to get to the snow, and with them came their laughter and shouts.
“We got to roll, man,” said Cruz. “Look at those kids. You did a good thing.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular Santa Claus.”
Angie was helping the children make a snowman. “To make a winter friend,” she said, “bring a carrot and some coal …”
In her hands, the carrot and coal magically appeared.
“…then gather up your friends, and roll together snow.”
The children followed her instructions, and Angie kept her young charges laughing with jokes. “You know what snowmen eat for breakfast?” she asked. Little heads shook from side to side, and then Angie announced, “Snowflakes!”
Nick had hoped the coastal fog would last for the morning, but it lifted early and the full rays of the sun began to bear down on the snow. Angie came and joined him, and they watched the children play. The snowman was already looking the worse for wear.
“Your snowman could use some sunblock,” said Nick.
He wasn’t the only one who noticed the state of the snowman. “Frosty’s melting,” a little girl told Angie.
The Elf bent down to the girl’s level and said, “Snowmen have warm hearts so they never stay around very long. But you know what? When a snowman melts away, a snow angel goes to heaven that same day.”
“Really?” asked the girl.
“Really,” said Angie, clapping her hands. “Let’s make snow angels!”
The two of them lay down in the snow and moved their arms and legs back and forth. When they jumped up they laughed to see the snow angels left in their wake.
“Join us, Nick!” Angie yelled. “Come make an angel!”
He shook his head. “I don’t have an angel in me.”
Angie brushed herself off and joined him. “I wish I could stay,but I have to get to work.”
“It’s a good time to leave. You’ll miss the mushy part.”
“The mushy part is my favorite,” she said, and looked at him as though she felt his hurt, but didn’t know how to reach it. “Snow melts, Nick,but not love.”
The Elf might be crazy, Nick thought, but it was a good crazy. He reached out and gently brushed some snow from her shoulder. “Wouldn’t want you giving anyone the cold shoulder,” he said.
She smiled at him, and then skipped off singing the poem about the pet snowball. Her absence immediately darkened Nick’s mood. He stared at the impression Angie and the girl had left behind. The snow was only a few inches deep, and some of the grass was already beginning to show. The snow angels wouldn’t be long for this earth.
As the hours passed, Nick began to hate the sun. It was relentless and unforgiving, and under its rays the snow retreated. Nick kept telling himself he was going to leave, but it was always “another five minutes.” By mid-afternoon all the children had abandoned the snow. There were only three small islands of snow left, patches that were rapidly shrinking. Nick’s shadow loomed over the largest of the patches. Together, he thought, we’ll melt.
He reached out to the snow closest to him, and kept his fingers buried in it until they were numb. So this, he said to himself, is what a cold day in hell feels like. Nick removed his fingers, but didn’t bring them to his lips. He was thirsty, but didn’t want to drink. Finding no comfort was part of his vigil.
Nick kept telling himself don’t look up, don’t look up, but he kept sneaking peeks at the ICU windows. There were no longer any spectators at those windows, or at any windows. The sight of a few pockets of slush didn’t interest anyone except Nick, and even he wasn’t sure what was keeping him there. He had known for hours that Raymond wasn’t going to be rising from his sickbed to see the remains of the snow. Even if he awakened now, Nick doubted the nurses would subject him to such an anticlimactic sight.
For the first time in his life, he wondered if he was losing it. His face was stiff and sunburned, his one day growth of beard was scratchy, and his lips were chapped—all a result of spending a day watching the snow melt. For an encore, maybe he could watch the grass grow, or some paint dry.
It was a beautiful day, and somehow that made it all the worse. Nick’s lack of sleep caught up with him in the late afternoon. He sat down on the grass, unmindful of the dampness that seeped into his clothing, and he dozed off. When he awakened, it was dark.
He looked at his watch: seven o’clock. Passersby must have assumed he was another homeless person. While Nick had slept, the snow had melted all the more. Now there was only one small patch that remained.
His mind felt a little less fuzzy, but that didn’t
make Nick feel any better. He was glad of the darkness. The shadows shielded him from being on display. He felt ashamed for having wasted the day, for having wallowed in his own mixed-up, sentimental sorrow.
Put the blame on mayflies, he thought, and melting snow.
Nick gathered up the little snow that remained and made a miniature snowman. It was probably the smallest and most pitiful looking snowman ever created. He stood to leave, but then reconsidered. It won’t be long now, Nick thought, just a few minutes. He was right. His snowman began disintegrating, hemorrhaging everywhere.
When Nick could no longer distinguish the snowman’s foundation from its stomach, or the stomach from its head, he gathered the slush together and squeezed and squeezed until he had a wet ice ball in his hands.
The moon loomed large overhead. Nick took aim and threw, but he missed.
Chapter 22
Watchman, Tell Us of the Night
The idea struck Nick as he was driving home. Under normal circumstances he would have considered the plan too rash and dangerous, but not now. He considered going to his apartment to get his gun, but decided he didn’t want the baggage that came with it. Nick was willing to accept the consequences of its absence. More than willing, he thought, even if it was suicide mission. He could leave his troubles behind in a blaze of glory and not have to face up to the disappointments in his life.
He told himself that wasn’t it. He’d been hired to do a job, and this was a way to see it through. Besides, being killed in the line of duty sounded a lot better than killing yourself, didn’t it?
He arrived at the mall a half hour before most stores were shutting down. It was late enough that he had no trouble finding open spaces, but he purposely parked well away from the stores. He opened his trunk, pulled out a tire iron, and slid it inside his pants.
As Nick walked towards the mall, the refrain from the loudspeakers seemed to play in chorus with the drums pounding in his head: Pa—rum—pum—pum—pum, Pa—rum—pum—pum—pum, Pa—rum—pum—pum—pum.
Me and my iron thumb, he whispered.
Nick tried to tune out the music, but the loudspeakers wouldn’t let him. A new song started playing. The tune was familiar, but it took him a long time before he could place it. It wasn’t one of the more popular Christmas songs, but Nick remembered it from his youth. Finally he came up with its title: “Watchman, Tell Us of the Night.” Tonight, Nick thought, I am the Watchman.
There had been a man at his church who had sung “Watchman” every year during the Christmas pageant. He had an incredible bass voice that could make the stained glass windows shake. When the chorus asked him what was going on in the world on the advent of Christmas Day, he would answer in stentorian voice. Nick finally matched the lyrics to the tune:
Watchman, tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn,
Traveler darkness takes its flight,
Doubt and terror are withdrawn.
Tonight this was his song, Nick thought. It was time for doubt and terror to be withdrawn.
Nick took the back way inside the mall. Because he didn’t want to be seen by anyone he knew, he avoided the North Pole display. The locker room was unoccupied, and he quickly collected what he needed. Behind the privacy of a bathroom stall, he put on his white Santa wig. Then he pulled out the padding, but instead of positioning it around his chest and stomach he planted it along his upper back. He hoped a crooked old man would attract crooked crooks.
Before going out to the mall, Nick had stopped at the recycling center where glass, metal, and paper were sorted. Nick rummaged through the paper goods and came away with some wrapped boxes and bags.
With the bags in hand, Nick started shuffling around the mall. He stopped at several expensive stores and tried to look as conspicuous as possible. The clerks, weary of facing shoppers all day, and wanting only to close up, accommodated Nick’s request for additional shopping bags without demur, and he began to look weighed down with packages. He wanted the bull’s-eye mark to be complete, and his victim status advertised in everything but neon. If anyone was scouting for a mark, he was going to give them an eyeful. Nick paused every so often at store windows. What he kept seeing was an elderly man weighed down with expensive gifts. In all his stops, though, he never noticed anyone else looking at him as a target.
During his years on the force Nick had worked stakeouts and decoys, but always as backup. He’d never played the role of victim. His job was to be part of the mop-up team. Here, he was alone. His only weapon was the hidden tire iron. Nick didn’t care.
He was the Watchman.
His head was pounding. At first he thought it was only the long ingrained habit of living that made him afraid—self-preservation coming to the fore—but it wasn’t that exactly. Nick was suddenly certain that he didn’t want to die. It was a welcome epiphany. In some ways it felt as if a terrible fever had broken. But he didn’t accept that as license to walk away from what he felt he had to do.
It was time for darkness to take its flight.
Outside the mall, Nick stopped to take a few deep breaths. He wasn’t breathing hard as some acting technique, wasn’t doing it as part of his old man disguise. He was scared. Though he’d seen nothing to indicate he was being targeted, his heart was racing and his breath was short. There was no sign of the two muggers, or their truck, but his inner alarm was sounding, and then some.
Watchman, tell us of the night.
As much as he wanted to look around, Nick kept his head down. He started walking again, forcing himself to go slowly. Adrenaline pumped through his body, making his guise that much more difficult to maintain.
A car passed, and then another. The parking lot was still one-third full. Nick wondered if there was too much activity for the muggers. They had been brazen enough before, but maybe they were getting cautious in their old age, or at least with their old targets.
Nick trudged along, keeping to his turtle pace. The parking lot was adequately lit, but there were pockets of darkness between the street lamps. Nick was in one of those troughs of shadows when he heard the car approach.
It wasn’t the truck—he made sure of that out of the corner of his eye—but the driver was speeding, rapidly closing the distance between them. A hundred feet. Fifty. And then Nick knew this was it. They probably only brought the truck out for special occasions. This car was less noticeable, and the better assault vehicle. Nick turned his head. The passenger door was opening, about to be swung at him.
Nick fell to his right. He didn’t throw himself, but toppled just out of the way of the door. It was the lucky maneuver of an old man.
The car braked to a sudden stop and one of the men leaped out. There were three of them, Nick realized, not two. Those weren’t good odds. The thief glanced around to see that no one was looking, then closed in on his victim. The unmoving old man lay in the midst of scattered packages.
Watchman, thought Nick, it’s time to make darkness take its flight. Slowly, he rose to his feet.
Episode Five
Chapter 23
Good King Wenceslas
December 12
Henry was the first to spot Nick when he arrived at the mall early. Beyond some scratches on his face and hands, Nick didn’t look too much the worse for wear. “Is it true, Saint Nick, you took on four muggers last night and sent ’em all to the hospital?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Nick. “You see Angie? I need to talk to her.”
“Saw her headed over to the security office just a minute ago.”
“Thanks,” said Nick. He needed to talk to Forster too. If he was lucky he could catch them both at the same time.
“They’s saying when the police arrived you was singing Christmas carols at the top of your lungs.”
“Does that sound like something I’d do?” Nick asked.
Henry regarded him with a questioning eye. “Can’t say for sure.”
Nick gave him a thumbs-up and headed tow
ard the security office. He tried to ignore his aches and pains. Most of what he was feeling was from acting out the fall as the car door had opened toward him. When the first mugger had approached, Nick pretended he was hurt and yelled, “My leg, my leg.”
He had prepared for two bad guys, but found himself facing three. The muggers hadn’t just been lucky. For a time they’d had someone working the inside—Punk Santa had been their accomplice.
Somehow this made Nick more furious. They ignored him, and started grabbing for the scattered packages. That was their mistake. They never noticed Nick sneaking up behind them.
“Drop to the ground. I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”
You would think the tire iron he was holding might have discouraged them, but the mugger with all the ink on his arms just laughed.
“I’m so scared, old man. Anyone ever tell you, don’t bring a knife to a gun fight?”
As the bad boy reached inside his waist pocket, Nick ran at him and swung the tire iron. The mugger fell down, holding his arm and screaming. Nick threw himself on the man, and relieved him of his gun.
“Down!” he yelled to Punk Santa, leveling the weapon.
The kid made the right choice. With a whimper he dropped to the ground.
The third mugger took off at a run. It was a footrace Nick knew he couldn’t win, so he didn’t attempt pursuit. Instead, he jumped up, took aim, and hurled the tire iron at the fleeing man. The missile flew low and true, striking the man in the back of his right calf and tripping him up. He did a face-plant on the asphalt.
Although he hadn’t brought handcuffs, Nick quickly improvised, removing the ribbon from the packages he had been carrying around. He tied the men’s wrists and ankles. It looked like a perfect gift-wrapping job—or almost perfect. Nick reached down among the spilled packages, found three colored bows, and affixed them to the top of the crooks’ heads.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
Now, as he walked into security, a feeling of déjà vu came over him. This was where his Santa adventure had begun. And this was where his stint as Santa Cop would end. Even Angie was there, waiting for Forster to get off the phone. The mall grapevine was apparently working faster than the speed of sound, because she said, “I heard you fought five muggers last night and then tied them up with Christmas lights.”
