Jolly Old Saint Nicholas

The toddler wasn’t simply crying. Oh, no. These were the
kind of ear-splitting screams that made even the strongest
department store Santa want to run for his sleigh. Her face
was a perfect match for James Claussen’s red Santa suit and
both her eyes and her nose had the spigot turned on full
blast.

What was he doing here sitting on this uncomfortable
throne, ruling over a kingdom of fake snow, candy canes and
mechanical reindeer? What had possessed him to agree to
come back to work? He didn’t want to be jolly, even
imitation jolly.

“Come on, Joy,” coaxed the little girl’s mother from her
spot on the sidelines of Santa Land. “Smile for Mommy.”

“Waaah,” Joy responded.

I understand how you feel, James thought. “Joy, that’s a
pretty name for a pretty little girl. Can you give you
mommy a big smile?” he coaxed.

“Waaah,” Joy shrieked and began kicking her feet. The black
patent leather shoes turned those little feet into lethal
weapons. Come tomorrow he’d have a bruise on the inside of
his left thigh.

“Ho, ho, ho,” James tried and the shrieks got louder.

Okay, this was as good as the picture with Santa was going
to get. He stood and handed off the child, who was still
kicking and crying, barely dodging an assault to the family
jewels in the process. The jewels weren’t so perfect now
that he was sixty-six but they were still valuable to him
and he wanted to keep them.

Shauna Sullivan, his loyal elf, sent him a sympathetic look
and ushered up the next child, a baby girl carried by her
mother. Rosy cheeked and alert, probably just up from a
nap, the baby was all dolled up in a red velvet dress with
white booties on her feet and a headband decorated with a
red flower. She was old enough to smile and coo but not
quite old enough to walk or, thank God, kick Santa where it
would hurt.

This baby girl reminded him of his daughter Brooke when she
was a baby, all smiles and dimples. Big blue eyes that
looked at him in delighted wonder. Oh, those were the days,
when his kids were little and Faith was still ...

Don’t go there.

“And what would this little dumpling like for Christmas?”
he asked, settling the baby on his lap.

For a moment it looked as if she was actually concentrating
on an answer. But then a sound anyone who’d had children
could easily recognize followed by a foul odor told him
she’d been concentrating on something else. Oh, man.

“Smile, Santa,” Krystal the photographer teased and the
smelly baby on his lap gurgled happily.

James had never been good with poopy diapers but he gave it
his best effort and hoped he looked like a proper Santa.

Finally, they were down to the last kid in line. Thank God.
After this Santa was going home to enjoy a cold beer.

That was about the only thing he’d enjoy. Oh, he’d turn on
the TV to some cop show, but he wouldn’t really watch it.
Then he’d go to bed and wish the days wouldn’t keep coming,
forcing him to move on.

He especially wasn’t looking forward to the next day,
December twenty-fourth. How he wished he could skip right
to New Year’s Day. Or better yet, go backward to New Year’s
Day two years ago when he and Faith were planning their
European Cruise.

Stay in the moment, he told himself. Stay in character. He
put on his jolliest Santa face and held out a welcoming arm
to the next child.

This one was going to be a terror, he could tell by the
scowl on the kid’s freckled face as he approached. He was a
big, hefty burger of a boy, wearing jeans and an oversized
T-shirt and could have been anywhere between the ages of
ten and thirteen. Logic ruled out the older end of the
spectrum. Usually by about eight or nine kids stopped
believing.

“And who have we got here?” James asked in his jolly I-
love-kids voice.

Normally he did love kids and he loved playing Santa, had
been doing it since his children were little. He’d always
had the husky build for it, although when he was younger
Faith had padded him out with a pillow. No pillow necessary
now. And no need for a fake beard either. Mother Nature had
turned his beard white over the last few years.

These days he wasn’t into the role, wasn’t into Christmas,
period. Santa had lost his holiday spirit and he was
starting to lose his patience, too. Very un-Santa like. He
should never have agreed to fill in today, should have told
Holiday Memories to find another Santa.

His new customer didn’t answer him.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked, trying again.

“Richie,” said the boy and landed on James’s leg like a ton
of coal.

“And how old are you, Richie?”

“Too old for this. This is stupid.” The kid crossed his
arms and glared at his mother.

“So you’re twelve?” James guessed.

“I’m ten and I know there’s no such thing as Santa. You’re
a big fake.”

Boy, he had that right.

“And that’s fake, too,” Richie added.

James was usually prepared for rotten kid beard assaults,
but this year his game was off and Richie got a handful of
beard before James could stop him and yanked, hard enough
to nearly separate James’s jawbone from the rest of his
skull. For a moment there he saw stars, and two Richies. As
if one wasn’t bad enough.

“Whoa, there, son, that’s real,” James said, rubbing his
chin, his eyes watering. “Let’s take it easy on old Santa.”

Now Richie’s mother was glaring, too, as if it was James’s
fault she’d spawned a monster.

“Look Richie,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’re both men
here. We know this is all pretend.”

And Christmas is a crock and life sucks. So deal with it,
you little fart.

James reeled in his bad Santa before he could get loose and
do any damage. Good Santa continued, “But your mom wants
this picture. One last picture she can send to your
relatives and brag about what a good kid you are.” Not.
“Can you man up and pose so she can have a nice picture of
you for Christmas?”

Richie looked at him suspiciously, as if he was up to some
strange trick.

James sweetened the holiday pot. “I bet if you do you’ll
get what you want for Christmas.” Now the kid was looking
less adversarial. James pressed his advantage. “Come on,
kid. One smile and we can both get out of here. Whaddya
say?”

Richie grunted and managed half a smile and Krystal
captured it. “But you’re still a fake,” Richie said.

And you’re still a little fart. “Ho, ho, ho,” James replied
and rocketed the boy off his leg, sending him flying.

“Hey, he shoved me,” Richie said to his mother and pointed
an accusing finger at James.

“Trick leg,” James said apologetically. “Old war injury.”
Merry Christmas,” he called and, with a wave, abdicated his
holiday throne.

“Okay,” he said to Shauna, “I’m out of here.” Thank God
this day was over. He was never doing this again. He didn’t
care if every Santa on the planet was home with the flu.

“You can’t go yet,” she protested, and began looking
desperately around the mall.

After a ten hour day? Oh, yeah, he could. “No kids and it’s
ten minutes ‘til the end of our shift. We’ll be okay. Right
Krystal?”

Krystal frowned. “Well...”

It was nearly five o’clock. All the moms and kiddies were
now on their way home to make dinner. The next Santa crew
would arrive soon to deal with the evening crowd. All they
had to do was put up the “Santa Will Be Back” sign. What
was the problem? Maybe the girls felt guilty stealing a
couple extra minutes from work.

Not James. He’d worked hard all his life and he had no
qualms about stealing a few minutes for himself now. For
forty years he’d been a welder for Boeing. Then he’d come
home and worked some more, putting that addition on the
house, mowing the lawn, cleaning the garage, repairing
broken faucets.

Of course, he’d also realized the importance of playing - -
backyard baseball with the kids, Frisbee at the park, the
game of Life on a rainy Sunday afternoon. And real life had
taught him that you took advantage of everything good that
you could, even little things like getting off ten minutes
early. Because you never knew what cosmic pie in the face
was waiting for you around the corner.

“Come on, ladies,” he said, putting an arm around each of
them and trying to move them in the direction of the
Starbucks. “The eggnog lattes are on me.” They still
balked. He’d never known the girls to turn down a latte. He
looked from one to the other. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“It’s a surprise,” said Shauna.

James frowned. He hated surprises, had hated them ever
since Faith got sick.

“It’s a good one,” Krystal added as if reading his mind.

And then he saw his daughter hurrying down the mall toward
him and the heaviness that was trying to settle over him
was blown away. There she came, his brown-eyed girl, all
bundled up in boots and black leggings and a winter coat,
her hair falling to her shoulders in a stylish, light brown
sheet. Once upon a time it had been curly and so cute. Then
suddenly she’d decided she needed to straighten her hair.
He never could understand why the curls had to go. But then
he’d never understood women’s fashion.

He also never understood why she thought her face was too
round or why she thought she was fat. Her face was sweet.
And she was just curvy. As far as he was concerned she was
the prettiest young woman in Seattle. That wasn’t fatherly
prejudice. It was fact, plain and simple.

“Daddy,” she called and waved and began to run toward him.

Krystal had been right. This was a good surprise.

“Hello there, Angel,” he greeted her and gave her a big
hug. “Did you come to let your old man take you to dinner?”

“I came to take my old man somewhere special for
Christmas,” she said. “Thanks for not letting him get
away,” she told his holiday helpers.

“No problem,” said Shauna. “Have a great time.”

“For Christmas?” James repeated as Brooke linked her arm
through his and started them walking toward the shopping
mall’s main entrance.

They were going somewhere for Christmas on the twenty-
third? Did that mean she wasn’t going to spend Christmas
with him and Dylan? It was their first Christmas without
Faith (well, technically their second since she’d died on
December 24th the year before). He’d assumed he and his son
and daughter would all be together to help each other
through the holidays.

But she was an adult. She could do what she wanted. Maybe
she’d made plans with friends. If she had he couldn’t blame
her for wanting to run away from unpleasant memories. Maybe
she’d found someone in the last couple of weeks and wanted
to be with him. She shouldn’t have to baby-sit her dad.

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” she said. “I’ve got it all under
control.”

He didn’t doubt that. Like her mother, Brooke was a planner
and organizer. She’d organized their Thanksgiving dinner,
gathering his sister and his cousin and her husband,
assigning everyone dishes to bring.

But what was she talking about? “Got what under control?”

“You’ll see,” she said with a Santa-like twinkle in her
eyes.

Oh, boy, another surprise. “What are you up to, Angel?”

“I’m not telling, but trust me, you’ll like it.”

He doubted he’d like anything this season but he decided to
play along. “Okay, lead on.”

He hoped she hadn’t spent too much money. Kindergarten
teachers didn’t make a lot and he hated to think of her
spending a fortune on some fancy meal. He’d be happy enough
with a hamburger. Anyway, he’d rather eat in the car than
go in a restaurant dressed like he was.

They were out of the mall now and at her trusty SUV. She
complained about her gas mileage but he was secretly glad
she had it. The thing had all-wheel drive and handled well
in the snow, which meant he didn’t have to worry about her
when she was driving in bad weather. Seattle rarely got
much of the white stuff but they’d had a couple of inches
earlier in the month and the weatherman was predicting more
by New Year’s.

James had always loved it when they had a white Christmas.
It meant snowball fights with the kids and hot chocolate
afterward. Faith always laced his and hers with peppermint
schnapps.

“No frowning allowed,” Brooke said as they got in.

“Who’s frowning? Santa doesn’t frown.”

“He never used to,” Brooke said softly.

“Well, Santa’s getting too grumpy for this job. I think
it’s about time for the old boy to pack it in.”

His daughter shot a startled look his direction. “Daddy,
are you crazy?”

“No, I’m just ...” Sick of this ho, ho, ho crap. It would
never do to say such a cynical thing to his daughter.
“Ready for a break,” he improvised.

“You can’t take a break,” she protested as she drove out of
the parking lot. “You’re Santa.”

James looked at the crowd of cars rushing around them,
people busy running errands, going places, getting ready
for holiday gatherings with loved ones. Most of the men in
Seattle would be out the following day, frantically finding
something for their women. He wished he was going to be one
of them.

He reminded himself that he still had his kids. He had a
lot for which to be thankful, and if Brooke had plans for
Christmas, well, he and Dylan could make turkey TV dinners
and eat the last of the cookies she’d baked for them, watch
a movie, like Bad Santa. Heh, heh, heh.

Now they were on the South-bound freeway. Where were they
going? Knowing his daughter it would be someplace special.

He couldn’t help smiling as he thought about the contrast
between her and his son. Dylan would come up with something
at the last minute, most likely a six-pack of beer and a
bag of Nachos, their favorite football food. Naturally,
Dylan would help him consume it all.

James was just wondering what downtown Seattle spot his
daughter had picked for dinner and was hoping it was in the
Pike Place Market where anything went when they exited off
I-5 onto I-90, heading east out of Seattle. “Dinner in
Bellevue?”

“Maybe,” she said, determined to be mysterious.

They passed Bellevue. And then Issaquah, getting
increasingly farther from the city. Where the heck was she
taking him?

When they reached North Bend at the foot of the Cascades he
said, “So, we’re eating here?”

“Actually, dinner is in the back seat,” she said, nodding
over her shoulder to a little, red cooler. “I’ve got roast
beef sandwiches and apples and a beer for you if you want
it.”

If they weren’t going out to dinner then where were they
going? Now he began to feel uneasy. How long was he going
to be stuck in this suit? “Okay,” he said, making his tone
of voice serious so she’d know he was done fooling around.
“What’s going on?”

“We’re going to Icicle Falls,” she said brightly.

“What?”

“This is a kidnapping.”

This was not funny. “Brooke,” he said sternly. “I’m not
going to Icicle Falls.”

“Daddy,” she said just as sternly. “We’re all going to
Icicle Falls. For Christmas. I booked us rooms at the
Icicle Creek Lodge.”

“You can’t just spring this on me, baby girl,” he said. “I
don’t even have a change of clothes.”

“Not to worry. Dylan’s bringing clothes when he comes up
later.

He should have known she’d thought of that. She’d probably
given her younger brother a detailed list. He tried another
argument. “I can’t leave my car at the mall.”

“Dylan’s picking it up after work and driving it up. See?
Everything’s under control.”

No it wasn’t. It wasn’t even remotely under control. James
was getting hauled off to some stupid Bavarian village that
would be chock full of Christmas lights and happy tourists
when all he’d wanted was to spend Christmas at home with
his kids. Being depressed because his wife wasn’t there
with them. And making the kids feel bad. Ho, ho, ho.

“We thought we should do something different this year,”
Brooke added gently.

Maybe she was right. They could have tried to celebrate the
way they’d always done with a big dinner on Christmas Eve
followed by a candlelight service at church and then
pancakes and presents in the morning and friends over in
the afternoon to sing Christmas carols and eat cookies, but
it would have all been hollow and empty.

Still, he’d planned on trying. He’d bought a bunch of
Christmas movies for them to watch and stocked up on cocoa,
had put up the tree and stuck their gift cards in among the
branches. “I just thought we’d have Christmas at home,” he
said. Now he sounded like an ingrate and he didn’t want to
do that. Anyway, it was too late now. They were halfway to
Icicle Falls. The Polar Express had left the station.

“I think this will be good,” Brooke said. “It’s our gift to
you.”

“Your gift?” Staying in some lodge would be expensive. “Oh,
no. I’ll take care of it.”

“Daddy,” she said firmly. “You’ve always taken care of us.
And you’ve always been Santa,” she added, smiling at him.
“Now it’s our turn to play Santa. So don’t ruin the game.”

He sighed and looked out the window at the stands of
evergreens they were rushing past. He guessed he could play
along.

As long as nobody asked him to be Santa this year. Because
Santa had lost his Christmas spirit and he didn’t care if
he ever found it.