by Maxwell Avoi
I stood and pulled it out for her and she made a gratified noise when she sat. She had a tray with her own bowl of soup on it, along with a few crackers and a glass of water. She ate with small sips and no slurping, the way a queen might.
I said, “Mary, are you staying with us tonight?”
She smiled at me. “Possibly, possibly. Tell me, Dane, what do you think of Christmas tree ornaments?”
She usually started conversations that way, especially the weird ones. I knew that Mary hated off-hand responses so I thought about it for a moment and said, “Well, I’ve never really put much thought into it. I guess in our house we rarely had a big tree, but it was nice to see the same ornaments from year to year. Why do you ask?”
She nodded reflectively, still eating her soup. “I’ve long thought that the homes with the personalized ornaments, the ones that mean something to the occupants, were happier homes at Christmas. Not that the people were better, or that they were more deserving, but that they were more likely to be happy. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Well, do you think it might have something to do with the way that the ornaments symbolize family history? Or that it gives them continuity?”
She nodded, smiling while she patted her lips with her paper towel. “No, precisely wrong, though I commend you for the attempt.”
I grinned at her, and she smiled back as if she had a secret that only she knew. “So why is it, then, Mary?”
“Oh, it’s simple, really. The ornaments are loved. It makes it easier for the spirit of Christmas to find them, and Santa Claus uses those beloved ornaments as beacons.”
I gave her an interested raise of my eyebrows. No reason to try to argue with her about the existence of Santa; that was what trained psychologists were for, and even with training I suspect that they’d have a fight on their hands. “Beacons, really?”
She flapped the napkin at me and said, “Thank you for humoring an old woman, dear. Yes, beacons. It’s part of his navigation system, and allows him to find the other houses that aren’t as well-lit, as it were. The poor man.”
“Poor? What’s poor about Santa Claus?” I was really enjoying this talk with her.
She gave me a shocked look, as if I’d honked one of her boobs. “What’s so…my dear BOY. Have you ever considered that he’s the hardest-working man in the world? Think of the boys and girls who believe in him, and then divide that number into the time that it takes him to get the toys ready, and the time that he has to deliver them. Even with his magic, he ends each Christmas in a terrible, exhausted state.”
I nodded, hiding a smile. She really looked offended. “I suppose you’re right, Mary. I’ve never given it much thought.”
She sniffed and went back to her soup, the comer of her mouth rising. “I suppose some people have that luxury.”
“I guess you think about Christmas a lot, don’t you. Is that why you have the bells?” No one had ever gotten a straight answer about the bells, including me, but I thought I’d give it another try.
Mary stopped eating and stared into the bowl, the last few pieces of potato floating in the thick broth. Then, so quietly that I had a hard time hearing her above the noise of the dining area, she said, “No, Dane, not because of that. I wear them for comfort, dear.”
I patted her shoulder. “Nothing wrong with that. We all need some comfort in our lives, especially around this time of year.”
Jingle Mary looked up at me and I was shocked to see that her eyes were full of tears. “Dane, it’s not comfort for me, but for him. Though I could use some, I suppose. My daughter’s found me.”
It took me a moment to process the words. I frowned in confusion. “But that’s a good thing, right? I didn’t even know you had a daughter.”
Mary shook her head and one of the tears broke loose to fall into her soup. “She’s going to have me committed, dear. I’m afraid there’s not much that I can do about it. They’re going to take my bells, and there’ll be no comfort at the end of the long road.”
I didn’t know what to do. There were counselors for this kind of thing but they were all overloaded right then. Besides, I didn’t think that she’d be willing to unburden herself like this to someone else. My break was over but they could get by without me for a few more minutes.
“Oh, come on, now, Mary, it can’t be that bad. You’re one of the sanest people I know.” I smiled at her, my hand still on her shoulder.
She gripped it, her fingers spindly in spite of the thick gloves that she wore. “You’re a dear, Dane, but I’m afraid it’s already been set in motion. I’ll freeze if I stay outside, and I’ll be caught if I stay here. Damned or damned.”
Her face brightened a little. “That is…unless you’d be interested in helping me?”
I was instantly wary. I wasn’t about to sneak someone home, no matter how much I liked her company from time to time. “Well…I…”
She let go of my hand and flapped hers a bit. “It’s nothing too onerous, or at least I’ve never thought so. Remember what I said about special ornaments? About how some of them become loved and then become beacons?”
Still wary, I said, “Well, yes. Why?”
Mary unbuttoned her top coat and then the second, just enough for her to slip one slim hand into the inner strata. She said, “I want you to have this.”
She withdrew her hand and showed me a bell on a short chain. It looked like the kind of bell that was used as a decoration, but the bell itself looked much more expensive than anything I would expect her to have. Mary said, “This is my most special bell, dear. It’s why I wear the others; they disguise its voice to everyone but the one that it’s meant for. He can hear it.”
Mary showed me the side of the bell. It bore an engraving that showed an empty sleigh and eight slumbering reindeer. Even though the engraving was small, the details were clear. I smiled when I read the words above it. “The end of a long road? Mary, I can’t accept this. It’s…well, it’s too nice. Shouldn’t something like this go to your daughter?”
She gave me a withering look, the queen of the streets once again. “You mean the vapid twit who’s having me sent to the nuthouse? No, dear, I don’t think she should have it. She hasn’t the sense the good Lord gave a duck, and she hasn’t the empathy to be a proper caretaker for this. You have both of those things, though, dear, and I want you to have it. There is a caveat, however.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Well, there are two. First, you need to hang this on a tree in your home. It doesn’t matter if there are any other ornaments, so long that it’s on a Christmas tree. Second, you must stay up all night on Christmas Eve night.”
I blinked and sighed. She gripped my hand again and pushed the bell into my palm. “Promise me, Dane. Promise.”
“Okay, okay, Mary, I promise. I’ll get a tree and hang it, and then I’ll stay up on Christmas Eve. Am I going to wait for Santa to show up?”
She smiled and patted my cheek, a weight seeming to lift from her shoulders at my words. “That’s precisely what you’ll be doing. Don’t forget your promise to an old dingbat, dear. You’ll be rewarded.”
Then Mary finished her soup, stood, and vanished into the milling crowd in the space of three steps. I took her tray back to the washer and slipped the bell into my pocket, forgetting about the whole thing within five busy minutes.
That night I found the bell in my pocket and put it on my nightstand. Sitting there with its slim chain splayed out to the side, it looked wrong somehow. I finally got up and hung it from a hook that was screwed into the wall near my mirror. It got enough clearance to sway a bit, and the tinkle from the clapper was just as pure as the silver the bell was made from.
We got the news about Jingle Mary the next day. Apparently she’d chosen the second option, and I’m told that she was smiling when they found her in a snow drift near the bridge where she lived. The news cast a pall over the day, at least for me. No one else had taken the time to talk to her much, and life wen
t on as usual. She wasn’t exactly a dear friend but I felt that some of the spark had gone out of the world. That night when I sat staring at the bell I heard it tinkle again and remembered my promises to Mary.
The next day I got up early and took a bus to a supermarket. The local fire department was selling trees out in front of the building and I went ahead and got a small one on the way out. It had been a long time since I’d had a Christmas tree, and the bag was full of ornaments and other miscellanea. I’d even bought a stocking just for the hell of it. I might have been alone but this year I had a reason to put up a tree. I was going to do it in style.
Setting up my decorations took most of the morning. It was a happy time, with the television playing that animated movie about Rudolph and the commercial breaks full of scraps of Christmas carols. It was the first time in a while that I’d let myself feel anything like a Christmas spirit and I enjoyed the sensation. Mary’s bell took a place of honor on my tree, hanging by itself within a circle of tinsel. Its tiny tinkle sounded louder, as if the other bells on the tree were ringing along with it. I took it as a good sign and then got ready to head back to the shelter.
The shelter was monstrously packed but the Christmas spirit had infected more than just me, and we had a huge influx of volunteers to go with the rise in homeless attendance. Some of the pall from the previous day was still there but I didn’t let it get to me. Jingle Mary would have liked me to enjoy Christmas Eve; it was her favorite time of year, after all. Thanks to her gift to me she wouldn’t be forgotten, and I had a hard time trying to think of a better legacy than that.
Work moves faster when you’re joyous, and I like to think that my mood infected everyone else around me. It wasn’t nearly the madhouse that it had been the day before even though we had half again as many people. I spent some time talking with people who needed it, and I even played with some of the kids at some point. I can’t remember the last time I did that.
I remembered my promise to Mary, too; that night, even though I’d worked hard all day, I stayed up and watched the night outside my window. I waited for Santa, something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid and still believed in magic.
Around two in the morning in spite of the coffee and the television and my determination I started to feel a little fuzzy around the edges. I sat in my armchair, but every time that I started to nod off I heard that silver bell ring, and I woke up again. I didn’t fully wake up, though; I kept that fuzzy, half-asleep feeling the whole time.
It felt wonderful. The lack of focus combined with my latent Christmas spirit, and I floated in a warm bath of low-key joy for the rest of the night, slumped in my armchair.
I started to think about what Mary had told me, about how Santa Claus was the hardest-working man in the world. I imagined him out there in the cold, sweating and tired and still laboring to make sure that people never lost sight of the magic. I could see him out there with the cold wind and snow blowing over him in the dark, his only companions a team of reindeer who were working just as hard as he was. Sure, he got milk and cookies and the like, but surely they were just fuel to him by the time he’d had his hundredth.
I imagined him out there and I was overwhelmed with a wave of pity and a desire to help. It was the same feeling that had gotten me into volunteering at the shelter, but this time there wasn’t anything that I could do about it. I sat there in my haze, that desire to offer comfort suffusing my body, and I felt strange. Each sound from the bell sent a strange tingle through me, vibrating along my bones and resonating with that desire.
I felt myself changing as the night wore on, and I didn’t care. Fatigue and whatever magic the bell had made sure that I couldn’t get too worked up over it. I felt warmer, and it was an hour or more before I realized that I’d gained weight. I’d occasionally been mistaken for a malnourished coat rack but now I had actual meat on my bones. There was no reaction to the realization besides a certain satisfaction and childlike wonder. I loosened my robe and let the changes take place. Something in the bell’s tone told me that all would be well and that I’d be able to help out the way that I wanted to.
I floated in the haze for a long time, feeling my body gently stretch and reshape itself according to my desire and the magic that was suffusing the room. Everything was changing under the bell’s tone; the lights were brighter and my furniture seemed to lose its sharp edges. Everything was fuzzy, including my own body. I felt bones shifting around under my skin, gently reforming, and eventually I had to untie my robe completely to allow it room to change even further. I saw without surprise that my skin had filled out; I was now almost plump, well-fleshed and -rounded. My chest was swelling under the bell’s magic, and my pelvis was shifting as well. The changes seemed distant and unimportant, focused as I was on the image of Santa toiling away in the cold night.
The sky lightened slowly as the night wore on, and I stood and started pacing back and forth across the thick, soft rug that had covered my floor during the night. It was deep and springy, and I welcomed it. I could feel the way that my ever-swelling breasts wobbled, and how my hips swayed with each step. I welcomed that too in spite of spending an entire lifetime as a man before now. The bell kept ringing and the haze held me loosely in its grip. I felt relaxed and happy, and expectant.
When the first rays of sunlight peeked into my window, I smelled smoke and cold, pine needles and sweat. It was a wild smell, and some part of me knew what I’d find when I turned. I did, and there he stood. He wasn’t the jolly old elf that you see on Coke cans or read about in certain poems. His suit was made of leather, though it was red, and the furs that trimmed the edges were white. It was more of a robe than anything, and underneath it was more of the same material in the form of a coat and rugged pants. He wasn’t fat, though he was stout; he was taller than me by a head, especially now that I’d lost a little height. His body gave the impression of vast strength and his bright eyes were focused on mine. He removed his hat, a sort of round cap trimmed in more fur, and he said, “You weren’t the one I was expecting, my dear.”
I smiled and took his hat, then started to undo the ties that held the top half of his robe shut. “Jingle Mary gave me the bell. It was her time.”
He closed his eyes and a tear traced down the laugh lines. “Ah,” he said. “She was…a delight. Always.”
I nodded, still working at the ties. “She was. Let me honor her.” I didn’t know where the words came from but they felt right. It felt right to do what I was doing, too, slowly undressing him. I was aware that my robe was open and I was displaying my body, but I couldn’t seem to make myself care. After all, I was there for him, to comfort him at the end of his long road.
He submitted gracefully to my fumbling fingers, knowing that it was my first time. Under his robe he wore a jacket with more fur. I took that off of him, and then his shirt. He was stout, with a bit of a belly, but he was by no means fat. His chest and arms were well-haired, salt and pepper and tightly curled like his beard. He sat and I knelt to unlace his boots. I removed those and his socks as well, feeling as if I was taking his armor from him. He just smiled his gentle smile, encouraging me. We were both tired, I could see it in his eyes, but this was necessary. It was the first step, said the bell’s magic, and I was glad to start to offer him comfort.
He stood again, bare feet deep in the rug, and I undid his broad leather belt. I unlaced his pants and pulled them down and then pulled down the garment beneath. The tight curls covered his legs as well, and he was hairy between his legs too. I looked there with interest, but he remained unaroused. There were other things to do first.
I let the robe slide off of my shoulders, and I took him by the hand. Naked, I led him to my bathroom and then to the shower. I got in there with him and began to wash the night’s sweat off of him. He’d worked hard, and I made sure to scrub every inch of his body. I cleaned his hair as well, and his beard, and there was nothing sexual about it. There was only the feeling of a hunter home from the hills, acce
pting his first real gift of his own.
I dried him, and then took him by the hand again. Exhaustion was warring within both of us, I could tell, and we went back to the living room to lie on my discarded robe. His robe we pulled over the top of us, and I nestled between his arms. His hair was rough against my skin but it felt nice, and I smiled as we both fell asleep. He smelled of cinnamon and pine needles.
The sun was high when we woke, and that haze was still there all around us. I felt as I had at certain times in the past, after particularly good weed or when I’d achieved just the right level of being drunk. He was no longer wrapped around me, but was instead propped on one shoulder and smiling at me as he gently stroked my hip and ribs. I smiled back, shivering a little. This was part of it as well, I knew, and I welcomed it. First the disrobing, then the cleansing, followed by rest and then a warm celebration of his labors.
The magic suffusing the air kept me from feeling self-conscious about my new body. A distant part of me expected to be horrified at the thoughts that went through my mind when I looked at him, but I didn’t seem to mind. Instead, I kissed him gently. The beard was soft and luxurious against my skin thanks to the cleaning that I’d put him through the night before, and his lips were agile and eager. Neither of us had spoken a word but we didn’t have to. He was interested in exploring my body and I was given all I needed to know by the magic that had reshaped me.
His hands were blunt and strong but gentle on my body. I moaned softly when he cupped my heavy breast, and I felt him start to stir against my leg. I welcomed his interest, knowing that it was the first note in a song that would engulf me utterly. I was more concerned about his pleasure and comfort than my own; after all, hadn’t he been the one doing the work last night?
That in mind, I pressed against him and slid downward, my breasts and face pressed against his chest and then his belly, until I was eye-level with his rapidly stiffening shaft. It was thick and long, hard against my skin, and I smiled in wonder at the sight. I stroked him with my fingertips, smiling wider when I heard him grunt, and then I kissed the head. It was hot and spongy, purple with need. I felt him tremble and realized how he wanted me. The thought and the images that it brought to me made my nipples stiffen, but I was there for him and not the other way around. I made a shushing noise and patted his belly, and he relaxed somewhat.