Christmas Carol & the Defenders of Claus

by Robert L. Fouch

  The Defenders were congratulating me. “You are ever full of surprises, m’lady,” Mr. Winters said, hugging me tightly.

  “We owe you a great debt,” Santa said, putting his arm around my shoulders.

  “It was nothing,” I said, proud but embarrassed by the attention. And I was still mad at myself for letting my uncle get away. A voice popped into my head. Carol, my sweet! I turned to see a crackle of electricity in the air, then the blurry image of elves rising from the ground. Grandmother and the king and queen stood, concentrating on the other side of the portal. The portal sizzled and popped, then bam! Crystal clear. I watched more elves pick themselves up, shaking their heads to clear the cobwebs. They joined their comrades in concentrating on the restored portal. Grandmother smiled and waved. I’m so proud of you, my child. We all are. The king, the queen, and all the elves smiled at me. Grandmother had been right. Now the elves were definitely glad I had come to The Gathering. Thank you, Gifted One … You saved us … We are forever grateful.

  You’re welcome, I said, blushing.

  “OK, Defenders,” Santa interrupted. “Back to work.” He turned to me. “Carol, my dear. You ride beside me.” He patted the seat next to him. My father nudged the reindeer close to the sleigh, and I climbed in. I sat down, trying to process the fact that I was about to fly with Santa Claus to help deliver toys on Christmas Eve! Good gravy, that was nuts. “Away!” Santa yelled, and the reindeer zipped into the night, carrying us down to the good children of Petersburg.

  That’s how we spent the rest of Christmas Eve: Darting from house to house, the Defenders stopping time, the elves tossing presents through the portal, Santa popping in and out of homes delivering gifts. Between stops, Santa and I rode in silence. I didn’t much feel like talking, even though I knew I should be thrilled at getting to ride in the sleigh. Santa watched me out of the corner of his eye, concern on his face. “What troubles you, my dear?” he finally asked.

  I sighed. “I can’t stop thinking about him. I should have figured it out. I keep thinking about that shadow I saw moving at Rockefeller Center while everyone was frozen. That must have been my uncle.”

  “You may be right.”

  “Where do you think he is now?”

  “Somewhere licking his wounds, I suppose,” Santa said. “We will have to remain vigilant. I don’t think this is the last we’ll hear from him.”

  “So you didn’t have any idea that he had Defender powers? That he was the Masked Man?”

  Santa thought for a moment. “Not really. He must have dyed his hair to hide the white stripe. But now that I know, it makes sense.”

  “Why?

  “Your uncle was always greedy, even as a child. No matter how he acted—and let’s just say he could be pretty naughty—he always asked for twice as much for Christmas as his brother. One year, when he was particularly naughty, I gave him just one gift, plus a lump of coal in his stocking.”

  “Coal?” Then it clicked in my brain. The polished black rock with the International Toy logo! “He still has that!” I said, describing the carved rock and how Uncle Christopher always kept it on his desk at work and even took it to New York City with him.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Santa said. “I bet he kept it as a reminder of what I did to him.”

  “But he deserved it if he was bad,” I said.

  “I guess he didn’t see it that way. Greed has a way of blinding people, and he became even greedier as an adult. He’s forced many of his competitors out of business and keeps raising prices on all his toys.” I thought of the angry, little man who confronted my uncle at the toy convention. I wondered if that man had once supplied dolls to Santa. “Then we dropped him and started buying from his biggest competitor. Maybe he found out I was behind that and it was just one more reason to hate me: I was taking money from his pocket.”

  “But he’s already so rich,” I said. “I don’t understand it.”

  “I don’t think it’s just about the money, Carol. It’s about power and control, taking over other companies, ruling the entire toy business. There’s a saying, ‘Power corrupts …’ ”

  I finished the sentence before he could. “And absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Santa looked at me with surprise. “I learned that from Mr. Winters,” I said, grinning. “He’s a good teacher, even if he is super weird.”

  Santa laughed. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “I have something for you.” He reached into his sack, pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped package, and handed it to me. “You have more presents at the North Pole, of course, but I’ve been keeping this one with me to give to you personally.”

  “Thank you, Santa,” I said tearing off the wrapping paper and lifting the lid off the box. When I saw what was inside, my heart leaped.

  “I know it’s a little strange to give you something you already own as a gift,” Santa said. “But I know how much it means to you.”

  Tears pooled in my eyes and I rubbed my fingers over the beautifully painted, hand-carved wooden Santa that my parents had given to me so many years ago, the one I fell asleep gazing at every night, the one I’d been forced to leave behind when I became a Defender. “How did you … ?”

  “Oh, I have my ways,” Santa said, his eyes twinkling. “And that’s quite a collection of me you have there. Fifty-nine Santas! My goodness.” And he laughed, a real honest-to-goodness “ho-ho-ho” that made his entire body shake with joy. I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face in his thick beard. Santa hugged me back, patting me gently on my head, and on and on we flew.

  After a few hours (Defender time, in which virtually no real time passed), I started to get sleepy. Just as I’d done at The Gathering, I fought it, afraid of missing something exciting, afraid everyone would see me as a little kid who couldn’t stay up past her bedtime. But exhaustion finally overtook me. Cradling my cane and my wooden Santa, I slumped against the side of the sleigh and slept as deeply as I ever had. What seemed like only a minute later, Santa nudged me awake. I bolted up, startled. It was hot and muggy, and we were still soaring high above the earth. “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Hillsboro,” Santa said. I had a moment of panic. Were we chasing my uncle, trying to capture him at his home? I felt so tired. I wasn’t up for another battle. Santa seemed to read my mind. “We’re pretty sure he’s not in Hillsboro, sweetheart. I imagine he’s at some secret hideaway.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “To deliver toys, of course. And you’re going to help me with a few.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because she misses you, Carol.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Here,” Santa said and handed me a present. I looked at the name tag.

  To: Amelia

  From: Santa

  The reindeer landed softly on the roof of an apartment building. Santa stood and reached out his hand to help me up. I set my wooden Santa on the sleigh seat, and the real Santa threw his sack over his shoulder and nodded his head. In an instant, we were standing inside Amelia’s living room. I suddenly realized how much I missed my friend. I felt guilty for neglecting her when all the craziness started, and then abandoning her without so much as a word. I wanted to rush into her bedroom and wake her up and let her know I was OK. But, no, we were there for a reason.

  Amelia’s tree was tiny and decorated with just a few bulbs and ornaments. A ceramic snowman sat on a shelf next to the television. Beside it was a tiny plastic Rockefeller Christmas tree, a souvenir from our trip. A glass of milk and a plate with two cookies sat on the living room coffee table. Santa helped himself, and I wondered if he really did eat every single cookie the children put out. I’d have to ask about that later. Four presents sat beneath the sparse tree. Two larger ones were addressed to Amelia’s brothers. The third, a small package, read: To Amelia. Feliz Navidad. Mommy. And the last, even tinier, read: To Mommy. Love, Amelia. That was it. One gift each.

  I thought of my own Christmases, and how
, in addition to the gifts from Santa, my uncle never failed to get me everything on my list (even if his assistant was the one who actually bought the gifts). I’m not sure why he did it. Maybe it was guilt, knowing what he’d done to my father. Or maybe it was another way for him to compete with Santa Claus, to get back at him for the lump of coal. He could defeat Santa by giving me more presents. But even after everything that had happened, after my uncle’s betrayal, there was still no denying the excitement and joy I felt on all those Christmas mornings as I tore into a huge pile of presents and Uncle Christopher watched and occasionally even smiled. Those were good memories.

  Getting a bunch of gifts isn’t what Christmas is all about. I know that, of course. And I know Amelia had what mattered more: a loving family who would do anything for her. But still, didn’t Amelia deserve some of that Christmas joy I’d experienced? Santa watched me as I studied Amelia’s tiny gift. I wondered if he could read my thoughts. I assumed he had that ability. But maybe not. Maybe he simply understood me in a way no other adult could. Perhaps that was his true magic: knowing just what every child needs to feel joy, if only once a year.

  “A girl worthy of being your best friend must truly be special, Carol,” he said softly. He turned his sack over and emptied the whole bag of gifts, dozens of them, onto the floor. I saw several packages addressed to Amelia’s brothers. Several more had her mother’s name on them. But at least twenty were addressed to Amelia. Many were shaped like books. Lots of “the classics” she so loved, I guessed. Many were from Santa, but when I looked closer, more than a few read: To: Amelia. From: Carol.

  And on top of all the gifts sat a simple manila folder, addressed to Amelia’s father, who was still back in the Dominican Republic. I looked at Santa curiously. He smiled and said, “A little something that will allow him to join his family.” I smiled back at him. Of all the gifts Amelia would receive Christmas morning, I knew the one given to someone else would mean the most. I guess Miracle on 34th Street wasn’t all fantasy. Santa truly could make a family whole. “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, but then paused. “Would it be OK to leave Amelia a note?”

  “Certainly, dear. But please hurry.”

  I nodded and took a pen and notepad from a drawer in the kitchen, sitting down to ponder exactly what I should say. I laid my cane across my lap. My strand of white hair fell across my eye, and I brushed it aside. I put pen to paper.

  Dear Amelia,

  I don’t even know where to begin, but something incredible happened to me. First of all, don’t worry. I’m safe. I’m with my dad again. I found him! And I’m going to live with him from now on and we’re going to be a family, just like you’re going to have a whole family again.

  I can’t tell you everything that’s happened. Some things have to stay secret. But I want you to know I got to visit the Dominican Republic. It was so beautiful, and the people were so wonderful. I absolutely loved it, even though something very sad ended up happening there.

  Anyway, just know that I’ve found my purpose and that Santa Claus is real. I know it sounds crazy, but I was put on this earth to protect him. I never really fit in at Broward. Not like you and your super brain. Mr. Winters helped me discover my true purpose, and he didn’t do any of the terrible things I’m sure people accused him of. He’s a good man, even if he is really weird.

  I need to get going. Santa’s waiting on me. Amazing, right? Enjoy all the gifts and say hello to your father for me. I hope to meet him soon. I’ll come back to see you someday, I promise. I miss you so much, Amelia. Feliz Navidad.

  Love,

  Christmas Carol,

  Defender of Claus

  I stood to go. Santa was slinging his empty sack over his shoulder. Then a thought occurred to me and I quickly sat back down. I knew Santa was eager to leave. It had been a long, harrowing night. Everyone was exhausted and ready to go home. But surely I had earned these few minutes to say what I wanted to say to my best friend. Santa waited patiently. He understood what I needed to do. I picked up the pen again, smiling to myself, thinking about the day I met Amelia and the letter she held so tightly. Under my signature I wrote the words that always made me feel warm inside, words that spoke of the love between a father and a daughter, a love that could be felt from a thousand miles away, or even across time itself. It was a love that Amelia and I had both missed desperately but would have in full once again. I carefully wrote the words that Amelia’s Papi, in his broken English, always wrote to her:

  P.S. I will love you much eternity. Hugs and kisses and butterfly wishes.

  I set the pen down and got up to leave. Santa smiled and walked over to put his arm around me. He squeezed me tight, brushed aside the white lock of hair that hung in my eyes and kissed me lightly on the forehead. With a nod of his head and a wave of his hand, we disappeared into the night.

  Acknowledgments

  I am incredibly lucky to have so many supportive family members and friends, all of whom have been instrumental in one way or another in helping me publish this book. I feel truly blessed.

  First off, I want to thank my son, Tyler, who was in the “middle grades” when I started writing this book for him but is now a freshman in high school, something that’s almost inconceivable to me. Next up is my wife, Geovanny, who’s been incredibly supportive as I try and make my writing dreams come true. I’d also like to thank my parents, Bill and Jodi Fouch, for instilling in me a belief that if you work hard, anything’s possible. (I miss you, Dad.) A big thanks to my brother Todd, his wife Heather, and their kids Isaac, Tierra, Ashlee, and Abigail for their encouragement. And a special shout-out to my other son, Richard Feliciano, who continues to make his mother and me proud as he soars through the skies.

  I’m also grateful to my Newsday pals Kevin Amorim, Jerry Zezima, Jonalyn Schuon, Dan Bubbeo, Gary Rogers, Peggy Brown, Estelle Landers, Ned Levine, Tom Beer, and Thomas Maier for all of their help and advice.

  I want to thank Sky Pony for taking a chance on me, and Becky Herrick, my incredible editor, who really pushed me to make the book better. Also, I’m still amazed by illustrator David Miles’s magical cover art, which really captured the essence of the book. And last, but certainly not least, I want to thank Bethany Buck, who was the first person in the book industry to truly believe in me and Carol, starting as my agent, then as my editor, and now as just an awesome and supportive friend. I’ll be forever in your debt, Bethany.

  About the Author

  Robert L. Fouch is an author and journalist who grew up in the hills of West Virginia and now makes his home on Long Island in New York. He has worked in the newspaper business for longer than he cares to admit, including twenty-three years at Newsday as a copy editor, page designer, and occasional feature writer. He has a bachelor’s degree in editorial journalism from Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia, and is married with two children, including a teenage son who is his sounding board and toughest critic. He is a Browns and Cubs fan, which, before the end of the curse in 2016, was about as much misery as a sports fan could stand. Naturally, he believes in the magic of Santa Claus and feels sorry for anyone who doesn’t.