by Rob Thurman
“You’re a good brother.” Mom smiled, pleased.
“Yeah, yeah.” I ducked my head in embarrassment as I jammed the Santa hat on Jed’s head, draped the red jacket over the top of him, and glued the hair to his chin and jaws. He wasn’t too helpful there, whipping his head back and forth. But I got the job done. I even pinned Mary Francesca’s Santa pin to the jacket. It was the perfect touch.
Hungry, hungry, hungry, but he wasn’t for me.
I picked up three cookies, ripped the tape off his mouth, and jammed them in there before he could get a word or a scream out. He turned slightly blue as he choked and coughed. I thought it’d keep his mouth shut long enough.
“Tess,” I yelled. “Come on. Hurry up. He’s here!”
After a second there was the sound of feet in footie pajamas hitting the floor and she came flying out, eyes as wide as they possibly could be when she spotted Jed. “Santa! Santa! I asked you to come and you’re here! You’re here!”
Six years ago I saw Santa. Seven years ago I’d made my first kill. It soured me on Christmas when I realized there wouldn’t be any more Santas. No more surprises from the chimney. I’d finished that job. Kids, you don’t realize how permanent things are. I was sorry afterward. Sorry I hadn’t waited for my little sister to be old enough to join in on the fun. Sorry she could never have the thrill I’d had.
I watched as my little sister grinned big as her pajamas tore away and her skin twitched until fur rippled over her twisting, changing body from muzzle to tail. Her pumpkin orange eyes bright with Christmas spirit as her teeth were suddenly bright with something else as she tore into her present.
Mary Francesca’s pin went flying. Wolves were Orthodox. We did only date our own kind. It was too bad. She was cute.
On the couch a buff-colored wolf tucked her head under the jaw of a larger black one. Their eyes were brilliant with pride and affection and the spirit of the holiday. Their baby’s first kill. It was always special. I rested my muzzle on my paws and watched as Christmas came back to me.
Mom said Christmas wasn’t in presents and trees, glitter and bows. She said it was in your heart and so was Santa if you want him to be. If I really wanted him, I could find him again.
Mom was right. Christmas was in your heart. And Santa was everywhere. If you only knew where to look.