I get some fresh air and let the plot bang around in my head. For about an hour, I walk around my old neighborhood and think about "The Season of Giving." By the time I get back to the house I have three or four tight scenes in mind that will give the story the sense of momentum I'm looking for and bring it to a conclusion that jibes with what Rich has already set up. I think it'll work really well...and, most of all. I'm excited that the focus of the story will be that bittersweet balance between tragedy and hope that I've always admired in Rich's fiction.
I go to work. Fortunately, Rich's style and mine aren't that far apart. I get into our guy's voice right away, and that makes the going easy. I work through the first section doing some minor revision, then start fresh on the second. It's basically an observational scene, but very necessary. Takes a while to write, but I get through it. Then I move on to the next section, which is mostly dialogue and goes very quickly.
Somewhere in there I eat something that passes for both lunch and dinner. Later still, I catch a quick nap. By the time I hit the last section of the story I'm solidly in character, and the writing goes fast. It's late when I type "The End" and crawl into bed, but early the next morning I'm back in the saddle doing revisions. I can't remember exactly what the afternoon cutoff time for FedEx was back in those days if you wanted to get a package from one coast to the other, but I made it.
Actually, I made it with a couple hours to spare.
I'm here to tell you: that was a really good feeling.
I think 'The Season of Giving" ended up to be a really good story, too.
I wasn't the only one who felt that way. Ed Gorman was of the opinion that our story was one of the best in the book (Santa Clues, DAW, 1993). Rich and I both thought that was great.
We felt pretty good.
Hey, we'd cracked a Greenberg anthology.
We'd sold a story to a paperback original out of New York.
On top of that, Ed Gorman had given our story his personal seal of approval.
If I remember correctly, we ended up getting a nickel a word for the story (and of course we had to split that!). But it wasn't about the money at all. It was all about that window of opportunity, and the doors that opened for us because we got through it. That was the thing. Writing and selling "The Season of Giving" gave both of us a sale to a pro market at a time when we needed another notch on our resumes. We knew that building our resumes was important. The more pro sales we had, the easier it'd be to get prospective editors (or agents) to look at our fiction.
As it happened, we both ended up doing more work with Marty Greenberg over the next few years. Both Rich and I eventually co-edited books with Marty (Rich's was Scream Plays, and mine was It Came from the Drive-In). But for me, the best thing that came from writing "The Season of Giving" was the opportunity to get to know Ed Gorman. I'd always admired Ed's work (still do), and his work ethic. He's a pro's pro, and a helluva nice guy.
I wrote several other stories for Ed over the next few years, and got to know him better. His advice to me during that time was as invaluable as it was generous. When I finished up Slippin' into Darkness and began my search for an agent to handle my work, Ed was a great sounding board. He knows the business, and (sometimes) it seems like he knows everyone in it.
Having him in my corner made me feel like I had the real goods.
Thanks, Ed.
THE SEASON OF GIVING
with Richard Chizmar
I was still thinking about the deuce of hearts when the little girl with the face of an angel yanked on my coat sleeve.
It was the first weekend of December, six inches of new snow blanketed the city, and we were already pulling double shifts at Parker's Department Store. Management had settled on the usual pre-holiday security setup — four guards spread out over each of the three floors; one man per floor in a regulation United Security uniform, the other three working plainclothes.
Only one of us had to wear the suit.
Earlier, as per our new daily routine, we'd cut a deck of cards in the guard lounge. I'd felt pretty confident when Eddie Schwartz, who had worn the suit three days running, pulled the black three. And I'd gone on feeling pretty confident until I turned up the stinkin' deuce of hearts.
Eddie ho-ho-hoed like Santa when he saw it—something he hadn't done once during his tenure in the suit. The others had a good time with it, too. Cracking wise, speculating about my relationship with the reindeer as they watched me dress. Giving me a standing ovation as I left the lounge, my middle finger extended as stiff and proud as the candy-striped pole in front of Santa's workshop way up north.
I wasn't laughing, though. I'd avoided wearing the suit since the season started, and after hearing the complaints from my coworkers— "God, that thing’s hot. It smells like an old closet. Christ, it's embarrassing." — I'd been hoping my luck would hold.
Well, I'd never had much luck. But now, a few hours into my shift, I could almost see that the whole thing was pretty funny. Almost. Me, of all people, dressed up as Santa Claus. Me, a bearer of gifts, when my usual commodity was misery. Mr. Sunshine in a bright red suit and cap. Shiny black boots. Pillow stuffing for a belly. Fluffy white beard. Everything but the red nose, which I'd lost for good when I stopped drinking.
On top of all that, the guys were right. The suit did smell like an old closet, and it was hot and heavy as hell. But it also had its advantages. Working the front of the store was a relatively easy job. Not much to do, actually. Stand behind an old Red Cross kettle, smack dab in the middle of the mail's main intersection, just south of a North Pole display featuring jungle gyms disguised as Victorian houses, slides, and plenty of not-so-inconspicuous toy advertisements. Ring a rusty old cowbell every few minutes; but mainly keep an eye out for trouble on the North Pole, because Parker's didn't want to handle any personal injury suits involving kids at Christmas. Still, compared to chasing shoplifters and pickpockets up and down the clothes aisles and arguing with irate holiday shoppers, the Santa gig was a cakewalk.
Anyway, that was the setup. Back to the little girl.
I'd noticed her as soon as I returned from my break. A little angel moving slowly through the crowd, head down, getting bumped and nudged with every step. She looked about seven or eight, a tiny thing wearing a faded winter jacket at least two sizes too big for her. The frayed collar was flipped up, and you could just see the top half of her pale face as she bobbed and weaved, eyes telling anyone who bothered to look that she was on her own.
The crowd swept her along like a strong wind pushing a tiny leaf, and I feared that she might be trampled. Instead, as if sensing my concern, she looked in my direction and our eyes locked momentarily.
Thinking for an instant that I was wearing my security uniform instead of the Santa suit, I mistook the look of glee in her eyes for desperate relief. I could play the rest of the scene out in my head. She was going to tell me that she was lost; could I please help her find her parents or her brother or sister.
That happened all the time, but sometimes the scene took a scarier turn. Plenty of parents these days used the mall as a free babysitter — dropping off their underage kids for a few hours while they ran errands. In these tough times, too many people thought it was cheaper and easier to give a kid a five spot for pizza and video games than to spring for a sitter. They were the kind of parents who thought everything would always be okay. With them, with their kids, with their spouses.
I used to think that way, but now I know better. We all do a hundred little things every day, without even thinking about them. But one thing I've learned — little things have a way of becoming big things before you even have a chance to notice.
As the girl approached me, I decided she was a definite candidate for a drop-off. Reason Number One: her eyes told me that she was alone. Reason Number Two: she looked scared. Reason Number Three: her appearance — clothes that were hand-me-downs or garage sale bargains; the pale, unhealthy cast of her otherwise beautiful face —spoke of a family that
couldn't afford a babysitter, let alone three squares a day.
The girl stopped in front of me, her eyes lonely but somehow still as blue and bright as a summer sky. She smiled suddenly, and my own mouth twitched into a grin.
I was unused to that particular expression.
"You have to sit down," she said, very seriously.
"Huh?"
"You have to sit down so I can sit on your lap."
The Santa suit. Of course. I crouched down to her level. "Sorry, sweetie," I said. "You're looking for the real Santa. He's over on the second floor, sitting next to the carousel."
"I know you're not the real Santa." She rolled those lonely eyes, branding me a first-class dope. "And neither is the other one. But you work for Santa, right?"
The only thing I could do was nod.
"Then you can tell Santa what my wish is."
I had to laugh then, and the thick elastic band on the fake beard knifed into my cheeks. It didn't matter though. I didn't care. I mean, it wasn't a raucous ho-ho-ho worthy of good old Eddie Schwartz, but it came from a part of me I thought I'd forgotten about. There was something special about that, just as there was something special about this serious, sad-eyed little girl.
Change rattled into the kettle, and I waved my thanks to a shopper, but the little girl didn't have patience for my manners. "Well?" she asked. "Are you going to sit down, or what?"
"Here's the deal." My voice was low, conspiratorial. "You're right about me being on Santa's payroll. But I still think you'd better talk to the other Santa." I crossed my white-gloved fingers. "He and the big guy are just like this."
I expected a smile out of her, but what I got was a frown. Her blue eyes puddled up, and the brightness had leeched from them. "You don't understand. I can't wait. The line for the other Santa is way too long." She pointed over her shoulder, and her tiny finger was actually shaking. "M-my mom will be done shopping any second. And then we gotta go home."
Okay. I thought, now we're getting somewhere. "Your mother is in this store? Does she know where you are?"
"Yes.... Well, kinda. I told her I was going to the bathroom and that I'd meet her by the North Pole." She pointed over to the playground where other kids were sliding and charging around and having a good time.
"Sure about that, sweetheart? You know, it isn't nice to fib to one of Santa's stand-ins."
She nodded furiously. "Can't I please tell you now? Can't I, please?" Her eyes were beyond desperate. “Pleeaazzze...."
God, she was a cutie. Fragile as the expensive dolls in Parker's toy department, and with the same porcelain complexion. I watched her tiny lips move as she talked. Noticed the patch of freckles on her nose, the perfect shape of her ears, the way her hair was tied back with a long red ribbon.
Realized with a sudden jolt why the girl had captivated me so.
Realized exactly who she reminded me of.
I hadn't seen my daughter in almost seven years. Not since she was eight years old. Not since that rainy December morning Sheila had chosen to make their break for freedom. Talk about your basic holiday hell. Divorce papers had followed a week later. Merry Christmas. Not that I noticed at the time.
It was an easy decision for the judge. I was a drunk then, didn't care that I had a wife who needed me, a daughter who needed me even more. Didn't care that the alcohol was killing my spirit and turning me into a man my family genuinely hated. And then when I finally did realize what I had lost, and what I had become, it was much too late.
I spent a full year in a stupor, trying to forget the look on my daughter's face when she summed the whole thing up so beautifully; "You're not my daddy anymore,” she said the last time I saw her, "because you're a bad man."
I emptied hundreds of bottles in her memory after she spoke those words, savoring the simple truth of that baldly elegant statement. And when I finally got tired of emptying bottles, I broke one and carved up my wrists with a sliver of glass. Pathetic, if you want to sum it up bald and elegant.
The little girl tugged my sleeve again, and I jerked away, imagining her fingers brushing across the scar tissue on my wrists, imagining that the red material of the Santa suit was stained with my blood.
"Please let me tell you my wish."
"Okay." I pushed away my memories, feeling a strange combination of sorrow and glee. "But you have to tell me something first. Have you been a good girl this year?"
Her forehead wrinkled in deep thought — and my heart melted a little bit more because I'd forgotten all the perfectly genuine expressions that kids have — and then she gave me a very serious nod. "I think so. Mommy says that I'm a good girl all the time."
"I'm sure your mom wouldn't lie," I said. "Now, you give me the word, and I'll give it to the big guy at the North Pole."
She moved closer, and her voice became a whisper. "I don't want any toys." She paused and looked around, as if someone might be listening to her little secret, as if an eavesdropper could render the wish null and void in Santa's eyes. "I just want Santa to bring me a brand new daddy for Christmas. And I want him to make my real daddy go away."
My heart skittered, then started beating faster. I looked at the little girl and suddenly saw my daughter, and a hot sheen of sweat dampened my face.
You’re not my daddy.
My mouth was running before I knew what to say. "Now, sweetie. I'm not so sure that Santa Claus can bring you that type of present. Wouldn't you rather have a pretty new dress?" Or a coat that fits? I thought, looking again at the tattered thing she was wearing.
She didn't say anything, but that didn't keep me from hearing the other voice in my head. You’re not my daddy, because you're a bad man.
And then I was apologizing, alibying for a man I didn't even know. "Look," I continued, "I'll bet your dad will get you something nice. I'll bet he already has a great big present for you right under the tree. I'll bet — "
"No!" A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away before anyone else could see it. "I don't like my daddy's presents. I want a new daddy, someone to make me and mommy happy. I just have to get one. You gotta help me."
Suddenly the Santa costume felt as heavy as a suit of armor; all the weight centered on my chest and stomach. And for the first time since going straight three years before, I thought of just how lucky my little girl was to have a real father now, someone to watch over her and protect her and love her. Someone who wasn't a bad man...even if he was a damn chiropractor.
My eyes misted over, and I closed them. I didn't know what to say. I sent my own wish to Santa, FedEx. All I wanted for Christmas was the right answer for this little girl.
"Julie, what in the world have you done to Santa?"
I opened my eyes. The girl's mother was younger than I would have guessed, late-twenties probably. A mirror image of her daughter, another waif in faded jeans and a worn jacket, carrying a single Parker's shopping bag.
I grinned. This time it was reflex. I really didn't know what to do.
"I sure hope Julie hasn't been bothering you," the woman said. "I got held up in line and — "
I waved her off. "She was no trouble at all. We had ourselves a nice time talking."
The woman smiled and tousled Julie's hair. She was every bit as beautiful as her daughter, and every bit as tragic. Her eyes held the same sadness, but they never flashed bright the way her child's sometimes did. They were the eyes of a woman who had faced too much pain in her time and had given up the fight. Someone who was merely existing, not living.
Someone just like me.
"Well, I'll apologize anyway," the woman said. "Julie's a good girl" — Julie nudged my leg, as if to say I told you so —"but she can be a bit headstrong." The woman made a polite show of checking her watch. "Julie, honey, we really have to get going. We're already an hour late, you know how your father gets when his dinner isn't waiting for him."
"Okay. In a minute. Mom."
I smiled at the friendly mother-daughter battle waging before me, rec
alling the occasions when my wife and daughter had done the same.
But those days were gone.
You’re not my daddy....
"Well, thanks again for being so nice to Julie," the woman said. "And have a Merry Christmas." She took Julie's hand. "Let's go, honey."
They were swallowed by the crowd and, just like that, the incident was over. Or so I thought.
A few seconds later, the little angel reappeared. "I almost forgot," she said, panting. "Please tell Santa this is where I live."
She handed me a piece of paper. The lines kind you tear from a small tablet. Three short lines in careful block print. A street address that wasn't far from the mall.
Her hand drifted away slowly. Brushed my big black belt. Brushed the front of my red pants.
Her fingers lingered for just a second against my crotch.
She looked at me with those lonely eyes. "I'll do anything," she said. "Tell Santa I'll do anything if he gives me what I want."
Then her hand was gone, and she was gone, and everything was very clear.
I just want Santa to bring me a brand new daddy for Christmas. And I want him to make my real daddy go away...
You know how your father gets when his dinner is late...
I don't like my daddy’s presents...
Tell Santa I'll do anything if he gives me what I want....
I stared at the slip of paper with Julie's address on it, thinking about the fierce determination on the little angel's face and the sad quiet beauty of her mother, knowing with complete clarity how life had molded them.
Understanding, for the first time, how life had molded me.
I called in sick more than I should have, made use of my days off, didn't sleep much. You can always find time to do things if you really want to, and I found that I wanted to do something for the first time in years. Besides, it wasn't like I had a ton of unfinished Christmas shopping or invitations demanding my presence at holiday parties hither and yon. No airplane ride to visit the relatives out west. No drive in the country to visit friends. No Christmas in Connecticut for me.
Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales Page 37