St. Nick

by Alan Russell

  “Is this one of those drive-out-to-the-country, drink-mulled-cider, take-a-sleigh-ride, and harvest-a-special-tree-at-a-picturesque-farmhouse kind of story?”

  “Hardly,” said Nick with a laugh. “It’s about the opposite.”

  “Do tell, then.”

  Nick looked around, and made sure no young ears were nearby. “I was the youngest of three brothers. The tradition started the year my parents gave my oldest brother Tom some money to go out and get our Christmas tree. Well, Tom spent that money on something other than a tree, so he came up with an alternative plan. He went shopping for the kind of tree that wasn’t for sale, and then enlisted my brother Paul and me to help him get it.

  “The tree Tom picked out was growing in a nearby park. We dressed up for that first midnight mission in dark clothing like we were some kind of ninjas. While my brother went and chopped down the fir tree, I kept watch. My instructions were to make the sound of a hoot owl if anybody was approaching. It was probably a good thing no one came along. My hoot owl sounded more like the call of a sick cat.

  “Tom was smart. By involving me, and swearing me to secrecy, and bribing me with some trinkets, I never told on him. In fact, every year I became more and more involved in the tree rustling. The tradition continued for the next five years. My brothers and I began to think of that Christmas tree money as our annual bonus. Of course, being the youngest, my brothers always treated me like their personal foot soldier. I was thirteen when they decided I was old enough to handle the Christmas tree duty by myself.

  “They didn’t care that I wasn’t old enough to drive, and had no means other than my own hands to transport the tree. They had already taken their cut of the money, which was all that concerned them, and they left the entire operation up to me.

  “I made what I thought was a logical choice. Our neighbor’s property had a bunch of fir and pine trees, and there was one among them I thought would do nicely in our living room. So on a dark December night I went over and chopped down their tree, and then dragged it over to our house.

  “I was sleeping in the next morning when the police came calling. My brothers, as you might expect, instantly disappeared. Faced with the evidence, and I had left a lot including a trail of pine needles from my neighbor’s house to our front doorstep, I did a reluctant George Washington and confessed I had chopped down the tree. That was the end of the Pappas brothers’ Christmas tree tradition.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I got a trip to the woodshed and a paddling I’ll never forget. I also had to spend my own money to get a replacement tree for the neighbors. And, as might be expected, my mother refused to display the tree I’d chopped down, so my brothers and I had to buy another Christmas tree.

  “Maybe one good thing came out of that Christmas, though. The police who came over to our house were decent sorts. In the midst of all my troubles I remember how one of the officers winked at me. No one else saw it. The cop was telling me that as bad as things were, everything would be all right. I think that wink somehow put me on the road to being a cop.”

  Nick shook his head. “Now, with the way things have turned out, I’m wondering if that cop might have just had something in his eye. Or it’s possible I just imagined his wink. That would be real poetic justice, wouldn’t it? My calling in life might have been based on one big mistake.”

  “No mistake,” said Angie. “You chose the right job, and you helped a lot of people.”

  Nick had somehow gone from being a villain to a saint, and didn’t feel comfortable being either. They didn’t have a chance to continue with their conversation. Darcy was bringing a girl with ponytails, and shoes more ruby red than Dorothy’s, up to see him. Nick held out his hands and welcomed her.

  “This is Alison, Santa,” said Darcy.

  Alison was coached along by her mother. She checked with mom for all her answers, from how old she was, to what she wanted for Christmas. When Nick finished with Alison, he wanted to tell her to go follow the Yellow Brick Road, but instead he directed her to Darcy.

  Angie was already waiting with the next lap sitter. “This is Corinne, Santa.”

  Nick started when he heard the name, but that was nothing compared to his reaction when he saw his own daughter standing there.

  “Hi, Saint Nick,” she said, the waver all too apparent in her voice.

  Nick hadn’t seen his daughter in the better part of a year. He tried to croak, “Merry Christmas,” but the words were unintelligible.

  “Corinne,” he said, and opened his arms.

  Chapter 33

  It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

  December 24

  Dark storm clouds had hovered over San Diego all day, but the rain hadn’t started falling yet. It looked to be only a matter of time, though. It was only five o’clock, but you wouldn’t have known it by the darkness. The clouds and the short day had seemed to bring Christmas Eve early.

  Forster and Nick were helping with the final loading of the presents into Rudolph. The toy giving had slowed down in the last two days. People were busy just before Christmas, and there were no more stories about the Santa Diego Sea Lions. Laura and her letter to Santa seemed to be fading from most people’s memories. But not his, Nick thought, not his.

  “All loaded,” yelled Forster. He patted the side of the truck.

  The driver waved. Nick and Forster stood together and watched Rudolph drive off into the night.

  “The last of ten thousand gifts,” said Forster.

  “That many?”

  “At least that many, according to Angie; imagine, all that giving spurred on by one little letter.”

  “One special letter,” said Nick

  “I’m feeling pretty good about this Christmas, Nico. How about you?”

  Nick nodded. “I might not have found Laura, but I found my own daughter again.”

  Corinne’s visit was the best Christmas gift he could have asked for. She’d read about her father in the newspaper. They hadn’t said much to one another—each was too choked up to say much—but Corinne had invited him over for a family brunch on Christmas Day.

  “You better hold her tight and not let go this time.”

  “You can count on that.”

  “So, you want to explain all those roses I saw you carrying out to your car …”

  “One dozen.”

  “And what about that package from the jewelry store?”

  “It’s a Christmas present, not an engagement ring.”

  “That might be true, but that doesn’t discount the glow in your eyes. You’re talking with your children again, you got a good woman who actually seems fond of you, you’ve gone from a sinner to a saint in the media, and we just saw Rudolph fly off into the night. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it, Nico?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m surprised I even need to tell you. Can’t you hear the drum roll? This is the perfect time for your victory dance.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Nico. Somehow an old grump like you turned into a real Saint Nick and helped to bring thousands of kids Christmas presents. You know you want to dance, so you might as well give it up. You can consider it your Christmas present to me.”

  “Not this Christmas, not ever.”

  Forster feigned disappointment. “You know you’re just denying yourself.”

  Nick looked at his watch. “I got to go. You have a Merry Christmas, Walt. Give my best to Maggie.”

  “She was counting on you coming over for some eggnog.”

  “I got other plans,” Nick said. He experienced a moment of déjà vu, remembering his friend’s Thanksgiving invitation. “This time I really do.”

  The two men shook hands.

  Like some grand windup toy, Plaza Center was shutting down. Santa’s Workshop had closed at two o’clock. It wouldn’t do for Santa to be late for the busy night ahead of him.

  The smaller stores had closed at f
ive o’clock. Only the department stores were still open, but even they were closing up shop. It was last call for Christmas shopping.

  Angie had stayed late, boxing up what she could of Santa’s Workshop, and seeing to the last details of the toy drive. She was dropping off a box in the mall’s administrative offices when the phone rang. Everyone else had already gone home. It was Christmas Eve, and her family was waiting for her, but Angie still reached for the receiver.

  ’Twas the night before Christmas. The rhyme kept going through Nick’s head. Even in this cursed hospital, he thought, it was the night before Christmas. Activity looked to be at a bare minimum. Nick figured no one stayed or worked at a hospital on Christmas Eve unless it was absolutely necessary.

  When Nick walked into Raymond’s room he saw in a glance that he was doing poorly. The boy’s eyes were glassy, and he had the kind of pale usually reserved for ghosts. His breathing was labored, each breath sounding as if it was providing a last moment of suspense. His football jersey had apparently been retired for a hospital gown. The jersey was neatly folded on the nightstand, packed up as if he was going on a journey.

  “How’s it going?” said Nick. He knew it wasn’t going well, but he didn’t know what else to say. Nick went and took a seat next to Raymond’s bed. The boy shifted, causing him to groan, and his sounds of pain made Nick reach out to try and help him, but he realized he could do nothing. For a moment his hand just hovered there, until he dropped it at his side.

  “I’m sick of being sick,” Raymond said.

  Nick wasn’t sure if the boy was talking to himself, or confessing something. But Raymond wasn’t too sick to notice the bag Nick was holding.

  “What did you bring me?” he asked.

  “How do you know I brought you anything?”

  “Because there’s something in the bag.”

  “It could be my dirty socks.”

  “You know it’s not.”

  Nick shrugged, as if to indicate it might very well be.

  “Is it?” asked Raymond.

  “No. But that reminds me. I do need to do a load of laundry.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “A present.”

  “For me?”

  “Could be.”

  “Can I open it?”

  “You got to wait until tomorrow,” Nick said.

  “No. Now please.”

  Nick looked unsure. Raymond offered an echo: “Please.”

  The box had been gift-wrapped. Nick placed it in Raymond’s hands and the boy started prying at the paper. In his weakened condition, even tape was a formidable foe.

  “Sometimes that paper’s kind of tricky,” Nick said, leaning over to help him.

  Together, they stripped off the paper, and then opened up the box. Nick pulled out a plastic canister. Raymond squinted to try and make out what was inside of it.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “How about I turn on a light?” asked Nick.

  Raymond nodded, and Nick reached over and flicked on an overhead light.

  “I know you’re not allowed pets here, but Easy said these would be okay. Can you see what’s in here?”

  The objects were small and dark and thin, not quite an inch long. They were mostly still, and surrounded by silky cocoons. Raymond put his face close to the plastic.

  “Are they fuzzy-wuzzies?”

  “That’s right,” said Nick. “Caterpillars. Five of them. They’re in what’s called their larval stage. Each of these caterpillars is going to grow into a kind of butterfly called a Painted Lady. See, I got you a booklet here that tells you about them. It’s got lots of neat pictures and diagrams.”

  Nick handed Raymond the container, so that he could display the book. “This goes through the whole life cycle of these critters. See, that container’s going to be their home for the next couple of weeks. The green stuff on the bottom is the nutrient they eat. In about a week, these caterpillars are going to climb to the top of that canister, attach themselves, and hang there. You got to leave them alone when that happens, ’cuz they have to shed their coats. That’s when they’ll start getting pretty. It’s sort of like that ugly duckling story, you know. They’re brown and nondescript now, but when they change into a chrysalis they’ll start showing their colors. You see, they got a picture of how they’ll look right here.”

  The boy looked from the small, brown caterpillars to the picture. “They look so different.”

  “That’s only the start. You’re going to put the chrysalides—that’s what they’re called at that stage—into their butterfly house. And in about a week or ten days later they’re going to come out as pretty butterflies.”

  Nick put his finger on a picture of a Painted Lady. The butterfly had vibrant brown, black, and orange markings that looked as if they had been painted on.

  “Will I let them go then?”

  Nick shook his head. “Not this time of the year. It needs to be a little warmer.”

  “But how are they going to eat?”

  “We’re going to make them a nectar drink. Butterflies are kind of like little boys. They like sugar. So what we’ll do is mix some sugar and water, and sprinkle them on some flowers, and put those in their house.”

  Raymond kept watching the caterpillars. “This is really cool.”

  Nick had been in luck. The mall’s nature store had just happened to have some of the caterpillars on display. Normally you had to send away for them, but Nick had been able to talk the manager into selling him the display model.

  “Do the butterflies live very long?”

  Nick shook his head. “Not very. Two to four weeks.”

  “Oh.”

  Nick wondered if that was the kind of question only a very sick kid would ask.

  Raymond continued to look at the caterpillars, gently turning the container round and round. The turning gradually slowed and then stopped.

  “You want me to take that from you?” Nick asked.

  A small nod, even though when Nick reached for it, the boy’s fingers seemed reluctant to give up their prize.

  “You’ll look after them?” asked Raymond.

  “We will.”

  Raymond’s eyes closed for a long moment.

  “You tired, big guy?” Nick asked.

  “Just a little. But don’t leave yet. Let’s go look at the trains.”

  “I’ll see if that’s okay with Easy,” Nick said. “If it is, I’ll get the wheelchair.”

  “We don’t need the wheelchair. You can carry me if you want. I’m not very heavy. Tonight I feel real light.”

  It didn’t surprise Nick that Easy was working on Christmas Eve. She probably wouldn’t have trusted her charges with anyone else.

  “We bend rules on Christmas Eve,” she said, laughing. “We bend them good.”

  Easy released Raymond from the tubes and drips that sustained him, and then Nick got his arms under the boy’s legs and back and lifted. Raymond was right. He wasn’t very heavy, but Nick pretended he was.

  “My back,” he groaned. “What have you been eating? Lead?”

  “Hospital food,” said Easy.

  Nick carried Raymond out to the sitting room, and set him up in one of the chairs. Together, the two of them watched the trains. There was something lulling about the toy trains. Raymond’s eyes kept narrowing, but he never quite let them close all the way. He was fighting off sleep.

  His eyes were still on the trains when he asked Nick, “Did you ever talk to Santa Claus?”

  Not now, thought Nick, not tonight. “You mean about what you wanted?”

  The boy turned his head this time, looked at Nick, and nodded. “The snow.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I have my snow globe, and my Sea Lions shirt, and the butterflies. Those are the things I really wanted anyway.”

  Raymond sounded as if he almost believed what he was saying. Nick tried to think of something to say, but he was short the word
s, and the explanation.

  “What colors will my butterflies be?” Raymond asked.

  “Orange and brown and black.”

  “Those are pretty colors.”

  “Yes.” But not Christmas colors, Nick thought.

  They continued to watch the trains. There was something therapeutic about them. The pain on Raymond’s face appeared to ease, and his breathing didn’t sound as labored.

  “Did you ever find that girl who wrote you the letter?” Raymond asked.

  “We’re still looking for her,” said Nick.

  Sick as he was, Raymond still found the compassion to think about someone else. The kid always amazed him.

  “What time is your family flying in tomorrow?” Nick asked.

  “Mid-afternoon,” said Raymond. He didn’t sound too happy with their time schedule.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I wish I was home. I wish they were here.”

  “Your family wishes the same thing.”

  The little boy in Raymond emerged: “No, they don’t.”

  “Yes, they do,” said Nick. “I’m sure sending you here was the toughest decision your family ever had to make, but they did it because they wanted you to get better more than anything in the world.”

  Raymond didn’t answer, but he did appear to be listening.

  “I know how hard it’s been on you not having your family around all the time,” said Nick, “but it hasn’t been easy for them either. Your parents have had to juggle work, your brothers and sisters, and your illness. Right now your family is missing you as much as you’re missing them. You know that, don’t you?”

  Raymond shrugged.

  “Don’t underestimate their love, son. I know I wouldn’t want my kids to have the same doubts about me. If they did, I am going to make sure they never do again.”

  “Maybe you should be spending Christmas with them.”

  Nick blinked hard a few times, and then bit the inside of his cheek. Raymond was willing to sacrifice his own time with Nick so that he could be with his kids.

  “As it so happens,” said Nick, “I’m going to be getting together with them for a late morning brunch.” His tone changed, and became equal parts indignant and playful. “What? Are you trying to get out of spending Christmas morning with me?”