Santa Claus The Movie Page 10

  Santa Claus laughed, and it was the great rolling laugh that Joe had always been told Santa Claus would have. Joe let out a yelp of startled delight as the sleigh swooped upward, just clearing the top of a skyscraper.

  And that was only the beginning. Under Santa’s skillful guidance, the reindeer and sleigh dove and swooped and soared among the glittering towers of Manhattan, and up again into the midnight sky. The reindeer danced across the clouds and wove a path among the stars, then plunged back down among the skyscrapers of the sleeping city, galloping among them on feet with invisible wings. Joe laughed joyfully, feeling as if he were caught up in a miracle. Santa grinned over at him, filled with delight at the sight of his happiness.

  “You really are Santa Claus, ain’t ya?” Joe said wonderingly.

  The white-bearded old man nodded. “Yup . . . but I still don’t know who you are.”

  “Joe!” he cried gleefully “I’m Joe!” And tonight he was the luckiest kid alive.

  “How do you like it?” Santa asked.

  “Neat!” he shouted, the very highest compliment he could give, and whooped again as the sleigh banked and plunged steeply once more, rising again into the sky like an enchanted roller coaster. “Wow! Neat! How do you make ’em do it?”

  “Like a horse and buggy,” Santa replied matter-of-factly, drawing on the last comparable vehicle he remembered driving. “You just pull the reins. Both together to go higher . . .” He raised his arms, and the reindeer began to climb again.

  “Can they do anything you want?” Joe asked.

  Santa’s brow wrinkled slightly. “Anything but the Super-Dooper-Looper.”

  “What’s that?” Joe said, raising his eyebrows. It sounded impressive.

  “I’ve been trying for years,” Santa murmured. Out ahead Prancer and Dancer glanced at each other as the same thought passed through their matching minds—Here we go again. Blitzen looked over at his acrophobic friend Donner with unspoken sympathy. Donner gulped and closed his eyes.

  “Maybe tonight’s the night,” Santa said encouragingly. “What do you say, Donner? Let’s give it the old college try!” Claus prided himself on keeping up with the latest expressions. He pulled back on the reins, giving the reindeer the old familiar sign to begin the difficult aeronautical maneuver, which amounted to a great flying loop-the-loop. The reindeer and sleigh rose up and up, curving into the first half of the wide arc . . . higher and higher . . .

  Donner, straining desperately to keep his courage together as he galloped through a steeper and steeper climb, suddenly shook his head and gave in to his panic, plunging forward and down again. The other reindeer, thrown off balance, had no choice but to follow him down. The loop attempt had failed again. The sleigh, after a jolt, was back again on its former straight trajectory. Prancer and Dancer glanced at each other; the look that flashed between them this time was one of disgust. He screwed it up again.

  “It didn’t work again,” Santa murmured sadly to Joe. Then he called out loudly to Donner, “That’s all right, boy, you’ll get it next time!” He glanced back at Joe again. “Tell him it’s all right.”

  Joe, empathizing with the unfortunate reindeer’s feelings, called out reassuringly, “Uh . . . hey, like, man, don’t sweat it. It’s cool, y’know.”

  Santa smiled appreciatively at Joe. His smile broadened as he looked down into the earnest young face and had a sudden thought. “Say, would you like to drive for a while?”

  Joe gaped at him, hardly believing his ears. “Me? Drive?” he cried, dazzled by even the possibility.

  Santa Claus nodded. “It’s not too hard. Here—take the reins.” He passed them into Joe’s wondering hands. And then, just as he had done in dreams for countless years, for a son he had never had, Santa Claus began to teach Joe how to handle the sleigh and team.

  With seeming casualness, he watched Joe’s every move like a hawk as they soared into the night; he spoke to him constantly, calmly, smiling all the while as he made sure that Joe did not make any mistakes that were potentially dangerous. Joe’s movements at first were the awkward, jerky motions of an excited and uncertain beginner. The reindeer responded with gallant patience—if some confusion—and after a time Joe’s spasmodic efforts to steer them began to smooth out as he gradually got the hang of guiding them through three dimensions. “How’m I doin’?” he called out as he pulled recklessly on the reins, banking so sharply that the reindeer and sleigh swerved in a way that made stomachs turn over.

  “Fine,” Santa said gamely, through clenched teeth. After so many centuries, he was finally sharing the experience of every adult who had ever taught a child to drive anything.

  “What do you call ’em?” Joe asked, watching the reindeer surge upward.

  “Reindeer,” Santa said, a little fuzzily.

  Joe shook his head. “No, I mean what’s their names?”

  “Oh,” Santa Claus murmured, and shook his head. He began to point them out one at a time. “Starting from the front, that’s Donner and Blitzen, Dasher and Vixen, Comet and Cupid, Prancer and Dancer.”

  “On, Donner!” Joe cried, shaking the reins. “On, Blitzen! On, Dasher! On, Vixen!” He called out their names, unconsciously echoing the famous poem which lay in fragments somewhere deep in his memory.

  The reindeer responded eagerly, speeding up as they executed a broad, dazzlingly perfect turn. And then at a word from Santa, they started down toward the distant rooftops again.

  “Where are we goin’?” Joe asked.

  “We can’t joy-ride all night, Joe,” Santa said good-naturedly. “I’ve got a job to do, you know.” He took the reins out of Joe’s reluctant hands again, guiding the reindeer down and down to a precise eight-point landing on the flat, snowy surface of a dark and silent rooftop.

  Joe climbed down from the sleigh, helping Santa lift down his enormous sack filled with brightly wrapped presents. And then, before he could even ask what they were going to do next, Joe found himself standing beside Santa inside an apartment, just as he had found himself suddenly on the roof a short time before. Many years ago, the elves had devised a magic spell that would allow Santa Claus to enter and leave any home with only a nod, regardless of the locks and chains and precautions that kept most normal nighttime visitors outside.

  Joe stared around him at the silent living room with its holiday decorations, at the Christmas tree in its center, twinkling with colored lights and shiny ornaments. The embers of a fire still glowed in the fireplace, and red-and-green-striped stockings hung from the mantel. A plate of cookies sat waiting for Santa on an end table beside the somewhat-worn but comfortable-looking plaid sofa. Santa moved to place two red-and-green-wrapped presents beneath the tree. Joe sighed, gazing around him in quiet yearning as he found himself standing in a perfectly normal living room, in a real home that belonged to some lucky kid. His gaze fell on a picture sitting on the end table, of a man and woman posing with their arms around a little boy, all smiling happily beside a sparkling blue lake.

  “Is this the kid who lives here?” Joe asked.

  “Yup,” Santa answered.

  “What did he get?” Joe eyed the new packages beneath the tree with curiosity.

  “Fishing rod.”

  “How come?” Joe glanced at the picture again.

  “That’s what he asked for in his letter.” Santa Claus began to gather up his sack again, munching on a cookie.

  “You mean, if a kid writes . . .” Joe looked up in sudden awe. “Anything he wants?” he whispered.

  Santa Claus stopped and looked back at Joe. “Didn’t you ever write to me, Joe?” he asked gently.

  Joe looked down. “I never believed—” He glanced up again and quickly and defensively said, “I mean, hey, like I never needed nothin’. See, I usually travel light.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, where they made fists.

  Claus stood silently for a moment as more emotions welled up in him than he could ever express to this boy. He knew that this was not the time or place t
o try to share them. The boy had his pride. It was all he had, and Santa knew better than to wound it. Instead, he took one more cookie for himself and handed Joe the other one left on the plate.

  “Well, let’s travel now,” Claus said at last. “Come on.” He picked up his sack, and they were back on the roof again in an instant. And then the sleigh was off again to another stop, and yet another.

  Eight

  Cornelia lay in her large, soft bed, asleep at last among its lavender-and-white frills, as weariness finally overcame her excited Christmas Eve anticipation. Like children all over the world, she had lain awake for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus. But sleep had finally crept up on her, and carried her away to dreamland . . . where it was already Christmas morning.

  Then, suddenly, a crash sounded somewhere in the silent townhouse. Cornelia sat bolt upright in her bed, abruptly wide awake; she blinked her eyes, her heart pounding. Throwing back the covers and climbing down from her bed, she tiptoed out into the hall and headed toward the wide stairway that curved down to the living room.

  In the darkened living room, Joe was hastily picking up a lamp. He had accidentally knocked it over while staring in wonder at the huge, wood-paneled space around him and the fifteen-foot-high Christmas tree standing in the middle of it. The tree was a work of art, covered with exquisite blown-glass ornaments and shining angel hair until it looked like a vast, glowing spun-sugar confection. “Hey, I’m sorry,” Joe murmured to Santa, who was setting another red-and-green package under the tree, “I didn’t see the—”

  “Oh!”

  They spun around together, caught in the act, to find a little girl in a ruffled flannel nightgown standing wide-eyed with astonishment in the doorway.

  “Are you him?” the girl gasped, amazed. “Are you Santa Claus?”

  “Oh, boy, I hate it when this happens,” Santa muttered under his breath. Putting a broad smile on his face, he said, “Hello, little girl.”

  The girl pointed at the new present among the others heaped up beneath the tree. “Is that my dolly?” Her eyes flickered up again as Joe moved uncomfortably to set the lamp back on its table. “It’s you!” she cried.

  Joe really looked at the girl for the first time, and realized that he knew her, too. “You?” he asked incredulously. It was the red-haired girl who had left dinner out for him on several different nights during the past few weeks.

  “You two know each other?” Santa asked, equally surprised.

  Joe and Cornelia stared at each other, frozen in fascination, face to face at last after so much time. She took a few tentative steps toward him as he started uncertainly toward her, the two of them drawn together by an invisible, irresistible magnetic force.

  “I’m . . . Cornelia.” She glanced down, stopping again, suddenly shy.

  “I’m Joe,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets, equally self-conscious.

  “I’m in a hurry,” Santa said, wanting to get back to work.

  Cornelia glanced at Santa, remembering suddenly who else she had surprised in her living room, and remembering her manners as well. “Oh, it’s a great pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said. She pointed toward the plate of cookies on the mantelpiece. “Would you like some cookies? They’re delicious.”

  Santa peered dutifully at the plate. “Oh, chocolate chip,” he said, pleased. “My favorite.” He took two, stopping a moment longer to enjoy their sweet, chocolatey flavor before moving on toward the chimney.

  As he paused for his snack, Cornelia whispered to Joe, “Are you his friend?”

  Joe straightened his shoulders, brushing his straight black hair from his eyes, and shrugged with elaborate casualness. “Oh, yeah, I help him out, like. Sometimes I drive the reindeer. And . . . er . . .” He glanced up and saw Santa watching him with a twinkling eye. “. . . sometimes I . . . don’t.”

  But it worked anyway. Cornelia gazed at him in wonder. “Gee!” she murmured. “Don’t you have to get home?”

  Joe shrugged again. “Don’t got a home.”

  Cornelia thought about that a moment, and a smile spread over her face. “You mean you get to stay out all night and nobody tells you it’s bedtime? Lucky!” she said with envy and yearning. Considering the people she lived with, not having a home at all seemed like just about the neatest thing she could imagine. She looked up at Joe from under her eyelashes, suddenly shy again. He was the bravest and handsomest boy she had ever seen, she thought—and he certainly knew the most wonderful people!

  Joe looked back at her, blushing slightly, trying desperately to think of something more to say to impress her. Before tonight he had always thought girls were kind of yucky, but now he couldn’t imagine why. “Hey, um, Cor . . .” he hesitated, “. . . what’s your name again?”

  “Cornelia,” she said.

  “That’s too fancy,” Joe said, frowning to cover the fact that he had trouble pronouncing it.

  “Oh.” She looked down, her face falling. She had always hated the name herself.

  “I’ll call you Corny.”

  She looked up again, grinning with delight. She had never had a nickname before, and to be given one under such circumstances was absolutely the best.

  “Listen, Corny,” Joe said, suddenly hesitant, his voice filled with gratitude, “thanks for all the good food you gave me.”

  Joe glanced toward Santa, who was gathering up his sack of presents, and Cornelia realized that they were both about to leave. “I can make you a bowl of ice cream,” she said hastily, knowing Santa could not stay, but wanting Joe to, desperately.

  “Well . . .” Joe licked his lips, glancing back at Santa, torn.

  Santa Claus smiled, seeing his dilemma, and quickly offered him a way out. “I’ll tell you what, Joe, you stay and have something to eat. I’ll see you again.” He realized, a bit relieved, that it would make parting much easier for both of them, this way.

  “You will? You mean it?” Joe demanded, both yearning and dismayed.

  Santa nodded. “Santa Claus doesn’t lie, Joe. Next Christmas Eve, we’ve got a date. Okay?”

  Joe grinned. “You bet!”

  Santa started toward the fireplace chimney, then hesitated. Turning back, he said to Cornelia, “Thanks for the cookies.” Then, searching Joe’s dark eyes and small, thin face, he said, “You’re sure you’re going to be all right.”

  Cornelia smiled reassuringly. “He’ll be fine,” she said, looking at Joe, too, with a brief, fond glance.

  Santa nodded and smiled, satisfied. Then, with a farewell wave, he took a deep breath and vanished from sight.

  Joe and Cornelia stood staring up at the spot where Santa had been just a moment before.

  “What a guy,” Joe sighed, shaking his head with awe.

  Cornelia nodded, still smiling until she thought her face would never do anything else again. “Excellent,” she said.

  Nine

  Christmas Day dawned bright and cold over the great metropolis of New York, and, hour by hour, all around the world. Back at the North Pole, Santa slept peacefully in his bed, more satisfied than he had been with a Christmas Eve journey in many a year. Not only had he met two exceptional young people who had added fresh meaning to his journey, but he had delivered Patch’s mass-produced toys to more children than ever; he was secure in his rest, thinking that next year Patch would easily meet his ever-increasing needs for new toys.

  And as he slept, boys and girls around the world were waking up and opening their presents from Santa, then rushing outside to play with them. And, one after another, they found that the toys which had looked so shiny and perfect were actually a fraud, ready to fall apart in their hands. Patch’s manufacturing methods were dealing Santa Claus’s reputation a terrible, painful blow even as Santa slept, completely unsuspecting. Before Christmas Day was even over, children everywhere would wear frowns at the very mention of his name . . .

  In front of a suburban house on a sunny street in Dallas, a happy boy wheeled his brand new Chr
istmas bicycle out the front door and down the sidewalk. Hopping onto the seat, he rode away down the street, grinning broadly.

  But only for a moment. As he rode along, the front wheel was already wobbling unobtrusively as the poorly tightened screw that held it to the bicycle frame began to work loose. All at once the front wheel broke free from the frame as the bolt separated. The boy crashed to the sidewalk, scraping his knee and tearing his new Christmas clothes. He sat on the sidewalk, crying with pain and surprise.

  And down the street, a rosy-cheeked little girl pulled her new red wagon up the street, chattering happily to her favorite doll, who was being taken for her very first ride. But as the little girl towed the wagon up the steep hill its handle suddenly came loose. The wagon rolled back down the hill, faster than the little girl could run. As she watched in horror, it bumped down over the curb into the gutter, just as a bus came roaring up the street. The bus turned the corner, and the wagon and doll were crushed beneath its wheels. The little girl’s wails of grief joined the boy’s crying in the clear morning air.

  And on down the street a curly-haired toddler sat in his front yard, trying to fit together the pieces of a simple jigsaw puzzle, which had been cut so badly that none of the parts fit together. He threw the pieces away and began to howl; his shrieks of frustration joined the rising chorus of weeping and sorrow that was already growing in the street.

  It was a scene that was repeated on block after block throughout the city, across the country, and around the world. Everywhere, the suddenness of the toys’ total failure and the fickleness of human nature combined to blacken Santa Claus’s reputation.

  Dooley sat in his easy chair late one evening a few days after Christmas, peacefully reading in one of his rare quiet moments. A sudden clatter and crash coming down his chimney sent him leaping up from his seat. Several dozen broken toys came hurtling down the chimney to land in a great heap in his fireplace. Dooley stood beside his chair, his eyes bulging in disbelief. It was a long moment before he could even make himself move. He hurried to the fireplace to sort through the broken pieces, frowning and shaking his head. Clutching the appalling evidence of a genuine crisis, he hurried out into the compound and ordered the nearest elf to go in search of Patch. The elf’s eyes widened as he heard Dooley’s sharp, pungent message for Santa’s Assistant, and saw the broken toys in his hands. Then, carrying the load of broken pieces, Dooley went to report to Santa Claus.