Santa Claus The Movie Page 9

  Six

  The Manhattan street was bright with tinsel and colored lights. Shoppers hurried by, their arms full of Christmas gifts, as Joe stood outside the window of a McDonald’s with his nose pressed against the glass. His breath made a small patch of white on the cold pane as he watched the people lined up inside, young and old, black and white, all ordering hamburgers and fries and shakes, slathering their steaming McNuggets with ketchup and hot sauce. He swallowed and swallowed again; his stomach, which had been entirely empty for nearly two days now, gurgled in protest. But he could not tear himself away from the window, from watching, from remembering, from imagining the smell of burgers frying, the sizzle of potatoes plunging into hot oil, the icy, prickly tang of a cold soda . . .

  He stared wide-eyed at the people eating obliviously right in front of him, separated from their dinners by only a thin, transparent wall—which might as well have been the Great Wall of China. If only one of those people would look up at him and see how hungry he was, and offer him that last bite of burger or the half bag of fries they were tossing into the trash.

  “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!”

  Joe pushed himself away from the window, colder than ever from standing still, and dizzy with hunger. He pulled down the earflaps of the hat he had been lucky enough to find on the sidewalk yesterday, and looked away down the street.

  Another in an endless string of fake Santa Claus’s had appeared on the previously empty street corner. This one was as skinny as a scarecrow. He hadn’t even bothered to stuff a pillow into his ill-fitting suit, or to tighten up his obviously phony beard. The sign on the kettle in front of him read, MAKE IT A MERRY CHRISTMAS FOR EVERYBOY. GIVE TO THE URBAN DEVELOPMENT FUND.

  A well-dressed man passing by tossed a few coins into the kettle as Joe watched. The fake Santa looked quickly from side to side before he reached into the kettle and pocketed the change. Smugly pleased with himself, the derelict pulled out of his back pocket a bottle of cheap muscatel wrapped in a paper bag, and took a long swig from it.

  Joe’s mouth twisted with knowing disgust. That figured. They were all cheats and phonies, the guys dressed up in red suits and beards. They were all just pulling a con, and the people who fell for it were jerks. There was no Santa Claus.

  He turned back for one last longing gaze at the warm, fragrant, tinsel-decked interior of McDonald’s. Then he jammed his half-frozen hands into his empty pockets and walked slowly away down the street.

  Not many blocks away, Cornelia and Miss Tucker sat at opposite ends of a long, candlelit dinner table. They were in the process of finishing up a dinner that would easily have fed half a dozen of their hungry neighbors. The silver bowls and fine china platters that crowded the polished mahogany tabletop were mostly filled with potatoes and vegetables and rare roast beef—all destined for the garbage, now that dinner was over. They never ate leftovers.

  Miss Tucker mopped the last of the gravy from her plate with a piece of freshly baked bread, and said contentedly, “I can’t eat another bite.” She had had at least three helpings of everything, Cornelia had noticed.

  “Me, too,” Cornelia said drearily, staring at the mound of scarcely touched food still on her own plate. Somehow she had no appetite lately, no matter how good the food was. She sighed, and glanced away at the dining room window, drawn by a sudden, nameless feeling. She started as she saw the face of the young boy she watched standing alone on the street a few weeks before. He was peering through the glass at the warm, well-lit room and the heavily laden table, his brown eyes wide and his thin face filled with longing. But as he looked along the table, he suddenly found her looking back at him. Quickly he ducked down out of sight.

  Miss Tucker rose from her chair, just missing the boy’s disappearing head. “Well, I’m going to take my coffee in the library so I can watch my ‘Masterpiece Theatre.’ ” She smoothed her graying hair, which was drawn up in an unbecoming old-maid’s knot, as usual. “And you, my little miss, had better get busy on those Latin verbs.” She sailed from the room like a ship putting out to sea.

  Cornelia sat unmoving in her chair for another long moment, until she was sure that Miss Tucker was not going to come back. Then she began to heap an empty plate high with a little bit of everything on the table. Carrying the plate of food, she slipped out of the dining room and through the kitchen. She crept quickly past Cook, who stood with her back turned, loading clinking bottles of wine into the dumbwaiter in the pantry; her step-uncle had vast racks of wine down in the celler.

  Reaching the servants’ entrance at the rear of the house safely, Cornelia opened the back door and peered out into the darkness. She called softly, “Pssst!”

  Joe, still hiding in the bushes, stuck his head up far enough to see the open back door and a girl looking out of it. He crouched down again, uncertain about what was going on.

  “Psst! Little boy?” she called again.

  Joe frowned and stayed where he was, his curiosity warring with his irritation at being called “little boy.”

  Cornelia hesitated, sure that the boy must be watching and listening even though he wouldn’t show himself. She held the plate of food out before her in the glow of the porch light. Then, very carefully and in plain sight, she set it down on the steps, then turned and went back into the house again, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Joe stayed where he was for a long moment, gaping in astonishment. What was going on? Had she really set that food out for him? Why? He bit his lip, too used to tricks and betrayals to quite believe that something good was really happening to him. But a gust of wind carried the smell of roast beef to his sensitive nose, and he realized suddenly that he didn’t care why—all that mattered was that the food was here. Quietly and cautiously, still on his guard for a trap, he started forward through the bushes toward the doorstep.

  Inside the house Cornelia stood frozen, her ear pressed to the door, waiting breathlessly for any sound outside that would mean the boy had come for the food. Her face filled with sudden delight as she heard a soft, distinct footstep, and then another, on the snowy wooden porch floor. Hearing the scrape of the dish being picked up, she pressed back against the door, grinning with pleasure, clasping her hands together because she wanted to clap them. And then she slipped quietly back through the kitchen, and went in search of her school books. Somehow even the thought of Latin verbs seemed exciting to her now.

  Out in the shrubbery behind the house, Joe grinned, too, for the first time in days, as he gulped down the first real meal he had eaten in longer than he could remember. This was food like he had never eaten in his life; even if it had been stale bread and peanut butter it would have tasted like a feast, but roast beef and gravy was like dying and going to heaven. He didn’t know who that little girl was, or why she had done this for him . . . but he was truly grateful to her. Tonight when he slept, alone and cold but at least not hungry, maybe he would dream about her . . .

  Meanwhile, back at the North Pole, Santa’s factory was a beehive of high-tech activity, elf-style. Newfangled automated devices and Patch-work assembly lines had sprouted everywhere, putting together toys with impersonal speed and regularity. Patch wandered among his machines in his red Assistant’s apron, looking knowing and efficient and a bit like a mad scientist—reveling in his new position, happier than he had ever imagined being. Honka followed at his heels, hanging eagerly on his every word, and basking in Patch’s reflected glory. Patch only took the change in his friend for granted, completely swept away by his new prestige. He had even gone so far as to place a large sign over his machinery that read PATCH’S TOYS . . . forgetting in his inflated pride who was really in charge of the toys, or why he was really making them. The other elves had to admit, however grudgingly, that he had made their lives easier.

  Even on Christmas Eve, as the elves began to load Santa’s bottomless sack for another yearly flight, Patch stood by, overseeing everything as usual. By next year, he thought happily, even this bottomless sack would
be too small to hold all of the toys his machines could make.

  No one—least of all Patch himself—realized, as the toys went into the sack, that precisely the same flaws of sloppy manufacturing existed in every one of those countless toys that had existed in the very first ones his machines had produced. Patch had overseen every bit of the production, but his interests lay in more and faster. His machines did more and faster perfectly. He was confident that his designs worked, and there were far too many toys being produced for someone to check them for (certainly non-existent) flaws.

  And so countless toys went into Santa’s bag with loose screws, poorly made connections, pieces that did not fit—a thousand different, fatal, hidden flaws and errors, all invisible to the eye.

  Happy and utterly unsuspecting, Santa Claus guided his team and sleigh out of the tunnel ramp and into the sky for one more Christmas Eve trip. He was in particularly high spirits, feeling completely rested, and more confident than he had been in years that all the millions of good children around the world would receive toys tonight and every Christmas from here on, thanks to Patch’s ingenuity.

  Seven

  Santa Claus soared on his way, making remarkably good time, as even his reindeer caught his infectious high spirits. His hearty ho-ho-ho’s of laughter rang out through the crisp, star-filled night as the sleigh circled the skyscrapers of New York City, very late by local time, as it always was. “Ah, what a night, my boys, what a night!” Santa cried to his team.

  The reindeer bobbed their heads and snorted gleefully, Prancer and Dancer nodding agreement in unison.

  “Look down there—” Santa gestured with a mittened hand at the scene below. Donner glanced down obediently, but quickly looked up into the sky again as vertigo made him dizzy. Even after all these years, he was still afraid of flying. Just as with most reluctant flyers, his fears never seemed to get any better.

  “Decorations in the window, stockings hung by the fireplace—” Santa went on happily. “Tonight there isn’t a child alive who isn’t bursting with joy and happiness and—” He broke off as he saw something down below that rang discordantly with his merry vision. He frowned in surprise and concern.

  In an alley far below a young boy was huddled all alone by a garbage-can bonfire, shivering with cold. What was that child doing out on such a freezing night, with no shelter, too cold to even sleep?

  Santa pulled hard on the reins, banking his sleigh around, as the little boy’s plight sobered his joyful mood. “Just a minute, boys,” he said, “I think we’re going to make an unscheduled stop.”

  The sleigh descended, circling adroitly between high-rises, and landed silently on the roof of a tenement just above the street where the boy was.

  Joe stepped back inside the tenement’s doorway, escaping from another strong gust of icy wind as it came sweeping down the street to make his fire gutter and smoke. Hugging himself against his uncontrollable shivers, he looked up in surprise as a large, bulky shape materialized abruptly beside him in the doorway. “Hey!” he said, anger covering his fright. “Beat it, man. Find your own doorway. Don’t crowd me.”

  The fat old man with the phony beard and the red suit said gently, “What are you doing here, boy?” His face was furrowed with concern.

  Joe frowned with pained disgust. “I’m pitchin’ a no-hitter for the Yankees, what does it look like?” he said. These drunks got weirder all the time.

  “But this is Christmas Eve!” the old man said. “Don’t you know what that means?”

  Joe grimaced. “Yeah,” he said sourly, “it means you’re out of a job till next year. You and the rest of the winos.”

  “Winos?” the old man said, looking puzzled, as if he had never even heard the word before.

  Joe frowned, almost feeling sorry for the old man. He seemed so confused, and there was something kind about his eyes, in spite of the fact that he must be crazy. “Look, mister,” Joe said, “you shouldn’t oughta drink that wood alcohol stuff. It hurts your brain, see?”

  The old man’s expression turned from confused surprise to utter disbelief, and his voice was filled with distress as he asked, “Don’t you know who I am?”

  Joe shrugged. “Sure, you’re a nut.”

  “I’m Santa Claus,” the old man said, patting his well-padded front.

  “Right.” Joe put his hands on his hips. “And I’m the Tooth Fairy.”

  “I’ll prove it to you,” the old man said almost desperately. He held out his hand. “Come up on the roof with me.”

  Joe jerked away, suddenly frightened. He backed up, glancing anxiously down the dark, deserted alley. He was all alone with this old weirdo, who was maybe even some kind of pervert. “No way, man,” he said. “You get outta here or I call a cop.”

  Claus let his hand drop, filled with a deep, aching distress as he realized how truly awful this child’s existence must be, that he could only see Santa Claus as someone to scorn or fear. If Santa Claus was someone to be afraid of, how could the rest of the people in his life be treating him? . . . “Oh, you poor lad,” he murmured. He folded his arms. “Well, I see I’m going to have to do it my way.” He pressed one forefinger against the side of his nose, concentrating.

  Abruptly the alley was empty.

  One moment Joe had been standing in a doorway. And then he found himself suddenly and completely inexplicably standing on a rooftop, with the same crazy old man still beside him. Only, maybe he wasn’t crazy . . . Joe stared around him in disbelief. “Holy Cow!” he cried. “How’d you do that?”

  “See?” The old man shrugged. “What did I tell you?”

  Joe’s eyes bugged out as they caught on the fantastic vehicle he suddenly discovered sharing the rooftop with them. It was by far the most amazing thing he had ever seen, a beautifully carved sleigh that looked like something from the window of an antique store, and eight strange-looking deer that seemed so lifelike . . . He took a step, and then another, toward the sleigh, wondering suddenly if he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. He stopped again. “Wait a minute,” he murmured to himself. “I know what this is, it’s one of them Christmas decorations somebody put up here. I’ve seen ’em before.” He clung to the thought, comforted by it.

  One of the reindeer suddenly tossed its antlered head, and emitted a sound somewhere between a whinny and a snort of indignation.

  Joe leaped back, his astonishment doubling.

  “Ever hear a decoration make a noise like that?” the old man asked a bit proudly.

  They were real! “But Santa Claus ain’t real . . .” Joe protested weakly, still fighting the evidence before his eyes. He looked back at the old man, wavering.

  Santa Claus smiled, more determined than ever to win the boy’s belief as he saw his doubt faltering. “Want to go for a ride?” he asked, gesturing at the sleigh, making an offer he had never made to any child in all the years he had been Santa Claus. There was just something special about this boy.

  “A ride,” Joe said flatly, out of habit. “A ride?” he said again, suddenly, as the real implications of the offer struck him. “On that?” He pointed at the sleigh and his mouth dropped open.

  Santa Claus nodded, his smile broadening.

  “I’ve never even been in a plane,” Joe whispered, hesitating, still slightly afraid of the weirdness of everything that was happening to him—and afraid that he really was dreaming. Something this incredible couldn’t be happening to him. He knew if he said yes it would all disappear, leaving him sadder than ever.

  “Make up your mind,” Santa said, still smiling, but showing just the slightest trace of restlessness. “I’m in kind of a hurry tonight.” He raised his eyebrows, glancing away over the rooftops at all the homes he had yet to visit.

  “Geez . . . I mean . . . well . . .” Joe twisted his hands together, weakening, so tempted, and yet—“Yeah,” he blurted suddenly. “I mean, yeah, sure, if it’s really awright . . .” He blinked, nodding, suddenly breathless with excitement. “I mean, yeah. Like, really?�
� His voice cracked.

  Santa chuckled, the friendliest sound Joe had heard in a long time. Santa led him to the sleigh and helped him climb up into its seat, then climbed in himself. Joe settled in wonderingly, amazed to find that his dream was still holding together.

  “Hold on tight now. Don’t worry, you’re as safe here as you would be at home,” Santa said, forgetting, for just a moment . . .

  “I ain’t got a home,” Joe said bluntly, as reality pushed its ugly face into his wonderful, magical dream.

  Santa Claus looked over at the boy, studying his pale, grimy face for a long moment, searching for the cheerful words which, for once, simply failed to come. Then, collecting himself, he put a broad grin back on his face, and said heartily, “Here we go! Can you say, ‘Yo’?”

  “Yo!” Joe shouted eagerly, letting the real world go again with great relief.

  The reindeer flung up their heads and bounded forward like one creature. Getting a running start, they reached across the tenement roof and vaulted into the air, drawing the sleigh after them.

  Joe gasped with astonishment and wonder. It was real! It really was, all of it! He couldn’t believe it, and yet at last he had to. He was really flying! All the defensiveness he had cultivated for his own survival fell away in a second, and he was simply a ten-year-old boy having the best time of his life. “Wow!” Joe shouted. “Wow!”