Santa Steps Out: A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups (20 page)

Fritz liked Rachel McGinnis lots. Her face was fresh and open, and there was something bouncy in the way she moved. But now, despite the glee with which she took them in, she seemed to be holding back an essential store of treasure. She dropped into a chair and gave them all a warm smile.

Her daughter homed in on the couch and thrust out her hand—"Hi, I'm Wendy!"—to an astonished Wilhelm. His hand seemed to rise on its own like a seed-puff in the wind, but he sat there, mouth ajar, saying nothing, until Siegmund knuckled him on the shoulder and began the introductions. Then the others on the couch chimed in, followed by Fritz and Josef and Gregor and Englebert sitting on the floor, and suddenly the room was alive with cheery banter.

At first it focused on Wendy. But when Fritz sensed that Rachel was feeling left out, he spoke up: "That's a lovely dress Wendy's wearing, Mrs. McGinnis. Did you make it, by chance?"

"Yes, I did," she said, "last week in fact. Oh and please call me Rachel." Fritz could tell she appreciated his gesture. Her smile generated a warm, baked-bread glow in his heart.

Everyone reached out to finger the cloth and admire the hemstitches, telling Wendy, who beamed, how fortunate she was to have such a skilled seamstress for a mother. "Yes and she writes very fine computer programs too," Wendy said, and they at once praised Rachel for that talent as well.

Then Santa burst into the room, trailing Mrs. Claus behind him. "Merry Christmas, everybody!" He swooped Wendy up and charged about the room, gladhanding and hugging each elf in turn. Fritz noticed, as Santa descended upon the crowded couch, that Mrs. Claus slipped silently into her rocking chair by the fire.

Her hands clung tight to its arms.

"Fritz, old friend!" Santa's booming voice washed like goodness into his ear, warming him inside and out with the spirit of giving. The jolly old elf's strong red right arm hugged Fritz to the bulge of his belly and to Wendy's thin bony legs where she rode in the crook of his left arm. Hasty kisses to his cheeks, a glimpse into Santa's animated face (but was there something false in that animation?), and Fritz watched him hurry past his wife and deposit Wendy on her mother's lap. Then he sank with a sigh of pleasure into the far end of the couch, lit a long thin white ceramic pipe, and enjoined his elves one by one to retrieve and deliver gifts.

The ensuing orgy of dissemination swept them all into a sweet oblivion of wrappings torn asunder, boxes unlidded, and tissue paper parted; of squeals of delight and unending thank-yous and you're-welcomes; and beneath it all, like the bowel-stirring pedal point of a Bach passacaglia, the hearty boom of Santa's laughter thundered forth. Fritz found most of his deliveries going to Rachel or Wendy—they had, after all, brought their cache of presents with them—but some he held out to Santa, and others to Mrs. Claus, who, while decidedly less old-ladyish in her movements than at past celebrations, looked at him with the fretted eyes of the elderly. But it was hard to focus on Anya for long, what with the level of excitement whirling about the room and the wonder of having actual mortals sitting here in the same room with them.

And when the last gift had added its contribution to the colorful mountain of torn wrappings and ribbons, a sly grin spread across Santa's face. "Dear me," he said, "I nearly forgot the best present of all." Fritz saw the slightest flicker about Santa, the telltale discontinuity of magic time kicking in. Leaning forward, he brought forth from behind his back two mewling kittens, one black and one white. They hugged two or three of his fingers with their front paws and let their back legs splay, claws out, to either side of his wrists.

"Oh, they're so cute," said Wendy. "What are their names?"

"That's up to you, Wendy," replied Santa. "They're yours."

From the look on Wendy's face, Fritz understood for the first time why they were in the business of delighting children. Nothing in his experience could compare with watching Wendy's eyes light up. "This one has got to be Snowball," she said. "And this one I'll call Nightwind."

"Snowball and Nightwind," said Santa, holding the kittens to his rosy cheeks. "Say hello to Wendy." With that, he placed them carefully in her lap and knelt beside Rachel's chair watching the little girl glide her hands in wonder along the fur of their tiny bodies.

When Fritz chanced to look up, Mrs. Claus's rocker, now empty, was rocking back and forth on its own.

*****

A timid knock sounded at Anya's sewing room door. Setting down her knitting, she removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she put them on again and picked up the knitting needles. "Come in," she called.

It was the little girl, alone, her hand lingering at the brass doorknob. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Of course, my dear. Close the door and come sit by me." Anya gestured to the footstool with the embroidered reindeer on top. She felt ashamed. Part of her—a small but vile part—wanted to strike Wendy with such violence that her hated mother would keel over and die. The rest of her wanted to take this dear young child to her heart and hold her there forever, tight and warm and loving. It surprised her that there could be any mitigation to her rejection of Santa's latest folly, yet the little girl filled a vacancy in her life she hadn't been aware of.

Wendy sat down. "This is a pretty room."

"Thank you, child."

"My mommy is teaching me to knit."

"That's nice. Do you like knitting?"

"Oh yes," said Wendy. "Um, can I ask you something?" Her voice took on a conspiratorial air.

Anya smiled tightly as her hands danced before her through the clicking of needles and the slow sweatering of yarn. Somehow her bout with the elves—as crazy as it had been in other ways—had instilled new youth in her, right down to her now nimble fingers. More precisely, it had taught her that the illusion of age had been her choice all along. "Yes, my dear," said Anya, "you may ask me anything you like."

Wendy stood beside the rocker, her white dress pressed against its arm. When she put her hand on Anya's shoulder and leaned in, Anya, delighting in her touch, turned an ear to receive the girl's confidence. "Mrs. Claus," Wendy whispered, "why don't you like me?"

Anya pulled back at this, noting the deep runnels of concern on Wendy's forehead. "Where did you ever get such a silly notion?"

"I'm very observant," Wendy said, a trace of pride in among her concern. "Just like Nancy Drew and Miss Marple. I guess it was mostly how you looked up at us when we flew in. The way you hugged me when Santa lifted me down from the sleigh, like your shawl was doing most of the hugging for you. And the way you sat by the fire and watched me. Stuff like that."

Anya felt her temples pounding. She set her knitting down on the basket beside her and patted her lap. "Young lady, be so good as to sit here," she said. And when the child had allowed herself to be lifted up and was nestled comfortably against Anya's bosom: "I want you to listen very carefully to me. Will you do that?"

Wendy said she would.

"Good girl," said Anya, gently rocking and placing her hand upon Wendy's nape. She did not at all like the streak of jealousy that urged her to do violence to this innocent creature. As she told Wendy how she and Santa sat here on top of the world with their hearts full of love for every boy and girl on earth, how they felt like special godparents to them all, the savagery of the green-eyed monster made her throat seize up. But for the child's sake, she narrowed her attention to herself and Wendy, two orphans with no connection to anyone else in the world.

And Anya's core of benevolence triumphed. Her love touched the child's love and she found herself sobbing and hugging her and kissing her, this frail mortal creature on her lap whose beauty was as the beauty of fresh meadow grass. Once more she welcomed Wendy to the North Pole and this time she meant it. She promised to teach her all the tricks she had learned about knitting and needlepoint and crochet and macrame, and how to coax culinary magic out of grains and vegetables.

"You mean just like my mommy does?"

Anya smiled. "Maybe even better than your mommy does."

*****

Deep in the dark recesses of the workshop, with the smell of manufacture all about and the firm give of foam beneath them, Rachel felt Santa's lips upon her cheek, the thick goodness of his penis nestled like an infant inside her. Her eyes, drifting into the darkness above, could make out only the dim outlines of lighting fixtures and an impression of laddered shelves lofting upward. Cavernous yet comforting this place was, even in the dead of night.

Santa sighed. "That was beautiful," he said. "You couldn't begin to guess how much I've needed you."

Rachel ran her fingers idly through his soft white beard and smiled. "Mr. Claus, you are the most amazing lover I've ever had."

"So glad you enjoyed it, Ms. McGinnis."

Then it was time to be serious with him.

"We need to talk," she said. "About Anya." There. It was out. She hated being the other woman, particularly when Santa's wife had been so kind and loving to Wendy and was clearly as dear and sweet and attractive in her own way as Santa was in his. There were oblique reminders—in the sway of her hips, in certain vocal inflections and turns of phrase—of Rachel's fling at college with Rhonda Williamson, whom she still remembered fondly. "You and I have been exchanging looks for three days now, hoping things would improve. But they haven't. You know they haven't."

"You're right," Santa admitted. "When she deigns to look my way at all, she gives me that withering stare. It's worse for you, isn't it?"

"Yes. It's like a blast of winter licking at my heart." She laughed. "That sounds a bit melodramatic, but it's the truth. Yet when I'm with you or your elves, everything is wonderful again."

Santa, thoughtful behind the sparkle of his eyes, soothed her brow. "Thank goodness she's not taking it out on Wendy."

"She's the only reason I've held on this long. I've never seen her happier or more continuously excited about anything. She grows wiser and more mature and more beautiful every hour she's up here. But we've really got to go home. Tomorrow."

"Give it time," he pleaded. "I love you so much. Wendy too. I don't want to lose you. You've been my salvation. I haven't thought once about the Tooth Fairy since we met, not a whisper of illicit lust."

His warmth enwrapped her. "You're such a dear kind soul," she said as though it were a complaint, and hugged him as tight as she could. Suddenly she was sobbing with her whole body, freely like a betrayed child, making the moonlit workshop ring with wailing. Santa kissed her and comforted her and promised he'd talk to Anya first thing in the morning. With his words he assured her, with his kisses, with his caresses, and, down below, with the gentle movement of his manhood, which eased like a mage's healing touch along the troubled walls of Rachel's vagina, soothing and arousing her.

And for a time, Rachel knew nothing but the joyful oblivion of their makeshift bed.

*****

After kissing Rachel goodnight at her bedroom door, Santa stole into his bedroom, doffed his clothing, and slipped beneath the covers. He lay there wide awake for hours, idly listening to the paced breathing of his wife lying as far away from him as she could. Down the hall, he heard the low muffled beat of the grandfather clock he had built eternities ago. It patterned his thoughts, granting them an orderliness they otherwise lacked.

But that sense of order wasn't enough. He felt no optimism about the coming confrontation. While his dear adversary slept and rested, Santa fretted the night away until dawn began to engray the black, gradually wedging under its oppression and easing it aside.

When Anya rose into the pale morning, Santa feigned sleep. His eyes followed her to her closet. She put on a robe over her nightgown, cinched it tight, and headed for the bathroom.

"Anya?" he spoke up.

She stopped. "You're awake."

"We need to talk things over."

She blinked once, then nodded. "Not here. In the woods. I need a shower first." She paused, her face still impassive. "Why don't you join me?"

Before he could stop himself, he said yes. In the past, sharing the shower had usually meant lovely sudsy sex, but there was no such intent in Anya's eyes now, none at all. She smothered his rotundity in suds, lathering him with the rough hands of a mother grim-set against grime. And he let her treat him so, like a little boy guilty of one too many wallows in mud. She stopped soaping at his belly, glanced at his drooping manhood, thrust the bar of soap into his hand, and said, "You can clean that yourself." Then she turned away from him and bathed her breasts with sperm-white, sperm-thick liquid soap, rubbing it into a rich lather, moving handfuls of foam down her belly and working them through the white wonderland he loved to rove in. When he moved to touch her, her eyes warned him to keep away.

Later, he followed her into the forest just beyond the workshop. The snow lay thin there and the evergreens, though full and lofty, grew far enough apart to let in lots of sunlight. When they reached the clearing the elves called the Chapel, Anya half-sat against a long flat outcropping of granite known as the Altar, and said in a voice carefully expunged of emotion, "You have something to say?"

Santa groped for words. "Are you . . . are you still dead set against . . . I mean are you feeling any better about our guests than you did a few days ago?" A rotten way to start, but those damned eyes of hers were locked on him as he paced before her.

"I can't stand the presence of that woman in my home. It makes me ill, knowing what you've done with her and how you claim to feel toward her. It's all I can do to keep from flaying her face with my fingernails."

Her reply seemed measured, as if rehearsed, as if she only half-believed it. "Anya," he said, "as messed up as our lives seem to be at the moment, I know in my heart that bringing Rachel here was the right thing to do. And meeting her seems to have put to rest, finally, the lust that drove me to the Tooth Fairy."

Anya laughed. "There doesn't seem to me a whole hell of a lot of difference between them. Birds of a feather. And both of them have driven a solid wedge between us."