Santa Steps Out: A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups (30 page)

*****

Santa, in close consultation with his Maker, proposed to wed his wives in the Chapel on Valentine's Day, God presiding. Anya and Rachel willingly accepted and Wendy clapped her hands.

The week leading up to the ceremony saw everyone in a frenzy of activity. With Wendy's help, Rachel pieced together two beautiful white-lace wedding gowns and a powder-blue bridesmaid's dress. Anya gave the dollhouse contingent a crash course in clothing construction. Under her direction, they turned their skilled hands to the manufacture of tuxedos: a Pavarotti-sized red one for the groom and hundreds and hundreds of tiny green ones for the guests. To Fritz fell the preparations for the wedding feast, and none could recall in sheer cornucopial splendor any meal to match it. Knecht Rupert, with Johann and Gustav taking turns at the bellows, practiced the pump organ way off in the woods and when the happy day arrived, he swung to and fro upon his bench beside the Altar, note-perfect and in harmony with the world.

"Are we really immortal now, Mommy?" asked Wendy, stroking Nightwind as Rachel fastened a lace collar to Anya's dress.

"Yes, dear. No one can ever harm us again."

"And we'll never die again?"

"That's right, honey." She pulled Wendy close and kissed her forehead. "Do me a favor and bring me my sewing basket. Right behind you on the bookshelf. We have lots to do before tomorrow."

And tomorrow dawned pure and brilliant. The Chapel was flooded with winter sunlight. Two towering oak trees bent in toward one another, and from them a natural aisle led outward. Down that aisle the wedding party (which is to say everyone) marched, belting out a wedding song that Fritz and Gregor had cobbled together while preparing garnishes in Anya's kitchen. It was long on enthusiasm, their song, if short on merit, and its first verse went thus:

Here come the brides,

A day past the ides;

Here comes their hubby,

All jolly and chubby.

To nature's bowers

'Midst hearts and flowers

We march and dance and sing;

We'll see them wedded

And stripped and bedded.

We wish them everything.

When at last they attained the Chapel, the Perfect Light of God hovered and gleamed before the great oaks at the end of the aisle, just in front of the long flat rock of the Altar. Anya and Rachel paced hand in hand between blocks of bearded ecstatic elves, Wendy following after, clutching a nosegay and beaming with pride. Behind them came Santa, looking serenely debonair and stifling a belly laugh; and Fritz, his best man.

Fritz stood to Santa's left. To Santa's right stood Anya, then Rachel, and Wendy breaking into a full-toothed grin beside her mother. Someone tapped Knecht Rupert on the shoulder, and he came out of an inspired improvisation on the march theme and brought it to a sweeping finish on the tonic, tearing his hands away at last so that the final chord's thrilling affirmation echoed through the trees.

Now the Light transformed. And God the Father stood revealed before them, white of robe, white of beard, twice Santa's height and holding an open book in His hands.

"Dearly beloved," He said, "we are gathered together in this beautiful setting to join three blessed souls in wedlock.

"Some souls might wonder at this, saying one wife to one husband is God's way. But I say unto you (and who better should know), let threesomes and more flourish upon this planet. Let men and women seek for love where they may, and let them unloose the grasping hand of jealousy, rejoicing instead in the righteous unfolding of a spouse's holy lust. For lust built upon love and caring is divine lust; and wedlock, like all useful locks, must at times be unlocked to welcome in beloved friends.

"My servant Martin Luther, though guilt-ridden to a fault, glimpsed something of the truth when he approved the bigamy of Philip, Landgrave of Hesse. But he closed himself off.

"My servants John Humphrey Noyes and Brigham Young reached beyond monogamy for a time. But they too closed themselves off—the Oneidan, by fishing in the murky waters of stirpiculture and copulation by committee; the Mormon, by prizing procreation over pleasure, by denying women their natural urges toward multiplicity, and by rousing the nosy-parker anxieties of an America in the throes of a Victorian intolerance from which it has yet to recover.

"Adam himself, at the beginning of time, could have enjoyed Lilith as well as Eve. But he imposed a duality upon them, projecting his own poor judgment onto Me and casting aside the 'wicked' wife in favor of the 'good.' Foolish one! He chose exclusion in a universe I created expressly to favor inclusion. Adam, the first man, closed himself off.

"But My dearly sainted Nicholas and his dear saintly wife Anya now open themselves to embrace and clasp to their hearts My beloved Rachel. She is to serve as their helpmate and they as hers and one another's. I say that it is good, good beyond exceeding good. Henceforth, let the word go forth and let it be known and celebrated through all the world that humankind was shaped for polyfidelity, that elves and mortals and all creatures great and small are polymorphously perverse, and that from this time polygamous and polyandrous urges shall be heeded and revered. No more shall husband or wife skulk in shame to the bed of a second beloved, but wife or husband shall with open arms embrace the new and worthy lover, even as Anya now embraces Santa's Rachel. For just as your God is a triune God, so shall trinitarian love flourish on this planet."

Anya stole a glance across Santa's belly at Fritz. He had never looked happier, and it did Anya's heart good to see him so. Then she turned the other way and cast an admiring eye upon her new bride. It felt funny—and wonderful—to be taking a wife, to be taking this wife. She thrilled to see Rachel standing there, whole and lovely, her hand resting on Wendy's shoulder.

God turned to Fritz. "You bear the rings?"

Fritz nodded serenely. He fetched an oblong jewelry box from his coat pocket and opened it to reveal six gold bands, holding them up proudly for all to see. Hermann the goldsmith, standing tall and thin-faced in the third row, blushed furiously and ran a giddy hand in circles over his face.

Then God led them through the exchange of rings and vows. Santa kissed Rachel, and Rachel kissed Anya, and Anya kissed Santa. God laid His hand upon each of them in turn, blessing them. Then He did likewise to Wendy—who gasped at the sheer ecstasy of it—and said, "Blessed be Wendy, type of all good children everywhere. She shall brighten the hearts of all who know her and be a light henceforth unto the children of the world."

He raised His eyes out over the crowd, back toward the distant commons. And all knew, without knowing what, that another miracle awaited them at home, something that involved Wendy.

But Wendy, God's hand resting upon her head, saw clearly the new life He had brought into being. She knew also what her mission was to be, and how God's gift fit into it. And, hearing His words issue from His mouth in every human tongue, Wendy was instantly fluent in them all, knowing that she would eventually need each of them.

Then God stretched His arms over the crowd and spoke the benediction. "Go now all ye who are here assembled. Love thyself; love one another; love this world and those who dwell therein. Live well, make toys, and be at peace, now and forevermore. Amen."

God vanished back into Everything, where He had always been, and universal hugging and kissing filled the Chapel. A figure in red and two in white were swirled and spun through a roiling mass of green, while over the elftops, buoyed by crafty hands, rode a giggling, grinning, happy-as-could-be Wendy, shouting out "Happy Valentine's Day!" in all the languages of the world.

*****

If, during the festivities that followed in and about the commons, a few elves here and there went missing, neither Santa nor his wives took any notice of it. So their surprise was indeed genuine when, as things wound down, the elves raised them up and ran with them into the woods.

If Santa felt any misgiving about the direction they took, he was too drunk with happiness to reveal it. When they reached the hut which had once concealed his trysts with the Tooth Fairy, he relaxed into delight and joined his brides in admiration for what he saw.

For the elves had completely made the place over. Karlheinz and Max had laid toothsome little Thea to rest beside Santa's buried Rachel doll; her bed had been broken up and burned. The ashwood four-poster was gone too, as was every scrap of quilting and fur, all the blankets and bedding, every remembrance of that sorry time of grasping lust.

New skylights peeled back the darkness. A fire blazed upon the hearth and stacks of fresh-cut pinewood climbed halfway up the stone wall. A kitchen nook and a bath had been added, and a large bed spoke boldly from one wall. It had room and to spare for marital gymnastics, but it also felt perfect for napping or lazing upon.

After a flurry of thanks and good wishes, the elves discreetly withdrew. And here the three newlyweds spent untold months of magic time—more than two days of normal time—in honeymoon retreat.

Upon their return, Rachel resettled herself and her daughter in Santa's cottage, and she and Anya moved their sewing and craftwork into the gingerbread house. She helped Anya manage the domestic side of things at the North Pole. She introduced the more technically minded elves to the joys of computing and helped design tasteful toys that took advantage of electronic smarts. She delighted too in teaching Santa's helpers, most of whom were stone-cold illiterate, to read. Many were the times that an excited student would rush up to her, bursting to share some choice passage he had found in the book he held open before her.

And what of Wendy? Of the acts she had witnessed at the hut, Santa was relieved to find she had no memory; but he spoke to her, just in case, of having missed her mother so much that he had done many foolish and much regretted deeds. During the week of her parents' honeymoon, Wendy spent most of her time at the stable. For when they had returned from the Chapel, God's new gift poked its head over the half-door and watched wide-eyed their return.

As a Shetland is to an Arabian, so was this reindeer to the least of Santa's team. She had a delicate filigree of antlers atop her head and a nose that glowed green as a traffic light through night fog. Her fur was milk-white and fine, her eyes an engaging shade of gray. At first Wendy called her Ivory, but later, when Santa read to her out of Ovid, Ivory became Galatea. "Galatea means white as milk in Greek, Daddy," she explained to a bemused Santa. "Besides, I think Galatea the green-nosed reindeer sounds better than Ivory the green-nosed reindeer, don't you?"

Santa laughed and said he did.

When Wendy shared her mission with Gregor, he fashioned a miniature sleigh for her, modeled on her stepfather's. Every Christmas Eve thereafter, she hitched up Galatea and followed Santa into the sky. Then, splitting off from him, she went one by one to the homes of children on her list. For Santa had taught her how to turn her gaze to the world, watching boys and girls carve out their lives, second by second, from the limitless possibilities before them. And each year, she chose a hundred who were very well behaved (but not of course in a priggish sort of way) or who tended toward kindheartedness but needed one small miracle to tip the scales. These she kissed awake and led by the hand to her sleigh. Through the night sky they sailed, sharing the wonders of the world which passed below.

The children she so honored woke on Christmas morning with the certainty that something wonderful (but what it was they could not say) had happened to them, that they had been blest beyond measure. It gave thereafter a focus to their lives; they developed low-voiced but persistent obsessions, one in music, another in medicine, this one in public service, that one in private enterprise. And each excelled and carried an aura about him or her, an aura of hope and goodwill that inspired everyone they touched and, when at last their lives ended, brought masses of grief-stricken mourners to their graves.

Wendy reserved a special time for Mrs. Fredericks, whom she visited each year until the old woman died, sitting on her lap and telling her teary-eyed listener of the wonders of living at the North Pole. After her death, Wendy placed a snow crocus upon her grave each Christmas Eve, missing her to tears.

The rest of the year, she helped inspire the elves. She served as a focus-group-of-one for new toy ideas and tested every prototype. Praise came quickly to her lips, and she learned to soften her criticisms with suggestions for improvement. She came to know all the workers, their quirks and foibles, their strengths at the workbench and their weaknesses, the secret gifts she could spring on them to brighten their faces. And she took it upon herself to learn what she could about every aspect of Santa's operation: she dabbled in wood and clay and metals, in fabrics and typography and printed circuitry, in dolls and board games and stuffed animals; she learned the ways of wrenches and hammers, looms and presses, lathes and sanders and bandsaws; and for a time she disappeared into the incestuous circle of clockmakers, emerging weeks later with a new cuckoo clock of her own design.

But the time Wendy loved best was night time. For Santa Claus would lift her onto his generous lap in the big armchair, and she would watch her mommies rock and knit by the fire and listen to her daddy's booming voice give life to the story he held before them.

Santa loved those times too.

The coming of Rachel and Wendy had turned him into a family man. He swore off long nights at the workshop, excepting only the December crunch; but even that he did his best to minimize by using the tools Rachel introduced him to: Gantt charts and PERTs and Hoshins, top-down design and prototyping, focus groups and usability testing and post mortems, TQC and QFD and FLURPS, along with huge doses of TLC, her own addition to the acronymic broth of best business practices.

He took Wendy and his wives for long walks in the woods, sometimes together, sometimes one at a time. He pitched in with the cooking and cleaning. He stretched out on the rug before the fire and played card games with Wendy or wrestled playfully with Snowball and Nightwind. As close as he had been to the children before, he felt umpteenfold closer having Wendy to watch and talk with and love. His Christmas deliveries became more precious to him, and he thanked God every day for bringing her into his life.