*ddileo

Each life was a lonely tumble down a cold, dark chimney, falling, falling, then blackness. These were Santa’s thoughts as he prepared snickerdoodles in the kitchen. In the other room, the elves performed Christmas tunes and do-si-doed.

Carefully, he carried the tray of sweets into the living room. His wife, Martha, had been dead five years now, and he was alone, alone in a house full of elves. Jesus had dignity, apostles. All Santa had was high blood pressure and a communal toilet the size of a cereal bowl.

He sat down on the couch and watched the elves dance to “Feliz Navidad.” Jingles broke from the group of dancing elves and approached him. “You’re killing yourself with the doodles,” Jingle said. And lately, he’d been on Santa’s case to stop overeating, to get out of the house, and to get himself a girlfriend.

Glenda, the good witch of the north, lived only a few miles away and had just been left by her boyfriend, a walrus hunter who looked somewhat like a walrus himself. “Glenda’s into the Wilford Brimley type,” said Jingles, “so you’ve totally got a chance.” “Glenda?,” said Santa, “but she’s so sparkly. I miss Martha,” Santa said quietly.

He knew this was true, though not the entire truth. There was missing, of course, but there was also fear. “Look, I miss Martha too,” said Jingles. “But it’s time to move on now.”

“She was the only gal for me,” said Santa. Jingles put his tiny hand on Santa’s knee. “To be frank,” Jingles said, “I always thought your relationship a little narcissistic. Mrs. Claus was like your twin but with bosoms. Did you plan your outfits together?”

“We just had the same taste,” Santa sobbed. “Jingle Bell Rock” started up on the squeeze box, and Santa took that as his cue to head to bed. He never could stand rock and roll Christmas songs.

He liked Christmas songs, and he liked rock and roll. He just didn’t like them together. Martha had felt the exact same way. On their first year anniversary, Martha presented him with a pen, the fancy kind that came in a box.

“Oh, for the love of Saint Nicholas,” Santa had said, “what good is a pen? I’ll just end up losing it. Save your money and buy yourself something nice, or let me buy for you. That would make me most happy of all.”

For a man famous for his giving, Santa was terrible at receiving. Martha took the pen back and apologized. And that was the end of the gifts.

After she had died and Santa was cleaning out her stuff, in a jewelry box filled with the old love letters he’d sent during their courtship, he found the pen. He clutched it on the edge of the bed and wept. Jingles took it upon himself to just go ahead and arrange a date for Santa unbidden.

“Glenda’s expecting you at eight,” said Jingles, sidling up to him in the reindeer stable one morning. “And do me a favor. Trim your whiskers.” As instructed, Santa appeared at Glenda’s doorstep that evening, a paper bag of roasted chestnuts in his hand.

“Come on in, Mr. Claus,” said Glenda with a sweep of her arm. She was dressed all in white, and the house smelled of fresh gingerbread. Santa observed with a smile that there were several magic wands, gold and sparkly, in the umbrella rack.

For most of the evening they sat by the hearth and made clumsy conversation about the loneliness of living at the North Pole, mostly. “Unless I absolutely have to, I don’t even bother going outside,” said Glenda. “And when the cable goes out, it is out,” said Santa.

After a beat of silence, Glenda looked at him, a smile across her face. “Is this a good conversation?” she asked. Santa laughed and assured her it was.

They played cribbage, drank eggnog, and watched the snow outside the window fall. And in the vestibule, before leaving, Glenda placed her hand on Santa’s shoulder and kissed him right beneath his eye. As she did, Santa felt as though his chest were a chimney, and inside a sleeping dove was stirring awake.

They made a date for the following weekend. And just before he left, Glenda gave him a container of cranberry mini muffins she’d baked. Santa told her he could not accept such a gift, at which point she thrust it into this chest with surprising force. “Take it,” she said. On the sleigh ride home, Santa realized with mixed feelings that he’d hardly thought of Martha the whole night.

When he showed up the following Saturday, Glenda was all apologies. “Change of plans,” she said, stopping him in the vestibule. “Sheila’s here, flew in this afternoon from Tampa.”

“Sheila?” asked Santa. “AKA, the wicked witch of the east,” she said quickly, “My old college roommate.” “College?” asked Santa. “For witches?”

“She’s always showing up like this,” Glenda went on. “Every time there’s trouble in Tampa, I get a knock at the door.” In the den, Sheila was lying on the couch in a kittenish tangle, all in black and smoking what smelled like European cigarettes.

She studied Santa while playing with her hair. “Hey, chubs,” she said. “I told you to smoke outside,” said Glenda with exasperation. She went into the kitchen to get some fruitcake as Santa made his way over to the couch.

Sheila didn’t move. So he squeezed into the corner, her black stocking toes touching his thigh. “So what do you do, fatso?” Santa began to stammer. “Oh, I–”

“Relax, I know who you are. You’re famous,” she said, taking the last cookie from the tray. “So how do you know Glenda?”

“Oh, we’re neighbors,” said Santa. “And you buy this good witch crap?” she asked in a whisper. “A downward turn in the black arts, and all of a sudden she’s moved to the North Pole and rebranded herself a good witch. Whoever heard of a good witch, am I right? It’s an oxymoron, like baby grand or jolly fat man. Everyone knows fat men are sad. Look at you, totally depressed. Am I right?”

“I mean, maybe a little,” Santa said. “My wife recently died.” “And what’s with this Glenda nonsense?” interrupted Sheila. “Her name’s Linda.”

Often, when Santa didn’t know what else to say, he’d break into a jolly sounding chuckle. He tried it just then, but the chuckle got caught in his throat and came out sounding sweaty and choked. Sheila stared at him.

“You have this weird crap in your beard,” she said. She reached in to pull it out, and as she did, she brought her face in close enough for Santa to smell her. Whereas Glenda smelled like baby powder and cinnamon, Sheila smelled of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Cigarettes, of course, but something else, too. It set the chimney in his chest ablaze, ashy black doves trying to flap out their flaming wings.

As Sheila rummaged through his beard, the look on her face was all little girl concentration. “You have nice bone structure,” she said. “You should try wearing black. It would have a slimming effect.”

Withdrawing a tiny shriveled raisin from Santa’s beard, Sheila crinkled up her face and flicked it on the carpet. “Eww, gross,” she said. Glenda walked back into the room with drinks. And when Santa reached for one, he realized his hand was shaking.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, where he thought he might hum a few carols to calm himself down. Everything inside the bathroom was glittery and white, white glittery soaps, shampoos, curtains. But there, hanging from the white shower curtain rod, was something black.

Strung there for all the world to see were a pair of silky black stockings, Sheila’s black stockings. For years, Santa had dealt intimately with stockings, stuffing them with coal or presents, and never thought about it twice. But just then, seeing those black stockings of hers, being alone with them, something came over him. And suddenly, he was on his toes biting the tips like a playful pup, like a fat old playful pup.

Returning to the living room, Santa sat back down on the couch and listened, enraptured, as Sheila encouraged him to revise his policy on naughtiness. Santa nodded his head as though giving her suggestion some thought. In bed that night, Santa replayed each of Sheila’s words and gestures.

Sheila said whatever she felt like, touching and smelling everything like an animal. She was not afraid to take, avail herself of the world, drinks, cigarettes, hospitality. Without so much as asking, she’d even plunged her hand into Santa’s Shirley Temple, plucking the maraschino cherry right out and using his hat to wipe her hands.

For Santa, one so in love with giving, he could not help but see before him a kind of black hole, a sexy and sublime black hole into which he could deliver forth his greatest gift. In Sheila, he saw an insatiable hunger for life. With such a woman to give to, to give himself to, it would feel as though every day was Christmas.

When they had made plans for the following weekend, Glenda had asked if Santa could bring along a friend for Sheila. And so he showed up with Jingles. Anything to help a brother out, Jingles had said. Strolling into Glenda’s living room, Jingles did that thing where he jumped onto the couch while crossing his legs in midair. He landed right beside Sheila.

“You are just too cute for words,” exclaimed Sheila. “Try anyway,” said Jingles, snipping the tip of his cigar. It was the length of his forearm.

“I’d prefer to keep the house smoke free,” said Glenda. “More like fun free,” said Sheila. “Say, what do you call people who live around here anyway? North Pollack’s?”

Sheila and Jingles had a million things to talk about. All the while, Glenda and Santa just sort of sat there smiling awkwardly and watching the snowfall. “It’s an uninhabitable wasteland,” Santa heard Sheila say. “Tampa sounds awesome,” said Jingles. “If only I could convince El Jefe over there to move the operation south.”

Jingles looked over at Santa, and seeing his bro struggling with his date decided to kick things into gear. “Come on y’all,” said the elf, addressing the group. “Gather around for a little spin o’ the bottle.”

“I’ve got just the one,” said Sheila, downing the last of the red wine straight from the bottle. “Spin the what?” asked Glenda. Sheila rolled her eyes, placed the bottle down on the carpet, and spun.

Santa watched the bottle spin with an anxiety that bordered on mania. What if the bottle dictated that he was to kiss Sheila? He would almost certainly die.

But he did not have to ponder such a kiss for very long, for soon the bottle slowed to a halt, pointing directly at Jingles. And when Sheila licked her lips and leaned her face downward, Jingles grabbed her head in his small hands and planted his tiny mouth on hers. Santa felt the chimney fire in his chest snuff out.

He and Glenda watched them kiss. Then after a while they watched the snowfall. Then they went back to watching them kiss. Eventually Jingles led Sheila into the vestibule where he said he wanted to show her the secret to getting the tips of his shoes so curly.

Left alone, and at somewhat of a loss, Glenda got up and fished around in a cabinet drawer beside the couch. Santa thought she might be looking for a game of some sort. But then she said,” “I have something for you.”

She held out a glistening package. “No way, Jose,” Santa said. “I’m the gift giver around here. And it’s not even Christmas yet.”

Santa was about to really kick up a fuss. But then, as a downright witchy look fell across Glenda’ face, he trailed off. “It’s nothing that big,” she insisted, thrusting the present at his chest. “Besides, it was fun trying to find the perfect something for you. And then to actually find it, there’s no greater feeling in the world. But look who I’m telling this to.”

Hearing her words and seeing the look of excitement on her face, Santa had a puzzling thought. Perhaps he’d somehow misjudged things. Perhaps he’d somehow gotten it wrong.

By refusing the gifts people wished to bestow on him, he’d consistently failed to give the experience of giving. He’d hogged that particular pleasure all to himself. And so he took the package. It was flat and square.

Tearing the wrapping paper open, he saw it was a record, Rocking Christmas Party Songs, Volume One. He absolutely hated it. Not just because the thought of listening to it made him feel like one of those old white haired hippies who had to make everything, from getting their prostate checked to celebrating Christmas, not just a good time but a rocking good time. But it was also one of those gifts that said something about the recipient, something that was hard to swallow, like the gift of a back scratcher that says you’re alone in this world and must fend for yourself or the gift of a warm house coat that says your days of party dresses are over.

The gift of a perfectly awful Christmas album being handed to you by a woman who liked you said loud and clear, you must learn to compromise. For after all his years of giving, Santa knew better than anyone that we don’t always receive what we want nor even what we deserve. We receive what life brings us. And when it comes to life, we haven’t a choice but to open our arms.

“I love it,” said Santa with a half smile. Unpeeling the plastic, they placed the album on the record player. Santa held out his arms, and Glenda entered his embrace. And together, they danced about the room as Chuck Berry belted out “Run Rudolph Run.” And it was almost enough to drown out the sounds in the vestibule.