The words were magic. Instantly the childrendisappeared, scrambling over each other in their haste to line upfor a chance to talk with Santa. As Vic headed for the stage, Mattcaught his elbow. “Knock ‘em dead, babe. I’m going to grabsomething to drink.”
Though he wasn’t a drinker, Vic wished hecould swig back a shot or two of something strong enough to get himthrough the dinner. The line of children waiting to speak with himseemed to stretch the length of the room. He allowed himself onelow growl in the back of his throat, a pitying sound, then hestraightened his shoulders and stepped up on the stage besideMorrison.
When he sank into the chair, his boss leaneddown over his shoulder and whispered loudly, “One gift per kid, gotthat? Any one will do, they’re all the same—toy buses painted inthe GRTC colors. The girls get one, too. The caterer tells me it’sgoing to be another hour or so until the food’s ready so we mightas well get started.”
Before Vic could answer, Morrison turned tothe first kid in line, a little boy with thick glasses eclipsinghis face. “Come on, son, watch your step.”
The boy stumbled up onto the stage andstepped on Vic’s toe as he climbed on Vic’s knee. It was going tobe a long evening.
* * * *
Under Morrison’s watchful eye, the line movedquickly. One by one, children perched on Vic’s knee and rattled offwhat they wanted for Christmas. Soon they all began to sound thesame. Vic felt his eyes glazing over as he nodded again and again.Yes, they’d each get what they wanted. Yes to the Playstation andthe XBox and the computer. Yes to a new bike, a skateboard, rollerblades. After a kid named a few coveted items and paused to take abreath, Vic jumped in. “You’ll be pleasantly surprised on Christmasmorning,” he promised.
Eyes went wide, mouths spread into widesmiles, and most of the kids gave Vic a hug. Then he handed overone of the gifts amid a supernova of flashes—Morrison hadcommissioned a photographer stationed at Vic’s side to take apicture of each child, but many parents had brought along their owncameras, as well. Fortunately, the fake moustache and beard hidVic’s face enough that no one could see if he was smiling or not.Though the photographer was to Vic’s right, Morrison had advisedhim to stare straight ahead when handing out the gifts so the blackfacial tattoo arching over his left eyebrow wouldn’t appear in anyof the pictures.
Surprisingly, Vic was through more than halfthe line by the time the food was served. The remaining childrenmoaned in protest when Morrison clapped his hands. “All right,kids. Santa’s got to eat—”
“I didn’t get my chance yet!” someone nearthe back of the line called out.
The other children waiting began to grumble.Vic looked them over—there were a dozen or so left, and given theline waiting for the buffet, he wouldn’t be eating any time soon,anyway. “I’ll finish this up,” he told his boss.
Morrison frowned. “You sure? The food’s goingto get cold…”
“This line moves quicker than that one,” Vicsaid, nodding at the buffet line. “By the time I’m through here, Iwon’t have to wait so long over there.”
With a nod of agreement, Morrison motionedthe next child forward. The boy was maybe five or six, and when hismother raised his arm to help him onto the stage, she lifted hiswhole body up over the step. “What about Tammy?” he asked in ahigh-pitched voice. “She’s missing Santa.”
“Don’t worry about her,” his motheradmonished. “Come on, Brucey. Santa’s waiting.”
“Tammy’s not here to see him.” Brucey soundedon the verge of tears. “She’s missing Christmas andeverything.”
“She’s fine.” The mother gave Vic a tightsmile and hoisted her son onto his lap. “Tell Santa what youwant.”
As the mother stepped back to snap a picture,Vic steadied the little boy on his knee. “Brucey, is it?”
The child’s eyes seemed to bug out of hisface. “You know my name! You’re the real Santa, Iknew it!”
Vic chuckled. “What do you want forChristmas, son?”
“A bicycle,” Brucey said. “One for big boys,not a kiddie one. Make it red, or black, or maybe blue. But it hasto be a big boy’s bike.”
“I got it. A big boy’s bike in red.” Vicreached under the tree for a present.
But apparently the child wasn’t finished. “Idon’t know what Tammy wants, but she likes horses. Maybe you canget her something with horses on it? But no unicorns. She’s too oldfor that.”
Vic paused, gift in hand, and peered atBrucey. “Who’s Tammy?”
“My sister.” Brucey stretched out his armsfor the present, but Vic kept it beyond his reach. “She’s twelve,which is twice my age. She can’t come tonight because she’s in thehospital.”
Though Vic knew it was none of his business,he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Why?”
“She was in a bad accident.” Brucey nodded atVic even as his mother tried to shush him from the sidelines. “Shewas riding and fell off the horse. I think it threw her off, atleast it looked like that to me. She’s got a metal bar in her legand can’t walk and won’t be home for Christmas, so don’t forget totake her presents to the hospital instead of to our house.”
The mother approached, reaching for her son.“I’m really sorry,” she told Vic. “Brucey, come on. Other kids arewaiting.”
“What hospital is she at?” Vic asked.
With a shake of her head, the mother toldhim, “It’s fine, really. She’s going to be fine. She’s getting tooold for Santa, anyway.”
“She still likes horses,” Brucey was saying.“Even though she got thrown off. She says she can’t wait to rideagain. She’s at the hospital past Baskin Robbins. We always stopand get an ice cream cone when we go to see her.”
“Brucey, come on.” The mother reached for herson’s arm just as he leaned across Vic’s lap to grab the gift Vicstill held onto. The present slipped from Vic’s fingers and intoBrucey’s clutches. Two seconds later, the child slid off Vic’s lapand into his mother’s arms.
She flashed Vic another tight-lipped smile.“Thank you. Say thank you, Brucey.”
He waved the gift
