St. Nick Page 7

  “Raymond is very sick,” she said.

  Her eyes sought Nick’s out. She was telling Nick the boy was dying.

  “His parents live back east. They brought him here hoping for a miracle. There was this new treatment. There’s always some new treatment. So far it hasn’t taken, though. The hope is that Raymond can get stronger so that the doctors can try again. But he’s been getting worse, and he knows it. Very little reaches him now.

  “Everyone deals with death differently. I try to not be judgmental. Raymond’s situation is made worse by the fact that his parents live three thousand miles away. I’m sure they are stretched to their limits financially. I am sure they bet everything on this miracle cure, and they are not willing to accept that it’s a bust hand.

  “One parent or the other visits him once a week, and stays for several days. It’s an awful schedule, and I know the visits bring them no relief. Raymond’s parents believe they have done the right thing by their son. They think they have sacrificed everything just to give him a chance, and they’re still putting their hope on that miracle that’s not going to happen. Raymond doesn’t understand all of that. He only understands that his family is far away. He thinks he’s been abandoned, and that he’s facing death alone. Don’t be surprised if he’s not responsive to you.”

  The adrenaline that had been running through Nick’s veins suddenly went dry. Reality surfaced, and Santa’s sleigh crashed into it.

  “What kind of gifts did you get him?”

  “Raymond’s always looking out his window. He doesn’t seem to miss anything that goes on, so we got him picture books: one on clouds, another on astronomy, and still another on San Diego birds. And we got him a snow dome.”

  “Snow dome?”

  “One of those water globes you shake, and the snow appears as if it’s falling. Raymond loves the winter.”

  The winter back east, thought Nick. A wintry day in San Diego meant putting on a sweater. Few of its residents had gloves, or scarves, or winter coats. Jack Frost didn’t live around here.

  There was only this last chimney to go down, he thought. If the kid ignored him, it wouldn’t be his fault. The happy sounds from the ward emboldened Nick a little. His visit had brought an excitement that had not yet passed. The staff was glad to let the children stay up later than usual; the adults were acting as excited as their charges. Instead of musical chairs it looked like musical rooms, with everyone popping in and out of them.

  All except for one room, the darkened room, the room that Easy was leading him to.

  “He says lights bother him,” she said, “but I think it’s more that the darkness suits his mood.”

  The nurse knocked, and then opened the door. There wasn’t any response from the figure on the bed. With her head, Easy motioned for Nick to follow her inside.

  “We have a visitor for you, Raymond. He’s traveled a great distance to be here.”

  The room wasn’t totally dark. Some of the medical equipment shed light, and overhead it was a starry, starry night: affixed to a mobile were stars, luminous stars that glowed in the dark.

  And there was also the white of the boy’s eyes, orbs in themselves. Raymond was staring out his window. Nick took a seat in the chair next to his bed and joined him in looking out the window. Neither said anything. They just surveyed the night sky, though there wasn’t much to see. The quarter moon was hidden behind dark clouds, its presence hinted at more than seen.

  “Not many stars out tonight, are there?” asked Nick, finally breaking the silence.

  No answer, nothing to even indicate the boy had heard. The silence in the room grew, broken only by the teakettle sounds of Raymond’s labored breathing. The IV tubes running into the boy’s arms made him look as if he was trapped in a spider web.

  Nick raised his eyes to the mobile and took in the glowing stars. “I’m afraid the best star gazing tonight is right above you.”

  “They’re fake.”

  Raymond’s words were whispered, but they hung in the air like a challenge, an accusation.

  “Not fake exactly,” Nick said. “They represent real stars and planets.” He pointed. “I can see Saturn up there with its rings. And there’s the Milky Way. And I guess that red-tinged one is Mars. All those places are real.”

  Raymond’s eyes flicked momentarily up to the mobile, then back down, deep into himself. He still hadn’t looked at Nick. The boy was painfully thin.

  “I brought some presents for you, Raymond.”

  Going away presents, Nick thought. That’s what they were.

  But Raymond didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he said, “My mother took me to see Santa Claus when I was a boy.”

  When I was a boy. The words echoed in Nick’s head. Raymond couldn’t be more than eight years old. But for all he had been through, he was right: he was no longer a boy.

  “Are you that same Santa Claus?”

  Raymond looked at Nick, ambushing him with his prematurely old eyes. “No,” said Nick, answering even before he could consider the ramifications of what he said.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire: “Are you the real Santa Claus?” Raymond asked.

  It was the second time in two days Nick had been asked that question, but it felt different this time, felt like a crucible. The eyes in the darkness hung on his answer.

  “The world’s grown larger,” Nick said. “It’s more complicated. The job’s too big, even for Santa. So he has helpers.”

  “And you are one of those helpers?”

  The day before he’d lied to a healthy boy, had blithely told him that he was the real Santa Claus. But he couldn’t do that again, not with this particular boy.

  “Yes. But the way it works is that all of Saint Nick’s helpers are given part of his spirit. So I don’t only speak for myself. Santa Claus talks through me. I know that must be hard to understand, because it’s tough enough to explain.”

  There was a slight rustle of Raymond’s covers, his shoulders apparently moving to signify a shrug. “I don’t believe in Santa Claus.”

  Nick matched the boy’s shrug. “Before I worked for him, I didn’t believe in him either.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “He’s real?”

  “Am I real?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s your answer. Look at your glow in the dark stars. They hint at what’s really out there. If you look at me, you’ll see that same hint of the real thing, of the real Santa Claus.”

  Raymond’s long look appeared to consider Nick in a different light. The boy’s eyes weren’t as hostile, or as dubious, but he still didn’t look convinced. Nick hoped he had something that would tilt the scales.

  “He picked out some presents especially for you, Raymond.”

  The prospect of gifts didn’t excite the boy. “I don’t want any presents,” said Raymond, his breathing labored. “Give them to someone else.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Nick infused his voice with fear. Raymond turned his head, and Nick could see his surprise. The boy hadn’t expected that reaction.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Nick was working without a script. “It’s just that I hope I don’t get into trouble.”

  “For what?”

  “If I come back with presents, Saint Nick’s not going to be happy. That’ll put him in a bad mood.”

  The boy seemed to be considering Nick’s dilemma.

  “I hope he doesn’t blame me,” Nick said. “Maybe I can write a note that explains everything, and have you sign it. That might get me off the hook.”

  “What happens if I don’t sign the note?”

  “Santa doesn’t keep helpers that don’t take their responsibilities seriously. They’re no longer allowed to wear the uniform.”

  “But it’s not your fault.”

  “That’s not for me to decide.”

  Raymond’s body was failing him, but not his compassion. “Then I’ll
take the presents.”

  Nick sounded relieved: “Good.”

  As if fulfilling a solemn duty, he handed Raymond his first present. The boy slowly pulled apart the wrapping, and then started fingering the pages of his San Diego bird book. Nick handed him another present, and then another. With the unveiling of each gift, the corners of Raymond’s mouth turned up more and more, until there was something on his face that almost resembled a smile.

  Nick handed him the snow globe last. When the wrapping came off, there was no longer any doubt: Raymond’s smile took up most of his face.

  He raised the glass world aloft. The quarter moon cooperated, offering enough light for Nick and Raymond to see a winter wonderland. Skaters skimmed across the surface of an iced over pond, and under a canopy of frosted trees spectators watched from the shoreline. Two dogs were running along the edge of the frozen water.

  Like a weight lifter struggling under the load of a heavy dumbbell, Raymond shook the globe with his trembling arm. He pushed out once, twice, gasping first for the effort, and then at what he saw. The landscape was adrift in falling snow.

  Nick and the boy both hunched close to the globe, each transfixed by the swirling flakes. It wasn’t until every flake had fallen that Raymond dropped his exhausted arm, but even then, he was careful to make sure the globe landed softly atop his chest. There, he nestled it close to his heart.

  Since entering the room, Nurse Castillo had stood quietly in the background. Now she motioned to Nick that it was time to leave. Even though he wasn’t looking at her, Raymond must have sensed the signal.

  “When my mother took me to see Santa, I sat in his lap. I remember that he asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Is that what you do?”

  Nick nodded, and then realized the boy’s eyes were closed. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t ask me what I wanted.”

  Nick sensed a trap, but he had to ask anyway: “What do you want for Christmas?”

  He was afraid the boy was going to ask him for his health. That had been Nick’s fear the entire night, but the children hadn’t responded that way. They’d wanted the same kinds of toys healthy kids wanted.

  But that wasn’t what Raymond wanted.

  “I want snow. I want to sit here on Christmas Day, and look out my window, and see snow falling. I want that more than anything else.”

  Chapter 9

  All Through the Night

  The uniform was off—no beard, wig, red pantaloons, or boots—but it didn’t feel as if it was off. That’s how it had been for the longest time when Nick was a cop. It hadn’t mattered when he wore civilian clothes. He was still a cop.

  Nick paced around his apartment. It’s over, he told himself. He’d be dropping off his Santa Claus uniform in the morning and that would be the end of it. But he kept thinking about that sick boy who wanted snow. Raymond.

  The harder Nick tried to put him out of his mind, the more he kept intruding. Snow. Who’d ask for a crazy kind of Christmas present like that? It was impossible, of course. Nick had lived in San Diego for thirty years and he couldn’t remember seeing any snow. There had been one or two flurries, but nothing had ever stuck to the ground. If you traveled a couple of hours away to the mountains, then maybe you’d have a chance of seeing some snow in the middle of winter, but it just didn’t happen anywhere along the coast. Raymond might as well have asked for diamonds to fall from the sky.

  It wasn’t a fair request anyway. It went against the unsaid rules. Santa Claus was in the business of delivering presents, not miracles. That’s what he should have told the kid; should have firmly stated that Santa had nothing to do with the weather, but instead he had babbled some nonsense about how he’d take up the matter with Santa and together they would see what could be done.

  Snow job, that’s what he had given Raymond. Maybe I should have promised to look into world peace while I was at it, thought Nick, and the end of all famine and war.

  He threw himself down on the easy chair. He tried to get comfortable, but couldn’t. Darn chair. He’d only spent ten bucks for it, but had overpaid. Odd though, that it had never bothered him before.

  He dropped his feet onto the coffee table and shifted around some more in the chair. Nope. It was like that “Princess and the Pea” story. Something was there, even if he couldn’t quite feel it, and it was causing a royal pain in his backside.

  His shifting feet knocked a few envelopes off the coffee table to the floor. Nick leaned over and picked them up, and remembered the letters to Santa that he’d promised Angie he would finish. He didn’t want to face up to them, though, so he grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. When he saw Ebenezer Scrooge looking at Christmas past he turned off the TV and reluctantly reached for the letters.

  He selected a piece of paper that had been addressed to Santa Claus in red crayon. The letters were large and shaky. He opened the envelope, and saw that the same crayon had been used to write the letter:

  Dear Santa Clause.

  I want the Delux Doll Hous. And I want skats.

  Love.

  Janet.

  Janet was an artist that didn’t like white space. She had used the crayon to draw pictures all over the page.

  Nick opened a second letter that was a by-product of the computer generation. Next thing you know kids would just be e-mailing Santa.

  Dear Santa Claus,

  Last year you gave my brother a football. He won’t let me play with it. I’d like my own football, only better. I also want a skateboard. And I want a street hockey set. And boxing gloves.

  I will leave you cookies and milk.

  Love,

  Lisa

  Nick did a double take at the name. He had a feeling Lisa’s brother better watch out if she got the boxing gloves. Maybe he didn’t let her play with his football because she was too rough on it.

  The promise of cookies and milk reminded Nick of when his own children had left out goodies for Santa. He recalled one Christmas when the cookies had sustained him while he’d stayed up all night trying to put together Georgie’s tricycle. Teddy had told him he should have paid the extra few bucks to have the store do it, and on Christmas Eve he had made that same discovery for himself. Try as he might, he had never been able to perfectly straighten out the handlebars. They tilted to the right, but Georgie never noticed. He had just kept flying around their driveway, laughing while he pedaled.

  Nick had been just as happy the Christmas he’d gotten his own bike. That’s what so much of Christmas was about—reliving memories. He had felt so proud atop the bike, so grown-up. His Grandfather Alex—his Papoo—had puffed on his pipe while keeping an eye on him. Nick still remembered the old man’s smile and his glowing dark eyes. Grandma Theresa—Nunna he called her—had been too busy to come out and watch. She was in charge of the kitchen, and that meant turning out tables of food, but as busy as she always was, Nunna never neglected to slip Nick handfuls of of kourabiethes, the best sugar cookies in the world. The aroma from her kitchen drew children and adults alike, forcing Nunna to periodically shoo everyone off, but the onlookers usually only went as far as the dining room table where there was always fresh baked bread and cheeses, and plenty of wine and spirits ready for the sipping. The table was close enough for everyone to be able to smell the lamb roasting, and the souvlaki and spanakopita baking.

  Every Christmas it was Nick’s duty to taste his grandmother’s lemon chicken soup. Nunna let him stand nearby while she worked her magic with the broth, fresh lemon juice, carrots, egg yolks, rice, and chicken. When the soup was heating and all but done she would stick in a wooden spoon, blow on the broth, and call him over.

  “Hurry, Nico, hurry,” she would yell, deathly afraid that the soup might boil and the egg yolks curdle.

  She would offer him the soupspoon, and he would sip, and she’d say, “Is it all right, Nico? Is it okay?”

  It was never anything less than perfect. Very seriously, he would nod to Nunna.

  “Does i
t need more pepper, Nico? A pinch of salt? A little lemon?”

  He always shook his head, and then she would refill the spoon for him, and he would greedily suck it down. As the taster, it was his privilege to be first. Other children, mostly his cousins, were called upon to sample other dishes, but Nick was always the chosen one for Nunna’s soup.

  Christmas wasn’t only the food. After eating, and after eating some more, Uncle Stephanos and Uncle Constantine, with just a little encouragement, would bring out their musical instruments, Stephanos his santuri, and Constantine his bouzouki, and they would play and everyone would sing.

  Nick’s own children hadn’t had those kinds of ethnic Christmases, even though Teddy was half Greek. Her other half was Swedish. She always argued like her nationalities. Taking Teddy on was like figuring out a Pacific Northwest weather front. She could storm one moment, be cold and icy the next, and then hot as the blazes. He called her a Sweek. When they fought he called her a crazy Sweek.

  Teddy had always been in charge of their Christmases. She never served Greek food or drink, and observed very few of the Greek holiday traditions. And since Nick didn’t play any musical instruments, and since he sure didn’t dance, there was never any Greek music or dancing. But Teddy always made sure the holidays were special. Every year they would go to a performance of the Nutcracker. And no matter how tight the budget, Teddy always took the kids down to the shelter, and the family would give what it could. Everyone on the street would get Teddy’s Christmas cookies, but what she enjoyed most of all was the holiday music. The kids loved to go out with a group of carolers, singing loudly if not on-key. We had our American Christmases together, Nick thought, whatever that is.

  He opened another letter to Santa. On one side of the letter was writing, and on the other was a picture that had been drawn with colored pencils. Nick studied the drawing. Santa Claus was in the middle of the scene, and dwarfed everything around him. He was bigger than the palm trees, and even bigger than a red San Diego Trolley. Several menacing figures were leaning against a mural. They had the look of gangbangers. It was clear they were up to no good, but they were keeping their distance from the huge Santa Claus. Across from them were what looked like carolers, but they weren’t the Elizabethan type. Their music wasn’t quite staving off the darkness.