A rush of excitement coursed through us as the blonde elf turned to look, first at my brother, then at me. I smiled wide as our eyes met, but the thrill of the moment was over before it even began. She gave us both an unsavory stare, curling her upper lip and rolling her eyes just enough to show her disdain. Then, without so much as a single word, she returned to what she had been doing before our verbal intrusion, which was noisily chewing gum while watching the seconds tick away on a nearby clock.
Inside the cabin, the little girl who was ahead of us in line had just finished her brief interlude with Santa when the tall blonde finally found something to say. “Lunch time!” she shouted. “That’s it kids! Come back in two hours!”
She smirked in our general direction as she grabbed a chain and strung it across the doorway, blocking our entrance to Santa’s inner sanctum. Then she turned and strutted silently away.
When we were children we were grateful to those who filled our stockings at Christmas time. Why are we not grateful to God for filling our stockings with legs?
—Gilbert K. Chesterton
I
t’s not fair,” I whined. “All that waiting, only to be turned away at the last possible moment!”
“No kidding,” shrugged Aaron. “You know, I didn’t really want to come this morning, but as long as we stood in that stupid line we should at least get to see Santa, right?”
With the line dissipating behind us, Aaron and I agreed that our long morning wait had earned us a closer look into the cabin, so we skirted around the chain and pressed our faces up to one of the windows. To our surprise, Santa was staring calmly back at us from his elaborate, wintry throne.
He had soft, searching eyes. His face was covered with a fake but believable beard, and his large belly bounced slightly when he shifted his weight. Thick legs filled out his oversized red pants, which were stuffed carefully into shiny leather boots that rested squarely in front of him on the floor. I knew he wasn’t the real Santa, but I thought if there were a real Santa in the world, he would probably look something like this.
We stood gaping at each other for what felt like minutes. Santa seemed to be waiting for something. When the crowds of children behind us had completely scattered, the man in the big red costume made the slightest of movements with his eyes.
“Does he want us to come in?” I whispered.
“Dunno,” said Aaron.
Santa added a brisk head tilt to go along with his eye movements, but we still weren’t sure if he was motioning to us or just fidgeting with his costume. When we didn’t respond to his rolling eyes and head shaking, he made it more obvious.
“Would you two fine young men like to come in and show me your lists?” he asked. He spoke with a heavy Scottish accent that was warm and inviting.
“But the lady with the skirt said you’re closed,” I replied.
“Well, yes she did, lad. But she’s only an elf after all. As the chief ambassador of Christmas, I think I can make a small exception for the Alan boys. You’re Aaron, right?” he said, looking at my brother. “And you must be Molar.”
“How do you know our names, Mister?” asked Aaron.
“How else my boy? I’m Santa Claus! Ho, ho, ho!” He was grinning from ear to ear as he spoke. “Now go ahead, come on in for a wee minute. I think it’s time you showed me what you want for Christmas.”
“Sorry, whoever you are,” said Aaron cautiously. “We’d love to come in, but I don’t think our parents would want us in there alone. You know how it is.”
As if on cue we heard a familiar call from nearby. Looking back behind us we saw Mom and Dad standing beside the fence that surrounded Santa’s compound.
“It’s okay guys. Go on in!” shouted Dad happily. He and Mother were both smiling and waving. “We’ll wait right here until you’re done.”
As a general rule, Dad hated malls. He only came when he had to, so he was probably overjoyed that we had been offered a way around the two-hour break. With their permission we hustled back around to the front door and made our way up to stand before Santa’s great chair.
“Well now, Molar, let’s start with you since you’re the youngest. By the way, do you prefer to be called Molar or Mo?”
“Either is fine, I suppose, but my friends call me Mo.” I’d answered that question at least a thousand times over the years. I learned very early in life that Molar is not a very common name. Most people wanted to know how my parents came up with it, but not the guy in the Santa suit. He already knew.
“Then Mo it is,” he said. “Now let me see if I remember correctly. Your father is a dentist, and he was smack dab in the middle of taking his dental boards when you were born.”
“That’s right!” I exclaimed.
“And so he named you Molar in honor of his favorite tooth. Correct?”
“Yep! How did you know that?” I was truly amazed.
A wry grin formed in the corner of his eyes and then spread across his entire face. “Like I said before, I’m Santa Claus! Now then, how about showing me that list of yours?”
I started to hand him my list, but my eyes caught sight of Santa’s massive legs and I pulled the paper back quickly.
“Um, Mr. Claus,” I said slowly. “My dad brought us here today because it’s tradition. But it’s also kind of a tradition to sit on Santa’s lap. I don’t really care one way or the other, but why don’t you let any of the kids sit on you? That’s what all of the other Santa Clauses do.”
The smile faded slightly from his face as he considered my question. He seemed to be mulling over how best to respond, perhaps even debating whether he should answer the question at all.
“Well boys, I suppose you’re old enough to hear the truth. The fact is that old Saint Nicholas doesn’t have any legs. Not real ones anyway. I
would
let the children sit on my lap, but I think it would scare them too much.”
“What do you mean you don’t have any legs?” said Aaron. “I can see them right there.”
“Of course you can. But those are, well, they are magical legs. You can see them even though they don’t exist in reality. You care to try them out? C’mon, both of you jump up here on my lap and find out for yourselves. I’ll not have you thinking that Santa’s a liar.”
Aaron and I were understandably confused. Why was a guy dressed up as Santa talking nonsense about magical legs? We looked at each other for a moment and then peeked out the window to make sure Mom and Dad were still keeping a watchful eye. Without a valid reason not to, we took him up on his offer, each of us leaping at the same time onto one of the giant legs that hung over the corner of his big chair. But as soon as we made contact,
swoosh
, a loud burst of air rushed out from beneath us as Santa’s legs went as flat as pancakes.
“Ahhh!!” I screamed. I’m sure Aaron and I shouted in unison, but I could only hear myself through the thunderous waves of panic that swept through my body. I scrambled off the flattened lap as fast as I could. Aaron was already two steps ahead of me.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” roared Santa as he burst into side-splitting laughter. For a few confused moments I wondered if I was part of some strange Christmas nightmare that undoubtedly would end poorly for my brother and me.
Once I had collected myself, I looked again at the man laughing himself to tears. His paper-thin pants remained limp in front of him, still tucked into the shiny black boots. His stomach seemed to have thinned considerably as well. “I’m sorry boys, but that was absolutely hilarious! Without a doubt the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. But I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“What happened to your legs?” I asked frantically. “They were right there!”
“Now take it easy, lad. I warned you. I don’t have any legs. What you saw before was a couple of air bags stuffed inside my trousers. It takes some doing to inflate them, but it certainly makes the kids feel better to see a Santa with legs and a fat belly. And it saves me a lot of explaining.”
Glancing once more out the cabin window, I saw that Mom and Dad were also laughing themselves sick. Yeah, real funny, I thought. I’ll probably be scarred for life, and everyone is laughing about it.
“Are we on Candid Camera or something?” asked Aaron sheepishly as he scanned the doors and ceiling for hidden camera equipment.
“No, I’m afraid not, although that would have been a splendid idea! I suppose that little gag just put me forever on the naughty list. Still, in all fairness to me, it was your father who put me up to it.”
“But what happened to your legs?” I repeated.
“Well,” he said as he lightly stroked his thick, white beard, “I have a secret to share, one that will likely not surprise either of you. Although I may look like Santa Claus, I am, in fact, just a regular old Joe. I’m a friend of your parents—known them for years, I have. They came by earlier and told me you weren’t too excited to come see Santa today, so they wanted me to have a little fun with you. As for the legs, well, those have been missing for more than half my life. I’ve still got some stubs down there.” He rapped lightly on one of the two bumps below his belt line. “But the rest of my legs I lost in World War II. That, however, is another matter altogether and not something for you to worry about.” He paused for a moment, allowing us time to take in everything he’d just said. “Now then, how about those lists? Mo, would you still like to show me what you want for Christmas?”
I was still reeling from the shock of having deflated Santa, but without another word I handed the man my red paper. I was, in fact, pleased to be able to share with him my grand accomplishment, even if he wasn’t the real Santa Claus. It had not been easy to do, but every single line on the page was filled in, and I figured he would appreciate my magnum opus. Santa took the paper and flipped it over several times.
“Oh dear,” he said with a hint of sadness in his voice. The twinkle in his eyes dimmed noticeably. “Oh dear, indeed. This will never do.”
At first I wasn’t entirely sure I’d heard him correctly. Was this legless, Scottish, Santa-impersonator critiquing my Christmas list? The one that I’d spent so much time on? How on earth could he find fault with such a comprehensive inventory of, well, everything a child could ever want?
“Aaron, is your list this big too?” Santa’s expression looked quite somber. Aaron nodded his head while tucking his red paper behind his back. Santa cleared his throat before speaking again.
“It pains me to say this lads, but you will not be getting all of that stuff for Christmas.” He paused again, choosing his words carefully. “The things on your list are nice, I suppose. And yet, they miss the mark entirely when it comes to true Christmas joy. Boys, would you like to get something for Christmas better than everything you’ve written down?”
I could hardly imagine what could be better than all of that stuff. It must be something huge, I thought. The raw excitement of receiving such a gift coursed through me as I nodded eagerly.
“Good. Since you’ve already shown me your list of everything you’ve ever wanted for Christmas, let’s call this gift everything you’ve never wanted for Christmas. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” I said. “But if we’ve never wanted it, how do you know we’ll like it?”
“Oh, you’ll like it well enough. I promise. But there’s a catch. If you want this gift, I’ll need a little help from you—sort of like working to pay for it.” Santa reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and then scribbled down some words. “Have your parents bring you to this address on Monday night at six o’clock sharp. I’ll be there waiting for you. You’ll be dressing up as elves. I’ll bring the costumes. Okay?”
“Sure,” responded Aaron. “If you say so.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll see you on Monday. Now I really must start my break, and I’ll have to get my legs and belly reinflated. Would one of you mind opening that closet and fetching me my magic sleigh?”
We both hustled over to find a wheelchair inside the closet. It was decked out with holly, mistletoe, ribbons and bows, and a small battery that powered a string of red and green flashing Christmas lights. Magic indeed! We pushed it over to the man and he climbed aboard, steadying himself with his arms as he descended from Santa’s throne. As he wheeled around to the doorway, he let out a loud departing farewell: “Ho, ho, ho! Merrrrry Christmas!” And then he was gone.
God is the God of men . . . and of elves.
—J.R.R. Tolkien
B
y the time Monday night rolled around I was perfectly desperate to go help Santa out as an elf. I had told all my friends at school about the strange encounter with Santa Claus and his deflating legs, but they didn’t believe one word of it. I can’t say I blamed them for their skepticism, but I was slightly disappointed at the teasing it invoked. Looking back, I probably should have exaggerated less about my upcoming “secret mission as an international elf spy.”
At the appointed time, Dad dropped us off at the address listed on the paper we’d been given. (Incidentally, he knew where we were going without bothering to look at the address.) It was a children’s hospital in downtown Portland. True to his word, the man we had met in Santa’s Shack at the mall was waiting for us when we arrived. He no longer wore the red suit, but his “sleigh” was still blinking red and green.
“Hello. How are you lads on this fine evening? Ready to help me out, I hope.” He looked very different without the hat and beard, but his eyes still twinkled with great depths of kindness.
“Boys,” said Dad, “I’d like to formally introduce you to Dr. Ringle. When he’s not moonlighting as Santa Claus, he works as a pediatric oncologist here at the hospital. Please be on your best behavior while you’re helping him, okay? I’ll pick you up in a few hours.”
T
HE HOSPITAL WAS DECORATED
to the nines with wreaths and wrapping everywhere I gazed. A large glowing Christmas tree stood towering in the main lobby, adorned with popcorn strings, candy canes, and white crocheted doilies that dangled like falling snowflakes.
Dr. Ringle led us to a locker room where two elf costumes were waiting beside empty lockers. They looked very similar to those worn by the elves at the mall, only our tights were as yellow as the sun and plastered with red and green polka dots. This, I thought, is Christmas gone awry. We were also given special elfin booties that curled up at the toes, which held several tiny bells that jingled incessantly with every step. To top it all off, we were required to wear surgical masks and gloves. Dr. Ringle explained how it was necessary so we wouldn’t spread any of our potentially harmful germs to the sick children, whose immune systems were already weak. It was a reasonable request given our surroundings, but it made for some awfully funny looking elves.