“So sorry, Mo,” she would say, “but we just ain’t ready for this pageant yet, so all distractions need to be gone during our practices.”
I was saddened not to be able to spend the time with my friends. But more than that, I had caught Lynn staring at me several times when she thought I wasn’t looking. In light of that, I would have liked to watch all of the rehearsals, if only to spend some moments gawking back at the beautiful girl who had so bravely stood up to Nurse Wimble.
In the absence of my regular cohort, I spent the better part of those final few visits getting better acquainted with the children who, like me, were not participating in the pageant for one reason or another. Timothy was one such child.
When I arrived at Timothy’s room on the evening of December 22, I figured it would just be a short visit, but it ended up consuming the remainder of the night. The door was propped open and he was sitting upright in bed, watching an animated Christmas special on television.
“Hi Tim,” I said. “Can I come in?”
“Sure! How is Santa’s helper doing tonight?” he replied.
“Good, I guess.”
Just then the commercial for the famed Air Jammer Road Rammer came on and we both began to sing along with the theme song.
“Do you still want one of those for Christmas?” he asked excitedly when the commercial was over.
“Yeah, I suppose,” I offered.
In truth I hadn’t really given it much thought since I’d started coming to visit the sick children at the hospital. I had been so absorbed in other things that I’d pretty much forgotten about what I wanted for Christmas. I had even forgotten about the grand gift Dr. Ringle had promised me for helping him out.
“Well, when you see Santa Claus again, tell him I still want one. I’d really like to see how fast it will go across the cafeteria floor!”
“You mean when I see Dr. Ringle again,” I corrected.
“Yeah, Dr. Ringle—or Santa. It’s the same thing. Molar, I told you before, Dr. Ringle
is
Santa Claus. Not just any old Santa Claus; he’s the
real
Chris Kringle. I can feel it.”
“Tim,” I said guardedly, “for one thing, his name is Christoffer K. Ringle, not Chris Kringle. And I’m not even sure I believe in Santa Claus anymore. But if there is such a person, what proof do you have that Dr. Ringle is him? He doesn’t exactly fit the bill, you know, with the wheelchair and being a doctor and all.”
“It’s him, I swear. I don’t have any proof, but I bet we could get some if we looked hard enough. How about it?”
“You want to try to prove that he is Santa Claus? You mean snoop around and stuff? Spying on Dr. Ringle?”
“Well yeah, spying, if that’s what you want to call it. We need to find out exactly where he goes every year, what he does there, and anything else we can find out. Maybe we can get into his office on the second floor and find clues.”
“I dunno Tim, we could get into a lot of trouble.”
Even as the words of caution rolled over my vocal chords and left my mouth, I knew very well I was going to participate in Tim’s plan. I loved snooping—it was one of the things I considered myself good at. And getting into trouble, I figured, was just part of being a kid.
I smiled at Tim. “Then again,” I continued, “it might be a lot of fun!”
“Cool!” he said as he jumped down from his bed. “You won’t regret this. You’ll see, he is Santa Claus!”
I doubted very much that anything would come of our investigation of Dr. Ringle, but at least it was a very exciting way to pass the time. Our first stop was the nurses’ station, where Nurse Doyle was covering for Nurse Crowton, who was helping Nurse Wimble at the pageant rehearsal.
“Hi there,” she said kindly. “What can I do you for two fine gentlemen this evening?”
“Actually, we . . . um . . . need to, I mean, we need the combination for Dr. Ringle’s locker downstairs in the doctor’s changing area,” I said sheepishly. “I’m one of his . . . ummm elves. He left some stuff there for me to give the kids, and he gave me his combination, but I lost it. Do you have it?” I hated lying, but I knew she’d never give us the combination if I told her what we were really up to.
“Is that so?” she asked skeptically.
“That’s right,” said Tim. “He’s telling the truth. Totally.”
Now Tim was lying too, but it seemed to work.
“Fine. I have his locker combination on file here,” she said as she opened up a cabinet. “I wouldn’t normally give it to you, but since he’s out of town anyway, I’m sure it’s empty. So have at it. But if anyone asks, don’t mention my name. Okay?”
“Great!” I said as I took the combination from her.
Once we were downstairs we found Dr. Ringle’s large locker right next to the two smaller ones he had reserved for Aaron and me on our first night at the hospital. I read the numbers in sequence to Timothy as he dialed in the code.
Click. The locker opened without complication. To our surprise it was not empty at all, as Nurse Doyle had supposed. Instead it was stuffed full with hundreds, if not thousands, of letters addressed to “Santa Claus, North Pole.” They all came tumbling out onto the floor as the door swung open.
“Would you look at that!” Timothy clamored. “I think we’ve found ourselves a clue. These are from all over the country. Why would letters to Santa come to Dr. Ringle if he was not, in fact, Santa Claus?”
“I dunno, Tim. I’ve got to admit, that’s pretty weird. But it doesn’t prove anything. Let’s keep looking around and see if we can find any other clues.”
Our second stop was to Dr. Ringle’s office on the second floor. When we got there we found the door tightly locked. Tim tugged and twisted on the handle several times in desperation, but it didn’t budge.
“Hey you! What’re yous guys doing down there?”
We both turned around, startled that someone had caught us. A janitor, who had just stepped into the hallway from the bathroom he was cleaning, saw us loitering outside Dr. Ringle’s office and was yelling as he approached.
“Uh, nothing,” I lied for the second time that night. “We were just looking for a friend of ours.”
“Oh yeah? You’re doin’ nothin’, huh? Wha’da I look like, a friggin’ idiot?” The janitor squatted down to look me directly in the eyes. For some reason he had a very familiar face.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Sorry kid,” he said, ruffling my hair. “I can’t say as how we’ve ever met. Now you guys run along and stay outta trouble. I’ve got to get back to my important ’sponsibilities.” He pointed back to his cart of cleaning supplies.
Then I remembered. We
had
met before.
“You’re the elf from the mall! You were handing out red papers at the end of the line—from New York, right?”
“That’s right! You remember my ugly mug?”
“Your face? No, you look a lot different without the elf costume on. But I remember the funny way you talk.”
He chuckled as he stood up. “So what’re yous guys doin’ here at the hospital? You ain’t sick, are ya?”
“Well I am,” said Timothy cheerfully. “My name is Tim, and I got cancer. But this is Mo. He’s an elf like you. He’s been helping Santa Claus here at the hospital.”
“Is that so, Tim?” The janitor was smiling. He leaned down and patted Timothy on the arm. “I guess that makes each of us special, now, don’t it? Two elves and the happiest patient I ever met—three special guys, without a doubt.”
The janitor, who’s name was Frank, told us he was working extra hours at the hospital to help pay the medical bills for his younger brother, who had been treated for cancer several months earlier. His brother was doing well now, but the bills were too much for his parents to cover on their own. So he had taken it upon himself to work at the hospital in his spare time, and all of his wages were given back to the hospital. It was while working there that he came to know Dr. Ringle and was given the opportunity to help out at the mall as an elf.
“Now tell me again,” he said after he’d told us all about himself. “What’re yous two doin’ here outside Dr. Ringle’s office? And this time I want it straight, none o’ this friggin’ nonsense about nothin’ goin’ on.”
I looked at Tim before answering, and he nodded slightly, encouraging me to let Frank in on our clandestine activities.
“The truth is, we’re looking for clues. We want to find out if Dr. Ringle is the one and only Santa Claus. Tim thinks he is, but I’m not even sure I believe in Santa Claus anymore.”
“Well,” said Frank knowingly. “I hate to admit it Mo, but Tim’s right. Yup, I seen lots o’ Saint Nick’s in my day, but ain’t none of them the real deal exceptin’ for old Doc Ringle. And that’s the truth. If you’s guys want, I’ll let you in his office. Maybe there’ll be somethin’ there what proves who he is. How ’bout it?”
We gladly accepted the janitor’s offer and were soon fumbling around through Dr. Ringle’s stuff. Even though Frank had said so, I still wasn’t entirely convinced that Dr. Ringle was Santa Claus. The thought crossed my mind that he might have just said those things to make Tim feel good on account of his having cancer.
“Look at this,” cried Tim after a few minutes of searching.
Tim was holding up a brown paper bag.
“What’s that, little man?”
“It says ‘Reindeer Poop’!”
Tim opened up the bag and pulled out a handful of small brown pellets.
“Ooh,” he moaned. “They’re kinda squishy.”
“What’d ya say, Mo? You wanted proof. Is that proof or what?” asked Frank with a grin.
“Deer poop! That’s incredible,” I said, trying hard to believe this might point to the existence of an actual Santa Claus.
Whatever the outcome of our investigation, I was unabashedly impressed with the poop. I’d never seen real deer poop before, and I could only think of one person in the world who would leave a bag of it lying around his office: Santa Claus.
“Good,” he said. “Now yous two need to run along so I can get back to work.” He ruffled our hair again and herded us out the door. Tim carried the bag of poop along as evidence.
“Merry friggin’ Christmas,” Frank called jovially as we skipped off toward the elevators.
“Merry friggin’ Christmas, Frank!” Tim yelled back as the elevator door opened.
“Yeah, thanks Frank,” I added. “Merry Christmas!”
B
ACK ON THE FIFTH FLOOR
we exited the elevator and walked briskly toward Tim’s room where we hoped to further examine the reindeer droppings. On the way we passed by the nurses’ station again. Nurse Doyle was no longer there, but Nurse Crowton was back from pageant rehearsal and she looked eager to see us.
“Hi guys,” she said as we approached. “Hold up, Mo, I’ve got something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, for you and your elder elf brother,” she quipped with a halfhearted smile.
“Oh,” I replied. “Can it wait? We’re sort of in a hurry?”
“Really?” she asked. “Just what have you two been up to while the rest of us have been at the Christmas pageant rehearsal?”
“Umm, well, we’ve sort of been . . .”
“We’ve been trying to prove that Dr. Ringle is Santa Claus!” shouted Tim, unable to hide his enthusiasm. “And we’ve done it! We’ve found a bunch of clues! Well, a couple of clues anyway. But we’re pretty sure he’s the one!” He was holding up the bag of poop.
“That’s fantastic,” said Nurse Crowton. “Maybe I can help add another clue. It just so happens that a letter came today from one Dr. Ringle, addressed to Mo and Aaron.” She handed me the letter. “Why don’t you read it?”
Tim was looking over my shoulder, trying to glean whatever he could from the envelope in my hand. “It’s from the North Pole!” he shouted in my ear. “Look right there, it’s postmarked from the North Pole! What other proof could you want?”
Tim was right. In red bold ink was a postmark, dated December 17, 1980, from the North Pole.
Just then Nurse Wimble meandered through two large swinging doors, and upon seeing that we were enjoying ourselves, immediately approached and asked what was wrong. Nurse Crowton explained in detail how we’d proven that Dr. Ringle is Santa Claus and showed her all of the clues we’d found. I could tell Nurse Crowton didn’t fully buy into the whole Santa Claus thing, but she politely played along for our benefit.
Nurse Wimble wasn’t so considerate.
“Nurse Crowton,” she sneered, “Ah’m surprised you’d encourage these impressionable young minds with such foolhardiness. Ah think they’re old enough to know the truth, don’t you?”
“Nurse Wimble, please don’t . . .” Nurse Crowton protested, but Nurse Wimble just ignored her.
“Now listen up y’all,” she said. “You ain’t found a single clue that proves Dr. Ringle is Santa Claus. And Ah’m gonna tell ya why. Those letters in his locker? They’re the junk mail the postmaster doesn’t know what to do with. Dr. Ringle likes to use them for some charity work he does. And the bag of deer feces you’re holding?” Without so much as a second thought Nurse Wimble reached inside and grabbed a small handful of the brown squishy pellets, then tossed them in her mouth and began to chew.
My stomach lurched and my gag reflex triggered almost simultaneously as she gnawed eagerly on the hardened dung. It was probably Nurse Wimble’s wicked laughter that ultimately pulled me back from the brink of vomiting.
“Candy!” She jeered through a gloating brown smile. “Chocolate covered raisins. My favorite!” She was talking with her mouth full, and a small stream of juicy chocolate ran past her Southern lips and down her chin. “And as for that there letter, why don’t y’all take a closer look at the postmark?”
The envelope was still in my hand, so I held it up to examine it once more. My heart sank as I read the fine print. Not only was I disappointed to know the truth but I was even sadder for Timothy, who had been so completely certain about the existence of a real Santa Claus in the person of Dr. Christoffer K. Ringle.
“Tim,” I said slowly, hoping to let him down easy. “It’s from Alaska. North Pole . . . Alaska.”
Timothy leaned over and frowned when he read it for himself.
Nurse Wimble was gloating more than ever, almost gleeful that she should dash a young boy’s hopes and dreams. “That’s right, Alaska,” she said flatly. “Dr. Ringle goes there every year. It’s near a small Army base outside of Fairbanks. They do a lot of work with the local children there this time of year. And to think, y’all thought there was a real North Pole! Sad, really, what they try to get children to believe these days.”