Chapter 1
“What do you want for Christmas?” Ed Belmont asked.
Calvin stared up with slack-jawed fascination as his eyes continued to widen behind smudged glasses. The boy wore an orange winter coat, blue jeans, and oversized black snow boots. An orange and black knitted cap was pulled down over his ears.
Susan Roskam stood behind a camera-mounted tripod. She was a small, thin woman with short blond hair tucked underneath a set of plush reindeer antlers. Susan wore black slacks, a red shirt, and a black sweater with a green Christmas tree in its middle. Multi-colored lights on the tree blinked on and off.
From behind the camera, Susan raised a thumb into the air, then waved. She lifted her head from the viewfinder and smiled broadly. “Got a good one!”
Calvin reached for Ed’s beard, but the big man pushed the boy’s hand away.
Susan stepped over to a line of eleven parents and fourteen children. They all waited anxiously behind a maroon velvet rope linked together by a series of brass stanchions.
Ed knew there were fourteen children because he took the time to count them. He did that while in prison—knowing how many unpleasant things awaited him. Like counting the number of days left in a stretch or how many inmates hostile toward him were in the yard at one time.
Or like now—Ed always knew precisely how many kids waited in line.
“We Wish You a Merry Christmas” played through speakers high above center court for the fortieth time that day. Shoppers walked by with bags in both hands and paused briefly to check out Ed. Some even waved. Occasionally, he returned the gesture. Citizens liked that kind of thing.
Ed leaned slightly toward the boy. “Well?” he asked softly because Susan had said his gravelly voice might intimidate children.
Calvin’s tongue slowly peeked out through parted lips—a reluctant turtle exposing its head to the world. The boy continued to stare with awe.
Ed looked at Calvin’s mother. She stood on the other side of the rope. Her hands were clasped, and she grinned expectantly. She danced lightly from one foot to the other. The woman wore an orange winter coat, and blue jeans tucked into oversized black snow boots. Long brown hair fell from the orange and black knitted cap pulled tightly down on her head.
Twins, Ed thought. It wasn’t the worst way a parent had dressed their child, but it was definitely odd.
He whispered, “Come on, kid. There are others.”
When Calvin failed to respond, Ed jerked his knee slightly. This jostled the boy, and he squeaked. His arms flailed, and he started to fall backward, but Ed had a hand on Calvin’s back to stop him. The nearby crowd oohed at the boy’s clumsiness, then laughed with relief at Ed’s saving of him.
Calvin’s mother stopped dancing, and she stepped toward the velvet rope. As the cord wrapped around her waist, one of the brass stanchions tilted slightly. The mother leaned forward, and her neck stretched out in hopes of being closer to her son.
Ed eyed the kid. “Anything?” This time, his voice wasn’t so soft.
The boy blinked twice, then bent toward him as if to share a secret. “Are you really Santa?”
“What do you think?”
“Are you?”
Ed groaned and looked around, not making eye contact with anything in particular. This was his life until Christmas Day—an endless list of silly demands and misplaced astonishment.
What was with these parents? Ed wondered. Didn’t they teach their children anything useful? Like life is unfair, you don’t get what you want, and that there’s no such thing as Santa.
He inhaled deeply and returned his attention to Calvin. The kid must have been about three. Ed was in his fourth week of this gig, and he’d gotten pretty good at guessing the ages of children. It was a skill he never wanted nor thought he would need to develop.
This sort of phenomenon—the starstruck adulation—frequently happened with the younger ones. The older ones often got straight to their demands—like little terrorists. Even though he didn’t like those children any better, Ed appreciated their directness. It got them off his knee faster and moved the line along quicker. Talking with young children was like talking to deranged kittens—neither held any appeal, and the sooner a person could leave them with their mothers so much the better.
“Are you?” Calvin insisted.
“Yeah, sure, kid. I’m Santa. Why else would I be here?”
Here was the Superior Mall in Utopia, Pennsylvania, a declining shopping center in a declining city. The small mall was filled with primarily regional or local stores now, and Ed had learned the once-proud town had lost a third of its population over the last fifty years.
Calvin reached up and successfully touched Ed’s beard. Ed quickly but gently wrapped his gloved hand around the boy’s fingers.
“Don’t do that,” he growled.
The kid’s eyes widened again, but this time it was in response to the stern tone.
Ed forced a smile. “If you pull on Santa’s beard, you won’t get any presents.” It was a stupid thing to say, and Ed hoped no one heard him utter those words.
Now blinking uncontrollably, Calvin whimpered, “Santa?”
Ed rolled his head around his shoulders. “I already told you I was.”
Calvin seemed on the verge of tears. “Santa?”
“C’mon, kid. Knock off the waterworks.”
“What’s going on?” Calvin’s mother called out. The brass stanchions on either side of her wobbled as she pushed deeper into the velvet rope.
The line of waiting parents tightened. So long as it wasn’t their child, a crying kid on Santa’s lap seemed a spectacle that many enjoyed. Perhaps it was like watching a car collision about to happen. The expectation of something terrible occurring to others held some allure.
Calvin’s eyes blinked faster, and Ed had to do something quickly. This wouldn’t be the first kid to have cried on his lap, but he’d like to avoid another if possible. Ed was a man of action, so he decided to take some.
He pulled Calvin into him, and the boy grunted with surprise. Wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulders, Ed looked up at the concerned mother and smiled. “He wants a football,” he announced loud enough so the assembled crowd could hear. Several of the fathers in the group smiled and nodded in approval.
Ed had invented present requests before. Susan had told him children occasionally froze while on Santa’s knee. When he started, she gave him a list of suggestions to encourage a child’s imagination. All Ed needed was one request from a kid, and he could move on from them. He didn’t know many of the items Susan indicated, such as a Xbox, Baby Shark Alphabet Bus, or a Throw Throw Burrito game, so he often went with generic things like a football.
“Santa?” Calvin muttered.
The boy’s mother straightened. “A football?” She shook her head as if she’d just eaten a lemon. “Where in the world would he have gotten that idea?”
“A ball, actually,” Ed corrected. He saw the confusion on the mother’s face and made the quick modification. Maybe she was one of those kinder and gentler parents that didn’t want her kid playing football and instead forced them to muddle through a game of soccer. “He wants a ball.”
“Are you sure?” the mother asked. Her face remained pickled.
Calvin reached for the beard again, but Ed pushed the kid’s hand away. “Knock it off,” he whispered. To the mother, Ed nodded. “That’s what he said. A ball.”
Susan took a nervous step toward Ed, then halted. She glanced toward the mother and said, “I heard it, too,” but it wasn’t delivered with any conviction.
“A ball?” the mother said. “Calvin never plays with them.”
Ed cocked his head. “That’s why he wants one.”
When Ed set Calvin on the ground, the boy reached for the beard again. Ed pushed the little hand away once more.
The mother walked into the velvet rope, dragging the nearest two stanchions behind her. “But a ball is a patriarchal symbol that encourages aggression.”
“A what?” Ed said. Now, his face soured, and he glanced at Susan.
She shrugged and mouthed, “I don’t know.”
The mother continued. “Sports are the patriarchy’s way of controlling society. They want to keep us distracted by outdated gender roles, so we don’t realize what’s really going on with society.”
Ed snorted. “Give it a rest, lady.”
“Santa?” the mother said.
“He’s a boy. Get him a ball.” Ed shoved the kid away.
Calvin stutter-stepped toward Susan until she caught him under his armpits. She hefted him into the air. “Whoa, big fella!” she said. “How was your time with Santa?”
“I want a ball?” the little boy asked.
“I know!” Susan said. “Isn’t that great?”
She carried Calvin to his bewildered mother. The two odd-sized twins stared at Ed for a moment before turning to leave.
Ed rested his elbow on the arm of his throne and leaned heavily on it—a reluctant king surveying the kingdom he wished he had never inherited. Several kids stepped out of the waiting line and excitedly waved at him. If Ed ever cursed, now would seem an appropriate time to do so.
Susan came back with an older girl that Ed guessed to be about five. The kid carried a piece of paper in her right hand.
“Santa,” Susan said, “this is Charlotte, and she already knows what she wants for Christmas.”
Ed lifted the girl onto his knee. “Okay, kid. What is it—”
“Here’s my list,” Charlotte interrupted, thrusting the paper toward Ed. On it were several items written in crayon. “My parents won’t buy me a cell phone, so you need to get it for me. The elves can do that, right?”
Ed looked toward Susan.
The little girl tugged on the arm of his coat to recall his attention. “And I want some makeup. Mom said no, but that should be easy for the elves since they can make a cell phone.”
Susan spun on her heel. “Go get ’em, Santa,” she said over her shoulder. To the waiting crowd, she called, “Merry Christmas!”
They responded with an equally cheerful, “Merry Christmas!”
