"Your driving and background checks came back clean." Ramona
Dawber-Hinton raised a turnip colored nail to her temple and pressed against
the headache that came every year. Nodding at the application sheet before
her, she recomposed her narrow features into an impassive blank and drew a
calming breath.
This was the hardest part of her job as Personnel Director for Dawber's,
the sprawling, five level department store her grandfather erected in
downtown Denver in 1937. People came to Dawber's year round for the best.
The best clothes, the best perfumes, the best furniture and lately, the best
computer accessories. But most importantly, they came in droves from the
Saturday after Thanksgiving through Christmas Eve, because Dawber's had the
best Santas.
The policy was simple. Hire the best and assign each only one night or
afternoon as Santa Claus. While other stores employed a half dozen Santas,
working them through the holiday on rotating shifts, disregarding their
haggard, plastic smiles as photo after photo was snapped, Dawber's had a
fresh Santa every afternoon and evening. Being a Dawber's Santa was more
honor than occupation, a notable difference.
It made her job harder. Ramona Dawber-Hinton hired Santas in the same
ruthless, guilty until proven innocent manner she selected all her employees.
It was only after police background checks, extensive personal and business
references, and a driving record came back spotless that an applicant was
seated in her office, to be assigned a coveted Santa slot upon successfully
answering one crucial, final question.
"Mr. Wittwer," she said, staring hard at the man before her, relaxed in
olive gray Dockers and a pressed maroon striped shirt, Saturday clothes of
the under thirty-five middle class, "you're a successful business man, and I
respect that. You're also married. Two children, three and five, is that
right?" He nodded and she smiled, but only slightly. Best not to relax an
applicant before she pitched the zinger. "You're also much younger than most
of our Santas, and it seems you wouldn't have time for this. Tell me, why do
you want to be a Dawber's Santa?"
Daren Wittwer sat forward, a whoosh of trapped leather air escaping his
chair. Studying the ice queen before him, he decided to consider her a
client he was pitching to, not the final obstacle between him and the one
thing he needed to survive the holiday. He had to be a Dawber's Santa, and
he had to be Dawber's Christmas Eve Santa. She'd have to be melted with the
same technique he'd successfully deployed on hundreds of clients over the
past fifteen years.
Quite simply, he lied.
"Ms. Dawber-Hinton," he began, placing sincere emphasis on both last
names carved into a black granite plaque on her massive cherry wood desk,
"it's precisely because I'm successful that I want this. My kids, Toby and
Erin, come to Dawber's every Christmas, as I did. I want to give my
time--which I don't have much of--I want to give Dawber's my Christmas Eve--"
"Mr. Wittwer, we all strive to give, at this time of year."
He was losing her. He could see it in the strained twitch in her left
cheek, a furrowing of thinly plucked brows. Every Dawber Santa wanted
Christmas Eve, but only this one had to have it. Forcing a wide smile, he
leaned closer, drawing on every dramatic technique he'd learned in college
during a brief stint of wanting to be something other than a business suit.
"It's the only night I've got," he said, smiling boyishly and running one
hand through neatly trimmed chestnut hair. "The rest of the nights, I'm
volunteering at the soup kitchen."
The twitch vanished and her grin revealed the even, orthodontist's dream
teeth of the well to do. "Mr. Wittwer," she said, extending a slim hand
across the desk, "welcome to Dawber's."
Being Dawber's Christmas Eve Santa entailed more than a special fitting
for the red velvet suit and padding, or the appointment with Dawber's make-up
artist, guaranteed to transform the most average looking man into a bona fide
St. Nick, or even the three week long 'Santa Development Intensive' ("SDI
training," Ramona Dawber-Hinton said, "is mandatory"). Christmas Eve Santa
asked the critical question of children, making the difference between
wishing on a Dawber Santa and wasting a wish on any other. "Is there
something you haven't asked for yet, that you really want?"
The whispered item was jotted on Santa's 'list', a stream of detachable,
recipe card sized Dawber order forms. The card was discreetly slipped to an
'elf', who slipped it to the parent as the children clambered onto Santa's
lap for a photo. The parent had only to sign the card, supply their Dawber's
account number, and return it to the dutiful elf standing by. When Santa's
shop closed at six-thirty, ("You say, 'time to feed the reindeer and get this
show on the road,'", Ramona Dawber-Hinton instructed), the cards were rushed
to a special team of clerks. Wrapped in Dawber's brightest Christmas paper,
items were then cloaked in a plain brown, 'Special Delivery from the North
Pole' paper. For the rest of Christmas Eve, hundreds of temporary Dawber's
employees with faultless references and full red flannel elf regalia
canvassed the Denver area delivering packages. It was a marketing tool
Ramona Dawber-Hinton devised the year she left Berkeley to become Dawber's
Personnel Director and it served two purposes by generating incredible
eleventh hour revenue and giving parents an iron defense against, "There's no
such thing as Santa Claus." Every kid knew Santa was at Dawber's every
Christmas Eve. How else to explain why they always got what they asked him
for, while kids who whispered to inferior Santas took their chances?
"It is," Ramona said, "the most important thing."
"The most important thing," Daren repeated, returning her surprisingly
solid, Mack truck handshake.
It wasn't the most important thing for him, but he'd gotten the job.
SDI training began three weeks before Christmas, and Daren Wittwer had no
problem making seven to eight-thirty available on Wednesday nights. He had
nothing else to do when the work day was completed and he'd finished a hasty
dinner at Guire's Deli Tavern. The high points of his week were Tuesday
nights and Sunday afternoons, when he saw Toby and Erin. Seeing his kids was
the most important thing. He'd just neglected to share that with Ramona
Dawber-Hinton.
Being Dawber's Santa, he thought, steering his teal blue Saab onto I-25
on the night of the final SDI class, was the only way he'd be sure to see his
kids on Christmas Eve.
"Not Christmas Eve," Karen insisted, the day before he applied at
Dawber's. Her face flushed in repressed anger as she studied him over the
gray Formica tabletop of a corner booth at Guire's. "The separation has been
hard enough, Daren. They need to be home."
"Then we'll do something together. I'll come by the house, and--"
"Together?" She fell back against the booth, looking suddenly younger,
more vulnerable than her thirty-two years allowed. "Daren, when have we ever
been together on Christmas Eve? You're always out of town or working late.
It's been me, for five years, carting them to Dawber's to see Santa,
something you said was trivial. Me, waiting dinner for Daddy. It's not fair
to the kids to change now, when we're--when you're--" She broke off, staring
hard at the table top. "No," she finished.
"I can't have Christmas Eve without my kids, Karen. How am I supposed to
do that?"
She raised her eyes to his and shrugged, struggling against tears. "I
don't know," she managed, almost a whisper. "The same way we've done it
without you, I guess."
"Karen--"
"You wanted time," she said. "Space. Space doesn't stop for weekends
and holidays, you know."
"It's kind of a Mrs. Doubtfire thing to do, isn't it?"
"You mean the movie?" Daren hunched over his Budweiser and selected a
peanut from the round glass bowl separating him from Sam Turner, his SDI
partner and newest best friend ("You'll be matched with another Santa,"
Ramona Dawber-Hinton explained, "molding each other's performance. Nurturing
the Santa spirit within you..."), glad Sam had agreed to stop at Guire's
after their last SDI session. Returning early to his plantless, sterile
apartment the day before Christmas Eve had been too dismal to consider.
"I guess she--he--missed his kids." Daren pulled from his beer. "I miss
mine," he confided, staring into Sam's wizened, unnaturally blue eyes.
"Twice a week isn't enough. A huge piece of my life is gone, and--" He
broke off, swallowing back the lump of emotion swelling at the thought of the
family he'd walked away from. He wasn't going to discuss it with Sam. A man
couldn't go around confiding in relative strangers how much he wanted his
wife and kids back, how every time he met Karen for lunch, he knew what a
lunatic move leaving had been, and how badly he wanted a second chance but
was afraid she'd turn him down.
He shrugged. "Yep, Daren Doubtfire, that's me. I guess you do this
Santa stuff because you're just so right for it, huh?"
Sam laughed the deep, bellowing laugh Ramona Dawber-Hinton strove to
instill in all her Santas. But Sam had it down the minute he walked into the
SDI classroom, a purple and gray conference room behind Sporting Goods. Sam
had the laugh, the built-in belly, even the white hair and beard. Somebody's
grandpa, Daren assumed, looking for a kick in retirement.
"Not at all." Sam sipped his espresso and leaned in close, resting
gnarled hands on the table top. "Once a year it's my job, Daren."
His laugh was unexpected, a Santa guffaw Ramona could be proud of.
"C'mon, Sam, you're at least fifty years over ten years old. You're telling
me you believe in Santa Claus? You think you're him?"
Sam smiled ruefully and tilted his head like a confused parrot. "Don't
you know Santa lives at Dawber's? Doesn't everybody know that?"
Oh boy, Daren thought, draining his beer. Ramona and her reference
checks sure let a live one slip through the cracks with this guy. Crazier
than a four dollar bill. "Sure," he said, keeping his voice low. I believe
you, Sam." You and me and the tooth fairy, he thought, plunking another
peanut from the bowl.
"Don't believe me," Sam said, leaning back in the booth. "You've got a
wish? You ask Santa yourself. You'll find out."
"In forty minutes, you will be Santa Claus!" Dawber's make-up artist,
Alexa DePianto, scrutinized Daren's face as he leaned back in the barber
chair pulled close to a low wooden table topped by a three paneled, lighted
mirror that dominated the purple and gray SDI training room. His suit and
padding hung on the outside wall of a wide gray changing cubicle installed
for the holiday.
"I have done great things," Alexa continued, dabbing astringent over his
cheeks. "For a while, I did all of Melrose Place. For three seasons."
"Just pad me in the right places," Daren said. "I'd hate to go out of
here looking like Heather Locklear."
"You joke," Alexa pouted. "For me this is art, and very serious."
Serious, he thought, closing his eyes as she worked on his face. He'd
seriously practiced belly laughs, smiles, even a hearty, "Time to feed the
reindeer and get this show on the road," because he would be the best
Christmas Eve Santa Dawber's ever had. He had to be, because he'd be Santa
for Toby and Erin.
"You look! Wha-la, yes?"
"Definitely yes!" Daren sat forward in the chair, staring into the
mirrors. Staring at Santa Claus, from the billowing beard and mustache to
the white hair, to the fine lines and beefy jowls, even down to the glowing
red nose. While he'd dozed in the chair, Alexa had performed enough of a
miracle to convince him of her stint on Melrose Place.
"Wow," was all he could say.
"Wow nothing," she scoffed. "Rubber masking, a little make-up, much
talent." She dusted her hands together, waving him from the chair. "You
dress," she said, consulting a slim gold watch on her wrist. "You relieve
Santa in fifteen minutes."
Relieve Santa?
She meant Sam, Daren thought, unbuttoning his shirt as he closed the door
behind her, wondering again about Ramona's reference checks. Alexa sounded
like she thought Sam was Santa, too. So that's two through the cracks, Daren
decided, a smile breaking across his face as he shrugged into the bulky
padding.
He was going to see his kids.
"You look fine," Sam approved, hands on Daren's shoulders.
"Not as good as you," Daren confessed, staring at Sam in a Santa suit
which had needed no padding. He doubted Alexa's make-up talents had gotten
much of a work-out, either. "So," he said then, starting toward the door,
"Merry Christmas."
"Daren--"
He turned, as Sam settled himself in the barber chair. "You never told
me what you wanted for Christmas," Sam said, and Daren almost laughed, then
thought better of it. If the old guy wanted to take himself seriously, let
him.
"OK Sam," he said, pulling the door open. "You're Santa. Bring my
family back."
He shut the door and hurried to Santa's Village, swallowing back the lump
in his throat with thoughts of Toby and Erin.
"Time to feed the road and show the reindeer," wasn't the worst part of
the night. The worst part was fumbling it past the brick in his throat,
which threatened to cut off his air supply completely by the time Alexa
removed his make-up and he was back in his Levi's and navy sweatshirt,
driving home.
He'd been Santa for dozens of kids that night, joviality spurred by hope
that Toby and Erin would be the next in line. It was only when six-thirty
came, when he heard whispered Christmas wishes from the last child in line,
that Daren Wittwer knew they weren't coming. He also knew he was about to do
something he thought real men avoided.
"So much for asking, Sam," he mumbled under his breath, pulling his Saab
into the sparse flow of traffic on I-25.
Daren Wittwer was going to cry.
The apartment building echoed Christmas music as Daren walked up the
front stairwell, head lowered. I'm not falling apart, he told himself,
fumbling with his keys. So I'm disappointed. I'll survive. I'll get
through this. Maybe tomorrow Karen and I can talk, and--
"Hey."
He looked up, surprised to see the familiar shape on the stairs ahead of
him, draped in a long wool coat and holding a tiny, foil wrapped box.
"Karen?"
"In the flesh," she said, shrugging as Daren stepped closer. "Mom's with
the kids," she went on, holding out the box. "It's Christmas Eve, Daren. I
came by to give you this, and I thought...oh hell, just open it. I mean, the
worst that can happen is--" She broke off, sitting uncomfortably on the step.
His fingers trembled as he peeled back the wrapping, uncovering a flat,
square box. A tie clip, he thought. Impersonal enough, and maybe the best
peace offering before divorce papers.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump. He should've told her a long
time ago how much she meant to him. He ought to tell her about Dawber's,
confess the whole Santa racket. "Karen, I need to say something here--"
"Just open it, Daren."
"No, I really want you to hear this. I--"
"Just open it. Now." A command, and unlike her. Slowly, he lifted the
lid. Inside, resting on a cotton pad, was a key ring with a flat, gold
square attached. In the dim security lights, he read the inscription. 'Home
is where your heart is.' "Karen--"
"So if your home is here," she said, gesturing to the apartment building,
"Okay. But if it isn't--" She fumbled in her coat pocket, extracting the
slim, irregular silver key he recognized as his old one. "If it isn't, I
want you to have this. I want you to use it, too. I mean, if there's one
thing I hate, it's giving a gift and not having it used--"
"I'll wear it out," he said, pulling her from the step.
And that's when he did it again.
He was on the verge of confessing the Dawber's scam when she said the
strangest thing. "I took the kids to the store early," she said, "at noon.
Whoever their afternoon Santa was this year, he was pretty realistic. He
said both the kids wished for their daddy back, but you know what was really
strange?" Daren nodded, urging her to continue. "He said their daddy wanted
to come back," she finished. "He said if I gave him a key, he'd come home.
It's enough to make you believe in Santa Claus, isn't it? Do you think he
was a psychic, you know, just taking on part time work?"
"Honey," Daren said, brushing the hair from her face as they headed down
the steps, "I think he was just a man doing his job."
