Passing the Time

Santa Clause's Death

Santa Claus died yesterday.

He must've. I didn't see him die, of course. Nobody saw Santa die. But I know he died. Because he never came to our house yesterday.

I know he didn't. Because last night, you see, I had stayed awake. I had forced myself to stay awake till twelve. I'd even snuck some of Daddy's coffee so I wouldn't fall asleep. And, when I got sent to bed, I had laid under the heavy blankets, pinching myself so I wouldn't sleep. I pinch really hard. Even Andrew Stubbins was crying after I'd pinched him at school. My wrist had been dotted with red when I had checked it in the light.

It's hard being patient. Mommy told me that "patience is a virture," but I'd never been much good at it. It's too boring to wait for something to happen. But I'd been able to wait on Christmas Eve, because not everyone can say that they've seen Santa. Even Sylvia, that stuck-up snob, has never seen Santa.

Well, I'd thought, I'll see Santa. And that'll put Sylvia in her place.

But I never saw Santa. I never saw that reindeers-and-sleigh silhouette against the full moon. I never heard any jingling bells. They never landed on our roof. Santa never came down the chimney. We didn't even have a chimney.

Instead, I had seen Daddy, wearing his faded blue pajamas, come out of his and mommy's room. He had been yawning, and he hadn't even bothered to muffle his footsteps. I had seen him go into my room, to check up on me. I had been one step ahead of him. I'd planned ahead. There was a fluffy pillow stuffed under my blankets in my bed right now.

So I'd crouched behind the couch, wondering why on earth Daddy was awake at this time. What was he doing? Did he want to see Santa as well?

I'd noticed a package under his arm. It was really pretty, wrapped in red and yellow paper, with a big silver bow on top. A present, I'd thought. From whom?

He'd gone up to the Christmas tree, with its twinkling lights and dozens of ornaments. He'd paused before it. I had been happy, because I'd thought for a minute that he'd come out to look at the tree. It was beautiful, after all. I was especially proud, because I'd decorated it all by myself. I'd clambered onto a chair, hanging up those plastic candy canes and fake, never-melting snowmen onto the tree. And, after digging around in the garage, I'd found a silver string of tinsel, and so I'd wreathed it around the tree, like a scarf. And I'd coiled the lights around the tree, and when I'd plugged it in, it looked as though there were stars, dozens and dozens of tiny stars twinkling down at me.

But Daddy, who'd stood beside me and cheered when I'd finished with the tree, who'd lifted me up to place that star at the top, hadn't even glanced at it. He had bent over and set the present down by the plastic trunk of the plastic tree. Then he'd stood back up and reached into his pocket. He'd drawn out a letter, and stuck it in between the manufactured pine needles. Then he'd stretched, yawned, and headed back to his and Mommy's room.

I'd waited a good ten seconds, then ran out from behind the couch. I had been drawn to the present, and so I had looked at that first. It was really pretty. The wrapping was neatly done, so unlike the presents I'd wrapped for Mommy and Daddy, with all the rips and tears. And the bow was so shiny, so new. It looked handsome, beautiful, just as a present should look. Just as a present from Santa should look...

I had picked it up, carefully, delicately, then shook it. Something had rattled inside. I had wondered what is was. I'd felt it, and thought that it seemed to be remarkably like the box of color pencils I'd asked for. I'd turned it, this way and that, wondering who it'd be for. I'd found a note, inscribed at the bottom of the package.

To Jessie. From Santa.

I'd stared at it uncomprehendably. To... me? My heart had thumped an erratic, wild beat in my chest. Why had father placed this beneath the tree? Where was Santa?

I had stood in a daze, and reached for the letter. But I drew my hand back.

I had backed away from the tree, my head spinning. I had wanted to read it, had wanted to see who it was addressed and whom it was from. I had wanted to just tear it open and read its contents. But I'd restrained myself.

Because I'd felt that I wouldn't want to see it. I'd had this ominous feeling that something, something in me would die if I read it. Something bad would happen, something would end. If I didn't open it, didn't read it, then everything would be unsteady, and teeter on the edge of falling, but nothing would be certain. If I read it, something bad would happen, something would collapse, and it'd be irreversible, unchangeable.

So, I'd backed away from the tree and ran, ran back to my room, not even trying to lighten my footsteps, not caring who heard the slap of my bare feet against the cold floor. I'd jumped into my bed, burrowed under the blankets, and closed my eye, trying to calm down my breathing.

I'd formulated a story in my mind, to better comprehend the situation. So, the reason that Santa died...

He'd left his workshop at around nine o' clock. The elves had left for their vacation, and so no one had seen him off.  He'd reined in his reindeers, and they'd set off.

And so they'd followed the usuall routine, chasing the moon so that the silhouette that all humans loved would show. Climbing down chimneys, gettting soot all over his red uniform, letting out that famous "ho, ho, ho." Presents for all. Such a tiring, boring, repetitive routine.

Why must it be Santa Claus who got stuck delivering presents? Why should he be that one who had to do this tiring job? So many years. So many, many years...

It'd been fun at first. It had been pleasing to bring joy to these children. But, honestly, it had gotten so tiring over the years. Children these days were so demanding, so spoiled, such ingrates. Ridiculous things they demanded, wanting things that were worth more than the cost of their house. Such difficult things to make... and so many children in the world. And now even some adults would want gifts.

And those elves. Always groaning, always complaining. Asking for longer vacations, more day-offs, they even wanted pay raises. That was ridiculous. He'd never paid them before. And how was he supposed to get money in the first place? All he got from this job was the "joy" of seeing children squeal over their gifts.

Everyone was so selfish these days, so stupid. How could anyone get any joy from this job?

Then, he lost control of the reins. By accident, on purpose... who knows. But anyway, he lost control, and the sleigh had lurched and rocked. Dasher bumped into Dancer, Prancer careened into Rudolph, Vixen jostled Comet, and Comet shot into Blitzen. The sleigh zig-zagged this way and that, flying all over the place. 

In the air, miles above the sleeping New York City, chaos reigned. Any teamwork that Santa's crew had possessed had totally vanished. They started fighting, bucking and jerking, one wanting to go one way, the other wanting to go the other. 

And Santa? Well, he just sat there unconcernedly. Watching the lawlessness and pandemonium. Not caring. As though he would not die if the cart tilted over. 

Well it did. And he fell. He crashed onto the roof of a New York building, broke his neck, and just... died.

That was why it was not Santa delivering presents today. That was the reason it was Daddy who was setting the present under the tree. That was why Santa was not coming.

There were holes in my story. Millions, and millions of great, gaping holes. But I would not examine them. I refused to see them.

So I burrowed deep, deep under the blankets, where it was warm, and safe, and shut my eyes tightly, wanting, wishing, praying to go back in time.