My new neighbor looked like Santa Claus.
He had a white beard, a round belly, and bright eyes. And oh, yes, a red nose. But I couldn’t imagine Saint Nick’s droll little mouth issuing a stream of profanity vivid enough to knock a single mother of two off his apartment doormat.
It was the worst verbal assault I’d endured since stealing Mary Lou Hickson’s boyfriend in tenth grade.
“I guess this is a bad time.” Surely the understatement of the year. I inched sideways and held out a foil-wrapped package at the same time. “But, uh, hey--welcome to the neighborhood.”
Santa’s evil twin eyed my offering as if it were a summons to jury duty. “What you got there, missy?”
“An apple cake.”
He snorted. “Must be tryin’ ta kill me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t eat cake,” he said, and slammed the door in my face.
In the weeks that followed, I crossed paths with the old goat too many times. His malignant expression greeted my family in lieu of the usual pleasantries. Despite this, four-year-old Danny insisted our new neighbor was Santa Claus. Try as I might, I couldn’t change his mind.
On the day before Christmas, a cold drizzle froze in my hair as I tried to buckle two-year-old Katie into a belligerent car seat. “Look, Mommy,” Danny said, tugging on my coat from behind. “It’s Santa Claus.”
I turned and saw my neighbor inching across the slick asphalt with the dubious assistance of a brass-knobbed cane.
“Santa! What’cha doin’ here? Shouldn’t you be at the North Pole?” Before I could grab him, Danny skittered across the ice and crashed into the old man’s knees.
Santa hit the ground with a thwack, the kind of sound guaranteed to rouse every personal injury attorney in a five-mile radius. Katie’s buckle snapped into place. I hurried to the scene of the crime, but the old man shook me off and muttered a word I sincerely hoped Danny hadn’t heard.
“Gosh, Santa, you okay? Did you break anything? If you did, Mom can fix it. She’s got band-aids in her purse. I know ‘cuz one time I fell and she--”
“Not now, Danny,” I muttered. “Are you hurt, sir? Should I call anyone, or help you to your apart--” I shut my mouth and glanced at my car. There was no way I could leave my daughter and help this man up two flights of stairs.
I shouldn’t have worried. Santa could have run a marathon on pure malice.
“Listen, kid,” he said, jabbing his cane at Danny. “After a stunt like that, I’m putting you on the naughty list.” He turned and waddled toward the sidewalk, cursing as he went.
Danny began to cry. After one long, speechless moment, I carried my son to the car and strapped him in his booster. “For the last time, Danny, that man isn’t Santa Claus.”
“He is too, Santa! And now he hates me!” Danny let out a fresh wail and his sister joined him, in stereo. “I’m not gonna get any toys for Christmas!”
I fought back my own tears. The fact was, Danny and Katie weren’t getting much for Christmas. I barely had enough money for necessities. Mark’s illness had been expensive, and life insurance had been something we’d put off.
That night, I draped ornaments on our spindly pine and kept a smile plastered on my face until both kids fell asleep. After filling two stockings with dollar store trinkets, I sank down on the sofa and stared at the bare rug under the tree.
Much later, the doorbell rang. I blinked at my mother’s antique clock. Two minutes until midnight.
I struggled to my feet and plodded to the door.
A grumpy Santa stood on the threshold, holding a tattered cardboard box. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at me. “Been cluttering up my place too long.”
I took the box. It was filled with bright packages, curly ribbons and hand-lettered tags. To Dennis and Michele. My breath caught in my throat.
“Who are Dennis and Michele?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know.
“Grandkids,” he said. “Killed in a car wreck. A year ago today.”
His face hardened into the expression I knew so well, but now, at last, I understood.
My mother’s clock began to chime.
“Merry Christmas, missy.” The old man turned with a jerk and headed down the corridor.
“Merry Christmas, Santa,” I whispered.
