“Hmmmm.”
“What do you think about that?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.” And now snow was starting. She definitely didn’t have a shovel.
“I think it might be easier to be honest.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“Well, I’m sure Ellen had her reasons. The good thing is that your daughter—what’s her name?”
He wanted, for some reason, not to tell her. As though doing so would make everything too real, or make Zoe more vulnerable than she already was. But he did tell her, and Donna said that she had always loved the name Zoe, that if she had had a daughter she would have named her that, as well.
“Uh huh,” Griffin said, and then, “So. Tomorrow night.”
“Do you want to bring Zoe?”
“No.” He answered too quickly. It was almost rude. “She’ll be fine, she’ll be with her mother.” Don’t suggest that we go out after, he thought, but then, when Donna said nothing about it, when she said only that the orientation room where they’d met before was now the dressing room, he was disappointed. Did she not want to see him again? Maybe he should ask her if she’d like to go for drinks.
Let it be, he thought, and told Donna simply that he would see her tomorrow.
He stood, stretched, and tiptoed back into Zoe’s room. The flakes were falling faster now, furiously. Oh, Ellen. He pulled the blanket up over Zoe’s shoulder; she was asleep for real now, her mouth partway open, her bear pulled close to her and resting beneath her chin. He envied her her easy escape.
He went downstairs and stood at the window for a while. He’d call the weather line, see how bad it was going to be. He’d find something on television. He would not give in to this mounting pain he felt at the center of himself.
He brought a bag of potato chips, a few slices of cheese, a jar of pepperoncini, a beer, and a pepperoni stick out into the living room, and turned on a movie channel. The Trip to Bountiful, one of Ellen’s favorites. Not a bad movie, but nothing to get as worked up about as she did when she watched it—she would cry every time. Hard to explain, then, the reaction he was having. The way he was crying. For Christ’s sake. He wiped his face, changed the channel.
Chapter 17
The beard was all wrong, and he had only two minutes before he had to be out there. Griffin stared into the mirror mounted on the wall of the dressing room and yanked again on the side that kept rising up, giving his Santa’s face a lopsided, almost drunken appearance.
The door to the room opened and Ernie walked in. His beard was perfect. “You’re up, Griffin.” He pulled off his hat, then his wig. His thinning hair was matted flat against his head; the bald parts of his scalp gleamed. “Whew! Hotter than hell out there.”
“I can’t get this beard right,” he told Ernie. “It was fine the other night—I don’t know what happened.”
Ernie undid his belt, unbuttoned his jacket. Then he came up close to Griffin and inspected his beard. He reeked of Old Spice—it was all Griffin could do not to hold his nose. “Sometimes it’s just the strap. Let me have it for a minute.” Griffin handed his beard to him, and Ernie made a minor adjustment to the elastic. “Here. Try that.”
The beard lay perfectly straight. Griffin put on his hat at a jaunty angle, checked to see that both eyebrows had been whitened evenly, that the lipstick he’d reddened his nose and cheeks with hadn’t smeared. And then realized how nervous he was.
Ernie could tell. “Don’t worry,” he said. “First kid sits on your lap and, I don’t know, something happens. You’ll see. Most of the kids are just great. Only thing that’s really hard are those teenage girls that show up in a group and take turns sitting on your lap, all of them showing off for each other. They can drive you nuts. But I didn’t see any of them roving around tonight.”
“All right. Well…thanks.”
“Good luck!”
Griffin started down the mall, trying to walk quickly, but finding it difficult to do so with his rubber boots. People he passed smiled and sometimes waved. He waved back self-consciously, worried that his belly might slip if he raised his hand too high, but no; it was secure.
When he saw the Santa display, he slowed down—no line yet, not a kid in sight. They were right about how hot this costume was; he could feel a fine line of sweat on his forehead already.
The place in which he would sit was a tiny white house, complete with picket fence in front and a woodpile behind. Voluptuous drifts of artificial snow lay along the bottom of the fence, and three snowmen wearing hats and mufflers stood behind it like benevolent guards. Deep yellow light from inside the house poured out through diamond-shaped panes onto sparkling snow that lined the windowsills. The children were to pass through a gate and onto a path that would lead them past Donna, her camera, and a cash register, to an “elf” assistant named Gini. Griffin was to sit in the tiny living room of the house, which was wallpapered in a homey yellow print. His thronelike chair was next to a Christmas tree, beneath which were dozens of presents, all gaily wrapped. All empty boxes, Griffin supposed, but it was nice to imagine they were not, that instead they held exactly what you wanted. Against another wall was a miniature fireplace where stockings were hung. “White Christmas” played softly in the background.
Donna, spotting Griffin, stood up and smiled at him. She wore a green velvet dress, red lipstick, and tiny gold bell earrings. The elf, Gini, wore a short red velvet skirt, a white blouse and a green vest, and green satin shoes that curled up at the end. Her hair was tied back with a large red ribbon.
“Sorry I’m late,” Griffin said, climbing into the chair. He’d never sat in such a large chair before. He liked it. It was comfortable, and it gave him a view of the entire length of the mall, where the decorations made the place gloriously changed.
“You haven’t missed a thing,” Donna said. “For the last half hour it’s been really slow.”
“I had some trouble with my beard. Is it straight now?” He reached up, felt it gingerly.
“It’s fine,” Donna said. “Don’t adjust it out here!” Then, seeing someone approaching from behind Griffin, she said quietly, “Get ready; here comes your first customer.”
A little girl, around five years old, Griffin thought, came through the gate with her mother. The mother, harried-looking, checked her watch repeatedly and told the little girl she had to hurry. He saw Donna offer to take a picture, saw the mother’s adamant refusal. Then, while the mother stood off to the side, arms crossed, Gini brought the girl forward. “You can sit on Santa’s lap,” Gini said, but the girl shook her head, stood firmly in place before Griffin. She was dark-headed, some hair held back from her face by yellow plastic barrettes, the rest escaping to partially cover her eyes. She wore a pink sweat outfit, the top decorated with a faded kitten playing with a ball of yarn. Her coat hung stolelike off her shoulders.
“Hello,” Griffin said, gently. And then, to Gini, “This is my friend who likes to stand.”
The girl regarded him silently and Griffin stared back, unsure as to what he should do.
Finally, the girl asked, “Where are your reindeer?”
Ah. He knew this one. “In a barn, not too far from here,” he said.
“Oh.” She inched closer. “Can I go and see them?”
“Well, they’re eating right now. And then they’ll have to take their naps.”
“Oh,” she said again, and looked over at the box of antlers and candy canes at Griffin’s side.
“Would you like one?” Griffin asked.
She nodded, stepped close enough to reach out and take a candy cane, refused the antlers. Then, her blue marker–stained hand on Griffin’s knee, she whispered, “I would like that Barbie mansion.”
“Uh huh. Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” She started to leave, then turned back to say, “I have been very good except that one time that was not my fault.”
“I know you’re a good girl.”
“Yes.”
She stared a while longer, then said, “I thought you had blue eyes.”
“Well, they change.”
“Oh. Okay. ‘Bye.”
She turned, walked a few steps away, then suddenly turned back. “Oh! And could I ask for one more thing?”
“Of course.” He leaned forward listening carefully.
“Sparkly Band-Aids. Just my own box that is not for anyone else.”
“Got you.”
She walked closer. “Really, I don’t care what you bring me as long as it’s nice and I can always treasure it.”
He smiled. “Okay.”
“Because I wouldn’t get mad at you, no matter what, because you and your elves are too nice. And also you can bring my baby brother a toy, okay, he can’t talk.”
“I’ll do my best to bring something he’ll like.”
She sighed, pushed her hands in her pockets. “All I mostly want for Christmas is a happy Christmas.”
“I know just what you mean,” Griffin said.
“One thing. Can you write back to me?”
Now what? “I can try,” he said. “But even if I don’t write, you know I’ll be thinking of you. I’ll leave you signs.”
“Okay.”
Griffin waved at her. “Merry Christmas!”
He watched as the girl and her mother hurried off. The mother was complaining about her daughter not sitting on Griffin’s lap. “Why didn’t you want to?” she asked. “You’re supposed to sit on his lap.”
Donna came up to Griffin’s chair. “Well? How did it go?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Fine.”
“We probably won’t get too many more tonight. It’s getting late, and anyway, most people like to wait until Thanksgiving is over.”
Thanksgiving. Three days away! He’d forgotten about it. What would happen this year? Surely Ellen planned on spending the holiday with him and Zoe. Surely she would make the food she always did, and though the atmosphere at dinner might be somewhat strained, it would also be what it should be. But he supposed he should prepare himself for anything. Such as her spending Thanksgiving with Auto King. And what if she wanted Zoe there as well? Should he forbid it? Which would be more hurtful to Zoe, to make her stay with him or to let her go with her mother? All these decisions with no good answers, suddenly thrust upon them.
Although things had been all right, thus far. Zoe had awakened that morning in a good mood, eaten a huge breakfast, made her bed without being asked, and had slammed the door in her usual way when she left for school. Ellen had made dinner for the three of them that evening and seemed perfectly content to stay in the house until Griffin returned that night. They’d had a relaxed enough dinner, the only awkward moment coming when Ellen told Zoe she’d fixed up her apartment a little now, and Zoe was welcome to come over any time.
But “I don’t think so,” Zoe had said.
“Why?” Ellen asked. “You said just yesterday you wanted to see it.”
“I know.” She looked down into her plate, pushed her potatoes around with her fork.
“Well,” Ellen had said, “whenever you’re ready. Any time you want.”
“Here comes somebody else,” he heard Donna saying, and she moved off to take her place at the camera. This mother did want a picture. She took off her son’s coat, straightened his plaid shirt, zipped up completely his corduroy pants, wet her fingers in her mouth to smooth down his hair. Then she stepped back, nodded, and busied herself filling out the form while her son strode confidently forward and climbed onto Griffin’s lap.
“It’s kind of early, isn’t it?” the boy said.
Griffin smiled. “I guess it is.”
“I just wanted to beat the rush, that’s all.”
“That’s a very good idea.”
“Max.” Griffin heard the mother whispering loudly, but the boy paid no attention.
“I guess you want to know what I want, huh? Well, here goes!”
“Max!”
Again, he ignored her. “I am desperate for a new Super Mario Brothers Game Boy game. And I would like some hockey pants. And a real crystal unicorn, rearing up? You get the idea. And—”
“MAX!”
The boy sighed, then turned to look at his mother. “What? What do you want from me?”
“The picture!”
“Hold on a minute, Santa,” Max said, and turning to look at the camera, smiled widely. After the flash, he said, “All right?”
“All right,” his mother said.
“So anyway,” Max said to Griffin. “Basically, I would like anything you think is right for me. I think you have good judgment.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I have to go now, but I enjoyed meeting you.”
“Likewise.”
Max hopped off his lap, then dug in his pocket for coupons. “I have these, in case you need them. For the Game Boy games.”
Griffin leaned over, took the coupons. “Thank you very much.”
“I would really love to lend you a hand.”
“That would be nice, but I’m all set for this year.”
“Okay, so…” The boy smiled, waved, and started away, then turned around. “Oh! One more thing! Crackers and cheese or milk and cookies?” He was holding up one finger, looking every inch the miniature host.
“Crackers and cheese would be nice.”
“Hey, Mom!” the boy yelled. “I told you! Cheese and crackers!”
“Mazel tov,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 18
When Griffin let himself in the door, he saw Ellen lying on the sofa, her eyes closed. He’d kept his Santa suit on and carried his clothes home in a paper bag, which he tried now not to rustle. He set the bag down at the foot of the stairs, then tiptoed over to her. She was sleeping, her breathing deep and regular, her hands folded loosely across her stomach. He checked his watch. Ten-thirty. This was late for Ellen; she was never one to stay up at night—said she was “resting during the commercials” when they watched the ten o’clock news, but he’d always had to wake her up to go to bed.
She stirred slightly, then opened her eyes and stared at him. Blinked. “Griffin?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that you?”
“Yeah!”
She sat up. “Oh, my God, I was sleeping, you know, and I woke up and…there was Santa! Too bad this never happened when I was a kid.” She leaned back, took him in from head to toe. “That is a great costume. Wow. Even your eyebrows.”
“Check out the boots,” Griffin said, pushing one foot forward. Always, she would be the one he needed to tell.
She leaned over to look at the boots, touched the furry trim at the bottom of his pant leg, then rubbed her fingers gently over his calf, saying, “Ummm, velvet.” The moment was, however vaguely, sexual, and Griffin felt himself not so vaguely responding. Always she would be the one to so easily elicit these feelings in him. He stepped back, away from her. “I’ve been thinking about wearing it to work. Do you think a tie would be too much with it?”
“You should wear it to work,” she said. “It would put people in good moods.”
She stood up, yawned, folded the afghan she’d thrown over herself. “I guess I’d better go.”
He didn’t want her to. “How about a cup of tea with old Santa, first?”
She smiled. “Now there’s an offer I’ve never had.”
“Come on,” he said, walking into the kitchen. “I bought some herbal tea the other day—Zoe liked the packaging.”
She followed him, sat at the kitchen table. “I’ve got to go soon, though—I have to get up really early tomorrow.”
He filled the kettle, set it on the stove over a high flame. “Why?”
She hesitated, then said, “I’m applying for a job.”
He turned around, surprised. Well, irritated, if the truth be told. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t work until Zoe was all right alone after school.”
“I’d be finished by two, plenty of
time to come back here before she gets out of school.”
He came to the table, sat across from her. “So what’s the job?”
“Why don’t I see if I get it, first?”
“What’s the big secret? I mean, it’s not exactly the CIA, is it?”
She looked away from him, and he immediately regretted what he’d said. He reached his hand partway across the table, toward her. The fur trim around his wrist looked ridiculous, now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
She shrugged. Then, looking at him, “Speaking of jobs, how was yours? I mean, was it fun? Were there a lot of kids?”
“No. I guess there won’t be until after Thanksgiving.”
“Oh…You know, we need to talk about that. Thanksgiving.”
He would like, right now, to enact a law prohibiting the phrase “We need to talk.” Here came another one.
“I’d like to spend Thanksgiving with Peter, and I’d like Zoe to be there.”
“Uh huh.”
“So…what do you think?”
“I don’t know, Ellen. You’ve told her you want some time alone to think. What’s she going to think when some guy shows up?”
“I can handle it, Griffin. I’ll introduce him as a friend.”
“You must think she’s an idiot.”
“I said I can handle it.”
The teakettle whistled, and Griffin got up to prepare the tea. The good thing about Ellen taking Zoe for Thanksgiving was that he could have her for Christmas. But he wouldn’t say that now.
He brought the mugs back to the table, took a cautious sip.
“Griffin?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re getting your beard all wet.”
He’d actually not noticed, had forgotten entirely that he had the costume on. Now he felt around the area of his mouth; the beard was indeed wet. He pulled his hat off, then the beard, put it on the table beside him.
Ellen put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, it’s so weird! Even when you know someone’s not Santa, it’s still so strange to see him come apart.”
“Good thing you didn’t see this when you were a kid.”