Joyless Yuletide

Eight-year-old Ben McManus would've leapt from the car the instant his mother pulled the station wagon into one of White Flint Mall's many parking spaces if she hadn't immediately called his name the way she did.

"Ben?" she spoke in a tone that he was convinced all grown-ups took a class in order to master.

"Yes?" he replied, his mind already weighing out how many other kids and their parents were probably in line, already. Couldn't she do the whole "no-running-off-or-you'll-get-kidnapped/mugged/touched in your bathing suit area by some weird guy in a raincoat -speech while they walked to the mall entrance?

"Now, there'll be plenty of time to see Santa," she advised him, Ben waiting for the inevitable "but" to come.

"Mom-" he attempted, feeling every second pass as they sat in the car.

"But, I have to grab a few things along the way for Grandma and Granddad since they'll be joining us for Christmas dinner. We don't want them to feel bad, do we?"

Both Ben and his older sister, Stacey, -who'd been lucky enough to have avoided this speech by attending band practice that morning- knew perfectly well that Mom couldn't stand her in-laws and only tolerated them because of their father. Stacey had even sworn that during Thanksgiving dinner she'd seen their mother deliberately drop a slice of baked ham on the kitchen floor before taking it out on a plate to her mother-in-law.

"Ben?" she asked, that tone like fingernails on a blackboard.

"No."

"That's very thoughtful of you, sweetheart," she smiled as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Ben quietly counted the seconds it took her, wondering if the line were wrapping itself around the food court by now.

The "few things" Ben's mother mentioned took nearly an hour to purchase, most of the time attributed to her trip to the woman's shoe department in Macys. Ben hated when she shopped for shoes, since she felt a need to try on practically every pair in the store as if she didn't already have a walk-in closet filled with them. He'd overheard his Dad call his mom the "Imelda Marcos of Shoes" several times, which made him giggle. He had no idea who Imelda Marcos was, but he always got an image of some wide eyed woman rolling around crazily in a mountain of ladies' footwear whenever he thought about it.

"Now, that didn't take long at all, did it?" his mother asked, her arms filled with brightly colored shopping bags.

"No, Mom," answered Ben, all too used to this game his mother played in nearly every facet of their lives together. It was like she knew what she did was uncalled for, but needed assurance from Ben so that her lie would go down easier. They'd joined the winding line of parents and eager children, finally getting a faint glimpse of Santa's red and white form after nearly a half-hour.

"I DON'T CARE!" roared a red-faced boy two spaces ahead of them in response to his mother saying that the other children deserved to get their turn as much as he did. Ben was never the type to throw fits, not that it'd make much difference with his parents. Dad, being a foreman at a warehouse, had great skills in tuning out grating noises. His mother, on the other hand, was the sort that could cut a tantrum off at the knees by threatening to take back the very things you lived for.

"The sight of this line would make your knees weak," mused his mother casually. The statement wasn't directed to him at all, but to one of her friends on her scarlet cell phone. "With this line you'd think people were coming to see the Pope or Elvis."

They'd obviously been in line longer than Ben realized, since he glanced up to see they were only three kids away from Santa finally seeing him! Nevermind that his bladder was starting to cry out from the smoothie his mom had treated him to for "...being such a patient little man".

Whatever, Imelda!

There were now two kids left before him, the third kid that'd just had his turn glancing back oddly at Santa almost as if he were nervous. He couldn't understand why some kids were frightened of the very person that gave them the best gifts they'd get all year. If he could Ben wished he could keep in contact with Santa after the holidays. He had all kinds of questions for him that he knew he wouldn't get time to ask once he was on his knee, one of them being whether he got a cut of the money from those movies with Tim Allen playing him or not. Maybe he had an email address.

The very first thing wrong Ben noticed about Santa was the aroma of stale liquor on his breath, a futile attempt at masking it with peppermint Altoids only making it more noxious. He'd only witnessed his father stumble home drunk on two occasions, so he was aware of how it burned your nostril hairs when the person spoke to you. Ben only hoped that Santa wouldn't end up puking in the kitchen recycling bin like his dad had.

"So, what would you like, big fella?" asked Santa, his mind obviously somewhere else.

"But, aren't going to ask me what my name is?"

"Kid, if I'm Santa then wouldn't I already know, anyway?"

Ben glanced up curiously to see that Santa's nose was far redder than the songs they learned in school described it as. In fact, he could make out what appeared to be a pinkish cotton ball up each nostril and a clear Band-Aid across the crooked bridge of his nose.

"What happened to your nose, Santa?"

"Minor reindeer accident. So, what do you want, kid? Santa's got a long line of other children to pee in his lap or sneeze all over his beard because their folks never taught 'em how to cover their freakin' mouths."

With his free hand Santa adjusted his furry collar, his black leather glove riding up a few inches to expose a set of fresh-looking teeth marks on his wrist.

Had someone actually bitten him?

From the shape of the markings Ben could tell that they were far too large to have been done by a child. And, unless he were mistaken, there was a quarter-sized reddish brown stain on his right sleeve that look a lot like blood.

"What happened to your wrist?" he asked, the curiosity bubbling out of him like a brook.

"Who the hell are you? Diane Sawyer? Christ, I knew I should've just called out after all this."

"Was it one of the elves?"

Santa laughed bitterly, rolling his eyes heavenward at the question. Ben had been visiting the gift-giving man since he could remember and had seen him in many an incarnation: older, younger, smaller, fatter, and even Black. His mom assured him that Santa could change his appearance like most people changed clothing. But he's never seen him anywhere near like this afternoon.

"You're way too into this Christmas thing. Look, don't you just wanna tell me how badly you want a Playstation 3 to play with until you develop carpal tunnel syndrome or some shit?

"No. Your wrist-"

"Forget the wrist, already. You should see the other guy."

"Who was he?"

"Nobody. It's just a figure of speech."

"Ben."

"Huh?"

"Ben," he said, glancing up at him and noticing that one of the cotton balls looked like it needed to be changed. "My name's Ben, remember?"

"Well, Ben, Santa is really pressed for time today. After I leave here I -uh- have to go get the reindeer neutered. Otherwise they'll be fa-la-la-la-ing all over the place and getting knocked up. So, let's get your little picture taken and you can be on your way."

Signaling to the nearby elf at the camera set-up, Santa directed Ben's attention to a misshapen stuffed snowman atop to camera as the flash went off. And, before he could ask the man another question, Santa promptly placed him back on the ground for a second elf to escort him to the exit.

***

Ben and his mother were leaving the T-Mobile store after paying her bill when his bladder cried out that he desperately needed to go to the bathroom. Actually, he'd mentioned early to his mom that he needed to go, but she'd asked if he could "put a cork in it" long enough for her to get her bill taken care of. The "cork" was about to pop out, ricocheting off the back of some shoppers' head with a geyser of urine.

"Just make sure to wash your hands afterwards," she instructed him as they stood outside the men's room, Ben noticing the line of women across from them for the Ladies' Room stretching down the corridor.

"Yes, Mom."

"And if anyone tries to talk to you, turn and walk away as fast as you-"

Unable to stifle his bladder any further Ben darted into the restroom and straight for the low level urinal, unzipping and letting his urine hit the porcelain like a mini-fire hose. He couldn't believe how his mother would insist that he listen to her ramble when he was close to having an accident right there in front of all those women. She most likely would have scolded him for not acting like a "big boy", making him sit on newspaper on the ride home like he'd been forced to do once he was about five.

Just as he was finishing up he glanced over to see, of all people, Santa himself at the urinal to his right. He almost wanted to laugh at the idea of him being there, but figured that even St. Nick needed to take a leak as much as every other guy did.

"Hey, kid," Santa greeted him casually after feeling his stare. "Finished shopping yet?"

"I think so. Did you have somebody look at your-"

"All patched up," he responded, holding up his wrist that was now covered with a tan bandage. Ben couldn't help but notice that the stain -blood or whatever- was still there on his sleeve.

"Aren't you gonna tell somebody what happened?"

Santa walked away as he zipped up, the automatic flushers on both urinals activating as he turned to follow him to the sinks.

"So, you really just have to know, don't you, junior?" he asked as he applied the bright pink soap and began scrubbing his hands vigorously.

"I-I guess so."

"Well, either you do or you don't, little buddy. Remember that I know when you're being honest with me or not."

"Yes," Ben replied while cleaning his own hands.

"Well, Santa and Mrs. Claus have been together since he played baseball back in high school. Santa had a scholarship waiting for him at Temple University and everything. Then, right before Santa could even frame his diploma, Mrs. Claus springs on him that she's expecting a little Claus and that all the plans were off."

Santa grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and started wiping his thick hands, Ben unable to look away from them.

"We found a place and Santa's brother got him a job driving a truck for UPS, which is ironic as fuckin' hell when you think about it. I can't go anywhere without a package under my arm; neither rain, sleet, nor snow. The kid grew up, discovered boys and Vicadin, and ran off with a biker after pawning our best silverware. I keep expecting to turn on Springer one day and see her there with her six kids, weighing two hundred pounds, and the names of her babies' daddies tattooed on her titty."

By now, a few other men had come in to use the facilities, barely glancing twice at Santa talking to an eight-year-old in a public toilet. The room reeked of urine the janitor's mop must've missed.

"You have a daughter?" Ben asked because he didn't exactly know what else to say.

"Sure do," Santa responded, adjusting his beard in the mirror and baring his teeth to check for food particles. "Although I have no idea if she's even mine, considering that Mrs. Claus had a few "incidents" when Santa had to go to some out-of-town games back in school. She said that they didn't mean anything, really. That she just got lonely and needed someone to hold her. Sure, pee on me and tell me it's raining. Anyway, we kept on with our lives together and tried to just get by. Santa worked like a Hebrew slave and kept the bills paid, while Mrs. Claus sat on her ass in front of the TV half the time. I loved her but I resented her, too. My brother and I used to talk over drinks after work about it, but I didn't feel that better when I got home."

Someone had gone into the last stall and was taking the foulest dump Ben had smelled since his grandfather had used their upstairs bathroom last Easter. He tried to breathe through his mouth in shallow breaths but it didn't help much.

"It was her idea for me to do the department store Santa thing, joking that I might as well get some extra money out of this belly I was carting around. I had a good mind to tell her that she could take her own advice if they could find a beard to fit."

"I think I need to go, now," Ben muttered, but Santa hadn't heard him.

"Having dealt with Gina for the 16 years that we did had soured me on kids, but I did it anyway. All week I sat in that damn chair with this hot-ass suit on; wool and being overweight is a real bad combo. Kids pissing on your knee, screaming like they've got pins sticking in 'em, parents glaring at you to hurry up. I've been thrown up on three times this week and they won't even let me leave to go change. Shit, I had to start coating myself with Scotch-Guard beforehand and hope that I don't set myself on fire accidentally the few times they let me out for a smoke break."

Santa's eyes narrowed, his hands gripping the sink. Ben could see a vein popping up from each of his temples, throbbing ever so slightly.

"If I hadn't gone back home for my pain meds this morning, I would've never known and I think I might've been able to be okay with that. People say that they wanna know no matter what, but they don't really. You can't view people the same no matter how much they do to get you to trust 'em again."

"Known what?"

"They must've been in such a hurry that they forgot to lock the front door, which was my first heads-up that something wasn't right. I sneak in, thinking maybe we've got one of those home invasions and I grab the fire poker. A lot of good that's gonna do against a nine-millimeter; but, hey, it was the only thing nearby that could do some kind of damage. I walk into the kitchen and there's my brother sliding his Christmas log up Mrs. Claus' fruitcake, their backs to me and perched right there on the same table I just ate breakfast on. Jesus! Were they that hot-and-bothered that they couldn't wait to make it upstairs to the bedroom? Then I thought about all the other times they must've gone at it atop that table, and how recently I'd cleaned it. Then she groans in a way I hadn't ever heard her do in the entire time I'd known her; like his thing had grown an extra three inches while he was giving it to her. Before I knew what I was doing I'd hit the bastard in the back of his head with the poker as hard as I could and they both fell on the floor. So, he's there on the linoleum and bleeding like a stuck hog, she's screaming, and I try to cover her mouth before our next door neighbors hear all the noise. That's when that cheating bitch sinks her teeth into my wrist with all her might and hits me in the face! Like she's the one being violated by walking in on some horrible shit like that. She wouldn't let go and was holding on to me like a pit-bull on a mailman, so I have to end up smashing her head into the brand new cabinet we just got until she let go."

A knot of fear had risen in Ben's throat, wondering if his mother was on her phone and could even hear him if he yelled. Santa sighed, turning his neck at an angle until it loudly cracked.

"I knew that I couldn't just leave them there in the kitchen like that. Sure, it wasn't like we had maid service or something to worry about discovering the bodies. But, if I didn't handle it right then, they'd be there when I got back and so would the smell. So, I grabbed my tools from the basement, several knives from the kitchen, and a bunch of trash bags. I ended up having to take 'em apart in the bathroom, since there was no way you could do something that messy in the little tub next to the washer. I've got a pretty strong stomach, but that almost made me sick through most of it. But I got done and bagged it all up, dropping them into the trunk before heading to work. And, by the way, kid, don't believe those commercials they show about three-ply bags, either. I had to double-bag everything just to keep it from leaking all over the place."

"Y-your trunk?"

"Where else was I supposed to put 'em? I know a guy that runs a solid waste company out in Capitol Heights, so I'll swing by there when I get off tonight. No harm no foul, huh?" Santa winked at him playfully and Ben's knot got bigger.

"Well," he announced as he gave himself a once over in the mirror, "Santa's gotta go hit the stage for his last four hours of fame. Thanks for letting an old fart bend your ear for awhile; I'm starting to feel better, already."

He turned and planted a big wet kiss atop Ben's head, heading for the door. "Merry Christmas, Benny."

Ben went out to his mother a few moments later, her babbling about him taking far too long mere white noise in his ears. His eyes scanned the parking as they left and looked to see if any of the vehicles were "leaking".

That was the first night that Ben began locking his bedroom door and placing a chair against the knob before he went to bed.