The Drifter's Gift

Seated on an oversize armchair of cheap black vinyl and wood that was spray-painted gold, he gazed at the ocean of children before him and felt like he’d been sacrificed to an alien nation.

They were lined up in an endless stream, dozens of them, not a one taller than its mother’s hip and as far as Sam could tell, each doing the same thing—wiping its nose on its sleeve and waiting to sit on his lap.

The minute—the very instant—he saw his old friend Joe Lawson, he would tell the back-stabbing lummox exactly what he could do with this “job.” Come to Idaho, buddy…. Always a place for you at Lawson’s, pal…. Sam’s gloved hand clenched. Wiseacre, joking son of a—

“We’re ready, Santa!” A woman dressed in a short green tunic, green tights and ankle boots gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Sam winced on her behalf. She looked like a cross between an elf and the label on a can of peas. Behind the stiff, scratchy beard the Lawson’s Superstore management had. handed him, Sam gave a brief, sorry shake of his head. He doubted he looked any more dignified than she.

“Testing…” The woman tapped a microphone. She whispered, but her voice carried. “One, two, three, testing…” Satisfied the PA system was up and running, she motioned for quiet—got none—and proceeded.

“Greetings, shoppers!” she boomed into the mike. “Welcome to Lawson’s Superstore’s third annual holiday extravaganza!” Scattered applause. “A month-long schedule of sensational seasonal events designed to make your holiday shopping spectacular!”

Unbelievable. Sam scanned the crowd while Ms. Elf held for cheers. A few people clapped. A baby cried. Undaunted, she continued. “Only three weeks to Christmas, shoppers, and you know what that means. All throughout the store today and every day between now and December twenty-fifth, you’ll find super-phenomenal savings on a wide variety of products, everything from bulk carrots in our produce section—” she pointed east “—to holiday tablecloths and place mats in housewares, aisle four. And while you’re shopping, shoppers, don’t forget that we have a special treat for little customers.” She grinned. “That’s right, he’s here—”

Oh, brother. Beneath the mountain of foam padding that covered his stomach, Sam felt his gut clench. I swear to God, the next time someone offers me work—

“—in Lawson’s Holiday Village—” the elf warmed her audience like a veteran Ed McMahon, and this time the children screamed with pleasure “—straight from the North Pole—”

Joe, you son of a bitch.

“Moms and dads, boys and girls—” she flung out an arm “—the one, the only…Santa Claus!”

Trapped, gulled, conned into playing a part as foreign to him as Bermuda shorts to a polar bear, Sam raised a white-gloved hand. His smile felt as frozen as his vocal cords, his lips barely moved, as he attempted that immortal refrain.

“Ho. Ho. Ho.”

Three hours later, the line of children had dwindled considerably, but both of Sam’s legs were killing him. He’d been seating the kids on his uninjured right thigh, which was now almost as sore as his left.

At present, a little girl named Sarah Jean was running through a list of requests that would bankrupt her parents within an hour.

“…and a Malibu Barbie, Hunchback of Notre Dame lunch box—I don’t like Pocahontas anymore…”

Sam nodded. Discreetly, he thought, he lifted his gaze to where the elf stood, checking the flash on the camera she used to capture these special holiday moments—for three bucks a pop. It was her job to signal when a kid’s five minutes with Santa were up. Sarah Jean, he was sure, had to be pressing the limit.

“Are you listening?” The pigtailed girl caught him shifting his focus.

Sam returned the malevolent stare. “Yeah. You don’t like Pocahontas.”

Looking at him suspiciously, Sarah Jean resumed her request concert. With each new mention of a toy, she swung her patent-leather shoes into Sam’s shin. He’d asked her twice already not to do that.

“Sarah Jean,” he said once again, “I told you, don’t kick Santa.”

The little girl glared at him. “I don’t like you. The other Santas are better. I went to Boise and that Santa told me I’d get everything I deserved for Christmas.”

For the first time that day, Sam allowed a genuine smile beneath the bushy mustache. “I’m sure he’s right.” At last his co-worker gave him the high sign. Thank God. “Okay, kid. Turn around and face the elf.”

A bright flash caught them both, then Sarah Jean hopped off his knee and scurried toward her mother, casting suspicious glances at Sam.

Mildly repentant, he sighed. He was probably ruining Joe’s business, giving dozens of innocent Idaho youths a fear of Santa Claus—and their parents a fear of shopping at Lawson’s.

Ten children remained in line. Rubbing his leg, Sam resolved to be as Santalike as possible for the next fifty minutes. The next child up, a little boy, approached and stood at his knee.

For several moments—long ones, Sam thought—he and the kid just stared at each other.

Thick, wavy red hair hugged the boy’s head like a woolly cap. Freckles splattered the bridge of his nose. Dressed warmly in crisp, neatly pressed clothes and brightly colored tennis shoes, he was just the kind of kid Sam remembered his friends picking on in grade school. The kind of kid who looked wellmothered.

Thrusting out a flannel-covered arm, the little guy held up a paper lunch bag. “These are for you. My mommy made ’em. She says they’re the kind you like.”

Accepting the bag, Sam opened it to examine the contents. The aroma of butter and brown sugar drifted up. Four very large, very thick golden brown cookies that begged tasting rested inside.

“The kind I like?” he murmured. He didn’t doubt it for a minute. Breaking his own rule—the less contact with parents, the better—he glanced up, searching almost unwillingly for this boy’s mother. She was easy to find.

“I asked her to put in extra for the reindeers, but she says no dessert for them because they can’t brush their teeth. Do reindeers have very big teeth?”

Sam nodded.

Her hair was like fire, as red as her son’s. It waved thickly back from her forehead, exposing a gentle widow’s peak and skin as creamy and subtly toned as her hair was bright. She stood next to an older man, too old, Sam thought, to be the boy’s father. Her gaze was all for her son.

She would stand out in any crowd. Tall and slender, with refined features he could easily imagine on the cover of a magazine, she looked like a woman who belonged in a city—at the theater, in an elegant restaurant, dressed to the nines.

Then she smiled at her child, and Sam had no trouble picturing her in jeans in her kitchen, making snacks for Santa.

All of a sudden, he had the overwhelming urge to taste one of the cookies, just so he could tell her how good they were.

A light tug strained his sleeve. “Should I get on your lap now?”

“Yeah.” Rolling up the bag, Sam looked for somewhere to stow it, settling for behind his chair, next to the cane he was still using. “Thanks,” he said. “Tell your mom…thanks.”

“Okay.” The youngster nodded, then climbed onto Sam’s lap.

“What’s your name?”

“Timmy Harmon.”

“How old are you, Tim?”

“Five.”

“Five.” Sam nodded. “Pretty big for five, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t true, not by a long shot, but it puffed Timmy Harmon up like a helium balloon in a Thanksgiving parade.

“I guess,” he answered proudly, his teeth showing in a white line interrupted by a couple of empty spaces, like missing slats in a picket fence.

Sam smiled a little. This kid was easy to please. Remembering his Santa dialogue, he asked, “Have you been a good boy this year?”

Timmy considered the question. “Uh-huh. I think. ’Cept I forgot to pick up my building blocks.”

The other half of Sam’s mouth joined his smile. “That doesn’t sound too bad. So, what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?” The words rolled more easily than they had all day.

Most of the other children had answered that question immediately, but Timmy merely sat on Sam’s knee, studying him. “Does your beard hurt?” Timmy reached up to pat the white whiskers and frowned. “Feels like the sweater Mrs. Richter gave me.”

“Mrs. Richter?”

“She lives on our block. I have to say thank-you even if I’m never gonna wear it.” Gently, he poked at the space between Sam’s lower lip and the top of the beard. “How come your beard’s not stuck to your face?”

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the elf give him the speed-it-up signal.

“Listen, Tim. I want to make sure you get what you want for Christmas, so why don’t you tell me what’s on your list?”

The boy continued to look at him quizzically. “Are you the for-real Santa?” He sounded doubtful.

Not sure whether to be insulted or relieved, Sam allowed himself a second to think. Getting two dozen troops to march in a straight line was nothing compared to this Santa stuff.

What if he admitted he was just a guy in a cheap velvet suit? Would he ruin the kid’s psyche forever?

Another glance into the candid auburn-lashed eyes, and the answer seemed to come out unbidden. “No, I’m not the real Santa.” Disappointment flashed across Tim’s face. “But I know him.” Oh, jeez! Did I really say that?

“Are you guys friends?”

“Yeah. We’re friends. We…raced reindeer together… in Alaska.” Oh, boy.

Timmy seemed more interested in Sam’s having lived in Alaska than he was in the concept of reindeer racing. Sam answered eager questions about Eskimos and igloos, then saw the elf give him an emphatic wind-it-up. He ignored her.

“Where’s the for-real Santa right now?”

“Right now?” Sam frowned. “He’s at the North Pole. Resting. He’s got to be up all night, you know, on Christmas Eve, and…well, he’s not getting any younger.”

“Like my granpop.” Timmy nodded. “He goes to bed at night sometimes even before I do. How old is Santa Claus?”

“Older than anyone I’ve ever met,” Sam acknowledged. “If you tell me what you want for Christmas, I’ll make sure he hears all about it.”

Timmy got quiet then, plucking at the broad brass clasp of Sam’s belt, looking up with wide, achingly innocent eyes.

Before the little boy could respond, the lady elf approached with a strained smile. Placing both hands on her jutting green-stockinged knees, she leaned forward and spoke to Timmy. “You’re getting along so well with Santa, aren’t you? And I hate to interrupt, but there are lots of other little boys and girls who want to speak with him, too. We can’t take all his time.” Her syrupy voice merely underscored her irritation.

Immediately, Timmy looked like he was afraid he’d done something wrong. Sam felt a surge of very un-Santalike anger.

“Give us a moment, would you, please?” he requested, more politely, he thought, than she deserved.

“Oh, now—” she wagged a finger at Sam “—it isn’t fair to the other children in line to make them wait.”

“We’ll be done in a minute.”

Smiling wider, the elf moved to stand directly in front of them so the parents could not see their exchange. “My lunch hour was thirty minutes ago. I have signaled you three times. I know you saw me—”

“Hey! Elf Lady,” Sam interrupted. “We’re not done yet. When we are, I’ll signal you.”

Timmy watched with openmouthed awe as the woman blinked several times, recovered enough to glare at Sam, then turned and stalked to her station.

“She’s mad,” the little boy breathed.

“Forget about her,” Sam instructed. “She’s not a real elf. So what is it you want this year?”

Timmy’s little legs began to swing nervously. Sam winced when the boy connected with his shin. Gently, he placed a hand on Timmy’s knees. “What do you say, champ? What do you want? Some of the kids have been asking for Power Rangers. They were about your age, I think. You want one of those?”

Timmy shook his head.

“No, huh? Got something else in mind?”

Hesitantly, the boy nodded.

“Okay. Let ’er rip.”

Gaze lowered, Timmy Harmon mumbled something Sam couldn’t understand. “Say it again?”

Timmy raised his eyes. “I want a daddy.”

Hell.

Oh, how Sam wished he’d listened to the damn elf. Feeling his throat freeze, he wondered what he could say. I’m sure your mommy will get you one?

Involuntarily, his eyes fastened on the boy’s mother. The soft smile was still in place. She was standing near the exit, too far away to hear what was being said, particularly with the piped-in holiday Muzak, but she looked curious, apparently aware that he was taking more time with her son than he had with the others.

“Where’s your daddy?”

Timmy folded his hands neatly in his lap. His cheeks were pink. The small shoulders lifted in a shrug.

Well, you had no business asking that, Mclean, none at all. But he wondered. He definitely wondered.

A woman who made cookies for her son to give to Santa, who had hair like autumn, skin like winter and—if they were anything like her son’s—eyes green as summer leaves…had someone walked away from that? And from this boy?

Keep your mind on the job.

“Listen,” he began. He no intention of implying that Santa could dish up dads for Christmas. “Fathers… you know, they aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. I mean, without one you only get yelled at half as much, right?” The smile he attempted fell flat.

His logic made no impression on Timmy, who shrugged again, then asked, “Will you tell Santa?”

Sam looked at the little fellow, so hopeful, so tentative. To say he was out of his element didn’t begin to describe the ineptitude Sam felt. What could he say? “I’ll tell him.”

Timmy stared at Sam a long time. Probably wondering if he should trust a’guy who admits to wearing a fake beard.

Sliding off Sam’s lap to stand at his knee, the child issued a very polite thank-you, then turned and ran off.

The exit from Santa’s Holiday Village was a green runner between two rows of painted cardboard pine trees. Timmy got about halfway down the twenty-five-foot walkway before another child approached for an audience. Sam smiled absently at the little girl, lifting her to his knee. He kept his eyes on Timmy.

At the end of the makeshift aisle, Timmy jogged right, running headlong for his mother and the man Sam guessed was Granpop. The woman received her son by holding out her arm, pulling him in for a quick hug and bending low to speak to him. When she straightened again, she looked directly at Sam and smiled.

It was a thank-you, nothing more, nothing less.

It turned her face into a work of art.

Sam continued to stare after she and her family had walked away. He spent the next forty minutes uttering Santa-isms and a half hour after that had changed out of his costume. He exited the employee lounge, then halted as abrubtly as his bum leg would allow.

Facing him on the opposite side of the wide hall was a community bulletin board crowded with notices about lost dogs, skis for sale and jobs wanted. Standing in front of the board were Timmy Harmon and his grandfather.

“Put on a blue one,” Timmy instructed, bouncing with approval when his grandfather stabbed a colored thumbtack into the corkboard.

“All right, that’ll do it.” Nodding, the older man stood to study the three-by-five card he’d posted. “She’s going to thank me for this. Eventually.”

He put a hand on top of Timmy’s red head. “Let’s see if your mother’s through shopping yet. She’s happier in a market than a gopher in a hole.”

Timmy giggled, and they moved off. Sam wondered if the little boy would recognize him as they passed, but he was chattering up a storm and didn’t even glance Sam’s way. Apparently, out of the red suit Sam was just a stranger with a cane—and Timmy’s mother’s cookies in a brown paper bag tucked in his hand.

Thinking of the cookies drew a growl from his stomach.

Thinking of Timmy’s mother drew him to the bulletin board.

He felt like a voyeur, looking at a board in which he took no interest except for the small card with the blue thumbtack at the top. His eyes first widened, then narrowed as he read the message.

WANTED Man to work on small organic farm. Able to relocate and live on premises for room, board (good food!) and small stipend with potential for future partnership. Must like children. Please reply to Gene, 555-1807

Sam leaned on his cane, staring at the notice. Seemed Timmy wasn’t the only one who thought they needed a man around the house.

Gazing down the hall, he felt a stirring of interest he hadn’t felt for anything in a long while.

When his stomach spoke up again, he unrolled the bag of cookies, reached in and extracted one thick, uniformly browned circle. He planned to have a late lunch or early dinner in the coffee shop next to his motel room, but in the meantime—

The first bite nearly brought a tear to his eye. He tasted oats and brown sugar. He tasted coconut and pecans and…home.

Standing in front of the bulletin board, he chewed slowly, letting the taste—and the feeling—linger.

Home. It had been a long time. It seemed like forever.

Sam stayed where he was until a couple of employees emerged from the lounge, arguing about which of the town’s two movie theaters they should visit Coming back to his surroundings, he pretended to scan the board. But his gaze never strayed, really, his attention never shifted, from the card stuck to the board with a blue thumbtack.

Chapter Three

Leaning back in a desk chair barely large enough to support his big frame, Joe Lawson pointed a finger at his old buddy Sam and nodded. “You look good in a full beard. The white tended to age you, but…” He shrugged and a slow, deliberate grin spread across his amiable features.

Closing the door behind him, Sam entered his friend’s office with an expression more befitting the Grim Reaper than Santa Claus.

“Now, Sammy—” Joe held up a hand as Sam limped into the room “—if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were peeved. And that can’t be, because Old St. Nick is a jolly old soul.” Clasping his hands behind his head, Joe kicked his feet up on the desk and frowned. “Or is that Frosty the Snowman?”

One hundred percent certain now that the Santa job had been Joe Lawson’s pathetic attempt at a practical joke, Sam shook his head.

“Neither,” he corrected, approaching the desk. “Old King Cole was a merry old soul.” Smiling, he cocked his head. “I don’t suppose you remember the one about Humpty Dumpty?”

“Humpty Dumpty?” Joe looked bemused.

“Yeah. How did that go?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” Resting his cane against the desk, Sam folded his arms. “Recite it.”

Shrugging at his friend’s sudden interest in nursery rhymes, Joe recited, “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great—Hey!”

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, but not as great as the spill Joe took when Sam lifted his feet off the desk and shoved him backward. The cushy leather chair in which Joe liked to rock back listed all the way, right down to the floor, with Joe in it.

The big man’s hard belly bounced. Laughter rolled from his barrel chest.

Sam took a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the desk and let a genuine—albeit reluctant—smile curve his lips. “I should have known better than to put that suit on this morning. When they said you wanted me to play Santa, I thought it was a real job offer. I didn’t want to insult your sorry carcass by refusing.”

“It was a real job offer.” Joe climbed out of the fallen chair, righted it and sat down. “Our regular Santa has the flu.” When he grinned, his full mustache hugged his mouth like an upside-down U. “Good to see you, buddy.”

Sam shook his head and smiled. “Yeah, good to see you, too.”

“Seriously,” Joe said, “I know you’re ticked, but you did a good job today. I hid behind the canned pears display and watched. You’re good around kids. You want to do it again tomorrow?”

Sam grimaced. “I’d rather face a court-martial.” Tossing a paper bag on the desk, he said, “Here. Some kid’s mother actually made cookies for Santa. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah? What kind?” Joe reached for the bag. “My sisters always put a plate of oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk near the chimney on Christmas Eve.” Humor pushed his cheeks into rosy apples. “I left M&M’s. I didn’t think he could get them at the North Pole.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Didn’t you ever do that when you were a kid?” Unrolling the top of the bag, he peered inside. “Don’t tell me you didn’t try to stay up all night to catch Santa when he came down the chimney, ’cause everyone I know did that.”

“Sure. Of course.”

Watching Joe inspect one of the large cookies Timmy’s mother had made, Sam wondered why he’d just lied. He was not dishonest by nature, but suddenly he’d had such a strong image of Joe and his sisters secretly awaiting Santa’s big entrance, of their parents peering in from a doorway, smiling in the background, that a myriad of confusing feelings rumbled through him—envy, regret and a strange, discomfiting inadequacy, ludicrous but powerful. Sam couldn’t remember even believing in Santa Claus.

“Not bad.” Joe nodded after taking a bite of cookie. “But we’re running a special on iced molasses bars—one dozen for a dollar ninety-nine in the bakery. Now that’s a good deal, my friend.”

Sam frowned. “These are homemade,” he said, incomprehensibly annoyed that Joe would compare store-bought to the cookies the redhead had made.

Joe shrugged. “You want homemade? My sister Carol is a whiz in the kitchen. She bakes all the time.”

“Hmm.”

“Carol’s smart, too, and funny. You’d like her. Did I ever show you her picture?”

Sam quirked a brow at the man who had been his first friend way back in boot camp. “Are you trying to set me up with your sister?”

“Sure.” Joe grinned. “That’s what big brothers are for. Are you interested?”

Sam grew hot and prickly with the sudden urge to escape. He opened his mouth to decline, then closed it without speaking. He met Carol Lawson years ago and liked her. But she had Family written all over her even then, and Sam had the ethics not to start something he had no intention of finishing.

He shifted on the hard chair, both his leg and his conscience making him uncomfortable. If he was being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he’d come here looking for more than a job. He remembered the Lawson family, their boisterous meals, their easy way with one another, Joe’s comfortable home.

Family.

He wanted to be around it. For awhile. But as a spectator, not a participant. He could close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to sit at a table that wasn’t part of a mess hall. A small table, maybe, small enough to reach across and pour a drink for somebody else. Working together to set the places, smiling and laughing as you handed around the plates. There would be evidence of caring in the simplest ways. Did you get enough potatoes? Yeah. Do you want more gravy? Sure.

Looking out for each other. Appreciating that someone had bothered to make potatoes just because you liked them. Appreciating that someone knew you liked them.

Suddenly he wanted it so badly, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he’d been caught with his fly down. The muscles in his jaw tightened with resentment. He was like an ex-smoker who had to breathe the aroma from someone else’s cigarette to get through the night. When he’d decided to come to Idaho, in the back of his mind had been the notion that he could be around Joe’s family for a brief time and take the experience with him, like a secret, when he left—one final deep inhalation of someone else’s smoke to store up for the years of deprivation that lay ahead.