The merriest misters, p.6
The Merriest Misters, page 6
“No, it feels outrageous.”
“Think about your students.” I didn’t want to have to pull this card. But he’s making this difficult. “What if that guy that just quit never made it to their houses and they wake up tomorrow present-less like those poor Who children in The Grinch?”
“The moral of that story is the presents don’t matter.”
“Maybe in a perfect Seuss-world, but come on. If you were a child, how would you feel if you woke up on Christmas morning knowing Santa hadn’t been there?”
Quinn’s eyes cast downward. He blows out his cheeks. This is the same way he got when I proposed to him. Even the same way he got when I was trying to convince him to invest our money in this house that has a defunct clock built into the wood paneling and faucets that will, no matter how many plumbers come check on them, not stop leaking.
Maybe I hate this house, too.
“Didn’t you just say we felt old and settled and boring?” I ask.
“No. I said bored. There’s a difference.” He retreats from me. “There’s no way in hell I’m boarding a magical flying sleigh. Too many things could go wrong.” Quinn lives in the present. You have to when you’re a teacher. Balancing today’s lessons with the various ailments and interruptions of seven-year-olds. I, as an architect, have to choose to live for the brighter future. Innovation. Pushing the envelope.
“I understand,” I say. “If tonight, I can help make tomorrow a magical day for children all over the globe, then I have to put on that cloak and go.” I reach out to grab his right hand. I run the pad of my thumb across his wedding band. “But I really want to go with you.”
That’s what I’d said in my vows. Which took me ages to write. When I stood up in front of our friends and family, on that day at sunset on the Jersey Shore, I told Quinn that in every adventure life brought me, I wanted to be able to look to my side and see him smiling there. This is no exception.
“I’m sorry, but this is all incredibly ridiculous, I’m so freakin’ tired, and I just don’t trust you right now,” he says, taking his hand back.
My chest hitches. I’m hurt by his words. But I’m more pissed at myself for losing his trust. “I get it.” I pause to consider what I say next. “I guess I’ll, uh, see you when I get back?”
“Yeah, I guess.” His voice is exasperated. He sits down on the bed and faces away from me.
I close the door as I exit the bedroom, so I’m not tempted to look back at him. Because if I do, I know I’ll stay. I’ll drop to my knees at his feet and ask him what I need to do to make this all okay again.
But there’s a time-sensitive mission at hand that feels destined for me. I can’t let that pass.
Back downstairs, the cloak is still there but Hobart isn’t.
“Hobart?” I shout into the room. He probably has some kind of magical hearing. I’m proven right, even if I still jump from the shock when he materializes in front of me, surrounded by his bright cloud of gold.
“You called?” He’s clutching his pocket watch like it might explode at any second.
“I’m in,” I say.
He looks around. “Just you, then?”
My heart aches for Quinn. But what can I do? Christmas can’t be canceled. “Just me.”
“Okay then. It’s time. Put on the cloak.”
The moment I have permission, the tingling takes hold of me until I’m clutching the fabric of the cloak. I wrap it around myself and disappear into a haze of golden glitter. It feels as if, simply by my putting it on, it’s changing my molecular makeup. The glitter is spiraling in between my cells.
My body grows fuller. And taller. Power surges through me.
Then, the gold dust stops swirling, falls, and shoots itself into the palms of my hands.
“That’s it?” I ask. I guess I was expecting it to take longer.
“That’s it. Transformation complete,” Hobart says. “How do you feel?”
“Good. How do I look?” I ask.
His mouth shifts to one side. “Scared out of your mind. But! No time for that. To the roof we go!”
12
TAKING CHANCES
QUINN
My husband, an elf, and eight flying reindeer are on my roof right now.
I haven’t moved from my spot on the bed since Patrick left the room, and their footsteps pound forcefully right above my head. Whispers of their voices creep in. Hobart is instructing Patrick on flight patterns, rein usage, and which buttons on the dashboard do what. He’s even introducing the reindeer to Patrick one by one.
I can’t believe I’m missing this.
No, scratch that. What am I thinking? This is all so outlandish that I’m shaking.
Patrick is the openly trusting one in our relationship. The kind of guy who floats off on ideas, chases whims. No wonder he’s taken this all as fact.
When we first started dating, he showed me this wacky drawing of a futuristic house that won him first prize in some elementary school competition. His mom kept it preserved in a plastic sleeve. His design ran on technology we’re light-years away from and, presumably, magic. I don’t think he ever outgrew the desire to live inside a fantasy, so it makes sense he wants to go off and get himself bonded to an enchanted cloak.
I must be losing my mind.
I adore Patrick’s trust in a brighter tomorrow, but sometimes I feel like I have to be practical about today for both of us, which means even if I’m upset with him, I can’t stop looking out for him. That part of me doesn’t have an off switch.
I’d be a wreck if anything happened to him tonight and I wasn’t there. His parents would certainly never forgive me for it. How would I even explain it? Oh, I’m sorry, your son disappeared into the night with someone who claimed to be an elf. They’d have me medically examined!
For that alone, I refuse to stay here stewing while my husband goes off on a world-spanning, once-in-a-lifetime adventure. He can have his head in the clouds all he wants, but somebody has to keep his feet on the ground.
Well, as on-the-ground as they can be while in a freakin’ flying sleigh!
“Here we go again,” I mutter to myself, wiggling into a pair of underwear, jeans, and a puffer coat.
Without Hobart’s magic, to get to the roof, I have to pull down the ladder to the attic, which I’m barely tall enough to reach. It takes me three jumps before I hook the string with my left middle finger and the grate comes sliding at me with unwieldy force.
The rungs on the ladder are wobbly, so I grip the sides as best I can and hold on for dear life.
The attic is a spooky place that we never go in so it’s full of cobwebs and smells pungently of disuse. I power through with my sleeve over my nose, crank open the nearest window, and attempt to climb out.
That’s when I hear hooves all moving in unison above me.
“Wait!” I shout, but I know they can’t hear me over all the noise. “Wait for me!”
I try to haul myself out headfirst, but my glove can’t get a good grip on the edge of the roof. The reindeer are kicking snow that’s rolling toward me, hitting me square in the face. I spit it out, about to give up completely when a hand clasps my forearm and tugs me upward with impressive strength.
Once I’m on the roof, I’m being stared at by a confused Hobart and—
“Patrick?” I ask, mostly to myself. He’s at least a foot taller and 150 pounds bulkier since I saw him in the bedroom. He dons the iconic red suit and hat. Patrick always wanted to grow facial hair, but I’m certain he didn’t want it the color of freshly fallen snow, unfurling all the way down to his knees, blowing to the left with the wind.
When Patrick steps closer and I get all this blasted snow out of my eyes, I can, if I really stare, see him beneath the spectacles and the round cheeks, beneath the red velvet and white trim. It’s the baby-blue eyes, mostly. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. In this case, they’re the last remnants of my husband. At least the husband I had an hour ago.
That cloak casts one hell of an illusion.
“What’s going on? We’re on a tight schedule. We don’t have time for delays!” Hobart says, giving me a rankled look.
“I’m coming with you,” I say confidently.
“You are?” Patrick asks, beaming.
“I don’t want you to go alone,” I say.
“Okay. That’s fine. Right, Hobart? That’s fine?”
“Whatever gets us in the air fastest is fine by me. Get in!” Hobart is already boarding the sleigh again, impatience ricocheting off him.
Hobart’s keeping company with the giant sack of presents that, despite the laws of physics, is not weighing this machine down. Patrick and I file into the front seat. I did not get the safety briefing, so I fasten my seat belt, say a silent prayer, and let Patrick take the wheel.
Patrick flips switches and pushes buttons, but at the end of his little routine we’re not moving. “What’s happening?” I ask.
“You have to say it,” Hobart says to Patrick.
“Again?”
“Yes. Every time or they won’t move.”
Patrick sighs and clears his throat. In full voice, he shouts into the night, “On, Dasher! On, Dancer! On, Prancer! On, Vixen!” When each reindeer’s name is called, it goes from standing motionless on four legs to floating in the air. “On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner! On, Blitzen!”
“What about Rudo—” The rest of my words get sucked back into my mouth as we shoot off at hyper speed into the sky.
13
THE FIRST STOP
QUINN
I will not look over the side. I will not puke. I will not look over the side. I will not puke.
We are soaring sky-high (I’m trying hard not to think about just how high we are), and the turbulence and Patrick’s jerky control have me reaching for the barf bag, which Hobart hands to me, just in case. I am not built for this kind of accelerated excitement.
Patrick is trying his best to steer this reindeer-led flying machine but it seems set on defying his every command.
“Why does it drift right when I turn left?” Patrick asks, sounding annoyed. A new fear clips up into my head: What if we capsize? Would we fall out and back to Earth? Are there parachutes on this thing?
“The magic is still fritzing. It has to get used to you.”
“Can you tell it to behave?” he asks.
“Not how it works,” Hobart says.
Patrick huffs, drawing my attention away from the vast, inky sky and toward him.
It’s still disorienting to peer at Patrick and see a jolly-looking elderly gentleman.
Hobart has assured us as soon as he removes the cloak, the spell will break and I’ll once again see his twenty-six-year-old self—blond hair and wiry frame and no-need-for-a-shave cheeks.
Strangely, there is something sort of attractive about the way he looks right now. Not that I ever found myself pining after Santa in Coca-Cola ads or in those old stop-motion specials, but I do find myself appreciating a more wizened man every now and then. Admiring their laugh lines and their distinguished streaks of gray. Daddy issues notwithstanding, it’s allowing me to see Patrick from a new perspective. The cloak shrouds him in a different light.
“Coming in for our first stop,” Hobart announces.
Apparently, the previous Santa had hit all of New Jersey already, so we sprang off to a New York suburb. We land bumpily on a random roof in a quiet neighborhood.
“Ready for your first drop-off?” Hobart asks.
Patrick rubs his hands together. “Ready! What do I do?”
“What do we do?” I ask, standing. I’ve come all this way, somewhat conquered my fear of heights, and nearly thrown up a couple times. There’s no way I’m letting him go do this alone.
Hobart crinkles his brow. “It’s customary for Santa to go by himself.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’s customary for Santa not to quit in the middle of his once-a-year shift, too, but I’m here.”
“Fine, but stay close,” Hobart says. “The enchanted cloak’s magic can only extend so far. It’s a bit like Wi-Fi. If you step out of signal range, you’re on your own. So, let’s get started!”
Setting aside Hobart’s cryptic warning, we grab the presents designated for this address. On the flight over, Hobart instructed that we had a few tasks once we were inside:
Find the Christmas tree.
Lay out the presents.
Respond to any notes left by children.
Sample the cookies and milk.
Bring up any reindeer feed.
Get back to the sleigh before being caught.
It sounds simple.
It’s not.
One at a time, we float down the chimney chute Mary Poppins–style. A self-moving sack of gifts is right behind.
It’s mystifying, being inside someone else’s home in pitch darkness. We’re traversing a minefield of epic proportions as we decide which way to turn.
“This feels illegal,” I whisper to Patrick, who is already leading the charge toward the Christmas tree. He must be following the weak goldish glow coming from around the corner.
“We’re spreading joy. That’s basically the least illegal thing you can do. Besides, we’re leaving stuff not taking stuff.” He’s got the present-sack slung over his shoulder now, and he carries it with remarkable strength. Would I have been this burly had I put on the cloak?
There are rhythmic snores coming from a nearby dog bed. I panic at first, but then settle on my next step. The dog must be a deep sleeper, or the magic makes it so it can’t see or hear me. Either way, I rush past, not wanting to test my luck. I don’t do dogs. Not one bit.
In our quest, I nearly run into a breakfast nook, too taken by a kitchen ripped straight from a Nancy Meyers movie. It has marble countertops, high-top stools, a fabulous farmhouse sink, and tasteful hanging light pendants. I sigh, inspecting the state-of-the-art oven that probably preheats by proximity, reads your mind, and adjusts for the right temperature.
“I actually might want to cook if we had a kitchen like this,” I whisper.
Patrick snorts in response.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, that wasn’t nothing. That was a snort. Why?” I ask, not giving an inch.
“Because, hours ago, you had a breakdown outside our house about how you won’t cook.”
“No, I said I don’t like to cook, but I might if we had a nice, working kitchen like this one and it wasn’t thrust upon me or expected of me,” I say.
“Who’s expecting it of you?” he asks, switching the sack of gifts from one shoulder to the other with ease.
I do my best Patrick impression, pretending I’m walking through the front door and setting down my portfolio by the coatrack. “Hey, babe, what’s for dinner?”
“Is that supposed to be me?” he asks, having the nerve to sound offended.
“No, it’s not supposed to be you. It is you. Every night. As if I haven’t just had a long, stressful workday, too.” I know what he’s about to say before he says it. “And offering to make sandwiches every blue moon with lunch meat and rolls I went out and bought earlier that week doesn’t count as doing your share.”
Patrick’s eyes bulge. At first, I think it’s because he’s upset, but then I track his gaze lower and to my left. There’s a clanking behind me, the patter of paws, and then a low, menacing growl that causes fear to spring up into my throat.
“Quinn, don’t move.”
14
SANTA SAVES THE DAY
PATRICK
Behind Quinn, there is an unfriendly-looking rottweiler with its teeth bared and its back arched. We have invaded his territory. He’s making sure we know it.
“Quinn, don’t move.”
Quinn freezes on the spot.
The cloak gives me powers. It should keep us shielded. Hobart said as long as Quinn stayed close, he’d be protected, too. How can the dog see us now when it didn’t even flinch as we passed it before?
Then again, how could I backhand the last guy with a frying pan?
Shaking away the question, I focus on my newfound night vision, which allows me to notice that one of the ceramic canisters on the counter to my right is labeled DOG TREATS.
“Distract him,” I say.
Quinn widens his eyes at me. “First you tell me not to move. Now you tell me distract him. How do you expect me to do both?”
“Quinn, please listen.” I hope I’m conveying the seriousness here. “When I say go, jump up onto the counter ledge there. I’m going to grab a T-R-E-A-T from the jar over here. I will rush to the sliding door over there and chuck it into the fenced-in yard.”
Quinn shakes his head. Sticks to his spot.
“You have to trust me, okay?” I just don’t trust you right now. Quinn’s words from earlier pierce me again. The same way his terrified eyes do right now. I push through the hurt. He needs me too much. “Keep looking at me. I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”
I lunge to the right. Thankfully, Quinn goes left. The dog predictably follows Quinn with a bark I hope doesn’t wake the whole house. Then, the dog hears the clang of my hand in the familiar jar. At the back door, with a handful of biscuits, I struggle with the lock but get it open in enough time.
Whoosh.
Cold air invades the warm house. I chuck the treats onto the deck and shut the door behind the dog.
Quinn’s still atop the counter. He watches me with wide eyes. I offer him help down. Through my thick mitten, I can feel Quinn’s hand quaking. “You’re okay.”
“I was bitten as a kid,” Quinn says, voice wavering.
“I remember.” We had a lot of conversations about adopting a pet when we lived in our first apartment. Quinn would entertain a cat, but dogs were always out of the question. His skittishness was founded in real trauma that I’m seeing now in real time.
