Chapter 25 Real Santa (32 Days to XMAS)

THE APARTMENT BELL had been built in the last century

sometime after the Wright Brothers flew. The bell buzzed up through

the tenement like an angry bee with a faint echo. George waited in

the musty alcove of chipped tile, breathing old smoke, hearing the

crotchety voice again.

“Oh … another wannabe Santa?”

He leaned close to the brass speaker and pressed the button.

“Not exactly.”

“Then what the hell are you?”

George paused. The man he had found under KRIS KRINGGLE

did not sound friendly. In fact, he sounded downright hostile. George

pressed the button again.

“The Macy’s Santa told me I should contact you if I have questions

about being Santa.”

“Jerry doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground as far as

being Santa goes,” the old voice grumbled. “Just goes to show you

how hard up Macy’s is.”

“Well, I’d appreciate if you could just give me a few minutes. I’m

not really a Santa by trade. I’m doing it for my daughter who is nine

and doubting the existence of Santa Claus.”

The voice on the speaker grunted. “It’s that Internet and the

Xboxes and DSis and cell phones and the rest of the shit kids waste

their time on. Of course she doesn’t believe in Santa with all the crap

that’s out there now!”

George stared at the rolled newspapers piled up by the heavy

lacquered door. He pressed the button again. “That’s true. That’s why I

wanted to be Santa for her and try and bring back some of the magic.”

“Well good luck with that,” the speaker blared back.

George paused then pressed the bell again.

“Jerry at Macy’s said you were one of the best Santa’s he knew!”

“What an asshole. I am Santa!”

George chuckled and pressed the button again.

“Aren’t we all.”

“No … I … AM … SANTA, YOU MORON!”

George swallowed and considered that going into the dark tenement

wasn’t such a good idea after all. He pressed the bell again.

“You’re kidding.”

“Why should I kid about something like that?”

George rolled his shoulders and pressed once more.

“I just didn’t think Santa cursed as much as you do.”

“You try getting all these goddamn gifts together and getting behind

a bunch of smelly reindeer who shit all over you and fly through

the air with the shit freezing so fast it feels like a cannonball when it

hits you, and you’ll be cursing too.”

George nodded slowly and held the button.

“You have a point there. Reindeer do seem to defecate quite a bit.”

“Defecate! They shit is what they do!”

George paused and breathed deeply, leaning close to the scorched

speaker. “So do you mind if I come up and have a few words with you?”

“Your nickel.”

The electric latch buzzed angrily as George pulled back the heavy

door. He slipped up the musty stairs that smelled slightly like piss and

continued down a long, dimly lit hallway that led to the door with a

single piece of garland stapled to the center. Kris Kringgle was posted

on a four-by-six notecard. George paused then knocked.

“It’s open!”

He pushed on the door and thought of his grandmother’s house

up in Wisconsin. The smell of butter combined with cigarettes and a

faint scent of dust and musty clothes. The long bowling alley hallway

was dark, with a light bleeding from a room at the far end. 

“Hello?”

“I’m back here,” a voice called down the narrow passage.

George walked along the hallway that became an organ of creaking

floorboards following him into a living room where a man with a

white beard and long hair sat wearing a blue sweatsuit in La-Z-Boy

with thick woolen socks and White Christmas playing on a black and

white television. Newspapers were stacked level to his arm along with

pizza boxes. He didn’t bother slapping the paper closed nor did he

remove the spectacles on the tip of his nose.

“The Bears need a damn quarterback. That man cannot have a

game without an interception!”

George stared at the newspaper.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, keeping the paper high.

George sat down on a couch that poofed up dust. The man in

the chair snapped the paper to another page. George stared at the

man behind the paper.

“Well… you certainly look like Santa Claus.”

He snapped the paper shut and looked at George.

“What are you, some kind of L.L. Bean moron? I don’t look like

Santa Claus. I am Santa Claus, you idiot! Jesus!”

He opened the paper again. George looked at his coat. He had

never heard his parka summed up quite that way.

“Well … I’m sorry.”

“You have some questions for me. I have a lot of work ahead of me

as I’m sure you can imagine,” he murmured, looking over his glasses.

“Busy, huh?”

He snorted. “You think?”

“Well … I assume so.”

“I’m due to leave for the Pole tonight, as if it is any of your business.”

“Ah …” George paused. “Well, I guess I was wondering if there is

any … ah … secret to being Santa.”

The paper snapped again.

“Say HO HO HO, and give out a lot of gifts, and don’t get stuck

in the chimney, and wear goggles so you don’t get reindeer shit in

your eyes.” He looked over the paper. “ How’s that?” He slapped the

paper to another page. 

“That comes from experience, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry … I don’t really know your name.”

The paper crackled again. “Kris Kringgle! Can’t you even read?”

“I saw the name on the Internet. How did you get yours changed?”

The man dropped the paper onto the stack and looked over his

glasses, leaning slightly forward.

“Let me ask you a question.”

“Sure.”

“Are you retarded? Did you escape from some institution?”

George smiled slowly. “Me? No, I’m an engineer. I build bridges

mostly, or I design them. Well, I used to before I got laid off.”

Kris Kringgle leaned back and stared at him.

“Can you give me a list of bridges you designed so I never go

over them.”

George laughed lightly.

“They are safe, I can assure you.”

“Uh huh. Well, what else do you want to know?”

“Just if there is any secret I should know. You know, tricks of the

trade to being Santa.”

“I told you—wear goggles.”

George pursed his mouth up and nodded.

“Well, I guess if there’s no real secret to being a good Santa Claus,

then I appreciate your time.”

Kringgle put his paper on the stack and flipped out a lighter and

lit a Marlboro. He clapped the lighter shut and studied George with

the cigarette by his cheek.

“Why are you doing this?” He motioned the cigarette. ”I mean

this thing with your daughter?”

George rolled his shoulders.

“I want my daughter to believe in Santa. She’s only nine. She

wants to videotape Santa and prove to the world there is one. So I’m

going to be the Real Santa for her.”

Kringgle waved his hand.

“They all try and do that, and I catch them every time. Never get

me on YouTube.”

“Well, I want her to video me. It’s the only way I can give her the 

magic back.”

Kringgle flicked ash from his cigarette.

“Yeah, giving the magic back. That’s where most parents screw

up. They are so intent on their careers and their iPhones and their

iPads and iPods, they forget about their kids. They forget the magic

they had when they were kids.”

George nodded. “That’s right. That’s what I want to give her. I

lost my job, and I don’t know, I think I’ve missed a lot. I screwed up

my other family, and I don’t want to do it again.

 

Kringgle picked up his remote and switched the television to It’s

a Wonderful Life.

“You going down the chimney?”

“Yes … I had it all hollowed out so I could fit.”

Kringgle shook his head. “Don’t fall down the bastard. That first

step is a doozy.”

“I hope not to.”

“Relativity cloud is a lot easier you know. Just zoom, and you are

there. No creosote or getting stuck halfway down. ”

George chuckled. “Well, I don’t have one of those.”

Kringgle tipped his cigarette toward him.

“What about getting the sled to fly?”

“Digital projectors and smoke machines,” he replied. “I will have

the reindeer on the roof with ramps at both ends.”

Kringgle watched George Bailey with the cigarette fuming in his

mouth. “Lot of trouble. Relativity clouds are a snap, like I say. You

just move faster than the speed of light and pop down the chimney.”

“That’s pretty good.”

Kringgle looked over his glasses. “Just get done with your bullshit

before I get there. I don’t like people screwing up my landing zone.”

“No problem.”

Kringgle put down his remote and looked over his glasses. The

cigarette whisked by his cheek.

“Anything else?”

George shrugged. “I guess not …” He paused. “But … well … you

really believe you are Santa?”

Kringgle rolled his eyes, puffing perfect smoke rings.

“But … well, how did you know?”

“What do you mean, how did I know?”

“Santa Claus. How did you know you were Santa Claus?

Kringgle opened a box and took out a piece of pizza.

“I just knew. Same way you knew you were an engineer.”

George stared at him.

“I never told you that. How did you know?”

“Santa knows everything, you moron.” He bit the pizza.

“Huh!”

“Anything else?”

George looked around. “How did you end up in this apartment?

Isn’t Santa supposed to be at the North Pole?”

Kringgle shrugged. “Mrs. Kringgle and I separated about a year

ago, and I let her stay at the Pole. She said she was tired of being alone

every Christmas Eve and that all I do on the off-season is watch football,

smoke, and eat pizza and read the paper. I told her everybody

deserves their downtime. Anyway, she found some old boyfriend

on Facebook.” Kringgle raised his fingers in quotes. “Said he had a

normal nine to five.”

“That happened to me too,” George cried out.

“Yeah … she married me for excitement, and now she wants this

boring guy. So I got the bachelor pad, and she kept the Pole. Did the

divorcee bars for a while, but they’re brutal. And I’m not going to cut

my beard just to look younger.”

“I never would have thought Santa had marital problems,” George

murmured.

“Hey, I am who I am.” Kringgle stubbed his cigarette. “She knew

she was marrying a fat guy who smoked and has to work the graveyard

shift.”

George nodded. “Yeah, my wife isn’t too crazy about the money

I’ve spent so far on being Real Santa.”

Kringgle waved his hand. “Don’t get me started … she shops until

she drops, and I give her anything she wants. But I drink a little beer

and watch a little football, and it’s a problem.”

“I guess everyone has the same problems”

“Maybe.” Kringle lifted the paper. “Well, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yes.” George stood up.

“Get the door on the way out will you?”

“No problem.” He turned and walked toward the hallway.

“George!”

“How did you know my name?”

Kringgle’s mouth flattened.

“Please! I knew you when you thought I had been incinerated in

the ionosphere. Your dad … now there is a real moron. He should

read up on relativity clouds.” Kringgle paused. “So, you really going

to do this? This Real Santa thing?”

“Yes.”

“This is going to cost you a lot of money.”

“I have already spent forty thousand.”

“And it’s dangerous being on a roof, and your wife thinks you

have lost your mind.”

“We might split up over it.”

Kringgle looked up. “So … why are you doing it?”

“I told you—I want my daughter to believe in Santa.”

Kringgle waved his answer away. “I know that. But why?”

George hesitated.

“Look … you want to know the secret to being Santa?”

“I do.

Kringgle gestured with the newspaper. “Then tell me why you

are doing it.”

George paused and looked down, then back up. “Because I love

my daughter.”

Kringgle snapped the paper open.

“Shut the door on your way out will you, and give my best to

Megan. Tell her I’m working on the guitar.”

“Sure …” George paused. “Wait a minute. I didn’t tell you my

daughter wanted a guitar.”

Kringgle snapped the newspaper to another page and shook his

head.

“Morons … I’m surrounded by morons.”

Real Santa

STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world. This could have been played as an out-and-out slapstick comedy, but instead the author approaches the story like a character study: a portrait of a man with the best intentions in the world watching those intentions collide with reality. It's a steamroller of a story, starting small, with George's idea, and getting bigger and bigger as George tries to put the elements together, as his obsession takes him further and further away from reality. Beautifully done."                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal


"Hazelgrove's lively improbable narrative will appeal to the readers in the mood for holiday fiction."
                                                                                              Publishers Weekly

       

Chapter 19 Real Santa (40 Days Unitl Christmas)

PARK RIDGE WAS festive with Christmas trees and wreaths

in store windows and people dashing here and there as the elevated

rambled overhead. George was to meet Jeremy and Jamie for their

annual Christmas dinner before his ex-wife took them to Florida on

Christmas day. Every year George would suggest they spend Christmas

with his family, and every year they declined, citing early flights

and logistics and their mother’s intransigence against anything concerning

George.

So it had all come down to a Christmas dinner with his two

children at Winterbeans. George walked into the dim light and was

greeted by the hostess, who said his kids were waiting for him at a

table. His former town had the small town quality of people actually

knowing you. George could still walk in, and the bartender would

bring him his ice tea and chopped salad while he caught up on the

local papers. It was really what George had craved. A nestled home

in a community of people who knew your name and cared that you

existed. So why in the hell did he move out to the country?

George couldn’t quite answer that except to say he wanted a fresh

start with Mary. Shortly after Megan was born they had decided Mary’s

condominium was too small, and George drove out and saw the rambling

white farmhouse and a life among the cornfields of his new family.

An American Gothic existence appealed to him, and the bonus was the

bridge project over the nearby river was a three-year gig.

Then of course the economy tanked, and George’s house along

with everyone else’s lost forty percent in value. Not that he was considering

moving back, but it was strange to not even have that option.

And now his former life was staring him in the face with the twin

 

eyes of filial accusation. You always worked. You were never there for

us. You and mom always fought. You left. Mom left. You left us in that

shitty house with no money.

  

“Hey, guys,” he said gingerly, sliding into the booth.

Neither texting head rose from their collective laps. George pulled

off his coat and scarf and watched his son and daughter stare down

under the table. He noticed his daughter’s hair was flaming red with

one side shorn up like the old group A Flock of Seagulls. His son

looked like a mountain man with shaggy hair down to his shoulders

and a beard approaching a Civil War general.

“And what can I get you to drink?”

George looked up at the pretty waitress.

“I’ll take a Boddington … kids?”

“Miller,” came from his son.

“Same,” came from his daughter.

George held his hand up to the waitress.

“Ah, Jamie, I think you are a little young to be drinking beer.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Whatever, Dad. I drink all the time.”

George laughed and winked at the blonde twentysomething.

“How about a Coke?”

“Fine,” Jamie grumbled.

George nodded. “A Miller and a Coke then.”

She left, and George looked at his kids. Jamie laughed at something

on the screen, and George noticed several more studs on her

right eyebrow along with freshly minted tattoos rolling up both arms.

 

Goth. Biker chick. It was strange to think of his own daughter with

her ripped black fishnet shirt hiding a black lacy bra in terms of one

of those Goth girls he had seen at Depeche Mode concerts.

“So … how is school, Jamie?”

“It blows,” she muttered.

“Well, there must be some classes you like in your senior year.”

“It all sucks dick.” 

George stroked his beard and turned to Jeremy.

“So, son … how is college?”

“Same. It sucks,” he murmured, fast-action thumbs not slowing.

George sighed and leaned in.

“Hey, guys, this is our Christmas dinner. Why don’t we put the

phones away?”

Jamie looked up at him as if he had just hit her.

“You make me come down to this lame dinner, and now I can’t

even use my phone. I’m seventeen you know, Dad!”

“I know, I know. I just thought we could … talk while we are in

our company.”

“Talking is so lame,” Jamie muttered, but she shut down her phone.

Jeremy put his phone in his coat and stared at his father.

 

“So how is everything out in Bedford Falls?”

George watched the drinks come.

“Just a wonderful life,” he murmured.

Jeremy drank his Miller and frowned.

“I’ll bet … after you leave us in the shithole.”

George put down his beer.

“You have a nice house.”

“Not as nice as the one you live in,” Jamie sneered, sulking with

her Coke.

 

“We don’t live in a mansion, Dad. We live in the shithole you left

Mom in.”

George held his beer between his hands.

“I didn’t leave your mother. She left me. Remember, guys?”

“That’s not what she said,” Jamie muttered.

George didn’t want to go down this path because it only led to

 

Dad is an asshole. He picked up the menu and tried to steer away

from the village of filial discontent.

“So, what are we going to have?”

“I’m not hungry,” Jeremy growled.

“Me neither.”

George looked over his menu at his two sulking kids.

“C’mon, guys, it’s on me.”

“Yeah, it’s the only thing we get out of you,” Jamie said, scowling.

“Now that’s not true—” 

“I want a new car, Dad,” she declared.

“Talk to your mother.”

“That’s what you always say, but you don’t pay her anything!”

George put down the menu.

“That’s not true, Jamie. I have paid your mother on time every

month, but she blows it on vacations.”

“Bullshit!”

George stared at the two hot eyes of sooty mascara.

“You left her without a penny,” she cried out. “And now everybody

has cars, and I have to drive that old shitty station wagon you

 

left Mom with while you moved out to your estate with your perfect

daughter and perfect wife and left us to rot here!”

George breathed wearily. “I don’t have a perfect daughter or perfect

wife,” he said quietly.

 

“Oh, really? Megan is so smart. Megan is so sweet. Megan is so

cute,” his daughter mimicked in a high-pitched screech. She jammed

her finger in her mouth. “It makes me want to barf!”

“I never treated you any different than I treat her, Jamie.”

“Yeah … Right.”

Jeremy raised his beer.

“I think Jamie’s got a point, Dad. I mean, what’s this Santa you’re

going to be or whatever?”

George stared at his son.

“Who told you?”

“Mary did. I called her, and she said you were out seeing some

 

guy about reindeer. Reindeer, Dad? You never got us reindeer.”

“Yeah,” Jamie sobbed. “You never got us any reindeer!”

George paused then leaned forward on his elbows.

“Megan is at the age where she is beginning to question Santa …

so I decided I would be Santa for her.”

Jeremy squinted. “But you are getting real reindeer?”

“Well, yes. You see, she wants to videotape Santa, so I’m going to

have the reindeer and a sled and I’ll be in it on the roof—”

“Wait a minute.” Jeremy sat up in his army jacket and stared at

him. “You mean you’re going to put reindeer on the roof for your kid?”

“Yes—”

His son slammed back against the booth. “Great! What … are 

you going down the chimney too?”

George paused. “Yes.”

 

“Dad …” Jamie’s face resembled prison bars with her inky tears.

“You never went down the chimney for us!”

Jeremy shook his head.

“Yeah, I mean, what the hell, Dad? What’s this costing you?”

“Well, the reindeer are hefty but the digital projectors are really

setting me back.”

“WHAT?!” His son glared at him and slammed his beer down.

“Digital projectors?!”

“Ah … yes, to project on smoke the image of Santa acceding to

the roof,” George mumbled, not feeling good about any of this.

“You never used digital projectors for us,” Jamie wailed. His

daughter was now crying profusely.

Jeremy shook his head and looked at his father.

“You told me when I was nine that Santa would spontaneously

combust from the g-load. Do you remember that, Dad, when I asked

you if Santa was real?”

“Yes, and I regret it, son.”

“You never even told me about Santa,” Jamie wailed, wiping black

mascara on her napkins.

“But for your new daughter you’re going to recreate Santa Claus.”

Jeremy leaned into the table. ”Do you see, Dad, why we might be a

little pissed about that?”

George nodded slowly. “Yes … but I never meant to favor one

child over another.”

“Well, you are, Dad, you are.”

“You are giving her a Real Santa, and you won’t even give me a

car,” Jamie screamed, standing outside the booth suddenly. “I hate

you! I hate you! You’re a … dickhead, Dad!”

George realized then the entire restaurant had paused to watch

his daughter call him a dickhead dad. He spoke out of the side of his

mouth. “Jamie, sit down!”

The Goth woman with mascara flowing would not stop.

“YOU WONT EVEN GIVE ME A CAR! YOU’RE A DICKHEAD!”

Then she stormed out the door, passing patrons—a heavyset,

ink-stained Goth woman, pierced and tattooed in seventeen-year-old 

angst. The restaurant stared collectively at the man who wouldn’t

even give his daughter a car. Scrooge. Dickhead!

“Well that didn’t go well,” he muttered.

Jeremy shrugged. “You can’t blame Jamie, Dad. She was only eight

when you left. Mom told her in Florida there was no Santa while she

was with that Guido guy on the beach. It really sucked.”

“That’s just terrible.”

“Yeah, I already knew … but it pretty much blew.”

George sat back down and stared at his son.

“I wish there was something I could do for you guys.”

“I can’t help you there, Dad. You blowing all this money on your

new family kind of speaks for itself.” Jeremy frowned. “I heard you

lost your job.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s got to kind of suck, but it doesn’t seem like it’s slowing

you down.”

The waitress appeared.

“Are you ready to order?”

“Give us a few minutes.”

She left, and George stared at the laminated tabletop. He paused.

“You’re right. I was a bad father in some respects.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jeremy said into his beer.

“But … I always wanted you and Jamie to have the best too.”

“Really? That why you worked all the time?”

“Partly. Partly because I was building a career.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“Look,” George leaned in. “Why don’t you come out on Christmas

Eve and help me?”

Jeremy frowned. “I don’t get it.”

“Come out and help me be Santa. You can be my helper. You and

Jamie. It’s not the same as being Santa for you, but you could be in

the sled with me as Santa’s helpers.”

Jeremy finished his beer.

“I don’t think so, Dad. You know we go to Florida that morning.”

“I know, I know. Just think about it. It’s something we could all

do together one last time. Maybe I can give you back some of the

magic that we lost.” 

Jeremy put his empty bottle on the table and stood up. He zipped

up his army coat and looked down at his father.

“I know Santa’s not real, Dad. Some asshole told me he spontaneously

combusted from the g-load on reentry.”

Real Santa...Starred Review Booklist   

Chapter 17 Real Santa (43 Days Unitl XMAS)

 

GEORGE WAS HAPPY to feel the warmth of his coffee cup

after the warehouse he met the carpenters in. They had assured him

they could build the ramps to his father’s specifications and would

transport them to his home on December 24th. Dean had found the

carpenters and said he used them for many “shoots,” but George had

to write another five thousand dollar check. He felt like a man who

had been on a binge only to wake up and feel the hammerhead of

remorse banging away.

Mary drew a finger through the sheen of dust on the kitchen table.

Everything was coated with the fine grit of cement. The day had

been filled with the sound of giant guns firing down from the roof.

Joe had started with jackhammers, and the cement rained down into

the hearth and rolled out into the house in a dust cloud. They had

sealed the fireplace with plastic, but somehow this dust seeped out,

and now the house was coasted with the fine ash of grey particles.

“I hope your project is going well because we now need a Real

Santa for Megan to videotape,” Mary said wearily.

George felt heat rising up from his neck. He had driven home

totaling up the costs, and he figured he had spent thirty grand and

Dean told him the digital projectors were now three grand to rent.

Three thousand! That was when he considered shutting the whole

thing down. Maybe he was having a midlife crisis.

The mornings in the mirror examining his teeth, his skin, his very

thin grey hair, had taken on another dimension. He had lived a lot of

years, and he didn’t have a lot to show for it. His savings were meager

after the divorce. His kids were not stellar examples of parenting. He

and his ex-wife traded insults for Jeremy being a pothead and Jamie

becoming a Goth chick covered with tattoos and piercings.

But more than that, George had lately questioned his profession.

All he had done was design bridges for thirty years! Sure, there had

been other projects, but he was a bridge man and that just seemed

trivial in the cosmological scheme of human endeavor. When he

kicked the bucket there would be no plaques, no books, no paintings,

no buildings to mark his passage. Even the bridges he designed

were usually named for some dead president or senator. The George

Kronenfeldt Bridge simply would not exist.

Maybe that was why he had gone crazy on the bike bridge. He

knew it was overkill with the single girder across the highway, but

dammit, he wanted something to stand for all time that would have

his mark, and that bicycle bridge surely did. So it had come down to

Megan. He wanted her to become his legacy. He wanted his daughter

to tell everyone one day that her dad had kept her belief in Santa

Claus alive. He was going to be the Real Santa if it put him right in

the poorhouse. And it looked like he was heading there quickly.

“George …” Mary was looking down at her hands. They were

chapped and red from the dishes she insisted on washing by hand.

“It is your business what you spend, but how much have you given

Dean to help you?”

“Five thousand so far,” he muttered.

Mary adjusted her glasses, pulling her sweater together. “It’s not

that I don’t trust, Dean, it’s just he is a bit of a dreamer and has some

very crazy ideas sometimes.”

George stared down at his coffee and nodded.

“Yeah, I picked that up. He wants to film this himself, and I think

he is trying to create a movie set.”

“Just don’t let him put you in the poorhouse, George.”

“I won’t.”

Mary paused again, looking across the table.

“How much have you spent so far?”

“You don’t want to know.”

She blinked, her arms creating a trail in the dusty covered table.

“You’re right. I don’t want to know. Do you really think this is something

we should be taking on right around Christmas?”

“No.” George stared at the taped up plastic over the fireplace.

“But I can’t let Megan down. She promised her class she will bring

in a video of the Real Santa.”

Mary clasped his hand. “Just promise me you won’t lose the

house.”

George shook his head. “I may be nuts, but I’m not crazy.”

She held his hand and nodded. “I trust you.”

He felt a strange ripple of fear inside. He always thought of himself

as being in control, but lately a madman had taken over who could

do just about anything.

“By the way, Mrs. Worthington requested that I go to the Christmas

party,” Mary continued.

George looked up.

“Apparently you two had some words before the conference.”

“All I did was tell her that we were trying to protect Megan and

keep her belief in Santa alive.”

“She said you threatened her, George.”

“I got a little worked up when she said she wouldn’t perpetuate

myths.”

“Well … maybe I should go to the party instead.”

“No, no. I promised Megan I would be at the Christmas party,

and I’m going to be there.”

Mary stared at him.

“I’ll be good. I promise I won’t say anything else to the bitch … I

mean, Mrs. Worthington,” George muttered.

His wife stared at him.

“What?”

“ ‘Don’t friggin’ mess with Santa?’ Really, George?”

Real Santa....Holiday Sale 1.99

STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world. This could have been played as an out-and-out slapstick comedy, but instead the author approaches the story like a character study: a portrait of a man with the best intentions in the world watching those intentions collide with reality. It's a steamroller of a story, starting small, with George's idea, and getting bigger and bigger as George tries to put the elements together, as his obsession takes him further and further away from reality. Beautifully done."                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal


"Hazelgrove's lively improbable narrative will appeal to the readers in the mood for holiday fiction."
                                                                                              Publishers Weekly

Chapter 9 Real Santa (Chapter a Day until Christmas)

GEORGE’S FATHER WAS studying the Berghoff menu in his

floppy hat and long coat, looking more like a bag person than a man

who had retired after forty years working for the railroad. The menu

framed inside the front door of Berghoff’s was from 1931.

“Look at this! This is how much things used to cost! This was

when a man could afford to eat! Look, a dinner for a quarter! Shrimp

for fifteen cents! None of this bullshit now where you can spend a

hundred bucks and still get a shitty meal!”

His father turned.

“Can you believe how good things used to be?”

“Yes, I can,” George replied dully, brushing off the snow.

“How did everything get so screwed up,” his father muttered.

“You want to get a table, Dad?”

His father shrugged wearily. “Yeah, let’s get a table.”

They sat down, and his father started looking for a waiter.

“So, you get a job yet?” he asked, dropping his floppy hat on the

table. The shiny dome of Kronenfeldt Sr. caught the light.

“No, Dad. I didn’t get a job,” George muttered.

“Well, coming down to have dinner with me won’t get you one.”

“I know, Dad.” George paused and brought up his notes from the

night before. “I wanted you to go over some drawings I made and tell

me what you think about my calculations.”

His father pulled on his glasses.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s calculations I did on the load-bearing capabilities of the roof

of my house.”

“Santa Claus . . .” His father squinted. “What the hell?”

“I’m doing a project at home, and I’ve been working out the numbers,

but I wanted to get your thoughts on some of my calculations—”

“What, you’re building a bridge over your home? What is this

thing?”

George leaned over and tapped the drawing. “That’s a ramp.”

“A ramp? A ramp for what? You driving a car onto your roof?”

“Not exactly. I’m going to be driving nine reindeer on my roof. I

figure at about three thousand pounds . . .”

His father looked up.

“Son, have you lost your mind?”

George sat back as the waitress approached.

“What can I get you gentlemen?”

“Double order of sauerbraten extra cabbage, extra spinach, coffee,

and a big piece of apple pie.”

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll take an iced tea and the same,” George replied, handing the

waitress the menus.

She left, and he stared at his father.

“Seriously, son. I think you should talk to someone.”

“I’m doing a project for Megan, Dad.”

His father frowned. “What kind of project—a zoo on your roof?”

George clasped his hands and breathed heavily.

“No, I’m going to be Santa Claus. The Real Santa Claus.”

His dad leaned back against the upholstered booth.

“Oh, good. I thought you might have gone nuts. You’re going to

just be the Real Santa Claus. That’s a relief.”

George stared down at his plate. “Dad, do you remember what

you said to me when I asked you if there was a Santa Claus?”

“No.”

George paused. “You said that the only way there could really

be a Santa Claus was if he went the speed of light. And that if he

went the speed of light, the g-forces would tear him to pieces, and

he would be fried like an egg. You said he would combust and splat

all over the place.”

His father shook his head. “I never said that.”

“Yes you did, Dad. You were working and in one of your moods,

and I asked you at the wrong time. That’s what Mom said.”

“Nope. I don’t remember that.”

George paused. “It doesn’t matter, because I said the same thing

to my son, Jeremy.”

His father shrugged. “He’s a grown man now.”

“I know that. But I still screwed him by telling him that when he

was just a kid.”

His father waved his hand. “Ahhh, kids find out sooner or later.”

“I never did, Dad.”

“Well, you’re different. You’ve always been a little off, son.”

“Thanks. Anyway, Megan is starting to question Santa Claus,

and I almost told her the same thing. I almost did it again! She is

starting to now believe in Santa and won’t believe unless she sees

the Real Santa Claus.”

Kronenfeldt Sr. shrugged. “So that’s it. There is no real Santa.

Just tell her that.”

“I can’t do that. I want her to believe in Santa, Dad.”

“But why?” his father cried out.

“Because you only have a short time before life turns to shit.”

“Yeah … so?”

“And I want to extend the magical part for her.”

“Son, you can’t stop life. That’s just reality.”

George looked at his father. “Dad, I am going to do this thing. I’m

going to be the Real Santa. I’m going to land a sled on the roof, go

up the chimney, go down it, deliver the gifts, and then I’m going to

get back in the sled and take off into the sky. I would like your help,

but I will do it with or without you.”

“I think this last job fried your brain, son.”

George smiled and looked down at the table. “I need your help,

Dad. I need someone who can tell me what will work and won’t. I’m

good on bridges, but this is everything. You were a civil engineer and

a mechanical engineer. I need someone I can trust. But if you don’t

want to help me, that is fine.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Dad, I have it all laid out. Here.” George pointed to the drawing.

“I’m going to have nine reindeer go up this ramp, but I think the pitch

might be too steep. Anyway, they will go onto the roof here. Then

they will line up and be attached to a sled and go a few feet on the

roof. The sled will never really take off or land. That will be done with

digital projectors and smoke machines. So the real physical part I need

your help on is reinforcing the roof for the extra load, maybe three

thousand to thirty-five hundred pounds. There will be two ramps,

one for the reindeer to get on and one for them to get off, here and

here. They will have to be fairly long and not too steep.”

George’s father stared at him. “You’re going to put reindeer on

your roof?”

“Yes.”

“Son.” He shook his head. “You have really lost your marbles.”

“Dad, I’m doing this. I am going to let Megan keep her childhood.”

His father chewed on his lower lip then shook his head. “I knew

you should have never gone to that summer camp. You never were

the same when you came back.” He put on his glasses and looked at

the drawing. “How are you going to go down the chimney?

“Same way mountaineers climb—with a rope-and-pulley system.”

His father looked up. “There’s not enough room in the chimney.”

“There are two chimneys. I’m going to have the adjoining wall

knocked out, and I will have a ladder or rungs on one side that will

allow me to climb up and down the chimney.”

His father closed his eyes then held his hands over his face.

“You’re going to kill yourself, son.”

“Not if I’m careful.”

“Son, this is nuts.”

George leaned in. “Dad. I have spent my life working and not

being with my family. I screwed up Jeremy and Jamie. I’m not going

to mess up Megan.”

His father leaned back against the booth.

“Son, give her a trip or a car or something, but this, this is a

disaster!”

“Then you won’t help me?”

His father rubbed his forehead and didn’t speak. He took off his

glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Jesus!” He shook his head again. “Where 

will you get the reindeer?” he asked through his hands.

“I have a man I am going to see tomorrow.”

His father put back on his glasses and stared at the drawing again.

“Your ramp is all wrong. It has to be a lot longer than this if you

want these animals to go on a roof. Do you have a calculator?”

George handed him his calculator. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Just don’t tell your mother,” he muttered.

George looked at his father. His mother had died five years before.

Order Real Santa   

Chapter 8 Real Santa (A chapter a Day Until XMAS)

GEORGE DROVE HIS daughter to school through the snow-covered

quiet countryside. It was the benefit of moving into the middle

of nowhere. You got to see a lot of nature, and it was very pretty with

the heavy snow in the pines and the homes looking like something out

of Currier & Ives. Jingle Bells was on his satellite radio, and George

drove with his coffee cooling in the console and his daughter humming

along with the Christmas music.

“Well, I don’t get to do this every day.”

“Why don’t you never go back to work, Daddy, then you can

drive me every day?”

Megan smiled at him with her two large front teeth.

“I might just do that,” he murmured.

“I like it when you take me. Mom always goes over my homework

in the car but you just play music.”

“That’s why dads are more fun.”

He pulled into Ridgeland Elementary’s parking lot. George looked

over at his daughter and had a momentary pang of sadness. She had

been turning to him, and her hair fanned over one eye. She looked

like a young woman. It pained him to think that next month she

would break into the double digits.

“Dad, you are supposed to drop me off in front of the school.”

He turned off the car. “I just wanted to speak to Mrs. Worthington

about your Christmas party and see if she needs any more helpers.”

Megan hoisted her backpack with the small duck clipped to the

zipper. The duck gave him heart. She was still a little girl. There was

still time.

“That’s all set I think, Dad. I think they have enough moms.”

“Well, maybe they can squeeze in a dad,” he said gingerly. “Come

on, you can show me your classroom.”

George and Megan squished through the snow and walked into

the heated lobby of her school. The smell of institutional food took

him back to when he was a boy. Where did that smell come from anyway?

It seemed every school in the world was sprayed with cologne of

warm caramels. He followed his daughter down through the hallway

crammed with teachers, mothers, students and the occasional dad.

George and his daughter walked into her classroom, where kids

were dismantling their cold-weather gear. Boots, coats, hats, scarves,

melted snow, and gloves were all over the place. The American flag

hung on one wall with the ABCs running over the board. Posters

about being a good writer, a good citizen, and a good speller broke

up the cinder block walls. Children squealed with excitement. George

remembered his own moment of bliss in sixth grade when he had

walked home from school with a small rubber basketball. It had been

a gift from the Christmas party, and he bounced it the whole way,

knowing that only good things were ahead.

“Dad, there’s Mrs. Worthington, if you want to ask her about the

party,” Megan whispered.

His daughter had already hung her coat, scarf, and gloves in her

cubbyhole. She was very efficient, and George marveled at how different

she was from his other children. Everything seemed a struggle

with his prior family, whereas Megan seemed preprogrammed. So

far, she had been a parent’s dream.

“Alright, I’ll go ask her,” he said, approaching the woman with

the silver globe of hair.

George cleared his throat. “Ah, Mrs. Worthington?”

Cold grey eyes turned on him. He smiled at the dowager in the

print dress with the cold, thin lips.

“Yes. May I help you?”

“I am Megan’s father, George Kronenfeldt.”

Mrs. Worthington put down her pencil and clasped her hands. 

“Children take your seats!” Her eyes returned. “What can I do for

you, Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

“Ah, well, Megan came home and told us about the conversation

you had about …” George leaned down and whispered, “about Santa

at the North Pole and how it’s too cold for him there.”

Mrs. Worthington’s eyes frosted over. “And?”

George smiled again, tweaking his beard. “Well, I was thinking.”

He leaned in closer. “If you could just go easy on the whole Santa

couldn’t survive up in the North Pole stuff, I would appreciate it.

Megan is starting to doubt the existence of Santa, and we’d like to

keep that illusion in place as long as we can.”

Mrs. Worthington’s eyes dulled, her mouth turned down.

“It is my job to teach these children, Mr. Kronenfeldt, not perpetuate

 

myths.”

George stared at the woman, who had crossed her arms. He

suddenly remembered Mrs. Gary in first grade who hit him with a

pencil because he couldn’t make his eights properly. Mrs. Gary hit

him on the skull. No, no, no, no. How stupid are you? You make them

like this! Then he made another snowman. NO, NO, NO. LIKE THIS!

Whack, whack, whack! Mrs. Gary had broken several pencils before

he drew an eight.

“Well, I am just requesting you stay away from Santa discussions

then. These children don’t really need to hear that the climate in the

North Pole is too harsh for Santa and his elves,” he continued gingerly.

Mrs. Worthington raised her pencil like a jousting pole.

“Mr. Kronenfeldt, nobody tells me how to teach. I will teach as I

see fit, and if you have a problem with that, then I suggest you take it

up with the principal. I knew I would get one of you parents coming

in here whining about Santa Claus.”

George felt his face turning red, watching the pencil in her hand.

“Whining about Santa Claus?”

“That’s right. Every year it’s the same thing. I get some bleeding

heart parent who thinks I have damaged their child.” Mrs. Worthington

beat the pencil in her hand. “Life is hard, Mr. Kronenfeldt, and it

is getting harder. The last thing these children need are more myths.”

George laughed lightly.

“Ah … well with all due respect, Mrs. Worthington, that is not 

for you to decide.”

Mrs. Worthington stood up in her floral dress with the pencil in

her right hand. She batted the pencil toward George like a piston.

“This conversation is over. Please leave my classroom.”

George stared at her.

You going to hit me with that pencil?”

 

“What?”

“Weren’t you ever a little girl, Mrs. Worthington?”

 

“Goodbye, Mr. Kronenfeldt.”

George stared at her.

“You were never a little girl who believed in Santa?”

Mrs. Worthington shook her head.

“We did not have myths in the home I grew up in!”

George frowned.

“What … were you raised in a Conestoga wagon by nuns?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Kronenfeldt!”

“Look, just leave Santa Claus out of the classroom. Okay? And

there will be no problem.”

Mrs. Worthington’s eyes narrowed, the pencil probing toward

his face.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

George grabbed the pencil from her hand and snapped it, throwing

the two pieces on her desk. He leaned in close to the old teacher

staring at him like a rapist.

“Don’t friggin’ mess with Santa.”

Real Santa...Sometimes you have to go for it.
STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world. This could have been played as an out-and-out slapstick comedy, but instead the author approaches the story like a character study: a portrait of a man with the best intentions in the world watching those intentions collide with reality. It's a steamroller of a story, starting small, with George's idea, and getting bigger and bigger as George tries to put the elements together, as his obsession takes him further and further away from reality. Beautifully done."                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal


"Hazelgrove's lively improbable narrative will appeal to the readers in the mood for holiday fiction."
                                                                                              Publishers Weekly