The Accident Claus

It all started the week before Christmas. That point in December when you’ve been pumped so full of holiday cheer that your eyelid twitches to the beat of “Jingle Bell Rock” and your night sweats reek of eggnog.

I was driving down La Brea when my boss called to ask if I’d pay a visit to one of our international clients. I didn’t have to think twice. “Jingle-dee-dee,” I told him. Then he asked me what that meant, and I said, “Yes.”

The address turned out to be at the North Pole, a place I’d heard plenty about but had never visited. Sure, I’d made plans to go before, when I was five or six. I even told my mom about it. I was going to ride a polar bear all the way there and make toys with the elves. But that’s just one of many things in my life that haven’t panned out.

I arrived around noon the next day and leaned on the bell. No one came, and I started to wonder if I’d just wasted the past sixty-five hours getting there. As I turned to go, I heard the doorknob creak—and out she stepped.

She was one of those broads who make you feel naughty and nice all over.

Sixty, maybe sixty-five. Rosy cheeks, double chin, cute wireless spectacles that didn’t hide the twinkle in her eyes. Poofy red tartan bed cap that fitted snug over her yellowy-white hair. Nice round stomach, with a belt tightly cinched around it, digging into her belly like butcher string around a pot roast. I felt a few beads of sweat pop out under my collar and trickle down my neck. I like a sturdy girl.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a voice as sweet as figgy pudding.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m William McKee. I work for Cooper Mutual. We sold Mr. Claus some sleigh insurance a while back, and it’s time to renew.”

She tucked a stray wisp of hair back under her bed cap and looked at me evenly.

“I’m sorry, my husband isn’t home just now. Won’t you come in?”

She disappeared inside, the scent of freshly baked gingerbread wafting after her.

If I’d known what was good for me, I would have turned and run. But hindsight’s twenty-twenty. And, brother, you didn’t see that bed cap.

We sat down on hickory chairs in front of a cozy fire, and I explained that her husband’s sleigh coverage was about to expire and that I’d be happy to renew it. Well, “happy” was the word I used. But it wasn’t exactly right. I hadn’t felt happy since the fifth grade, when Tonya Benedetti shared her lollipop with me on that field trip to the zoo. But “numbly pleased” didn’t have quite the same ring. So I went with “happy.” Trick of the trade.

“I was just about to make myself a drink, Mr. McKee,” she said, ignoring my pitch. “Would you care to join me?”

“No, thanks. Afraid I only have a minute.”

But she just smiled and set out two huge mugs, which she filled with a thick, milk-chocolate blend. Then she started garnishing them with marshmallows and peppermint sticks and star-shaped sugar cookies and all kinds of wacky stuff. My eyes wandered over to a big leather book on the counter with the words “Naughty and Nice” emblazoned in gold on its cover. I nodded toward it.

“Am I in there?”

She slid me a mug and eyed me coyly. “I don’t know. Do you want to be?”

I had a sudden urge to lean forward and lick her cheek. I had a feeling it would taste just as sweet as one of her homemade sugar cookies. Instead, I let the silence sit between us. I’ll fill you in on a little secret of the insurance business: once I’ve given my sales pitch and I’ve got the client warm, I never miss an opportunity to keep my mouth shut. When you’ve hooked a live one, all it takes to reel them in is a smile and a friendly ear. And that’s just what I intended to provide.

Until she said the line that made my blood turn to ice.

“Tell me, Mr. McKee. Do you sell accident insurance?”

I kept right on stirring my cocoa with that peppermint stick like it was the most natural question in the world. But, inside, my heart was doing the cancan. When you’re in my line of business, you don’t hear that question and not know the score.

She wanted the Big Guy out of the picture.

I took a final sip and stood up to go. I wasn’t about to have any part of this.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” she began, twisting her apron nervously. “It’s just that I worry about him. He travels all the time, and he’s getting older.”

Through her spectacles, her eyes seemed to be pleading with me. I couldn’t help it—my eyes roved up to her bed cap. I believe I mentioned that cap already, about how it fit so nice and snug over her buttery white tresses. She noticed me looking and reached up to smooth the lace trim. She knew what she was doing, all right.

“Where is your husband, anyway?” I asked.

“He’s in the workshop with his elves,” she murmured. “This time of year he sleeps out there. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

She picked a gumdrop out of the pile of candy on her drink and popped it in her mouth. That did it.

I swept her up in my arms.

“Fine,” I heard myself say. “I’ll kill him.”

She smiled and led me to the bedroom.

We didn’t budge for a week.

Of course it was wrong. She was a married woman, and I was on the clock. But, when I was with her, I finally felt full. I felt alive. And another thing: turns out I wasn’t wrong. She did taste like cookies.

Everywhere.

The plan was to snap Santa’s neck with a giant candy cane. Then we’d roll his body off the roof and make it look like a straightforward slip-and-fall. Mrs. C. and I would collect the payout and spend the rest of our lives sipping mai tais in Little Torch Key. Easy as marzipan pie.

It had to be Christmas Night, after the old man got back from his rounds. Otherwise there’d be too many questions. I waited for him in the shadows of the kitchen, where Mrs. C. told me he’d head when he got home. At 5:16 A.M., I heard the icy crunch of his sleigh outside, and, a few minutes later, the sound of the stable gates swinging shut. And then I made out his footfalls in the hallway.

My heart was pounding as I saw him shamble in. I could tell he was tired. And that was just how I wanted it. He dumped his sack and walked straight to the fridge, unbuckling this thick black belt and chucking it onto the couch. He took out a Saran-Wrapped buche de Noël, grabbed a fork, leaned up against the counter, and ate it—ate it like he was teaching it a lesson. He wiped some chocolate icing off his mouth and reached for the pitcher of eggnog.

It was now or never. I white-knuckled the cane, steeling myself to kill Santa Claus for the woman I loved. With visions of Mrs. C.’s long, white hair blowing in a tropical breeze, I lunged out from my hiding place, shrieking, candy cane raised high.

Effortlessly, he dodged my swing, caught the cane in his hand, and lifted me off the ground with it. I held on for dear life as his eyes bored into mine.

Up close like that, it was clear that he wasn’t human. He had the strength of a thousand men. And this is going to sound pretty nutty, but, as I held on to the candy cane and felt his awesome power surge through it, I suddenly understood that all the evil in the world was just people being momentarily naughty. And that really, at heart, everyone was nice.

Everyone except me.

I crumpled to his feet, sobbing into the snow-white trim of his velvet pantsuit.

“I’m so sorry, Santa.”

He rubbed my back with a large, warm hand. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I know you’re a good boy, Billy.”

I wiped my eyes, full of awe. “You remember me?”

“Of course I do! You had that wonderful idea to ride a polar bear here and help my elves make toys in the workshop,” he said, laughing heartily. “Oh, yes, I remember you. Do you still have your Magic 8 Ball?”