Madsen
Morrow was eight years old the first time she met Santa Claus. She’d
come downstairs to investigate a noise (sofa legs scratching on the
floor as if shoved) that seemed to have come from the living room. It
was empty when she got there; stockings hung, tree sparkling, fire
burning low.
“Well, that’s strange,” she thought and said out loud. This is was what characters on television did when they were by themselves. Madsen was very fond of television and watched it as often as possible.
She was about to head back upstairs and into bed when she heard a new sound; a humming sound, coming from down the hall.
“Ah-ha,” she said (this also from television).
It was the toilet fan humming. Someone was inside if the light from the crack beneath the door could be trusted.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
The light and fan went off at once.
“It’s too late for that. You’d have done better not to turn everything off. Then maybe I’d have figured that dad or someone had forgotten.” She sighed. “Oh, all right, I won’t lie. I wouldn’t have figured that, really. I’m not dumb, but for all you know I am. So now I know you are.”
The light and fan came back.
“See? Dumb. I know for sure you’re in there now and now you’d better come out!”
The light and fan went off once more. The door opened. And there he was.
“I knew it was you,” she said.
“Did you?”
“You’re not as fat as they say.”
“Is that so?”
“You are fat. Overweight, I mean. It’s clearly not healthy. But it’s really more of a gut isn’t it? All focused on the front. You should see my uncles. Much fatter than you are! Big all around.”
“Mm-hm.” He shuffled nervously. “You really shouldn’t be seeing me, dear.”
“Why?”
“It isn’t… appropriate. There are rules.”
“Oh.”
“Excuse me, I shouldn’t have… Without permission, I mean. Your toilet-"
“You look tired.”
“I am,” he admitted. “Very tired. And hungry.”
“There are cookies. We left them for you.”
He forced a smile.
“You don’t want them, do you? You don’t like cookies.”
“I do. I… would prefer something else.”
“I can make grilled cheese. I'm really good at it.”
He stiffened. “I shouldn’t.”
She smiled. “You’ve got to.”
So she made them each a sandwich and a large glass of juice (orange, the only kind she could find). They were the best grilled cheese sandwiches that either of them had ever had. He told her as much and she blushed with pride.
“Hadn’t you better hurry on?” she asked. “You’ve got a lot of presents to deliver before morning. It’s past midnight already.”
“A long midnight,” he whispered.
“Hm?”
“Nothing. And my dear, you are right, I should be hurrying on.”
“But what’s ‘a long midnight’ mean?”
“Maddie,” he told her. “Look at the clock.”
She did. Midnight.
“Still? It was midnight when I first came down. How’d you do that?”
“Magic.”
She pursed her lips. She folded her arms. Madsen was not amused.
“Really,” she said.
“Really,” he answered. “My time is different than yours. How do you think I do it all in one night?”
“It did seem impractical. But I felt bad for doubting and decided last year not to think on it much.”
“A wise decision.”
“Is not thinking wise?”
“The wisest.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“In any case,” he said. “Now you know. No cause to doubt. I don’t come on Christmas Eve and I don’t come Christmas morning. I come in the time between. From house to house all over the world, all in one long midnight.”
“But only to houses where the kids believe in you.”
“That’s right, to the ones that expect me to come.”
“And what about time zones? What do they do? There are dozens of different midnights, you know.”
“Not for me. Just the one.”
“So, how long does it take?”
“Why, less than a minute.”
“In my time, I mean. Regular time.”
His face fell a little. His rosy cheeks paled. Madsen had seen that exact same expression on her mother’s face nights when her father was late.
“Months,” he said to her. “Years,” he said to his lap.
“No wonder you’re tired. And all they leave for you is cookies? Surely you could bring a sack lunch or...”
She took his silence as a cue to silence herself. Madsen was, among other things, a very astute little girl.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know that’s how it worked.”
“That’s one of the reasons you’re not supposed to see me. If you’re around when I’m around, time slows down for you.”
She snorted through a mouthful of orange juice. It burned up and nearly right out of her nose.
“Will it go back to normal once you’re gone? I’d hate to be stuck in my own long midnight. Big, dark house with my parents all asleep…”
His gloved hand was cold as it ruffled her hair. Her bare hands were warm as they promptly re-straightened it.
“Of course, dear, don’t worry. I’ll take my time when I go.”
He pushed back his chair.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “You don’t need to go now. I just wouldn’t want to be alone like that is all.”
“No,” he said. “I can't say that you would.”
Then he kissed her on the forehead and sent her off to bed. But on the top step, she turned.
“Sir?”
“Call me Nicholas.”
“Nicholas,” she called him. “What’s your favorite thing to eat?”
“Well, I’m not sure, really. I like all kinds of things.”
“But if you could have anything...”
“Anything?”
“Right.”
“I do enjoy a nice sausage with peppers.”
“Red peppers or green?”
His beard wiggled when he cleared his throat. “Orange, if it were up to me.”
“Good, then.”
“Why?”
“I’ll make that next year.”
“Well, that’s strange,” she thought and said out loud. This is was what characters on television did when they were by themselves. Madsen was very fond of television and watched it as often as possible.
She was about to head back upstairs and into bed when she heard a new sound; a humming sound, coming from down the hall.
“Ah-ha,” she said (this also from television).
It was the toilet fan humming. Someone was inside if the light from the crack beneath the door could be trusted.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
The light and fan went off at once.
“It’s too late for that. You’d have done better not to turn everything off. Then maybe I’d have figured that dad or someone had forgotten.” She sighed. “Oh, all right, I won’t lie. I wouldn’t have figured that, really. I’m not dumb, but for all you know I am. So now I know you are.”
The light and fan came back.
“See? Dumb. I know for sure you’re in there now and now you’d better come out!”
The light and fan went off once more. The door opened. And there he was.
“I knew it was you,” she said.
“Did you?”
“You’re not as fat as they say.”
“Is that so?”
“You are fat. Overweight, I mean. It’s clearly not healthy. But it’s really more of a gut isn’t it? All focused on the front. You should see my uncles. Much fatter than you are! Big all around.”
“Mm-hm.” He shuffled nervously. “You really shouldn’t be seeing me, dear.”
“Why?”
“It isn’t… appropriate. There are rules.”
“Oh.”
“Excuse me, I shouldn’t have… Without permission, I mean. Your toilet-"
“You look tired.”
“I am,” he admitted. “Very tired. And hungry.”
“There are cookies. We left them for you.”
He forced a smile.
“You don’t want them, do you? You don’t like cookies.”
“I do. I… would prefer something else.”
“I can make grilled cheese. I'm really good at it.”
He stiffened. “I shouldn’t.”
She smiled. “You’ve got to.”
So she made them each a sandwich and a large glass of juice (orange, the only kind she could find). They were the best grilled cheese sandwiches that either of them had ever had. He told her as much and she blushed with pride.
“Hadn’t you better hurry on?” she asked. “You’ve got a lot of presents to deliver before morning. It’s past midnight already.”
“A long midnight,” he whispered.
“Hm?”
“Nothing. And my dear, you are right, I should be hurrying on.”
“But what’s ‘a long midnight’ mean?”
“Maddie,” he told her. “Look at the clock.”
She did. Midnight.
“Still? It was midnight when I first came down. How’d you do that?”
“Magic.”
She pursed her lips. She folded her arms. Madsen was not amused.
“Really,” she said.
“Really,” he answered. “My time is different than yours. How do you think I do it all in one night?”
“It did seem impractical. But I felt bad for doubting and decided last year not to think on it much.”
“A wise decision.”
“Is not thinking wise?”
“The wisest.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“In any case,” he said. “Now you know. No cause to doubt. I don’t come on Christmas Eve and I don’t come Christmas morning. I come in the time between. From house to house all over the world, all in one long midnight.”
“But only to houses where the kids believe in you.”
“That’s right, to the ones that expect me to come.”
“And what about time zones? What do they do? There are dozens of different midnights, you know.”
“Not for me. Just the one.”
“So, how long does it take?”
“Why, less than a minute.”
“In my time, I mean. Regular time.”
His face fell a little. His rosy cheeks paled. Madsen had seen that exact same expression on her mother’s face nights when her father was late.
“Months,” he said to her. “Years,” he said to his lap.
“No wonder you’re tired. And all they leave for you is cookies? Surely you could bring a sack lunch or...”
She took his silence as a cue to silence herself. Madsen was, among other things, a very astute little girl.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know that’s how it worked.”
“That’s one of the reasons you’re not supposed to see me. If you’re around when I’m around, time slows down for you.”
She snorted through a mouthful of orange juice. It burned up and nearly right out of her nose.
“Will it go back to normal once you’re gone? I’d hate to be stuck in my own long midnight. Big, dark house with my parents all asleep…”
His gloved hand was cold as it ruffled her hair. Her bare hands were warm as they promptly re-straightened it.
“Of course, dear, don’t worry. I’ll take my time when I go.”
He pushed back his chair.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “You don’t need to go now. I just wouldn’t want to be alone like that is all.”
“No,” he said. “I can't say that you would.”
Then he kissed her on the forehead and sent her off to bed. But on the top step, she turned.
“Sir?”
“Call me Nicholas.”
“Nicholas,” she called him. “What’s your favorite thing to eat?”
“Well, I’m not sure, really. I like all kinds of things.”
“But if you could have anything...”
“Anything?”
“Right.”
“I do enjoy a nice sausage with peppers.”
“Red peppers or green?”
His beard wiggled when he cleared his throat. “Orange, if it were up to me.”
“Good, then.”
“Why?”
“I’ll make that next year.”
***
Madsen
Morrow was nine years old the second time she met Santa Claus and,
true to her word, upon that meeting she fed him sausage and peppers.
Everything was overdone; the peppers limp, the sausage black. But the
meal was plenty hot and satisfying for all of that. He enjoyed it and
stayed for what seemed a long time. And yet, like all long times
spent with good friends, it didn’t feel quite long enough.
They talked about all kinds of things in the dark living room on that long midnight. They talked about her father and television, their favorite colors, animals, and jokes that they had heard. She told him about all the bad things she’d done in the spirit of full and honest disclosure.
When he grew tired, she left him to sleep, his heavy frame filling the sofa.
“Goodnight,” she said from the top of the steps.
Hours later (in regular time), the clock still reading twelve, he awoke in the twinkle of the tree’s electric lights, rinsed his face in the bathroom sink, ran his fingers through his beard and silently crept out the way he crept in to finish his long journey home.
They talked about all kinds of things in the dark living room on that long midnight. They talked about her father and television, their favorite colors, animals, and jokes that they had heard. She told him about all the bad things she’d done in the spirit of full and honest disclosure.
When he grew tired, she left him to sleep, his heavy frame filling the sofa.
“Goodnight,” she said from the top of the steps.
Hours later (in regular time), the clock still reading twelve, he awoke in the twinkle of the tree’s electric lights, rinsed his face in the bathroom sink, ran his fingers through his beard and silently crept out the way he crept in to finish his long journey home.
***
Madsen Morrow was ten years old the next time she met Santa Claus. She was eleven the time after that. Then twelve, then thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and so on. She made cream chipped beef, hashbrown casserole, and macaroni and cheese with ham and green onion. One memorable year, on vacation in Florida, they shared sunflower seeds from a vending machine.
They built a snowman together below a dim streetlamp. They played beat-up old board games from the closet downstairs. They talked and sang songs and drew pictures and laughed. That memorable year in Florida, where the weather was warmer (so much warmer than it would have been back at home), they went walking in the breeze (it was incredibly windy), strolling through neighborhoods, looking at lights. Madsen made up stories about who was in the houses, wondering aloud what they might get as presents or what sort of people they were likely to be. Santa Claus listened and nodded and smiled, never telling her how far off or spot on she happened to be.
When Madsen was sixteen, she talked about boys. She cried on his shoulder when a friend broke her trust. At seventeen she asked him when he would stop coming. She was old now, she told him, and weren’t there rules?
“I come to the ones who expect me to come. As long as you know I’ll be here, I’ll be here.”
“How’s my dad?”
“Well, his step-sons are good. I know that.”
“That’s good, I guess. Does he miss me?”
“I would.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the best one I’ve got.”
Every year, they ate a meal. Every year, they caught up. Every year, he slept on her sofa (except for that memorable year in Florida). He rearranged his route to keep Madsen in the middle. He said she was the warm spot in his long, cold midnight. The venue might change (as when her mother moved them out of her father’s house), but the spirit stayed the same, time after time.
***
Madsen Morrow was eighteen years old the tenth time she met Santa Claus. He threw pebbles at her dorm room window to wake her. They ate instant noodles and drank black coffee in the empty commons area just off the entrance hall. The place seemed so quiet then (it was usually bustling). It smelled like old leather and motel sheet bleach. She sat cross-legged before him on the floor and she told him all of her ideas.
Knowingly theatrical, she looked around and said: “Did you feel that?”
“What?” he whispered.
“Nostalgia,” she said. “Just then, for a moment, I could feel the weight of myself looking back. I’ll remember this time. This is one of the big ones.”
There was no way of knowing for either of them (then) how far off or spot on she happened to be.
***
Madsen Morrow was twenty-two the last time, for years, that she met Santa Claus. A man named Hauser had given her a ring. She held her hand out and twisted her wrist to make it catch the light.
She was working late that Christmas Eve, in the dark corridor of a movie theater projection booth. The customers had all gone home, but the new reels needed to be taped together, the new movies had to be run through and watched. Christmas day was opening day and the more preparation, the better.
“What’s he like these days?” Santa asked. “I haven't watched over him for years.”
“He’s,” she said. “Quiet and nervous, but sweet. And strong. He works at the mill. Reads a lot. Smart but, you know, you wouldn’t know it right off. Not until he got to know you.”
“That’s wonderful,” he said. “And you love him?”
“Of course I love him,” she said. “I said yes.”
“How did he ask?”
“Nothing fancy. Dinner and a scenic walk home by the lake.”
“That’s wonderful.”
Santa Claus smiled, his dark eyes reflecting the flicker of projectors. The white noise whirr of running film was everywhere. They ate popcorn and drank cherry cola.
***
Madsen Morrow was twenty-three years old when she left the following note on her table:
I didn’t know how to contact you. Hauser is taking me off on a trip. It’s my present. A surprise. I just found out tonight. He had the tickets in a box and the suitcase packed and wrapped under the tree. I’m not even sure where we’re going. He won’t tell me. It’s really romantic and I’m really excited, but I think we’ll be on the plane tonight. It’s a late flight. I won’t be able to see you. I’m so sorry about this. Have some food. Take a rest. And I’ll see you next year. Promise.
Love,
Mad
When she and her husband came back from the islands, Madsen found something heavy in the toe of her stocking.
“What is it?” her husband asked.
“I don’t know,” she said playfully. “One last present? When did you have time for this?”
She hugged him and kissed him and buried her face in his shoulder. He smelled the way he always did (like sweat and smoke and soot from the mill).
She reached in the stocking and pulled something out.
“No, really. What is it?”
She answered him. “Coal.”
***
Madsen Morrow was thirty-four years old the next time she met Father Christmas. The house was locked up, her daughter asleep, her husband upstairs and waiting. She tiptoed through the kitchen of her father’s old house (which she bought for a song the day after he died), sighing happily over all that she had. She stopped by the toilet before going to bed, turned on the light and the fan.
“Who’s there?” came a shy voice from the other side of the door.
Madsen swallowed a scream. It wasn’t her husband’s voice or her daughter’s. Still, she was able to calm herself when she realized that it was familiar. She turned off the light and the fan.
“Well, now I know you’re in there and now you’d better come out,” the voice demanded, but it had no authority to it.
She opened the door and there he was.
“You’re prettier than I remembered. It’s been such a long, long time.”
Madsen said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“I waited for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The next year and the one after that. Well past midnight, too. I thought maybe you’d come along if I just stayed up to prove myself. I thought, maybe… Well…” She caught up with her thoughts, found herself back where she started and said once again “I waited for you.”
“I waited for you!”
“I left you a note! I told you what was happening; where I was.”
“I’m sorry about the coal. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know what you shouldn’t have done, but did anyway. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I regretted it right off, but… And I tried to come the next year. You wouldn’t let me.”
“I wouldn’t let you?”
“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t… You didn’t… You might have waited, but you didn’t really expect me to show.”
“Why would I?”
“So, I couldn’t come. There are rules.”
“You’re here now. And believe me I wasn’t expecting you.”
“She is,” he said.
Madsen took a breath.
“She’s old enough now,” he explained.
She let her breath out. “I have turkey.” She brushed past him into the kitchen. “Sandwiches. I can make one if you want.”
“Don’t go to any trouble,” he waved away the offer.
She laughed without joy and sat on the counter.
Santa Claus stood in the center of the room, took off his red had and knotted it between his hands. He wrung it like a towel, dabbed his forehead like a lawyer in a television drama (husband and daughter and years of life later and Madsen still loved television).
She recognized this and resisted the urge to pace and gesture and chew on her thumbnail. She was tempted, when she spoke, to speak with the strained and whispered importance that characters on television so often did.
But she didn’t. She just sat on the counter (and, yes, chewed her thumbnail but only a little).
“What did you think this was?”
“I don’t understand,” he said and shifted his feet, making marks on her floor.
“Yes you do. You and me. What did you think? Did you think what I think you did?”
“And what’s that?”
“Oh, come on!”
“No, you tell me!” he said. “If you want to ask me that question, you ask it.”
“Fine.” She climbed down and now she did start to pace. Her feet stuck and unstuck to the linoleum floor. “That stunt with the coal. I’ve done stuff like that too. I’ve been party to that. Who does those things? Who acts without thinking and immediately regrets it? Who sabotages themselves and what they ‘care about most’ to prove some pointless, ridiculous point? Jealous people. Possessive people. I got a gift. I left you a note. I couldn’t get out of it without hurting him. So I did my best to avoid hurting you. For a friend that would be good enough.”
“We get one night a year.”
She held up a finger. “An eye roll. A sigh. A terse return letter. A snide little monologue to yourself on the way home of all the things you’d think you’d say to me next time but ultimately wouldn’t. All of that? Yes. Expected. Justified. But coal? From you? That’s bitter retaliation. That’s marking your territory. The passionate reaction of someone who’s spurned. I know it, inside and out. So I’ll ask you again. What. Did you think. This was?”
“A warm spot in a long, cold midnight.”
“Aren’t you married?”
“A long time ago.”
“You watched me grow up.”
“Time’s-"
“Isn’t that weird? Isn’t that wrong to you?”
“My time is different!”
“And what, you were biding it?”
“No. Not like that.”
“Then like what?”
He backed out of the kitchen. She followed.
“What?” She continued. “Nicholas, like what? Did you think that we’d kiss?”
His defeated posture gave her no pause. Maybe it made her press on.
“Did you think that I’d take you to bed?”
“No.”
“Then what? Tell me, what did you want?”
He looked up at the living room mantle (when he’d backed up so far that there was no place left to go). He looked past the garland, framed pictures, the wall. He looked and saw nothing and finally replied.
“For you to be alone. If you want the horrible truth, that’s it: I wanted you to be alone. So I could be your warm spot. I imagined us old and forgotten and sad. Every day of the year. Of our lives, just… sad. But every Christmas, at midnight we… And maybe then, yes. I won’t lie to you, Maddie. When it was over and when we… Maybe then. But not like you’re saying it. It wasn’t a plot or a plan. Or even thought-- Oh, why are we talking about it? Looking for words only makes it all worse.”
Madsen felt her heartbeat speed up in a way that she’d felt only three times before: In the courtyard at the boarding school (the half a year she’d been there), surrounded by the ones that she referred to as the ‘sweater girls.’ On the interstate during her second year of college, with her foot on the brake and the tractor-trailer twisting in front of her. And in this very living room in this very house, the night she’d asked Hauser who Susan Thomas was. She’d gotten through those things and she’d get through this one too. But not (as with two of those other three times) before having her say about it.
“We’re in between now, aren’t we? They can’t hear us upstairs.”
“No,” he said. “Why?”
“GET OUT!”
He turned to look past the mantle again. “I have presents to deliver,” he said. “For your girl.”
“Do you think I’ll let her have anything from you?”
“I have to…”
“There are rules. Fine then, leave them. And leave.” In the hallway, over her shoulder she added: “I don’t expect to see you again.”
He left and she went to the top of the steps where ten minutes later her husband found her crying.
***
Madsen Morrow was sixty-two years old the winter Hauser died. He’d been at the mill (still), overseeing men much younger. At two o’clock on a Wednesday he’d excused himself to the office with his hand over his chest. He sat down in a chair to rest for a moment and the part of him that mattered never got back out again.
That chair was in the attic now, a Christmas present from her a long time ago. He’d never said, but she’d (rightly) suspected that it had been one of his favorites. She couldn’t bear the thought of it quietly rotting in some unknown place, so she took it from the office to let it rot above her bedroom.
Snow was falling outside the window. She opened it and inhaled. She kept her eyes on the horizon; on the hill at the head of the road. She was waiting for headlights she knew would never show, but she expected them to. He was late, but he was coming. If he wasn’t home, he was on the way (or would be). That was how it was (but it was really how it had been). She expected…
She went to the bed, leaving the window wide open. She put her back to the empty side and listened to the curtains flap.
“I’m here,” she said aloud to herself (this particular habit had outgrown television-inspired affectation to become an unnoticed, natural part of who she was).
Her daughter would arrive tomorrow. The snow had been bad, the traffic unavoidable. For now, the house was empty, though, and Madsen knew she wouldn’t sleep.
Hours later, she wasn’t surprised when the floorboards creaked (it was an old house and it had its odd grumbles). She wasn’t surprised when the bedroom door opened (the window was clearly creating a draft). She wasn’t surprised, when she closed her eyes, to smell sweat and smoke and soot (she had taken to sleeping on Hauser’s old pillow).
But the creak was louder than it should have been. And the door opened inward, not outward. And the smell wasn’t quite like the smell from the mill. And his body was chilly beside her.
“I knew it was you,” she said.
“Let me sleep here.”
She did. And he did. She did too.
***
Madsen Morrow was sixty-three years old the next time she met Santa Claus. Without a word, he lay down beside her.
“Hold me,” she said. “He would hold me.”
She was sixty-four the first time they made love. She had a few drinks, kept the lights low and imagined he was someone else. The smell was the same and his body and voice.
For his part, he knew that she was pretending. But that was okay. He pretended she wasn’t.
She was sixty-six when she turned on the light, looked him in the eye, touched his face, called him Nicholas.
At sixty-seven, she began cooking again. She made meat pies and crispy duck and other fancy things. They sat on the porch, wrapped up in a blanket and drank black coffee from Styrofoam cups. They dug out old board games. Memories too (midnight in the dorm her first Christmas at school). One quiet year in her daughter’s new house, he broke down and cried with his head in her lap. He apologized for wishing she would ever be sad. She hugged and consoled him and promised she wasn’t.
Madsen Morrow was eighty years old the last time she met Santa Claus. He sat by her bedside. She spoke of her daughter and marveled at how kind her grandson could be. She told him that she had forgiven her father. She called out to her husband and drifted to sleep.
Two months later on a cold and rainy Thursday, she died in the room beneath Hauser’s old chair.
***
Santa Claus was ageless as ever when he felt a strange warmth beside him in bed.
“A ghost,” he thought and said out loud. Then he smiled and added “But there’s no such thing.”
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