That Maddening Man. Debrah Morris
aptly named Yorkie-Pomeranian was idly gumming the strap of her leather handbag.
“Give me that.” She yanked her Kate Spade original out of harm’s way. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she plucked a clump of fawn-colored fur off the upholstery, hit the window button and flicked it onto the gray winter landscape. Not only was Pudgy missing several important teeth, he was going bald.
Her grandmother actually missed the quivering mass of canine nerves and had requested Pudgy’s presence at the nursing home’s Christmas party today. If neurotic shedding was any indication, Ida Faye’s longtime companion missed her, too. Mrs. Polk, the forward-thinking administrator of Shady Acres Care Center and a vocal proponent of pet therapy, thought the visit might hasten the eighty-year-old’s recovery from hip surgery.
“Do you know where the angel is, Mommy? The one with the shiny dress that goes on top of the tree?”
“She’s safe in a box in Grammy’s garage.”
“The twinkle lights, too? And the sparkly snowmen?”
“Yes, dear. They’re all safe.” Giving up the town house on Lake Michigan had been difficult, but it was especially traumatic for Lizzie. She’d cried when the movers crated their belongings for storage and wouldn’t stop until Ellin agreed to haul a box of favorite holiday decorations all the way to Arkansas. Her daughter had Christmas on the brain and was convinced that moving had somehow upset universal order at the North Pole.
“Can I see ’em when we get home?” she asked suspiciously.
“Sure, no problem.” Despite her reassuring mommy-face, Ellin wasn’t too happy about being uprooted either. Although temporary, her new job was a good example of an old axiom.
Be careful what you wish for.
Journalism dreams born during her stint on the Whitman Junior High Tattler had evolved into a do-or-die goal in college. Determined to be a managing editor before age thirty-five, Ellin had sacrificed. Struggled. Run the fast track in sensible two-inch heels and leaped over the limp bodies of the less dedicated. Along the way, she’d slowed down enough to marry, have a baby and get divorced, never taking her eyes off the prize.
She’d advanced quickly. The past six months she’d worked as an assignment editor at a respected Chicago newspaper. Her career had been right on track—until the whole thing derailed onto an unexpected siding. In a rush to make deadline and Lizzie’s first dance recital, she violated a basic law of journalism. She approved a reporter’s story without verifying it. Any first-year journalism student would have known better.
“Mommy, is Rudolph a boy or a girl?”
“I’m sure Rudolph is a girl, princess.” Surely, only a female with a superwoman complex would attempt to zip around the world in one night, dragging an overweight elf and a sleigh full of toys.
“What about Olive?”
“Olive?” Ellin’s brow furrowed.
“You know. Like in the song. Olive the other reindeer.”
Lizzie sang it for emphasis. “Is Olive a girl or boy?”
“All the reindeer are girls.” Had to be. Poor misguided things thought they could have it all.
Ellin had taken responsibility for her mistake, had even tried to point out the irony of the situation to her superiors. A master nitpicker, for once she’d failed to pick enough nit. But they had not been amused. After the public stoning of the overzealous reporter, she’d been called up on the slate-gray Berber and stripped of her parking pass and card key like a court-martialed soldier. Slinking out of the city room in professional disgrace, her first thought was to change her name and move to a third world country.
“Mommy, why doesn’t Mrs. Claus help give out the toys?”
“She doesn’t like to steal Santa’s thunder.” Or she was smart enough to stay home with a cup of hot tea while her old man froze his tail off buzzing around the stratosphere.
She had to stop being so cynical. After all, she’d stepped in a colossal pile of doo-doo and had come out smelling like a nosegay, hadn’t she? Her career had taken a hit, but her life-long dream was coming true. For the next three months she would be acting editor of the Washington Post. And it was still several weeks before her thirty-fifth birthday.
Problem was, it wasn’t The Washington Post, the grand-daddy of all newspapers. Nor was her new home in the nation’s fast-paced capital. It was in Washington, Arkansas, where life moved at the speed of a stroked-out snail. The Washington Post-Ette was a dinky little weekly with a circulation of less than eight thousand that boasted of keeping its fourth estate finger firmly on the pulse of the chicken-raising industry.
According to the owner, its original name was the Post-Gazette, but the “Gaz” had been dropped at some point in its illustrious history. The shortened form was better suited to a toaster snack than to a hard-hitting shaper of public opinion.
For the time being, she could pretty much forget about a Pulitzer.
“Is Christmas really Jesus’ birthday?” Lizzie asked.
“Yes, dear. At least that’s when we celebrate it.”
“So why do I get presents?” Her small forehead wrinkled in confusion. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Remember? It’s one of those tradition things I told you about.” Vague perhaps, but the experts advised against giving children more information than they could handle.
“Oh, yeah.” Keeping the beat with her beribboned princess wand, Lizzie hummed an odd mix of “Jingle Bells” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
Pudgy wheezed. Ellin glanced down in alarm, concerned that he might have begun the bucket-kicking process on her watch.
“Mommy! Stop! Stop!” Lizzie shrieked. “It’s Santa.”
Ellin looked back at the road, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Well, I’ll be a partridge in a pear tree.”
It was Santa. Or his body double. Decked out in full St. Nicholas regalia and looking like a Yuletide figment of her little girl’s imagination.
“Stop, Mommy! Santa needs help!” Lizzie was squirming and swinging her wand and issuing directives, all at once. Pudgy had recovered from his coughing fit and bounced up and down on the seat, adding his yip-yappy opinion to the excitement.
Stop? For some guy waving his arms in the middle of the road? No way. Ellin was a city girl and stuck to a strict “No Hitchhikers” policy. She didn’t brake for strangers, not even the jolly old elf himself.
“I don’t think so, princess.” She wouldn’t stop, but she didn’t want to run the guy down. She slowed to give him a chance to get his velvet-covered butt out of the road and noticed a shiny crimson pickup truck angled off the shoulder.
“Maybe Santa needs our help because Rudolph got hurt.” In view of the Watch For Deer signs, Lizzie’s explanation had a certain preschool logic. “Or maybe the sleigh broke down. Stop, Mommy, stop!”
She had to. He gave no indication of moving out of the way. Suspicious, Ellin punched the door locks and lowered the window an inch. Hmm. Given his elfin-based gene structure, Santa was much taller than one might expect. He stepped up to the car and smiled. At least she thought he smiled. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on under that curling white beard.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am.” His drawl was soft and articulate, a little too down-south for an inhabitant of the polar regions. “But I wonder if you might have a cell phone I could use?”
“No, I don’t.” Then she realized how vulnerable her admission made her. “But I have a black belt in karate and an attack dog trained to kill on command.” Pudgy’s yip would pierce armor-plated eardrums. “Drowning in dog slobber is an unpleasant way to go.”
He might have smiled again