The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler
children remained in line. Rubbing his leg, Sam resolved to be as Santalike as possible for the next fifty minutes. The next child up, a little boy, approached and stood at his knee.
For several moments—long ones, Sam thought—he and the kid just stared at each other.
Thick, wavy red hair hugged the boy’s head like a woolly cap. Freckles splattered the bridge of his nose. Dressed warmly in crisp, neatly pressed clothes and brightly colored tennis shoes, he was just the kind of kid Sam remembered his friends picking on in grade school. The kind of kid who looked wellmothered.
Thrusting out a flannel-covered arm, the little guy held up a paper lunch bag. “These are for you. My mommy made ’em. She says they’re the kind you like.”
Accepting the bag, Sam opened it to examine the contents. The aroma of butter and brown sugar drifted up. Four very large, very thick golden brown cookies that begged tasting rested inside.
“The kind I like?” he murmured. He didn’t doubt it for a minute. Breaking his own rule—the less contact with parents, the better—he glanced up, searching almost unwillingly for this boy’s mother. She was easy to find.
“I asked her to put in extra for the reindeers, but she says no dessert for them because they can’t brush their teeth. Do reindeers have very big teeth?”
Sam nodded.
Her hair was like fire, as red as her son’s. It waved thickly back from her forehead, exposing a gentle widow’s peak and skin as creamy and subtly toned as her hair was bright. She stood next to an older man, too old, Sam thought, to be the boy’s father. Her gaze was all for her son.
She would stand out in any crowd. Tall and slender, with refined features he could easily imagine on the cover of a magazine, she looked like a woman who belonged in a city—at the theater, in an elegant restaurant, dressed to the nines.
Then she smiled at her child, and Sam had no trouble picturing her in jeans in her kitchen, making snacks for Santa.
All of a sudden, he had the overwhelming urge to taste one of the cookies, just so he could tell her how good they were.
A light tug strained his sleeve. “Should I get on your lap now?”
“Yeah.” Rolling up the bag, Sam looked for somewhere to stow it, settling for behind his chair, next to the cane he was still using. “Thanks,” he said. “Tell your mom…thanks.”
“Okay.” The youngster nodded, then climbed onto Sam’s lap.
“What’s your name?”
“Timmy Harmon.”
“How old are you, Tim?”
“Five.”
“Five.” Sam nodded. “Pretty big for five, aren’t you?”
It wasn’t true, not by a long shot, but it puffed Timmy Harmon up like a helium balloon in a Thanksgiving parade.
“I guess,” he answered proudly, his teeth showing in a white line interrupted by a couple of empty spaces, like missing slats in a picket fence.
Sam smiled a little. This kid was easy to please. Remembering his Santa dialogue, he asked, “Have you been a good boy this year?”
Timmy considered the question. “Uh-huh. I think. ’Cept I forgot to pick up my building blocks.”
The other half of Sam’s mouth joined his smile. “That doesn’t sound too bad. So, what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?” The words rolled more easily than they had all day.
Most of the other children had answered that question immediately, but Timmy merely sat on Sam’s knee, studying him. “Does your beard hurt?” Timmy reached up to pat the white whiskers and frowned. “Feels like the sweater Mrs. Richter gave me.”
“Mrs. Richter?”
“She lives on our block. I have to say thank-you even if I’m never gonna wear it.” Gently, he poked at the space between Sam’s lower lip and the top of the beard. “How come your beard’s not stuck to your face?”
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the elf give him the speed-it-up signal.
“Listen, Tim. I want to make sure you get what you want for Christmas, so why don’t you tell me what’s on your list?”
The boy continued to look at him quizzically. “Are you the for-real Santa?” He sounded doubtful.
Not sure whether to be insulted or relieved, Sam allowed himself a second to think. Getting two dozen troops to march in a straight line was nothing compared to this Santa stuff.
What if he admitted he was just a guy in a cheap velvet suit? Would he ruin the kid’s psyche forever?
Another glance into the candid auburn-lashed eyes, and the answer seemed to come out unbidden. “No, I’m not the real Santa.” Disappointment flashed across Tim’s face. “But I know him.” Oh, jeez! Did I really say that?
“Are you guys friends?”
“Yeah. We’re friends. We…raced reindeer together… in Alaska.” Oh, boy.
Timmy seemed more interested in Sam’s having lived in Alaska than he was in the concept of reindeer racing. Sam answered eager questions about Eskimos and igloos, then saw the elf give him an emphatic wind-it-up. He ignored her.
“Where’s the for-real Santa right now?”
“Right now?” Sam frowned. “He’s at the North Pole. Resting. He’s got to be up all night, you know, on Christmas Eve, and…well, he’s not getting any younger.”
“Like my granpop.” Timmy nodded. “He goes to bed at night sometimes even before I do. How old is Santa Claus?”
“Older than anyone I’ve ever met,” Sam acknowledged. “If you tell me what you want for Christmas, I’ll make sure he hears all about it.”
Timmy got quiet then, plucking at the broad brass clasp of Sam’s belt, looking up with wide, achingly innocent eyes.
Before the little boy could respond, the lady elf approached with a strained smile. Placing both hands on her jutting green-stockinged knees, she leaned forward and spoke to Timmy. “You’re getting along so well with Santa, aren’t you? And I hate to interrupt, but there are lots of other little boys and girls who want to speak with him, too. We can’t take all his time.” Her syrupy voice merely underscored her irritation.
Immediately, Timmy looked like he was afraid he’d done something wrong. Sam felt a surge of very un-Santalike anger.
“Give us a moment, would you, please?” he requested, more politely, he thought, than she deserved.
“Oh, now—” she wagged a finger at Sam “—it isn’t fair to the other children in line to make them wait.”
“We’ll be done in a minute.”
Smiling wider, the elf moved to stand directly in front of them so the parents could not see their exchange. “My lunch hour was thirty minutes ago. I have signaled you three times. I know you saw me—”
“Hey! Elf Lady,” Sam interrupted. “We’re not done yet. When we are, I’ll signal you.”
Timmy watched with openmouthed awe as the woman blinked several times, recovered enough to glare at Sam, then turned and stalked to her station.
“She’s mad,” the little boy breathed.
“Forget about her,” Sam instructed. “She’s not a real elf. So what is it you want this year?”
Timmy’s little legs began to swing nervously. Sam winced when the boy connected with his shin. Gently, he placed a hand on Timmy’s knees. “What do you say, champ? What do you want? Some of the kids have been asking