Santa's Secret Baby
by
N.J. Harlow
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 © N.J. Harlow /Accio Books
Cover photo © Ramon Grosso / Dreamstime.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Santa's Secret Baby
By N.J. Harlow
Dear Santa,
I've been a good girl but I don't really want any toys this year. I was hoping instead you could send me a new dad. And my mom sure could use some help and someone to give her a hug… besides me, I mean. If it's not too much trouble, could I have a little brother too?
Merry Christmas,
Your Friend, Lucy Jones
Lucy Jones held the note like it was a priceless heirloom and declared it ready for the post office. She gently folded it and placed it into a hot pink envelope she'd chosen, hoping it would catch Santa's eye. She ran into her mother's bedroom and opened the drawer on the nightstand. Mom kept the stamps there.
She noticed Dad's adult blue breath mints were still in the drawer even though he had been gone for six months.
Lucy licked the envelope, scrunching her nose up at the bitter taste of the glue, and sealed it. She grabbed a stamp and carefully lined it up, then stuck it to the corner of the envelope.
Then Lucy got a great idea.
Since Daddy's gone, I can put his breath mints in Santa's cookies tonight!
She ran back to her room and put the letter on the old wooden school desk her mother had found at a garage sale, grabbed the giant number one pencil that was too big for her tiny hand, and addressed it in block letters.
Santa Claus
The North Pole
"Looo-ceeee!" Her mom's sharp voice barreled up the stairs. "You ready for school?"
"Coming!" Lucy put the letter in her clear plastic bookbag, facing out so she could keep an eye on it, the arithmetic book serving as a border and keeping it in place. She kissed the fuzzy brown teddy bear named Heathcliff that sat on her pillow, and headed down the worn tan carpeted stairs of the tiny two-bedroom house. She'd already learned that heat rises, as a cold draft greeted her halfway down.
"C'mon, honey, we've gotta stop at the mailbox if you want to get that letter to Santa." Her mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Heather Jones' pale green eyes had dark circles again, the shoulder length copper hair that framed her angular face had apparently been combed with an eggbeater. She looked like she hadn't slept much, and had her faded blue cloth coat wrapped tightly around her tall, rail-thin body. She held out a tiny red quilted jacket. Lucy turned around, put her arms in the sleeves, then turned back to face her mother, who started to zip it up.
She took her mother's hands. "I can do it, Mom. Geez, I'm not a child. I'm seven years old."
"I know, honey. I forget you're getting to be a big girl. Got your letter ready?"
Lucy held up the bookbag and patted it.
Her mother opened the front door. Lucy moved through it and headed for the ten-year-old faded silver sedan with the bent antenna that sat in the driveway.
"Did you ask Santa for everything you want?" her mother asked, as they both got into the freezing car.
"Yep." The cold from the vinyl seats sent a chill racing through her.
Her mom closed the car door and turned to her as she cranked the engine. The grinding lasted a good five seconds before it started. "You gonna tell me?"
Lucy narrowed her eyes. "Nope. It's between me and Santa."
"So what do you want from me? You don't just get gifts from Santa."
"Just let me make the cookies for Santa this year. The ones with the M&Ms. You promised!"
"Okay, but that's not a gift. There must be some new toy or game. Maybe a stuffed animal--"
"It's what I want. I don't need any more toys. And I have Heathcliff."
Heather buckled her seatbelt and turned to look at Lucy. Her mom's eyes were growing misty for some reason. "Honey, you're a lot older than seven."
***
Santa Claus gazed out through the workshop window at the snow covered field, seemingly in a trance, but didn't really see anything.
His mind's eye was focused on Mrs. Claus.
The image of her headstone had been burned into his brain since the summer.
He could almost taste her made-from-scratch hot chocolate, sugary sweet and rich with tiny marshmallows. It would warm his body and soul right about now. He felt a chill run through him, even though the temperature inside the workshop was seventy-two degrees and getting warmer, as the elves had fired up the furnace making some last-minute red wagons to fill requests that had come in with the afternoon mail.
His mind tuned out the one million square foot beehive of activity behind him. The sounds of organized confusion as the elves raced the clock faded. He only saw his wife's sweet face, tiny knowing gray eyes peering out of wrinkles and snow-white hair that marked the wisdom of her years. The strong smell of glue and sawdust wafted by, but it only reminded him that Christmas Eve was less than twenty-four hours away.
And his wife wouldn't be there to send him off.
For the first time, Santa actually dreaded the holiday. He put his hand on the window, letting the heat from it melt the snowflakes that had gathered in the corner. They turned to water, running down the windowpane like slow tears.
He could see her even now, trudging through the snow with a sack of mail. She'd loved to sort the letters, boys and girls, toys and games.
Happy and sad.
The number of sad letters from children had grown exponentially in the past few years. Kids not even wanting a simple toy, just a better life.
I'm Santa Claus, not a psychiatrist.
The one he held in his hand was typical. A simple request for a new dad, a little brother.
Wishes he couldn't grant.
Waving a magic wand and providing someone to love was not within his power. If it was, he'd do it for himself and bring his wife back.
His eyes grew wet as he put the letter on his giant oak desk.
Funny, the little girl who'd written it wanted pretty much the same thing.
***
"So how was your date?"
Melinda's face rested on the back of her hands, her forearms heading in opposite directions as she leaned on the top of the steel cubicle. Her ice blue eyes burned with the inquisition of a five-year-old. One eyebrow went up like an extra question mark.
"You really don't wanna know," said Heather, rolling her eyes.
"You're kidding? I thought he was a decent guy."
"Pffft. My daughter had to call in a CSI team to dust me for prints."
"Roman hands and Russian fingers, huh?" Melinda thrust out her lower lip. "Sorry. I thought he might be a nice date for New Year's Eve. I know some other cute men--"
"Melinda, you don't have to play matchmaker for me. And at this point cute takes a back seat to reliable. And it all takes a back seat to Lucy."
"Any chance her slug of a father will show for Christmas?"
Heather bit her lower lip as she looked at the gold-framed picture of her daughter that was surrounded by a mountain of papers on her tiny desk. "About the same as the odds Nick's child support check will. At least he's not having a good time while he's on the lam."
"How do you know that?"
"Nick left his little blue pills. Nicole Kidman could walk into his bedroom naked and he'd need a forklift without those."
Melinda stifled a laugh, then turned serious. "So, waddaya gonna tell Lucy on Christmas morning?"
Heather felt a smile grow across her face. She looked back at the picture. "You know, that kid is tough as nails. I think she already understands. She grabs the Sunday paper and clips the coupons for me, turns the heat down and puts on a sweater. She doesn't even want anything for Christmas."
"Sure she does," said Melinda. "All kids want something."
"Yeah, but she's not telling me what it is," said Heather, shaking her head.
"Just get whatever the hot new toy is this year."
"Nah. That's not Lucy's style. She'd want something practical. Like her dad to come home."
***
"Now add your M&M's," said Heather, sitting at the kitchen table as she watched her daughter play Martha Stewart. Lucy stopped beating the light brown batter that filled the glass bowl, gently grabbed the opened bag of candy, and started to add the red and green holiday M&M's into the mix. "Not all at once," she said, reaching for the bag.
Lucy pulled it back. "I know, mom." She stirred the batter with her right hand as she slowly emptied the bag of candy into the bowl.
"Looks good," said her mom, who stood up and grabbed a cookie sheet that sat on the stove just as the phone rang. "Keep stirring the batter. You don't want any lumps. I'll be right back."
Heather left the kitchen and answered the phone in the living room. Her voice trailed off as Lucy studied the batter, watching the M&M's disappear into the mix. Her face tightened.
The batter didn't look bright enough.
She looked inside the bag of candy. There were only two colors of M&Ms.
One more would be nice…
Daddy's blue breath mints!
Her mom was still on the phone, so Lucy dropped the spoon in the batter, ran to her mom's bedroom, and opened the drawer of the nightstand.
She grabbed the bottle of mints, which was thankfully full, ran back to the kitchen, and emptied the whole bottle into the batter, stirring them in. They disappeared into the mix in just as her mother came back into the kitchen.
"That looks good," said her mom. "What do you say we put these in the oven?"
***
"G'night, sweetie," said Heather, as she kissed Lucy's forehead. She caught a hint of her daughter's strawberry shampoo as she ran her hands across the top of Lucy's head.
She watched her daughter close her eyes and could only hope her dreams were more pleasant than reality.
Heather made her way downstairs. It was bitter cold outside, and the chilly air smacked her in the face. She decided to splurge and turn up the heat. She slid the thermostat up a few degrees and heard the old boiler kick into action. The pipes would start banging in ten minutes and get the radiators hissing like angry cats in twenty.
She smiled at the sight of the glass of milk and dozen cookies on the plastic TV tray next to the fireplace.
Sorry, Santa. Mom's got the stress munchies. Get your own snacks.
But I need something stronger than milk.
Heather took the milk back into the kitchen and found a carton of eggnog in the fridge. She opened a cabinet and found a dusty bottle of liquor. Mmmm. Rum. She poured a couple of shots of spiced rum into a large glass, then filled it with eggnog. She carried it to the living room, flicked on the television, and sat down in her husband's recliner as "It's a Wonderful Life" came into focus on the old console.
She grabbed a cookie and took a bite.
They were surprisingly good.
She ate one, then another, then another. She got up and got a refill on the egg nog, dumping a good deal of rum into the mix.
Spiked egg nog and cookies.
Holiday comfort food.
In fifteen minutes her glass was empty.
What the hell, I'm off tomorrow. One more round.
She brought the third glass (at this point it was rum with a splash of eggnog) back to the living room and set it down next to the remaining cookies. But as soon as her body melted into the recliner, she knew she was done for the night.
Heather drifted off to sleep as Jimmy Stewart kissed Donna Reed.
***
"Last stop, boys," said Santa to Rudolph. The reindeer led the team through the frigid air to the small house and executed a perfect landing on the snow-covered roof. He looked at the final name on the list, seven-year-old Lucy Jones, and shook his head.
There were no fathers or little brothers in his toy sack.
He reached all the way to the bottom of the bag and pulled out the last toy, a Barbie doll dressed in a red sequined ball gown. He jumped out of the sleigh, slid down the narrow chimney, and was greeted by the sight of what appeared to be a passed-out mom. He smiled at the sight of the woman, sprawled out in a recliner, arms out to her sides, mouth wide open, sawing wood.
He placed the Barbie under the tree, a thin, four-foot spruce that had very few presents under it. He turned and saw the cookies.
What the hell. I'm off tomorrow.
One more round.
He plopped himself down onto the sofa, grabbed a cookie and what he assumed was a glass of milk. He wolfed down the first cookie and down half the glass before realizing it was spiked eggnog.
"Hmmm," he said softly. "What a nice change of pace."
He realized he was exhausted as he ate the remaining cookies and washed it all down with the rest of the drink.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and began to get up, when the room began to spin.
"Whoa," he said. He steadied himself on the arm of the sofa, and sat back down, eyes at half mast.
The woman stirred as he fought to stay awake. She looked at him, half-asleep herself, then smiled sweetly. "Nick," she said, squinting at him. "You came back."
He was fading fast, on the edge of dreamland, his vision blurring and turning blue. "Where else would I be?"
She got up, moved toward him, and climbed on his lap.
This has to be a dream.
"Aren't you a little old for this, young lady?" he asked.
She leaned forward, close enough for him to smell the rum on her breath. Her lips brushed his ear, sending electricity through his body. "You know what I want for Christmas, Nick. I've been a good girl. But that might not be the case later on." She leaned back, looked at him, and ran her hands through his hair. "I can be naughty or nice, depending on what you want. How about both?"
The last thing he remembered was the woman unbuttoning his suit just before she started kissing him.
And the next thing he knew he was in an ambulance.
***
"Talk about the North Pole," said the paramedic in a heavy New York accent.
"Huh?" said Santa, trying to raise his head before a massive headache pushed it back down.
"Your… uh… problem," said the lanky, middle-aged paramedic, smiling as he pointed in the direction of Santa's waist.
Santa leaned up and the sight threw cold water on his face. Now he was wide awake.
"Ain't you ever seen the commercial?" asked the paramedic. "Four hours and you won't need Rudolph to point the way next year."
"Dear Lord," said Santa, laying his head back and turning to face the man. "How did I get here?"
"You musta been on some bender last night. Some kid spotted you on a roof this morning and called 9-1-1."
"What time is it?"
"A little after nine."
Santa felt the ambulance slow and come to a stop. The paramedic moved to the back of the vehicle, opened the doors and began to slide the stretcher out.
"You'll be okay, buddy," he said. "Merry Christmas."
***
Why is my underwear on the ceiling fan?
Heather rubbed her eyes and opened them, squinting for a better look directly above. Sure enough, Victoria's Secret had become an accessory to a wood-grained propeller.
"Mommy, Santa came!"
Yeah. More than once, before I passed out.
She heard Lucy stomping up the stairs, the noise adding to the Chinese gongs that were going off in her head. Lucy burst through the door to her bedroom carrying a box. "I got the special Barbie! Santa brought it!" She jumped on the bed, making the Chinaman swing, miss the gong and hit the side of Heather's skull instead.
"That's great, honey," said Heather, taking in her daughter's ear to ear grin as she rubbed her temples. Aw. Nick actually brought her a doll. The bale of cotton in her mouth needed harvesting. "Would you do mommy a favor and get me a glass of orange juice?"
"Sure, mommy. Come down and open your present!"
"In a few minutes, sweetie."
Lucy jumped off the bed, sending the box spring into squeak mode. She bounded down the stairs as Heather sat up and surveyed the wreckage that was her bedroom.
The ceiling fan with the red silk spinning thong wasn't the half of it.
A pair of red platform heels lay at the foot of the bed. A French maid outfit and pro cheerleader costume were strewn across an open box next to the oak vanity. She recognized it as the "play box" from her better days with her husband.
She got up, tied a ratty green terry bathrobe around her waist, and staggered into the bathroom, jumping back at the face in the mirror.
Whoa.
Her hair was stiff as a board, having been teased out to 1980's ozone-killing levels. Bright red lipstick and emerald green eye shadow shone like beacons in the reflection.
All the things Nick liked.
Whatever. It's Christmas.
Blame it on the egg nog.
She turned and walked quickly through the bedroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen.
But no one else was in the house.
Damn you, Nick. Couldn't even stick around for your own kid.
"What happened to your hair, mommy?"
She looked down to find Lucy next to her, holding up a glass of orange juice in one hand and Barbie in the other. "I was just trying out a new style, honey."
"You look pretty, Mommy."
Heather downed the glass of juice, killing the bad taste in her mouth. "Thanks, sweetie. Let me take a shower and then I'll come right back down, okay? We'll make French toast and open the rest of the presents."
"Okay."
Lucy plopped back down on the floor and began playing with the hair on her new doll. "I'm gonna make the doll's hair look like yours."
Great. I'm hung over on Christmas morning and my daughter is turning her new toy into cheap slut soccer mom.
Heather trudged back upstairs to the bathroom. She looked in the mirror again. They don’t call it demon rum for nothing.
She turned on the shower, running her fingers under the ice-cold water until it warmed up to a bearable temperature. She took off her robe, hung it on the brass hook on the back of the door and was about to step into the shower when something in the mirror caught her attention.
She turned around and saw the unopened condom on the floor.
Oh, shit.
Damn you, Nick.
***
The droopy-eyed doctor wandered into Santa's room peering over his horn rimmed glasses as he stared at a chart. He was followed by a frumpy, middle-aged nurse. "So, we've got Santa in here this morning," said the doctor, as he looked up at his patient. "Ho, ho….HO!"
"I'd say that's what Saint Nick needs," said the nurse, eyes widening at Santa's problem.
"Please, just give me something to make it go away," said Santa.
The short, thirtysomething doctor tried to stifle a laugh. "I'm sorry, you don't usually see Santa Claus in such a state of… holiday cheer."
Santa started to sit up but his pounding head made him lay back down. "Very funny."
The doctor shook his head as the nurse took Santa's pulse. "Okay, how long have you had this… condition?"
"I don't know. I was delivering toys to a girl--"
"She don't need toys with a problem like that," said the nurse, as she slapped a blood pressure cuff around Santa's arm. The doctor snorted as he stifled a laugh.
"As I said, I was putting presents under this girl's tree--"
The doctor rolled his eyes. "Look, buddy, I'm not six years old. We don't need the G-rated metaphors. Just tell me how long--"
"I'll need a ruler to answer that, doctor," said the nurse.
"I passed out about four this morning," said Santa.
"What time did you take the pills?" asked the doctor.
"What pills?"
"The E-D pills."
"I didn't take any pills."
"Well, you didn't take Spanish Fly. Your blood test shows an elevated level of E-D medication. How many of those things did you use? You know you're only supposed to take one. Were you planning to work you way through a harem or something?"
"Doctor, I'm telling you, I don't remember taking any pills. I ate a bunch of cookies and spiked egg nog, passed out, woke up with a big-haired woman on top of me dressed in hot pants, a halter top and go-go boots, passed out again, and woke up in the ambulance."
The doctor stopped writing on the chart. "So basically you're saying that you were date raped dressed as Santa Claus."
"I'm not dressed as Santa Claus. I am Santa Claus."
The doctor stretched his brown eyes wide, rubbed his two-day stubble and shook his head. "Ohhhh…kay. Buddy, I've gonna give you some meds to take care of the… problem you've got there… and then we'll let you sleep off whatever is making you think you're really Saint Nick and had sex with a woman from 1979."
Santa started to argue but thought better of it. "Thank you, young man."
***
Harry Morrell took a huge bite of the raspberry jelly donut and cursed the new boss for sticking him with a Christmas Day shift. A skeleton crew manned the newsroom, quiet except for the sounds of a fresh pot of coffee brewing and a police scanner filled with idle chatter of crimes not worth covering.
There were slow news days and there was Christmas. And for a tabloid reporter, finding something sexy to write about under the tree was a pipe dream.
Harry scanned the wires for the tenth time, hoping for an idea that might spark a local story. It didn't even have to be true.
The motto at the New York Tattler was simple. "Never let the facts get in the way of a good story."
He took another bite of the donut, sending powdered sugar all over his blue tie. Harry brushed it off just as the phone rang. He grabbed his coffee cup and washed down the donut before he answered it. "Newsroom, Morrell."
"Harry, Merry Christmas. I was hoping you were working."
"Well, Doc Baxter. Long time no talk."
"How are things at the Big Apple's most popular tabloid?"
"Other than having to work the holiday, not bad."
"I saw your coyote in the subway story the other day. Funny as hell."
"Thanks, but it was actually just a mangy mutt."
"Yeah, but it made for good reading, Harry."
"So, to what do I owe a greeting from my college roomie on Christmas Day? Forget to send a fruitcake?"
"I've actually got a story for you. Right up your alley."
Harry's eyes grew wide along with his smile as he heard Doc's tale of the emergency room Santa Claus. His pulse spiked as the adrenaline known as a big story rushed through his veins. And Doc, bless his New Yorker look-the-other-way heart, would conveniently be absent when Harry went into Santa's room in a borrowed lab coat posing as a medical professional. "On my way, Doc," he said, slamming down the phone. He shoved the rest of the donut into his mouth and headed for the door.
***
Heather laughed as she looked at the headline.
Santa's Little Helper: NY woman gets visit from the "North Pole"
The cartoon of Santa carrying a bag full of erectile dysfunction medicine and a clock timer set for four hours only added to her amusement.
Until she turned the page and read the story.
Little Blue Overdose Lands Santa's Helper in Emergency Room
By Harry Morrell
When Elvis sang about a blue Christmas, he probably didn't have this in mind.
A hungover man dressed in a Santa suit was admitted to Midfield Hospital yesterday in a state of arousal you only hear about in "those" commercials.
That's because he took between ten and twelve times the normal dosage of erectile dysfunction medicine. Along with an unspecified amount of rum-spiked egg nog.
"When you combine alcohol with an excessive amount of ED medicine, you're gonna be wearing sweatpants for awhile," said one emergency room doc. "It should be about three days and then he'll be up and around."
Well, we don't exactly have to wait for the "up" part of that scenario.
EMTs responded to a 911 call from a ten year old boy who'd spotted Saint Nick passed out on a neighbor's roof with an icicle hanging from his midsection. After rushing him to Midfield, blood tests showed he'd OD'd on ED.
The man, who insists he is Santa Claus and was actually admitted under the name Kris Kringle, claims he brought Christmas cheer to at least two women; one described as a Texas cheerleader and another as a French maid.
Heather's head shot up.
No. It couldn’t be.
She turned the page, hoping for a picture of the man, just as the phone rang. She grabbed it as she furiously turned the pages.
"Hello?"
"Heather Jones, please…"
"Speaking."
"Ms. Jones, this is Trent Wilcox of the Las Vegas District Attorney's Office. I'm calling to tell you we arrested your husband."
Heather's jaw dropped. "That's not possible. Nick was just--"
"We picked him up him on the 23rd. You'll be happy to know he had several thousand dollars on him and we'll be sending you the back child support that you're due."
"You're sure this is Nick?"
"Still here if you wanna talk to him." The DA gave Heather all the information she needed, then emailed her a mug shot.