The Fat Man (8 page)

In fact, the article didn’t bother me as much as missing Dingleberry. After our pretend dustup a few days ago, we went our separate ways so he wouldn’t get in Dutch with Cane. Plus, if Dingleberry knew what I had been up to, it would have broken his heart. In Ding’s eyes, my behavior would be about as far from hero George as you could get, so I tried not to think about how much Dingleberry would hate my new job.

Instead, I tried to think on the good I was doing. After I fixed Raymond Hall’s little red wagon, I turned invisible so I could hear what he said to Little Ray. Raymond took a giant step toward fatherhood. Not only did he give Little Ray a good talking-to that night, he followed up on it. Raymond made sure Little Ray minded, and was even trying to lead by example. Raymond was opening doors for old ladies, serving soup at the shelter and keeping his hands to himself. The boy noticed the change in his old man and was on the straight and narrow. My plan was working, so I got busy checking a few more off the Naughty Alumni List.

My next target was Octavia Dellora Mercedes Sprague. The stork did not deliver Octavia. I know the bird; he can spot bad news in the bundle before takeoff and would have given the job to a condor. When she arrived at the castle stoop, the silver spoon in Octavia’s little mouth was already black with bile, gummed into an ugly wad of metal. Being born into high class was not enough for Octavia; she wanted more. She always wanted more and didn’t care how many millions it cost Daddy.

Years ago, Octavia wanted a hippopotamus for Christmas. Only a hippopotamus would do. She stamped her feet, launched dishes at the help and put one butler in traction. At Coal Patrol, we said “no way” to Octavia’s wish list and even Santa agreed. We delivered a bag of coal and Octavia took the lumps and broke out the stained glass windows of the cathedral—the one that her granddaddy had built.

With each Christmas, Octavia’s demands became more and more outrageous. It was easier to know what she didn’t want. And every year, we loaded her up with coal, but it didn’t help. Christmas morning, Daddy would send some lackey on the hunt for whatever Octavia coveted. The hippo, by the way, was so miserable that he developed ulcers. He was dead by the Fourth of July and genuinely seemed glad to go.

Over the years, Octavia kept a parson and a divorce lawyer on retainer. Octavia Dellora Mercedes Sprague was now Octavia Dellora Mercedes Sprague-Cornwell-Lenox-Upglorious-Philadelphia (Octavia chose not to include “Pytingksy” on her list of husband hyphens because Itch was really just a fling, despite what the tattoo said). Most of the husbands discovered on the honeymoon that they were the
Titanic
and Octavia was the iceberg, but Lenox treaded water long enough to give Octavia a daughter.

Cordelia Heatherly Patricia Lenox couldn’t have been less charming had she been made of pus. When it came to the brat torch, Cordelia took up where Mommy left off. Had it been an actual torch, I have no doubt the little lass would have used it to light cigars or orphanages.

After my elf magic conjured a hippo to chase Octavia around the golf course and shout her faults as a mother, little Cordelia turned into something close to a sweet little girl instead of the reason flamethrowers were invented.

It was good to love your work, but I wasn’t done.

My next mission was Glen Page. Years ago, little Glen told Santa that all he wanted for Christmas was his two front teeth. We let him gnaw on a little coal instead because the truth was that Glen lost his two front choppers breaking into the school cafeteria to steal chocolate milk and meat loaf on a stick. Glen had not expected the shop teacher to be introducing the librarian to a little woodwork in the cafeteria freezer. When Glen opened the door, the surprised Mr. Cloniger grabbed a frozen meat loaf on a stick and clobbered Glen right in the mouth, sending his front teeth over the slaw.

At the North Pole, we thought Glen’s dental gap and huge library fees would have taught him his lesson. The opposite was true. Glen became a Peeping Tom and was raising Glen Junior, a child who would only inspire happiness in others if he was playing with a grenade and the pin was pulled.

To help Glen change his ways and inspire his kid to do the same, I cornered Glen outside the window of a sorority house and flossed the old man with a ball bat.

I was making progress. Kids and parents were getting the message. It was easy.

It was too easy.

I didn’t think anyone would figure it out.

But somebody snitched on me.

CHAPTER 9

I
almost didn’t hear the knock at the door, the tapping was so quiet. The hour was late and I wasn’t expecting company. I hadn’t been around anyone except the human parents I was slapping around, so I went to the door hoping for some Holly Jolly elf companionship. When I opened the door, what I saw shook me right down to my socks.

Santa looked like he was made of rope, he was so skinny and gangly. The Fat Man was spread thin. The big belly, the rosy cheeks, the twinkle in his eyes—they were all gone. In their place was a stick bum in a baggy red suit. Santa’s lush white beard was coming out in mangy clumps and his hair was flat and slick. Worst of all, you could tell Santa had been crying.

Santa stared at me for a good half a minute with those sad, tired eyes before he said in a hoarse whisper, “May I come in, Gumdrop?”

I lost my voice, but I managed to swing the door open and show him to the couch. He rested there for a minute and then noticed all the questions in my eyes. “Sit down, son,” he said. “Sit down.”

“You don’t look so good, Nick,” I said, pulling up a chair.

“Good,” he said with a slight smile. “I don’t feel so well either, my boy, so I am glad that I am not mismatched.”

“You’re working too hard, Santa.”

“You are probably right, Gumdrop,” Santa said. “But the work of giving is not what is troubling me. How have you been spending your time recently, son?” Suddenly, Santa’s jaw was tight, his eyes still. He was steeling himself for the lie he knew I was going to tell him.

“I’ve been keeping myself occupied,” I said, getting as close to the truth as was comfortable for the moment. “I’ve traveled some. I’m just trying to figure what to do next.”

It wasn’t the answer Santa wanted to hear, so he turned his head away like he didn’t want to look at me when he called me on the carpet. “I know you’ve been traveling,” he said. “And I am heartbroken at how you’ve been keeping yourself occupied.”

I couldn’t lie to the old man. “How’d you find out?”

“Shame on you!” Santa said in the coldest voice I’d ever heard. “Shame on you! An elf represents the North Pole, Gumdrop, just as much as I do. You physically assaulted people, embarrassed them, frightened them. You frightened children, Gumdrop!”

“I went after the parents, Nick,” I said.

“Well, little Raymond Hall Junior wrote me a letter and told me that an elf, one of my elves, beat up his father with a telephone,” Santa thundered back. “The child saw it; he was there. I can only imagine what that little, little boy will think of the Christmas season for the rest of his life.”

“I hope he will see the season for what it’s supposed to be,” I said. “A time for thinking about somebody other than yourself.”

“Pity you could not heed that same advice,” Santa said. “I now know this is not about keeping children from becoming naughty; it’s not about the integrity of Christmas or even a dose of tough love. This is Gumdrop Coal’s personal vendetta and it saddens me to the bottom of my heart.”

“You’re wrong, Santa,” I said. “I can see why it looks that way, but you’re wrong.”

Santa seemed surprised at my tone. After a moment, he shook his head and said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.”

“Then you’re listening too much to Candy Cane,” I said. I was getting angry. “He’s been spreading whoppers about me since before all this started.”

“Are you honestly trying to blame your behavior on Candy?” Santa asked. “Did he attack those children’s parents? Did he make a child afraid at Christmastime? I suppose you agree with your little Misfit friend, Sherlock Stetson, that Candy also heads up the Misfit Mafia.”

“I don’t know anything about that, Santa,” I said. “All I know is that once Citizen Cane burst onto the scene, you started giving me and my work the stink eye. Before I know it, I’m out, he’s in and every brat with a wish is getting what it wants for Christmas. It doesn’t seem fair and there seems to be more to it than that, but I don’t know what. You don’t look so good, Nick. Maybe Sherlock is on to something after all. Weren’t there threats after Mr. Snowman was plowed over?”

Santa held up his hand; he had heard enough. He got to his feet and walked to the door without looking back. He opened the door and paused. “Promise me you will leave humans alone. All humans. Children and parents.”

“They need discipline, Santa,” I said. “Things need to be just. Their wants will kill you.”

“Promise me. If you are harming anyone, I don’t know if I would have the heart to be a part of Christmas anymore. Promise me, Gumdrop,” he said with his back to me.

If I said “no,” Christmas was off. If I said “yes,” there was a good chance Santa wouldn’t make it through Christmas. I didn’t like my spot, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand the look in Santa’s eyes if I didn’t do what he asked. “I promise,” I said.

Santa left without another word.

I never felt so ashamed in my life.

That is until Dingleberry arrived at my door a few minutes later. He didn’t speak; he sobbed. I poured him a stiff eggnog and let him blubber a few minutes to see if it would get out of his system. I didn’t say anything. I was afraid I’d make it worse—or start blubbering myself.

Finally, Dingleberry blew his schnoz and took a deep breath. “I guess by the look on your face, what I heard is true,” he said.

“I’m sorry to say that it is.”

“Oh, Gumdrop, you did a bad thing,” Dingleberry said. “A bad, bad thing. You
hurt
people
.
You used your gift of elf magic to go into people’s homes and hit them and scream at them.”

“It is not as simple as that,” I said. “And you know why I did it.”

“Yeah, because you
hate
the naughty!” he screamed. “You
hate
anyone who doesn’t do things the way you think they should be done.”

“Cane put that idea in your head?” I asked. I could tell by Dingleberry’s expression that I was right. “Dingleberry, you know, deep down, that is not true. You know I
hate
naughtiness. I hate when kids take Santa for granted. I hate that parents don’t teach their kids any better. You know I’m trying to help them, or you did know that. I guess Cane has changed your mind. Some friend you are.”

It was a lousy thing to say, but I was feeling like everyone was piling on. Why didn’t anyone understand?

Dingleberry was wounded, but he held it together. Shaking, he stood up and looked me right in the eye. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not a good friend to you. But I am a good elf, Gumdrop, a good elf. I am here to make toys for children, to make them happy whether they’re good or bad. It’s what George would do too. He knows what is right and so do I.”

“This isn’t one of your stupid comic book yarns,” I said. I was starting to lose my famous temper. “This is real stuff, Ding. You can’t let bad kids and awful parents slide on a lifetime of naughty. The folks on the Nice List would have no reason to be nice. That’s not fair. And it’s not fair that everyone’s kicking me in the pants over this. Why beat me up when you won’t punish a brat? If I were a kid out in the real world, you’d be building me some lamebrain
By George
adventure set and giving it to me Christmas morning with no questions asked!”

Dingleberry was shot through the heart, but he didn’t fall like a ton of bricks. He got up and went to the door. “That’s different. They’re kids, Gumdrop. I’m sorry if that seems unfair to you, but it’s all I know,” he said. “So because it’s all I know, I don’t think I can be your best friend. And
By George
is not fake, and he’s not stupid. He doesn’t make people do things his way. He doesn’t slap them around and snap their head off. He does things the right way and inspires everybody else to do things the right way too. ‘Treat the other guy like you were in his boots.’ That’s part of the
By George True Friends
pledge. I’m trying to do that, Gumdrop, but right now, I don’t want to be in your boots because all you want to do in them is walk all over people.”

And then Dingleberry left. I called after him, but he kept going.

 

I
know the song says not to pout, not to cry. But under the circumstances, I figured I was entitled. I sat in the dark all through the wee hours trying to untie my knot of trouble, wondering if it could get any worse. I drank more than a little cheer to help me think. Instead, I forgot. And slept. A few groggy hours later, I was about to take a little satisfaction thinking I was at rock bottom. Then, there was a knock at the door.