The Great Santa Search (Christmas Chronicles) Read online

  So on the morning of December 18, 1841, the five of us secured ourselves in the sleigh, and our eight great sources of propulsion and flight leaped into the cold winter air and whisked us south. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, and Blitzen were fine, intelligent animals who responded to my slightest tug on the reins. We flew faster than the human eye could follow and were kept warm by thick robes draped over our shoulders and across our laps. Normally on such trips, my passengers and I would talk and laugh and sing, but this time we spoke very little, and even then in hushed, worried tones. No good, we felt, could come of J.W.’s scheme.

  After about fifteen minutes in the air, we spied Philadelphia far below. Though measured against modern-day Philadelphia it would have seemed a messy collection of cabins, dirt streets, and corrals, by the standards of 1841 it was a great city indeed. With almost ninety-four thousand residents, it was the fourth largest in all of America, ranking in population only behind New York City, Baltimore, and New Orleans. Still, the houses and farms on its outskirts dwindled down quickly, so it was no real problem for us to land the sleigh in an isolated area. We scattered some feed for the reindeer to enjoy while they awaited our return. We didn’t have to worry about someone stumbling upon them and perhaps taking them away. The reindeer were trained to obey only those of us from the farm in Cooperstown. If any strangers approached, they would fly into the air and hover out of sight until the interlopers were gone.

  J.W.’s store was on the west side of the city. Though we could have walked the three or four miles there in less than a minute—traveling much faster than ordinary humans was one of the powers granted to us in our gift-giving mission—we chose instead to stroll at a more ordinary pace. It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, a full hour before “Kris Kringle’s” promised arrival.

  “Philadelphia was one of the first American cities to pave some of its roads with cobblestones,” Ben informed us. “That field over there was where I flew my kite in a thunderstorm to see if lightning carried electricity.”

  “I’ll bet you were shocked to find out that it did!” Felix joked.

  As soon as we reached the main part of town, we saw J.W.’s posters everywhere. They were tacked to trees and pasted on walls. No modern-day media like radio and television and the Internet existed, so posters were the accustomed means of promoting civic events. If you wanted people to know about some program or other, you put up as many posters as possible and hoped passersby would notice them.

  As Layla had predicted, many people had seen J.W.’s posters. When we neared Parkinson’s, we saw a crowd of several hundred all trying to get in the front door at once. Grown men and women herded ahead of them children who were shrieking with excitement. J.W.’s employees were trying in vain to get everyone lined up neatly.

  “I expect they’ll have to call the police to come and get this under control,” Sarah said. “Some of those children may be knocked down by accident. How awful!”

  Then J.W. himself emerged from the store, standing on its front porch and waving his arms to get everyone’s attention. His costume alone could have accomplished that—J.W., who normally dressed quite conservatively, was wearing a long bright green coat and purple trousers, and on his head was a red stocking cap with white tassel. He must have ordered the clothes especially.

  “I’m J.W., one of Kris Kringle’s assistants, and I request that you all calm down,” he shouted. “Our Christmas friend is on his way here”—there was loud cheering from all the assembled children and many of the grown-ups—“and if everyone will just give us some room, you’ll be able to watch him arrive. Stand back, and in a few minutes keep a careful eye on the roof. Do you see the chimney there? Do you remember how Kris Kringle, or Santa if you prefer calling him that, likes to come into houses on Christmas Eve? Boys and girls, get ready to meet your hero! Mothers and fathers, prepare to purchase some of the best toy bargains in Philadelphia!” Then J.W. disappeared back into his shop. His employees were now able to convince the crowd to form a semicircle in front of the store, backed far enough away from the porch to have a good view of the roof.

  “He means to have this false Kris Kringle jump down that chimney,” Ben said. “He’s keeping the crowd in front of the store because he’s going to get him up there from the back. Let’s go see.”

  My friends and I were always able to blend in when we visited cities. We dressed like everyone else and, without my famous red robes trimmed with white, no one ever seemed to realize this broadly built, white-bearded man was anyone other than an ordinary fellow. So the five of us edged our way along the fringes of the crowd to where J.W.’s workers stood to prevent anyone from going around to the back of the store. One of them stepped up and said, “Don’t go any farther, please,” but Layla calmly told her, “We’re friends of Mr. Parkinson, and he invited my husband to be part of this,” which was certainly true.

  Behind the store, J.W. stood beside a heavy ladder that had been propped up against the back wall. A tent was pitched a few dozen feet away; inside we could hear someone grumbling about boots not fitting properly, and where was the cushion to be worn under his robes?

  “No one is to come back here—wait! Santa, it’s you!” J.W. blurted. “Have you decided to appear after all? The other fellow I’ve hired can just step aside!”

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” I said firmly. “I’m sorry you haven’t changed yours. You’re about to do a terrible thing, old friend. It isn’t too late to call this off.”

  “But it is, Santa,” J.W. replied. “Did you see all the people out in front? This is going to be a great success. You’ll see. Christmas and Kris Kringle will be more popular than ever!”

  Layla placed her hand on my arm, a signal not to continue the debate. “He’s going to go through with this,” she whispered. “All we can do now is watch what happens.”

  One of J.W.’s employees hustled up and informed him that it was noon: “The crowd is just bristling with anticipation, Mr. Parkinson,” he said.

  “Then let’s give the people what they want!” J.W. responded, his voice cracking from excitement or a guilty conscience or some combination of the two. “Mr. Kringle! You, in the tent! It’s time!”

  There was rustling behind the tent’s canvas walls, and then the front flap flipped open. A short, portly man in expensive red robes emerged. His hair and beard were white, but some of the talcum powder used to make them so hung in a cloud above his head. He was jamming a pillow underneath his robes to give the appearance of additional stoutness.

  “If I fall off the roof, I’ll take you to court,” he growled at J.W. “You never told me a chimney was involved.”

  “It will all be fine, Kris Kringle,” J.W. promised. “Remember, you must be jolly. I won’t pay you the other half of your fee if you’re not.” He gently pushed the impostor over to the ladder. “Go tell the people that Kris Kringle is about to appear,” he instructed a subordinate, who disappeared around the corner. Moments later, a huge cheer was raised by the crowd.

  The false Kris Kringle gingerly climbed the ladder, hauling along a massive, toy-filled sack with “My friends shop at Parkinson’s” printed on the side. As he did, J.W. hustled around to the front of his store. We followed.

  “Boys and girls, look at the roof!” he shouted. “He’s coming…he’s coming…here he is!”

  The impostor in red robes had indeed appeared. He’d evidently had some trouble transferring his own weight and the hefty sack from the ladder to the roof itself, for he teetered for a moment before regaining full balance by throwing his free arm around the wide chimney. In doing so, he almost lost his grip on the sack of toys, and in his frantic attempt to get a firm new grip on the sack he nearly let go of the chimney, which might have resulted in a spectacular fall to the ground.

  But he didn’t fall, and, once confident that he wasn’t about to tumble, the fraudulent Kris Kringle nodded to the crowd below. The response was loud cheering, and I began to hope that thing
s might conclude without any real damage to the image of Santa and the beliefs of children. But then J.W. shouted out again.

  “Now it’s time to enter the store, everyone!” he instructed loudly. “After all, when Kris Kringle slides down a chimney, he ends up inside rather than out! Hurry, now—he’s about to come down!”

  This encouraged a mass rush to the front door of the shop, which of course wasn’t wide enough to accommodate so many people at once. There was much resulting confusion, with parents grumbling and children screeching and J.W. and his employees trying very hard to keep things as orderly as possible. At least the struggle to get inside distracted onlookers from the stumblings of the red-robed figure on the roof, but the five of us from Cooperstown had stayed back from the crush and so kept looking up at him with a sense of fascinated horror.

  As I had learned over several centuries, “sliding down a chimney” is not the easiest thing to do. Even the largest fireplaces have relatively narrow chimneys through which smoke is meant to escape; they have never been built with the idea that a full-grown man—all right, a somewhat overweight man—might attempt to slide down them. Add a large sack of toys to the mix and it’s quite easy to get stuck before you’ve dropped even a few feet. That’s why I have always preferred using doors or windows. Cooperative parents usually make available to me more convenient ways than chimneys to get in and leave my gifts. But J.W. obviously wanted Kris Kringle to come into his store by the chimney route and no other, so his impostor Santa tried to slide down. He only managed to lower himself as far as his waist before getting stuck tight. Standing beside me, Layla and Sarah dissolved into helpless giggling; Felix and Ben chuckled, too, but I felt sorry for the fellow. I’d gotten stuck in a few chimneys myself over the years.

  “Take a deep breath and suck in your stomach!” I called out helpfully. “Hold your toy sack over your head!”

  He looked down at me, and even at that distance I could see the panic in his eyes. “I’m sucking in my stomach and I’m still stuck!” he cried, and I was glad all the children had finally gotten inside J.W.’s store so they couldn’t hear the man they thought was me sounding so forlorn.

  “Tell him to pull the cushion out from under his robe,” Layla whispered, and that’s what I did. He managed with great difficulty to push one arm down between the chimney wall and his body; we watched his shoulder twitch as he struggled to yank the cushion free. Evidently he succeeded, for suddenly his whole body dropped down out of sight, and the sack of toys fell right behind, with man and sack tumbling, I was certain, onto the hard floor of the fireplace itself. I hoped for the fraudulent Santa’s sake that J.W. had remembered to put out the fire.

  We hurried inside to find that he had—but he’d forgotten to provide some sort of padding to cushion “Kris Kringle’s” fall, so the unfortunate fellow had the wind knocked out of him on impact. The toy sack landed on top of his head, knocking his red tassled hat askew and littering the floor by the fireplace with tin whistles and soft cloth dolls. Some of the crowd gasped in concern, but J.W. announced cheerfully, “In just a moment, Kris Kringle will sit on that bench over there and visit with the kiddies! Parents, this way to a display of the finest toys in all of Philadelphia!” All the mothers and fathers trooped off obediently, though Layla, Ben, Felix, Sarah, and I stayed behind. The poor pretend gift-giver was helped to the bench by a pair of J.W.’s employees, dragging his half-empty toy sack behind him while another of J.W.’s workers scurried to pick up the other scattered playthings. His red robes were streaked with soot—J.W. had also forgotten to have the chimney cleaned before-hand—one elbow of his costume was torn, and, without the cushion at his waist, the red robes hung loosely. White powder still smoked from his hair and beard. I was certain that none of the children could now believe he was really me.

  And yet it seemed that all of them did. Later, Layla reminded me how people of all ages usually see whatever it is they expect: “Because they so badly wanted to meet you, Santa, it didn’t matter that robes were dirty or a beard was obviously dark rather than white. The boys and girls were just thrilled that Santa in any form was there for them to see and talk to and perhaps touch.”

  The frazzled fellow pretending to be Kris Kringle slumped on the bench and eyed the children surrounding him with the same nervousness that a mouse might have exhibited in the presence of a pack of lively cats. The boys and girls, in turn, wriggled with excitement and waited for their beloved Christmas friend to say or do something.

  After perhaps two full minutes of silence, one little girl asked, “Is your name Kris Kringle or Santa Claus? I’ve heard people call you both.”

  The proper answer would have been that his name was Santa to some and Kris Kringle to others, and that either name was entirely acceptable to him, but the bruised, sooty impostor was apparently not educated enough in the history of Christmas to realize this.

  “Mr. Parkinson calls me Kris Kringle,” he replied. “I guess that’s good enough for me.”

  “Where are your reindeer?” a boy wanted to know.

  “I came by wagon today.”

  “But why not fly with the reindeer?”

  “One of them had a cold.”

  “Which one?”

  “Um.” The false Kris Kringle’s brow furrowed. “Remind me of their names.”

  I was positive the children would realize the terrible fraud being perpetrated—how could Kris Kringle or Santa Claus not remember the names of his faithful reindeer friends? Instead, they laughed in delight and started calling out “Dasher!” and “Cupid!” and “Blitzen!,” all eight names in every possible order, until finally the pretender said, “It’s the first one.”

  This vague response luckily satisfied the children on the topic of reindeer, but of course they had many more questions—about where Kris Kringle lived, how he decided which children got what toys, and, over and over, what each individual child there at Parkinson’s might expect to find in his or her stocking on Christmas morning. In every instance, the fellow pretending to be me had no plausible response.

  “This would be the perfect time to tell them that presents are really the least important part of Christmas,” I muttered to Layla. “He should explain that the real pleasure of the holiday comes from giving thanks to God for sending Jesus and from the companionship and love of family and friends!”

  And perhaps he would have said something of the sort. I doubt it, but it might have happened. Instead, J.W. suddenly burst back into the room, with package-laden parents trailing behind him.

  “Boys and girls, it’s time for dear Kris Kringle to return to his secret toy factory!” J.W. said. “He’s most pleased to have met you, and now you must bid him farewell. When you have, you may want to visit the toy displays here to make certain your mothers and fathers know exactly what you want Kris Kringle to bring you on Christmas Eve!”

  Having been expertly goaded into a frenzy of greed, all but one of the youngsters galloped away to the far side of the store, where shelves groaned under the weight of almost every toy imaginable. But one boy, a rather pale child with red hair and countless freckles, stayed where he was.

  “Mr. Kringle is leaving now, sonny,” J.W. said. “Wave goodbye, and go help your parents look at the toys.”

  The youngster didn’t budge. He pulled one of the wrinkled event posters out of his pocket, along with a pencil. “I want his autograph,” he said. In 1841, autograph-collecting wasn’t the widespread hobby it would later become, but some people did like to ask famous individuals to sign their names as keepsakes. The fake Kris Kringle tried to inch toward the door and escape, but J.W. caught him by the elbow.

  “I’m sure he’d be delighted to oblige,” J.W. said, and swung the reluctant fraud back toward the boy. The child held out the poster and pencil. The impostor took them, scribbled, and handed them back. Then he rushed through a back door, with J.W. right behind.

  “Gosh,” the freckled boy sighed. “I got his signature.”

  “May I se
e your poster?” I asked. He handed it over. Underneath the cartoon, there was scrawled “Cris Cringle,” with capital Cs where Ks should have been.

  “The fool can’t even spell!” I grumbled, and the little boy looked alarmed. Layla took the poster from me and handed it back to him, saying, “How wonderful for you! Merry Christmas!” He ran off, brandishing the paper.

  Layla, Ben, Felix, Sarah, and I went out the same back door where J.W. and his impostor had exited. That unfortunate fellow had already disappeared, undoubtedly hoping to make his getaway before any more children asked awkward questions. J.W. was folding up the torn, soot-stained robes.

  “I suppose the costume shop will charge me extra, since these things will have to be washed and mended,” he said. “Well, Santa, the children were excited and their parents are buying almost every toy in my shop. Would you agree this was a great success?”

  “Absolutely not, J.W.” I said, and proceeded to tell my well-meaning friend gently but firmly about the pretend Kris Kringle’s foolish answers in response to the children’s questions, and how he couldn’t even spell his name correctly when asked for an autograph. “Is any amount of profit worth the risk of even one child having his or her belief in Santa Claus ruined forever? Even if that didn’t happen today, it could have, and it will surely happen sooner or later if you host any more of these appearances by men pretending to be me.”

  “What if I made certain the next Kris Kringle I hired was a better actor who knew the names of all eight reindeer?” J.W. asked. “I admit I didn’t choose this first one very carefully, but next time I would know better.”

  “He still wouldn’t be the real Santa,” I said. “Look into your heart instead of your wallet, old friend. Do you truly think what you did today was right?”