Santa Claws: Chapter 2, Part 1

Chapter 2

All I Want for Christmas is You

“Thanksgiving really is the worst holiday, my sweets,” Witch mumbled, sitting forlorn on a stool and picking at a muffin.

“It’s Christmas, Witch,” Awana replied, in no mood for heresy.

The old hag’s face stiffened with irritation.  “A curse upon Bat and his progeny for five generations! He deliberately told me it was the incorrect holiday.”

“I daresay that does not rank among our chief concerns at this time,” philosophized Frankenstein’s monster as he placed a colossal hand on her shoulder.

  Awana was kneeling on the floor, tearfully collecting the shards of Ms. Unicorn.  She was humming various Christmas songs under her breath, though it was obvious that she was only half paying attention to her notes.  At times she would glance at the fireplace in hopes that her sweetheart would reappear and announce that this had all been an intricate joke; but he never showed up. The Christmas lights no longer glowed across the room, as Mr. Legcheese had unplugged them in his sorrow and grief.  He stood in the kitchen with his arms wrapped around his wife.  The room was silent besides Awana’s low humming.

“Frankie, the despondency here weighs heavier than a millstone,” cracked the old hag’s voice.  “One can sense the depth of hopelessness.”

“I concur with a portion of your assessment,” the monster remarked, “although I venture to say that there may yet be hope.  We may trust that the constables of this fair town—whom the matriarch of the Legcheese house did notify—are capable of thwarting and mending untoward circumstances.”

“That may be, but I doubt they were trained to apprehend rogue Santas.”  She made a face at the muffin in her hand and set it aside.  “My point was that everyone here seems so helpless.  It is tragic.”

The monster gave her a hard look.  “Mark my words well, dear Witch.  That one there, young Humphfree, though she be a mere babe, is far from helpless.  Externally we witness an inexpressive countenance as she collects the scintillating fragments of her lover’s once-beloved trinket; internally the wheels of action turn in a wise wholly foreign to all but herself.  Yea, ‘tis not the face of resignation on display, but that of inestimable cogitation as she summons a plan to rescue her dearest Jonathan.”

Witch rubbed her head.  “Methinks I should have finished high school.”

“The cops will catch that menace,” declared Mr. Legcheese, “and we will get our son back, dear.  Trust me.”

Mrs. Legcheese wept against his chest.  “But Santa’s reindeer fly! Cops don’t fly, hon!”

“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus,” he whispered.  “Remember?”

“Was I the only one who saw him turn into the size of a grapefruit and warp up our chimney just now? No? Then don’t go on telling me he isn’t real!  He is the size of a grapefruit, and he is real! That must mean our son is the size of an apricot.  Oh, my poor little apricot....”

Awana was too busy scanning every inch of the room to think about apricots and grapefruits.  She stared at the fireplace, then turned her attention to the window.  On the air she could have sworn she heard the distant sound of bells.  Suddenly she pocketed the shards of Ms. Unicorn, burst across the room, opened the front door, and gazed into the navy heavens.  On the horizon she witnessed a sleigh ascending toward the clouds, led by what appeared to be a troupe of animals.  It’s all real, she realized.  Santa travels in a sleigh.  He enters people’s chimneys.  His sleigh is even led by reindeer! All of the stories are true.  She hugged herself as the icy fingers of the wind flicked her skin and gave her goosebumps.  But something has happened to him.  Something has turned—something has turned his goodness to blight! Can it be?

“Get your caboose back in here, Humphfree,” said Mrs. Legcheese, who had walked over to her and placed a comforting hand on her back.  “If that criminal hurt others before he kidnapped Johnny, we have to believe that the police will do whatever it takes to catch him.  Maybe they’ll use one of those new helicopter contraptions.”

“We’re not going to wait for the police, Mrs. Legcheese!” Awana said, turning to her with a fire in her eyes.  “We’re going to rescue my dear Johnny boy.  He should be safe and warm inside his home, enjoying some figgy pudding—not bouncing around in a fat man’s bag!”

“Well, he destroyed the figgy pudding two hours ago, so—”

“I’ll make more.  But I’m going to save him and bring him back before Christmas dinner tomorrow, or my name isn’t Ally McBeal.”

“It isn’t!” demanded Jonathan’s mother.

“It’s a simile.”

The woman placed a hand on her forehead as if she had developed a headache.  “Fine.  Then what, pray tell, is your plan?”

Awana leapt onto a stump at the side of the cement path extending from the front porch.  She placed one hand on her diaphragm (as seasoned vocalists tend to do) and lifted another hand to the sky.  Then she wiggled her hips and began to belt out the following words:

He's the man with all the toys
Someone found a lighted house late one night
And he saw through the window a sight
A big man in a chair
And little tiny men everywhere
He's the man with all the toys

Frankenstein’s monster broke out in a roaring applause as she finished the verse, but stopped abruptly when Mr. Legcheese gave him a threatening glare.  This did not impede Witch from sweeping across the floor with her beloved broom as a dance partner, however.

“So your solution is to wake up all our neighbors with songs by the Beach Boys,” mumbled Mrs. Legcheese.  “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“No! My solution is to wait for Santa in the last place that he expects—his big lighted house where tiny men are everywhere! We saw how fast he moved out of here; there’s no way we’re going to catch him by chasing him around.  But if we set an ambush in his home in the North Pole….”

“He’ll never see it coming!” The woman hopped once in excitement.  “Awana, you strongly resemble a small dog...but I think you’re on to something.”

Tears formed again in the girl’s eyes.  “That was such a thoughtful and sweet thing to say.  I feel like I’m really getting to know you, Mrs. Legcheese.”

The woman held out her arms.  “Oh, dear—call me Shameka!”

Awana moved toward her to accept the embrace, but Mr. Legcheese swooped in like a vulture upon some sort of dead animal...perhaps a possum, or even a raccoon.  He pushed Awana to the side and pointed a deadly finger in her direction.

“Listen here, pup,” he said sternly.  “Hands off the wife.  I was at yonder kitchen when I overheard your plan.  And I have to stay, it stinks to high heaven! How do you intend on getting to the North Pole when they don’t even have an airport?”

“I’m glad you asked, husband of Shameka,” Awana replied.  “Do you remember what happened in the last book? We took that portal from Armenor to earth, and--”

“Codswallop!” cried the man.  “Don’t try to trick me with literary inconsistencies! Super Pumpkin sacrificed himself and knocked the portal cauldron off the cliff, remember? You can’t conveniently portal over to the North Pole.”

Awana shook her head.  “This man tests my patience.” She peered over his shoulder to where Witch and Frankenstein’s monster were standing.  “Witch! Between Halloween and Thanksgiving, you increased your broom-riding skills.  When we met you, you were only able to rise fifteen feet off the ground or so.  By Thanksgiving, you were able to hover over Berryessa and save all of us as we fell out of the portal! So here is my question: how do you do it?”

The wrinkled wonder itched her nose and cleared her throat.  “Well, I just sit down on it like this....”

“No.  I mean...how do you get it to float?”

“Oh!” Witch’s face brightened with excitement.  “Well here’s the deal, my sweet.  I grab a cauldron three feet by five feet, preferably at Pacific Hardware since Home Depot is the pits.  It is usually at that point that I tell Ghost to stop bothering me about the color of shirt that he should wear for the day—especially considering he only has one blue button-up.  I fill the cauldron with something they call ‘broth of chicken.’  Then I take one gizzard of snow owl, three claws of a male brown bear, one-quarter teaspoon of fur from a female Labrador retriever in heat, two orangutan shoulders, and a juicy slab of marinated, grass-fed beef.” She licked her lips, and all who were listening thought they heard her stomach growl.  “I then get a dash of powdered dead skin from a king cobra and mix it with a dash of black pepper.  Throw in a tablespoon of minced garlic just to make sure no vampires can steal the broom.  You never know these days.  Toss everything in a plastic bag, wave it around in the air, scream like a banshee, and chuck it into the cauldron.  Then plunge the broom in and let it simmer for one hour.  Take out the broom, for it is now able to float.  Eat the marinated, grass-fed beef.”

“Brilliant!” Awana was pleased.  “And what if we were to double the ingredients...including the brooms?”

Witch rubbed her chin.  “Why...then you would get two flying brooms and two very well-fed individuals.”

“Precisely.  You have your flying broom already, Witch, but Frankie and I still need our own.”  She turned away from them and gazed north, where the mansion of The Man With The Green Toe sat on top of a hill beneath twinkling stars.  “We also need reinforcements.”