Jimmy’s eyes went wide, and he slid off my lap fast enough to leave a friction burn. His mom frowned, but she was out of range before I could elaborate.
Next up was a girl with a red velvet bow in her hair and a face like she knew exactly where every body was buried in the tri-county area. She sat, crossed her legs, and stared me down.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Lindsey,” she said, already bored.
“You been good this year, Lindsey?”
She shrugged. “Define good.”
I liked this kid. “Let’s call it ‘didn’t get caught.’”
She nodded, satisfied. “I want an iPad and a phone.”
I said, “That’s a lot of screens for someone your age. You got stock in Apple?”
She rolled her eyes. “My dad said you’re fake.”
“Your dad’s a cuck,” I said, then leaned close. “But don’t tell your mom. She’d lose her shit.”
She cracked a smile. I gave her two candy canes, just for style.
The line moved on. Each kid had a new flavor of dysfunction. One kid wet himself, two tried to rip the beard off my face, and one girl asked if Santa could help her “get rid of” her baby brother. I told her to leave the logistics to the elves. The parents alternated between exasperation and genuine concern, and the volunteers in the green “Jesus Is The Reason” vests were huddled at the edge of the room, whispering into each other’s ears and shooting me the kind of looks that said they were one more F-bomb away from calling in the clergy SWAT team.
I didn’t care. I was having fun for the first time in months.
At one point, a kid in a wheelchair rolled up, clutching a stuffed bear. His dad, a big guy with neck tattoos and an air of not giving a fuck, hovered close. The kid—Ben—stared at me, not scared, just taking the measure of a man who dressed up to lie to children for a living.
“What’s on your list, Ben?” I asked.
He thought about it, then said, “A new bike. One with a motor.”
I grinned. “That’s the best answer I’ve heard all day. You want a Harley or a dirt bike?”
“Harley,” Ben said, like it was obvious.
His dad snorted. “You can’t even ride a regular one.”
“Yet,” I said, and gave Ben a fist bump. “Santa’s rooting for you.”
The next hour was a blur of fake smiles, sticky fingers, and a growing pile of wrappers and broken plastic at my feet. I tried to keep the jokes G-rated, but every so often, one slipped out. I figured the “real” Santa wasn’t coming back from his bender, so what the hell.
To a kid named Mason who wouldn’t stop picking his nose, “You know, Santa’s elves keep a list of booger eaters. It’s not a good list, Mason.”
To a girl named Madison, “Santa can’t bring you a pony, but I can bring you the phone number for a good therapist. You’re gonna need it.”
And to the cluster of preteens at the end of the line, “If you’re thinking about putting a firecracker in the mailbox again, just remember—the postal service fights back.”
Some of the adults laughed. Most just hustled the kids away, eyes narrowed and lips pressed thin. The air in the hall got heavy with that particular brand of Midwestern dread, the feeling that something bad is happening, but it’s too late to stop it without causing a scene.
Through it all, I saw him watching, the man with the suit and the shoes that cost more than my bike, standing at the far end of the hall, flanked by a wife who looked like she hadn’t blinked since Reagan, and a daughter with chestnut hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. He had a way of surveying the room that let you know he owned everything in it.
Reverend Archie Maple.
I’d seen his kind before. The world called them shepherds, but really, they were wolves with better PR.
He let the line wind down, then strode over, each step measured and heavy. When he got close, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. His eyes locked on me, dark and direct, a little smile on his face that didn’t reach the rest of him.
