Part of me wants to be honest with them, tell them about the rough patch we haven’t even begun sanding down yet. But what if I tell them and they cast us out? They said the last pair in these positions weren’t meant to be together and weren’t meant for this mission. What if they decide that about us, too?
I don’t want to create unnecessary worry. I’m pretty sure Patrick and I understand each other. Being here is about being us again.
“Time will tell,” Colleen says almost too-knowingly.
“For now, let’s focus on howfabulousyou look in that suit! Christa, you’ve absolutely outdone yourself.” Yvonne snaps in appreciation.
I take stock of my reflection. Only one day in to this new, bizarre reality and my shoulders are at least an inch lower than they were on the final day of school before winter break. I stood in the staff bathroom, washing my hands, and couldn’t help but notice, in the reflection of the scratched-up mirror, how dark the bags were under my eyes. I was a zombie.
Just knowing I won’t be returning to lesson plans or field trips, angry parent emails or longer-than-necessary faculty meetings seems to have made all the difference in my demeanor. I’m grateful for that quick yet massive change.
24THE KEYS TO THE CASTLEPATRICK
The toy workshop is a ghost town.
“The elves won’t return to work until January second, so over these next few days you’ll have a ton of time to get familiar with your new workplace,” says Samson as we venture along a catwalk that goes around the perimeter of the main floor. It’s a candy-colored wonderland of production machines I couldn’t name if I tried.
During the tour, I try to silence my inner architect who is commenting on everything. The space is huge, but still somehow cramped. The walkways are cluttered with carts and boxes.
In the present-wrapping room, ribbons are left hanging lifeless off spools for anyone to trip over. Scraps of patterned wrapping paper are piled high on tables. One wrong swing of a fan and the whole organization system would scatter to the wind.
The workflow in the workshop overall could use some serious fixing up. I already have seventeen design ideas to make this place more efficient. However, I decide now is not the time to share them with the Priors. It’s my first day. Overstepping would be a bad look.
In the garage where the sleighs are kept, Jorge, a former mechanic, talks me through the ins and outs of maintenance.
Next, we enter the vaults where the Naughty and Nice lists are locked away in hard copy to be transferred to digital. They are explained, in great detail, by Chris. He even takes us intoa heavily secured room—they call it North Pole Headquarters—where there’s a holographic projection of the globe and a series of monitors and tablets that control it. Little red and green lights blink on and off at various intervals.
“You can look up any person from any part of the world here. We use this for Naughty and Nice disputes. We have special-mission elves go out into the human world, and we can view their feeds from here. We also use these records for vetting our next Santa,” Chris says.
“Santas who don’t come to the position through frying pans,” jokes Samson.
“This is all a little Big Brother, no?” I ask. I’m more than a bit creeped out by the wholehe sees you when you’re sleepingsong and dance.
The four of them blink back at me with apparent confusion over my reference. I tell them to ignore me and carry on.
Samson relishes detailing the production process of different toys when we enter Toy Maker Tower. As a former floor manager at a beer company, he’s a self-proclaimed “how the sausage gets made” kind of guy. “As you can tell, we’ve got toys coming out the wazoo.”
“Therearea lot of toys in here,” I say of what must be the leftover dolls and bicycles and block sets.
“No, this baby,” Samson says, slapping a metallic funnel that’s connected to a bunch of colorful pipes that line the ceiling, “is called a wazoo. Toys, when they’re finished, come out of here.”
I stifle a laugh when I realize he’s serious.
It’s all interesting and I’m learning a lot, while remaining in awe of how this building could combine so many levels and architectural styles and stillwork. Usually grafts have a somewhat clunky quality to them. You leave one wing, enter another, and it’s like you’ve time-jumped into an entirely different decade. Not here. The workshop is a feat of magic. In more ways than the literal.
The final stop on my introductory tour is Santa’s—my—office. It has the same stately, looming doors that the cathedral hall has, except when these are pushed open a more relaxed vibe greets me. There’s a stone fireplace to my left, which is roaring already. Above it are the large golden initials:SC.
In front of me there are shelves and shelves of books and ledgers with weathered leather spines. To the right, there is an impressive cherry wood desk behind which a big circular window overlooks the main work floor.
This is a big upgrade from the tiny desk I had at Carver & Associates. The air in here is charged with importance. My nostrils are graced with that cinnamon-sweet scent that has followed me everywhere since I first donned the cloak.
The finger-tingle I’m still not accustomed to returns tenfold.
“This is where the magic happens,” says Samson. He sits down in one of the brown leather chairs in front of the fireplace.
“By magic, he means the magic of Christmas. This is your domain,” Chris says. He gives me an encouraging pat on the back.
“For the next year,” Nicholas is swift to add. I can’t tell if his gruffness is directed toward me or this is his natural demeanor. Seems antithetical to the glimmery magic that is the North Pole and the position he once held. “This is a trial run. Santas can quit at will, but they can also be let go at will as well, should they not be performing their duties in a way that is satisfactory to the council and to the elves.”
