Read Online Halloween and Other Seasons by Al., Alan M. Clark, Clark Sarrantonio - Free Book Online Page B
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the direction of the house. “Leave everything to me.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you, Gustav.” He smiled and patted his belly.
I watched him walk across the snow-covered courtyard to his cottage, open the door, and go in. I thought I saw him freeze again for a moment as he stepped through the doorway, but I couldn’t be sure. He really must be working hard, the poor guy; I’d never seen him get mad before, never mind toss an elf across a room. I considered going over to the cottage and having a talk with him and Momma to make sure everything was all right, but then Smitzy, now recovered, called me over to explain one more time what he was going to do with the front runners on the sleigh, and I soon forgot all about Santa.
That night everybody came marching into the dining room at the usual time for our special Christmas Eve dinner—a little celebration we have every year before all the craziness and last-minute work. They were all there: the wise guys from the Toy Shop, tripping each other and giggling and sticking each other with little tools; the gift-wrappers, lately unionized; the R&D boys with their noses in the air (big deal, so an elf can get a college education), the maintenance men; and assorted others. The dining room was decorated for the occasion: holly and tinsel, and red and green ornaments all over the walls, a “Merry Christmas” sign hung crookedly over the big fireplace behind the head of the table, fat squatty candles hanging from the low-beamed ceiling giving the place a warm, cheery glow. Though I know it sounds mushy, I have to say that getting that dinner organized always left a warm glow in me and was one of the high points of the year.
When everyone finally sat down I rose near the head of the table in my place as chief elf and raised my glass of wine to give the traditional toast to Mr. and Mrs. Claus, just as my father had done before me and his father before him. Every year it was the same thing: a simple toast, Mr. and Mrs. Claus come in, they bow, we bow, everybody drinks the wine, everybody sits down, we eat a great meal prepared by Momma Claus, we all eat too much, we all eat some more, and then we work like crazy getting ready for the big ride. All traditional. Smooth production. End of story.
This time I stood up and made the toast, and Mr. and Mrs. Claus entered, and everybody dropped his wine glass and gasped. Santa and Momma swaggered into the room like a couple of movie gangsters. Santa had a big cigar clamped in his teeth, and that evil grin I’d seen on his face that afternoon was now painted on both of them. I couldn’t believe that the always-sweet, round-faced, bun-haired Momma Claus could ever look like a prune-faced dockworker, but she did. In the glow from the candles, they both looked pretty nasty.
Momma Claus stepped to the head of the table and raised her fist. There was a toy bullwhip in it. “Santa’s going to talk to you now,” she snarled, “and you’d better listen. Anybody who doesn’t gets this .” She cracked the whip down the length of the table, over our heads. It knocked Shmitzy’s cap off, revealing the large bump on his head.
Momma stepped aside, and Santa took her place. He pounded on the table with a fist, then looked up, glaring into each of our faces up and down the table. “I like you boys,” he growled, “so I’m going to keep you around.” He opened his mouth in a horrid, toothy smile. “But from now on we’re going to do things a little differently.”
The heavy table shook from all our trembling.
Santa grabbed a full bottle of wine from the table and drank half of it in a gulp. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Come on!” he roared, and, waving the bottle like a banner, he stomped out of the room into the courtyard.
We all sat rooted to our seats, eyes wide with terror; then Momma cracked her whip and we scampered out. As we marched out into the snow, old Doc Fritz, the physician here at the North Pole, a solemn fellow
“Yes, I will. Thank you, Gustav.” He smiled and patted his belly.
I watched him walk across the snow-covered courtyard to his cottage, open the door, and go in. I thought I saw him freeze again for a moment as he stepped through the doorway, but I couldn’t be sure. He really must be working hard, the poor guy; I’d never seen him get mad before, never mind toss an elf across a room. I considered going over to the cottage and having a talk with him and Momma to make sure everything was all right, but then Smitzy, now recovered, called me over to explain one more time what he was going to do with the front runners on the sleigh, and I soon forgot all about Santa.
That night everybody came marching into the dining room at the usual time for our special Christmas Eve dinner—a little celebration we have every year before all the craziness and last-minute work. They were all there: the wise guys from the Toy Shop, tripping each other and giggling and sticking each other with little tools; the gift-wrappers, lately unionized; the R&D boys with their noses in the air (big deal, so an elf can get a college education), the maintenance men; and assorted others. The dining room was decorated for the occasion: holly and tinsel, and red and green ornaments all over the walls, a “Merry Christmas” sign hung crookedly over the big fireplace behind the head of the table, fat squatty candles hanging from the low-beamed ceiling giving the place a warm, cheery glow. Though I know it sounds mushy, I have to say that getting that dinner organized always left a warm glow in me and was one of the high points of the year.
When everyone finally sat down I rose near the head of the table in my place as chief elf and raised my glass of wine to give the traditional toast to Mr. and Mrs. Claus, just as my father had done before me and his father before him. Every year it was the same thing: a simple toast, Mr. and Mrs. Claus come in, they bow, we bow, everybody drinks the wine, everybody sits down, we eat a great meal prepared by Momma Claus, we all eat too much, we all eat some more, and then we work like crazy getting ready for the big ride. All traditional. Smooth production. End of story.
This time I stood up and made the toast, and Mr. and Mrs. Claus entered, and everybody dropped his wine glass and gasped. Santa and Momma swaggered into the room like a couple of movie gangsters. Santa had a big cigar clamped in his teeth, and that evil grin I’d seen on his face that afternoon was now painted on both of them. I couldn’t believe that the always-sweet, round-faced, bun-haired Momma Claus could ever look like a prune-faced dockworker, but she did. In the glow from the candles, they both looked pretty nasty.
Momma Claus stepped to the head of the table and raised her fist. There was a toy bullwhip in it. “Santa’s going to talk to you now,” she snarled, “and you’d better listen. Anybody who doesn’t gets this .” She cracked the whip down the length of the table, over our heads. It knocked Shmitzy’s cap off, revealing the large bump on his head.
Momma stepped aside, and Santa took her place. He pounded on the table with a fist, then looked up, glaring into each of our faces up and down the table. “I like you boys,” he growled, “so I’m going to keep you around.” He opened his mouth in a horrid, toothy smile. “But from now on we’re going to do things a little differently.”
The heavy table shook from all our trembling.
Santa grabbed a full bottle of wine from the table and drank half of it in a gulp. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Come on!” he roared, and, waving the bottle like a banner, he stomped out of the room into the courtyard.
We all sat rooted to our seats, eyes wide with terror; then Momma cracked her whip and we scampered out. As we marched out into the snow, old Doc Fritz, the physician here at the North Pole, a solemn fellow
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