Connie Willis - Miracle and Other Christmas Stories

Miracle and Other Christmas Stories

CONTENTS

Introduction

Miracle

Inn

In Coppelius's Toy Shop

The Pony

Adaptation

Cat's Paw

Newsletter

Epiphany

A Final Word

Twelve Terrific Things to Read

Twelve to Watch

TO CHARLES DICKENS AND GEORGE SEATON,

who knew how to keep Christmas

Introduction

I love Christmas. All of it—decorating the tree and singing in the choir and baking cookies and wrapping

presents. I even like the parts most people hate—shopping in crowded malls and reading Christmas newsletters

and seeing relatives and standing in baggage check-in lines at the airport.

Okay, I lied. Nobody likes standing in baggage check-in lines. I love seeing people get off the plane,

though, and holly and candles and eggnog and carols.

But most of all, I love Christmas stories and movies. Okay, I lied again. I don't love all Christmas stories

and movies. It's a Wonderful Life, for instance. And Hans Christian Andersen's "The Fir Tree."

But I love Miracle on 34th Street and Christopher Morley's "The Christmas Tree That Didn't Get Trimmed"

and Christina Rosetti's poem "Midwinter." My family watches The Sure Thing and A Christmas Story each

year, and we read George V. Higgins's

"The Snowsuit of Christmas Past" out loud every Christmas Eve, and eagerly look for new classics to add to

our traditions.

There aren't a lot. This is because Christmas stories are much harder to write than they look, partly because

the subject matter is fairly limited, and people have been writing them for nearly two thousand years, so

they've just about rung all the changes possible on snowmen, Santas, and shepherds.

Stories have been told from the point of view of the fourth wise man (who got waylaid on the way to

Bethlehem), the innkeeper, the innkeeper's wife, the donkey, and the star. There've been stories about

department-store Santas, phony Santas, burned-out Santas, substitute Santas, reluctant Santas, and dieting

Santas, to say nothing of Santa's wife, his elves, his reindeer, and Rudolph. We've had births at Christmas

(natch!), deaths, partings, meetings, mayhem, attempted suicides, and sanity hearings. And Christmas in

Hawaii, in China, in the past, the future, and outer space. We've heard from the littlest shepherd, the littlest

wise man, the littlest angel, and the mouse who wasn't stirring. There's not a lot out there that hasn't already

been done.

In addition, the Christmas-story writer has to walk a narrow tightrope between sentiment and skepticism,

and most writers end up falling off into either cynicism or mawkish sappiness.

And, yes, I am talking about Hans Christian Andersen. He invented the whole three-hanky sob story,

whose plot Maxim Gorki, in a fit of pique, described as taking a poor girl or boy and letting them "freeze

somewhere under a window, behind which there is usually a Christmas tree that throws its radiant splendor

upon them." Match girls, steadfast tin soldiers, even snowmen (melted, not frozen) all met with a fate they (and

we) didn't deserve, especially at Christmas.

Nobody, before Andersen came along, had thought of writing such depressing Christmas stories. Even

Dickens, who had killed a fair number of children in his books, didn't kill Tiny Tim. But

Andersen, apparently hell-bent on ruining everybody's holidays, froze innocent children, melted loyal toys

into lumps of lead, and chopped harmless fir trees who were just standing there in the forest, minding their

own business, into kindling.

Worse, he inspired dozens of imitators, who killed off saintly children (some of whom, I'll admit, were

pretty insufferable and deserved to die) and poor people for the rest of the Victorian era.

In the twentieth century, the Andersen-style tearjerker moved into the movies, which starred Margaret

O'Brien (who definitely deserved to die) and other child stars, chosen for their pallor and their ability to

cough. They had titles like All Mine to Give and The Christmas Tree, which tricked hapless moviegoers into

thinking they were going to see a cheery Christmas movie, when really they were about little boys who

succumbed to radiation poisoning on Christmas Eve.

When television came along, this type of story turned into the "Very Special Christmas Episode" of various

TV shows, the worst of which was Little House on the Prairie, which killed off huge numbers of children in

blizzards and other pioneer-type disasters every Christmas for years. Hadn't any of these authors ever heard

that Christmas stories are supposed to have happy endings?

Well, unfortunately, they had, and it resulted in improbably sentimental and saccharine stories too

numerous to mention.

So are there any good Christmas stories out there? You bet, starting with the original. The recounting of

the first Christmas (you know, the baby in the manger) has all the elements of great storytelling: drama,

danger, special effects, dreams and warnings, betrayals, narrow escapes, and—combined with the

Easter story—the happiest ending of all.

And it's got great characters—Joseph, who's in over his head but doing the best he can; the wise men,

expecting a palace and getting a stable; slimy Herod, telling them, "When you find this king, tell me where he

is so I can come and worship him," and then sending out his thugs to try to murder the baby; the ambivalent

innkeeper. And Mary, fourteen years old, pondering all of the above in her heart. It's a great story—no wonder

it's lasted two thousand years.

Modern Christmas stories I love (for a more complete list, see the end of this book) include O. Henry's

"The Gift of the Magi," T. S. Eliot's "Journey of the Magi," and Barbara Robinson's The Best Christmas

Pageant Ever, about a church Nativity pageant overrun by a gang of hooligans called the Herdmans. The

Herd-mans bully everybody and smoke and cuss and come only because they'd heard there were refreshments

afterward. And they transform what was a sedate and boring Christmas pageant into something extraordinary.

Since I'm a science-fiction writer, I'm of course partial to science-fiction Christmas stories. Science

fiction has always had the ability to make us look at the world from a different angle, and Christmas is no

exception. Science fiction has looked at the first Christmas from a new perspective (Michael Moorcock's

classic "Behold the Man") and in a new guise (Joe L. Hensley and Alexei Pan-shin's "Dark Conception").

It's shown us Christmas in the future (Cynthia Felice's "Track of a Legend") and Christmas in space (Ray

Bradbury's wonderful "The Gift"). And it's looked at Christmas itself (Mildred Clinger-man's disturbing "The

Wild Wood").

My favorite science-fiction Christmas stories are Arthur C. Clarke's "The Star," which tells the story of the

Christmas star that guided the wise men to Bethlehem, and Thomas Disch's hilarious story "The Santa Claus

Compromise," in which two intrepid six-year-old investigative reporters expose the shocking scandal behind

Santa Claus.

I also love mysteries. You'd think murder and Christmas wouldn't mesh, but the setting and the possibility

of mistletoe/ plum pudding/Santa Glaus—connected murders has inspired any number of mystery writers,

starting with Arthur Conan Doyle and his "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle," which involves a Christmas

goose. Some of my favorite mysteries are Dorothy Sayers's "The Necklace of Pearls," Agatha Christie's

Murder for Christmas, and Jane Langton's The Shortest Day: Murder at the Revels. My absolute favorite is

John Mortimer's comic "Rumpole and the Spirit of Christmas," which stars the grumpy old Scrooge of a

barrister, Horace Rumpole, and his wonderful wife, She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Comedies are probably my favorite kind of Christmas story. I love Damon Runyon's "Dancing Dan's

Christmas." (Actually, I love everything Damon Runyon ever wrote, and if you've never read him, you need to

go get Guys and Dolls immediately. Ditto P. G. Wodehouse, whose "Jeeves and the Christmas Spirit" and

"Another Christmas Carol," are vintage Wodehouse, which means they're indescribable. If you've never read

Wodehouse either, what a treat you're in for! He wrote over a hundred books. Start anywhere.) Both Runyon

and Wodehouse balance sentiment and cynicism, irony, and the Christmas spirit, human nature and happy

endings, without a single misstep.

And then there's Christopher Morley's "The Christmas Tree That Didn't Get Trimmed," which was clearly

written in reaction to Hans Christian Andersen's "The Fir Tree." Unlike Andersen, however, Morley

understands that the purpose of Christmas is to remind us not only of suffering but of salvation. His story

makes you ache, and then despair. And then rejoice.

Almost all great stories (Christmas or otherwise) have that one terrible moment when all seems lost, when

you're sure things won't work out, the bad guys will win, the cavalry won't arrive in time, and they (and we)

won't be saved. John Ford's Christmas Western, The Three Godfathers, has a moment like that. So does The

Miracle of Morgan's Creek, and Miracle on 34th Street, which I consider to be The Best Christmas Movie

Ever.

I know, I know, It's a Wonderful Life is supposed to be The Best Christmas Movie Ever, with ten million

showings and accompanying merchandising. (I saw an It's a Wonderful Life mouse pad this last Christmas.)

And I'm not denying that there are some great scenes in it (see my story "Miracle" on this subject), but the

movie has real problems. For one thing, the villainous Mr. Potter is still loose and unpunished at the end of the

movie, something no good fairy tale ever permits. The dreadful little psychologist in Miracle on 34th Street is

summarily, and very appropriately, fired, and the DA, who after all was only doing his job, repents.

But in It's a Wonderful Life, not only is Mr. Potter free, with his villainy undetected, but he has already

proved to be a vindictive and malicious villain. Since this didn't work, he'll obviously try something else. And

poor George is still faced with embezzlement charges, which the last time I looked don't disappear just

because you pay back the money, even if the cop is smiling in the last scene.

But the worst problem seems to me to be that the ending depends on the goodness of the people of

Bedford Falls, something that (especially in light of previous events) seems like a dicey proposition.

Miracle on 34th Street, on the other hand, relies on no such thing. The irony of the miracle (and let's face

it, maybe what really galls my soul is that It's a Wonderful Life is a work completely without irony) is that the

miracle happens not because of people's behavior, but in spite of it.

Christmas is supposed to be based on selflessness and innocence, but until the very end of Miracle on 34th

Street, virtually no one except Kris Kringle exhibits these qualities. Quite the opposite. Everyone, even the

hero and heroine, acts from a cynical, very modern self-interest. Macy's Santa goes on a binge right before

Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, Doris hires Kris to get herself out of a jam and save her job, John Payne

invites the little girl Susan to watch the parade as a way to meet the mother.

And in spite of Kris Kringle's determined efforts to restore the true spirit of Christmas to the city, it

continues. Macy's and then Gimbel's go along with the gag of recommending other stores, not because they

believe in it, but because it means more money. The judge in Kris's sanity case makes favorable rulings only

because he wants to get re-elected. Even the postal workers who provide the denouement just want to get rid of

stuff piling up in the dead-letter office.

But in spite of this (actually, in a delicious irony, because of it) and with only very faint glimmerings of

humanity from the principals, and in spite of how hopeless it all seems, the miracle of Christmas occurs, right

on schedule. Just as it does every year.

It's this layer of symbolism that makes Miracle on 34th Street such a satisfying movie. Also its script (by

George Seaton) and perfect casting (especially Natalie Wood and Thelma Ritter) and any number of delightful

moments (Santa's singing a Dutch carol to the little Dutch orphan and the disastrous bubble-gum episode and

Natalie Wood's disgusted expression when she's told she has to have faith even when things don't work out).

Plus, of course, the fact that Edmund Gwenn could make anyone believe in Santa Claus. All combine to make it

The Best Christmas Movie Ever Made.

Not, however, the best story. That honor belongs to Dickens and his deathless "A Christmas Carol." The

rumor that Dickens invented Christmas is not true, and neither, probably, is the story that when he died, a poor

costermonger's little girl sobbed, "Dickens dead? Why, then, is Christmas dead, too?" But they should be.

Because Dickens did the impossible—not only did he write a masterpiece that captures the essence of

Christmas, but one that was good enough to survive its own fame. There have been a million, mostly awful TV,

movie, and musical versions and variations, with Scrooge played by everybody from Basil Rath-bone to the

Fonz, but even the worst of them haven't managed to damage the wonderful story of Scrooge and Tiny Tim.

One reason it's such a great story is that Dickens loved Christmas. (And no wonder. His childhood was

Oliver Twist's and Little Dorrit's combined, and no kindly grandfather or Arthur Clennam in sight. His whole

adult life must have seemed like Christmas.) I think you have to love Christmas to write about it.

For another, he knew a lot about human nature. Remembering the past, truly seeing the present, imagining

the consequences of our actions are the ways we actually grow and change. Dickens knew this years before

Freud.

He also knew a lot about writing. The plot's terrific, the dialogue's great, and the opening line—"Marley

was dead: to begin with"—is second only to "Call me Ishmael" as one of the great opening lines of literature.

He knew how to end stories, too, and that Christmas stories were supposed to have happy endings.

Finally, the story touches us because we want to believe people can change. They don't. We've all learned

from bitter experience (though probably not as bitter as Dickens's) that the world is full of money-grubbers

and curtain-ring stealers, that Scrooge stays Scrooge to the bitter end, and nobody will lift a finger to help Tiny

Tim.

But Christmas is about someone who believed, in spite of overwhelming evidence, that humanity is capable

of change and worth redeeming. And Dickens's Christmas story is in fact The Christmas Story. And the

hardened heart that cracks open at the end of it is our own.

If I sound passionate (and sometimes curmudgeonly) about Christmas stories, I am. I love Christmas, in all

its complexity and irony, and I love Christmas stories.

So much so that I've been writing them for years. Here they are—an assortment of stories about church

choirs and Christmas presents and pod people from outer space, about wishes that come true in ways you don't

expect and wishes that don't come true and wishes you didn't know you had, about stars and shepherds, wise

men and Santa Claus, mistletoe and It's a Wonderful Life and Christmas cards on recycled paper. There's even

a murder. And a story about Christmas Yet to Come.

I hope you like them. And I hope you have a very merry Christmas!

—Connie Willis

Miracle

"The Personnel Morale Special Committee had cable piped in for Christmas," the

receptionist explained, handing Lauren her messages. "I love It's a Wonderful Life, don't

you?"

Lauren stuck her messages in the top of her shopping bag and went up to her department.

Red and green crepe paper hung in streamers from the ceiling, and there was a big red

crepe-paper bow tied around Lauren's desk.

"The Personnel Morale Special Committee did it," Evie said, coming over with the catalog

she'd been reading. "They're decorating the whole building, and they want us and Document

Control to go caroling this afternoon. Don't you think PMS is getting out of hand with this

Christmas spirit thing? I mean, who wants to spend Christmas Eve at an office party?"

"I do," Lauren said. She set her shopping bag down on the desk, sat down, and began taking

off her boots.

"Can I borrow your stapler?" Evie asked. "I've lost mine again. I'm ordering my mother the

Water of the Month, and I need to staple my check to the order form."

"The Water of the Month?" Lauren said, opening her desk drawer and taking out her stapler.

"You know, they send you bottles of a different one every month. Perrier, Evian,

Calistoga." She peered into Lauren's shopping bag. "Do you have Christmas presents in there?

I hate people who have their shopping done four weeks before Christmas."

"It's four days till Christmas," Lauren said, "and I don't have it all done. I still don't have

anything for my sister. But I've got all my friends, including you, done." She reached into the

shopping bag and pulled out her pumps. "And I found a dress for the office party."

"Did you buy it?"

"No," She put on one of her shoes. "I'm going to try it on during my lunch hour."

"If it's still there," Evie said gloomily. "I had this echidna toothpick holder all picked out

for my brother, and when I went back to buy it, they were all gone."

"I asked them to hold the dress for me," Lauren said. She put on her other shoe. "It's

gorgeous. Black off-the-shoulder. Sequined."

"Still trying to get Scott Buckley to notice you, huh? I don't do things like that anymore.

Nineties women don't use sexist tricks to attract men. Besides, I decided he was too cute to

ever notice somebody like me." She sat down on the edge of Lauren's desk and started leafing

through the catalog. "Here's something your sister might like. The Vegetable of the Month.

February's okra."

"She lives in southern California," Lauren said, shoving her boots under the desk.

"Oh. How about the Sunscreen of the Month?"

"No," Lauren said. "She's into New Age stuff. Channeling. Aromatherapy. Last year she

sent me a crystal pyramid mate selector for Christmas."

"The Eastern Philosophy of the month," Evie said. "Zen, Sufism, tai chi—"

"I'd like to get her something she'd really like," Lauren mused. "I always have a terrible

time figuring out what to get people for Christmas. So this year, I decided things were going

to be different. I wasn't going to be tearing around the mall the day before Christmas, buying

things no one would want and wondering what on earth I was going to wear to the office

party. I started doing my shopping in September, I wrapped my presents as soon as I bought

them, I have all my Christmas cards done and ready to mail—"

"You're disgusting," Evie said. "Oh, here, I almost forgot." She pulled a folded slip of paper

out of her catalog and handed it to Lauren. "It's your name for the Secret Santa gift exchange.

PMS says you're supposed to bring your present for it by Friday so it won't interfere with the

presents Santa Claus hands out at the office party."

Lauren unfolded the paper, and Evie leaned over to read it. "Who'd you get? Wait, don't

tell me. Scott Buckley."

"No. Fred Hatch. And I know just what to get him."

"Fred? The fat guy in Documentation? What is it, the Diet of the Month?"

"This is supposed to be the season of love and charity, not the season when you make

mean remarks about someone just because he's overweight," Lauren said sternly. "I'm going

to get him a videotape of Miracle on 34th Street."

Evie looked uncomprehending.

"It's Fred's favorite movie. We had a wonderful talk about it at the office party last year."

"I never heard of it."

"It's about Macy's Santa Claus. He starts telling people they can get their kids' toys cheaper

at Gimbel's, and then the store psychiatrist decides he's crazy—"

"Why don't you get him It's a Wonderful Life? That's my favorite Christmas movie."

"Yours and everybody else's. I think Fred and I are the only two people in the world who

like Miracle on 34th Street better. See, Edmund Gwenn, he's Santa Claus, gets

committed to Bellevue because he thinks he's Santa Claus, and since there isn't any Santa

Claus, he has to be crazy, but he is Santa Claus, and Fred Gailey, that's John Payne, he's a

lawyer in the movie, he decides to have a court hearing to prove it and—"

"I watch It's a Wonderful Life every Christmas. I love the part where Jimmy Stewart and

Donna Reed fall into the swimming pool," Evie said. "What happened to the stapler?"

They had the dress and it fit, but there was an enormous jam-up at the cash register, and then

they couldn't find a hanging bag for it.

"Just put it in a shopping bag," Lauren said, looking anxiously at her watch.

"It'll wrinkle," the clerk said ominously and continued to search for a hanging bag. By the

time Lauren convinced her a shopping bag would work, it was already 12:15. She had hoped

she'd have a chance to look for a present for her sister, but there wasn't going to be time. She

still had to run the dress home and mail the Christmas cards.

I can pick up Fred's video, she thought, fighting her way onto the escalator. That

wouldn't take much time, since she knew

what she wanted, and maybe they'd have something with Shirley MacLaine in it she could get

her sister. Ten minutes to buy the video, she thought, tops.

It took her nearly half an hour. There was only one copy, which the clerk couldn't find.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have It's a Wonderful Life?" she asked Lauren. "It's my

favorite movie."

"I want Miracle on 34th Street," Lauren said patiently. "With Edmund Gwenn and Natalie

Wood."

The clerk picked up a copy of It's a Wonderful Life from a huge display. "See, Jimmy

Stewart's in trouble and he wishes he'd never been born, and this angel grants him his wish—"

"I know," Lauren said. "I don't care. I want Miracle on 34th Street."

"Okay!" the clerk said, and wandered off to look for it, muttering, "Some people don't have

any Christmas spirit."

She finally found it, in the M's, of all places, and then insisted on giftwrapping it.

By the time Lauren made it back to her apartment, it was a quarter to one. She would have

to forget lunch and mailing the Christmas cards, but she could at least take them with her,

buy the stamps, and put the stamps on at work.

She took the video out of the shopping bag and set it on the coffee table next to her purse,

picked up the bag, and started for the bedroom.

Someone knocked on the door.

"I don't have time for this," she muttered, and opened the door, still holding the

shopping bag.

It was a young man wearing a "Save the Whales" T-shirt and khaki pants. He had

shoulder-length blond hair arid a vague expression that made her think of southern

California.

"Yes? What is it?" she asked.

"I'm here to give you a Christmas present," he said.

"Thank you, I'm not interested in whatever you're selling," she said, and shut the door.

He knocked again immediately. "I'm not selling anything," he said through the door.

"Really."

I don't have time for this, she thought, but she opened the door again.

"I'm not a salesguy," he said. "Have you ever heard of the Maharishi Ram Das?"

A religious nut.

"I don't have time to talk to you." She started to say, "I'm late for work," and then

remembered you weren't supposed to tell strangers your apartment was going to be empty.

"I'm very busy," she said and shut the door, more firmly this time.

The knocking commenced again, but she ignored it. She started into the bedroom

with the shopping bag, came back and pushed the deadbolt across and put the chain on, and

then went in to hang up her dress. By the time she'd extricated it from the tissue paper and

found a hanger, the knocking had stopped. She hung up the dress, which looked just as deadly

now that she had it home, and went back into the living room.

The young man was sitting on the couch, messing with her TV remote. "So, what do you

want for Christmas? A yacht? A pony?" He punched buttons on the remote, frowning. "A new

TV?"

"How did you get in here?" Lauren said squeakily. She looked at the door. The deadbolt and

chain were both still on.

"I'm a spirit," he said, putting the remote down. The TV suddenly blared on. "The Spirit of

Christmas Present."

"Oh," Lauren said, edging toward the phone. "Like in A Christmas Carol."

"No," he said, flipping through the channels. She looked at the remote. It was still on the

coffee table. "Not Christmas Present. Christmas Present. You know, Barbie dolls, ugly ties,

cheese logs, the stuff people give you for Christmas."

"Oh, Christmas Present. I see," Lauren said, carefully picking up the phone.

"People always get me confused with him, which is really insulting. I mean, the guy

obviously has a really high cholesterol level. Anyway, I'm the Spirit of Christmas Present,

and your sister sent me to—"

Lauren had dialed nine one. She stopped, her finger poised over the second one. "My

sister?"

"Yeah," he said, staring at the TV. Jimmy Stewart was sitting in the guard's room, wrapped

in a blanket. "Oh, wow! It's a Wonderful Life."

My sister sent you, Lauren thought. It explained everything. He was not a Moonie or a

serial killer. He was this year's version of the crystal pyramid mate selector. "How do you

know my sister?"

"She channeled me," he said, leaning back against the sofa. "The Maharishi Ram Das was

instructing her in trance-meditation, and she accidentally channeled my spirit out of the

astral plane." He pointed at the screen. "I love this part where the angel is trying to convince

Jimmy Stewart he's dead."

"I'm not dead, am I?"

"No. I'm not an angel. I'm a spirit. The Spirit of Christmas Present. You can call me Chris

for short. Your sister sent me to give you what you really want for Christmas. You know,

your heart's desire. So what is it?"

For my sister not to send me any more presents, she thought. "Look, I'm really in a hurry

right now. Why don't you come back tomorrow and we can talk about it then?"

"I hope it's not a fur coat," he said as if he hadn't heard her. "I'm opposed to the killing of

endangered species." He picked up Fred's present. "What's this?"

"It's a videotape of Miracle on 34th Street. I really have to go."

"Who's it for?"

"Fred Hatch. I'm his Secret Santa."

"Fred Hatch." He turned the package over. "You had it gift-wrapped at the store, didn't

you?"

"Yes. If we could just talk about this later—"

"This is a great part, too," he said, leaning forward to watch the TV. The angel was

explaining to Jimmy Stewart how he hadn't gotten his wings yet.

"I have to go. I'm on my lunch hour, and I need to mail my Christmas cards, and I have to

be back at work by"—she glanced at her watch—"oh my God, fifteen minutes ago."

He put down the package and stood up. "Gift-wrapped presents," he said, making a "tsk"-ing

noise, "everybody rushing around spending money, rushing to parties, never stopping to have

some eggnog or watch a movie. Christmas is an endangered species." He looked longingly

back at the screen, where the angel was trying to convince Jimmy Stewart he'd never been

alive, and then wandered into the kitchen. "You got any Evian water?"

"No," Lauren said desperately. She hurried after him. "Look, I really have to get to work."

He had stopped at the kitchen table and was holding one of the Christmas cards.

"Computer-addressed," he said reprovingly. He tore it open.

"Don't—" Lauren said.

"Printed Christmas cards," he said. "No letter, no quick note, not even a handwritten

signature. That's exactly what I'm talking about. An endangered species."

"I didn't have time," Lauren said defensively. "And I don't have time to discuss this or

anything else with you. I have to get to work."

"No time to write a few words on a card, no time to think about what you want for

Christmas." He slid the card back into the envelope. "Not even on recycled paper," he said

sadly. "Do you know how many trees are chopped down every year to send Christmas cards?"

"I am late for—" Lauren said, and he wasn't there anymore.

He didn't vanish like in the movies, or fade out slowly. He simply wasn't there.

"—work," Lauren said. She went and looked in the living room. The TV was still on, but he

wasn't there, or in the bedroom. She went into the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain

back, but he wasn't there either.

"It was a hallucination," she said out loud, "brought on by stress." She looked at her watch,

hoping it had been part of the hallucination, but it still read 1:15. "I will figure this out later,"

she said. "I have to get back to work."

She went back in the living room. The TV was off. She went into the kitchen. He wasn't

there. Neither were her Christmas cards, exactly.

"You! Spirit!" she shouted. "You come back here this minute!"

"You're late," Evie said, filling out a catalog form. "You will not believe who was just here.

Scott Buckley. God, he is so cute." She looked up. "What happened?" she said. "Didn't they

hold the dress?"

"Do you know anything about magic?" Lauren said.

"What happened?"

"My sister sent me her Christmas present," Lauren said grimly. "I need to talk to someone

who knows something about magic."

"Fat... I mean Fred Hatch is a magician. What did your sister send you?"

Lauren started down the hall to Documentation at a half-run.

"I told Scott you'd be back any minute," Evie said. "He said he wanted to talk to you."

Lauren opened the door to Documentation and started looking over partitions into the

maze of cubicles. They were all empty.

"Anybody here?" Lauren called. "Hello?"

A middle-aged woman emerged from the maze, carrying five rolls of wrapping paper and a

large pair of scissors. "You don't have any Scotch tape, do you?" she asked Lauren.

"Do you know where Fred Hatch is?" Lauren asked.

The woman pointed toward the interior of the maze with a roll of reindeer-covered paper.

"Over there. Doesn't anyone have any tape? I'm going to have to staple my Christmas

presents."

Lauren worked her way toward where the woman had pointed, looking over partitions as

she went. Fred was in the center one, leaning back in a chair, his hands folded over his ample

stomach, staring at a screen covered with yellow numbers.

"Excuse me," Lauren said, and Fred immediately sat forward and stood up.

"I need to talk to you," she said. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

"Right here," Fred said. "My assistant's on the 800 line in my office, placing a catalog

order, and everyone else is next door in Graphic Design at a Tupperware party." He pushed a

key, and the computer screen went blank. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Evie said you're a magician," she said.

He looked embarrassed. "Not really. The PMS Committee put me in charge of the magic

show for the office party last year, and I came up with an act. This year, luckily, they assigned

me to play Santa Claus." He smiled and patted his stomach. "I'm the right shape for the part,

and I don't have to worry about the tricks not working."

"Oh, dear," Lauren said. "I hoped ... do you know any magicians?"

"The guy at the novelty shop," he said, looking worried. "What's the matter? Did PMS

assign you the magic show this year?"

"No." She sat down on the edge of his desk. "My sister is into New Age stuff, and she sent

me this spirit—"

"Spirit," he said. "A ghost, you mean?"

"No. A person. I mean he looks like a person. He says he's the Spirit of Christmas Present,

as in Gift, not Here and Now."

"And you're sure he's not a person? I mean, tricks can sometimes really look like magic."

"There's a Christmas tree in my kitchen," she said.

"Christmas tree?" he said warily.

"Yes. The spirit was upset because my Christmas cards weren't on recycled paper. He

asked me if I knew how many trees were chopped down to send Christmas cards, then he

disappeared, and when I went back in the kitchen there was this Christmas tree in my

kitchen."

"And there's no way he could have gotten into your apartment earlier and put it there?"

"It's growing out of the floor. Besides, it wasn't there when we were in the kitchen five

minutes before. See, he was watching It's a Wonderful Life on TV, which, by the way, he

turned on without using the remote, and he asked me if I had any Evian water, and he went

into the kitchen and . . . this is ridiculous. You have to think I'm crazy. I think I'm crazy just

listening to myself tell this ridiculous story. Evian water!" She folded her arms. "People have

a lot of nervous breakdowns around Christmastime. Do you think I could be having

one?"

The woman with the wrapping-paper rolls peered over the cubicle. "Have you got a tape

dispenser?"

Fred shook his head.

"How about a stapler?"

Fred handed her his stapler, and she left.

"Well," Lauren said when she was sure the woman was gone, "do you think I'm having a

nervous breakdown?"

"That depends," he said.

"On what?"

"On whether there's really a tree growing out of your kitchen floor. You said he got angry

because your Christmas cards weren't on recycled paper. Do you think he's dangerous?"

"I don't know. He says he's here to give me whatever I want for Christmas. Except a fur

coat. He's opposed to the killing of endangered species."

"A spirit who's an animal-rights activist!" Fred said delightedly. "Where did your sister get

him from?"

"The astral plane," Lauren said. "She was trance-channeling or something. I don't care

where he came from. I just want to get rid of him before he decides my Christmas presents

aren't recyclable, too."

"Okay," he said, hitting a key on the computer. The screen lit up. "The first thing we need to

do is find out what he is and how he got here. I want you to call your sister. Maybe she knows

some New Age spell for getting rid of the spirit." He began to type rapidly. "I'll get on the

Net and see if I can find someone who knows something about magic."

He swiveled around to face her. "You're sure you want to get rid of him?"

"I have a tree growing out of my kitchen floor!"

"But what if he's telling the truth? What if he really can get you what you want for

Christmas?"

"What I wanted was to mail my Christmas cards, which are now shedding needles on the

kitchen tile. Who knows what he'll do next?"

"Yeah," he said. "Listen, whether he's dangerous or not, I

think I should go home with you after work, in case he shows up again, but I've got a PMS

meeting for the office party—"

"That's okay. He's an animal-rights activist. He's not dangerous."

"That doesn't necessarily follow," Fred said. "I'll come over as soon as my meeting's over,

and meanwhile I'll check the Net. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. She started out of the cubicle and then stopped. "I really appreciate your

believing me, or at least not saying you don't believe me."

He smiled at her. "I don't have any choice. You're the only other person in the world who

likes Miracle on 34th Street better than It's a Wonderful Life. And Fred Gailey believed

Macy's Santa Claus was really Santa Claus, didn't he?"

"Yeah," she said. "I don't think this guy is Santa Claus. He was wearing Birkenstocks."

"I'll meet you at your front door," he said. He sat down at the computer and began typing.

Lauren went out through the maze of cubicles and into the hall.

"There you are!" Scott said. "I've been looking for you all over." He smiled meltingly. "I'm

in charge of buying gifts for the office party, and I need your help."

"My help?"

"Yeah. Picking them out. I hoped maybe I could talk you into going shopping with me after

work tonight."

"Tonight?" she said. "I can't. I've got—"A Christmas tree growing in my kitchen. "Could we

do it tomorrow after work?"

He shook his head. "I've got a date. What about later on tonight? The stores are open till

nine. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours to do the shopping, and then we could go

have a late supper somewhere. What say I pick you up at your apartment at six-thirty?"

And have the spirit lying on the couch, drinking Evian water and watching TV? "I can't," she

said regretfully.

Even his frown was cute. "Oh, well," he said, and shrugged. "Too bad. I guess I'll have to get

somebody else." He gave her another adorable smile and went off down the hall to ask

somebody else.

Connie Willis - Miracle and Other Christmas Stories

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: