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Chapter 1
Dear world,
Christmas, my favorite time of the year. For Santa, it wouldn’t make sense to have it any other way. Santa. I hate calling myself that. I always have. Does Madonna call herself Madonna? Does Prince call himself Prince? I suppose they probably do but I just feel odd calling myself a name that has been bestowed upon me by the world’s children and families.
I’m Nicholas. Saint Nick to some. And as I write this letter I’m burdened with a heavy heart. The weight isn’t brought down by you people. For the most part, you’ve made my life a never-ending grand ball where my annual waltz is the highlight of the party.
A glance at the window overlooking the North Pole gazebo presents me with a little joy, seeing the elves play and the bright colorful lights sway in the night breeze. I like hearing the sound of live Christmas songs flowing from the fiddles, trumpets, and snare drums played by the most talented of the elven crowd. They love their music and Jingle Bell Rock is played so often it can get annoying.
I strain my ears and hear the familiar chorus of, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”
It brings me back to my tale. Tale. Tail end I guess would make more sense. The ultimate climax to the Christmas story. The lifting of the load. A climax for Christmas. That’s what you get in this letter.
This is an anvil of sorrow I bear. Its iron-like bulk puts pressure on my shoulders as I watch yet another wife of mine grow old. Marlena. She’s on the bed next to where I sit with this notepad, pen, and candle.
Yes, a candle only seems right for a moment like this. For all the iPads and tablets and cell phones I carry around on Christmas Eve, I never could learn to stomach them. I’m old fashioned I guess and as an old fashioned man, I value the feel of the paper beneath my palm as my hand slides from left to right, carving each letter into the parchment.
I look over at Marlena, the current Mrs. Claus, and see her struggle to breathe. I wish I could take her pain away. I wish I could replace life’s weight with the torture she’s enduring. But I can’t. I never could. See, I’ve had three wives prior to this one and even through so much love and loss, one can never be prepared for a loved one’s last night on earth.
She’ll die tonight. The night before Christmas Eve and Marlena will die. I’ve seen it three times before and each of those times, the cold stillness of the night was different from the usual frigid temperature. It’s like the shadows creep in and darken the atmosphere slightly more on the night of the final goodbye.
I lift my tumbler of Southern Comfort to my lips and take a long pull. This glass is tall and filled more than halfway as I plan to let it burn through my chest, stomach, and legs. I want it to strip all feeling away. And when I’m finally numb to the pain, that’s when I’ll do it.
The shadows dance. Let them dance. Tonight they’ll dance a little longer than usual as I’ve decided to go with her. I cannot do this alone anymore. I just can’t. I’ve tried. I’m worn out and Marlena, even more than the others, gave me a peace, a sense that I wasn’t alone. And to be trapped in a solitary world, this frozen tundra, even with cheerful elves bouncing around all over the place, is a prison I can no longer handle.
So I’ve decided to tell my final story, my true story, of love and loss, tonight.
Oh, how the shadows dance in the candlelight, antagonizing me, daring me, waiting for me. They dance. Like their own final waltz.
My waltz. Oh, how I love to dance.
***
Dancing.
That’s how I met my first wife, Agatha. I was a young man, a twenty year old carpenter. I came from a poor family, not wealthy I should say, as we were rich with love for one another.
I had a mother, a father, a brother, and a sister. We were all creative people and liked to take our crafts into the local market. Back then, bartering was a normal form of currency. Money actually did very little in my community. To have someone owe you a favor or to give you a large sack of potatoes was worth more than paper bills.
I remember I traded a carved plaque meant for the outside knocker of a family home. It said “welcome” and bore two birds caught in each other’s embrace, their wings wrapping around each other in a warm hug.
My payment? An invitation to the constable’s ball. I was delighted but also a little nervous because I’d never been to one. I loved to dance with my siblings and nothing made me happier than the sound of music.
I’m sorry, none of this is important really. Not in the grand scheme of things. What matters is the moment I saw her. I don’t remember the song, mostly because I stopped hearing it the moment I saw her across the room.
Agatha. God, she was beautiful. She had long brown hair that hung in tangles down her back and her dress was the usual fluffy sort tied tight around the upper arms, creating pillows below her shoulders.
I remember how I wanted to rest my head on them.
And more than that, I remember how my cock hardened and throbbed at the sight of her.
Now, let me explain before we go any further that your dear Santa is as horny as they come. I love beautiful women. I’m loyal but when I’m not tied down, I’m known to get a little crazy. I love sex. It’s one of God’s blessings as far as I’m concerned. Nothing would be made to feel so good if it were meant to be bad.
I cannot be wrong in this.
And I wanted to make love to Agatha. Of course, I didn’t know that was her name at the time but I knew that her full breasts were propped up and were so enticing I thought I might lose my mind.
I made my way to her, closing the distance in the room, but she still hadn’t noticed me. So I simply stared at her, gawking really, probably looking like a crazy person to anyone who didn’t know me.
It was her eyes that drew me in. Deep wells of honey swirling around like an earthy kaleidoscope welcoming me into their fantastic captivity.
“Do you dance?” she asked.
I had to look over my shoulder to see if she was speaking to me or someone in the background. Nobody was behind me and I realized I was her audience.
“Umm…pardon me?” I asked.
“Do you dance?”
“I do. I do. Yes, of course I do.”
I was a blabbering idiot but it didn’t matter. She giggled and that was all I needed to see. She was interested in me at least a little bit.
So we danced. And we danced and we danced some more. We were light on our feet. For the most part, she led the way, knowing every formal dance possible. I was an ignorant carpenter while she was a master of musical movement.
But w
hen the tone of the music changed and became more of a folksy jig type, I took over, gripping her hands and bouncing her around joyously. We were little kids and we laughed and drank and enjoyed each other’s company.
I courted her for nearly a year after that. Most of it was done in secrecy as she was born into a wealthy family and I didn’t come from money. I was worried all the time but she didn’t care. Finally, we married. It was a small wedding as her family wanted nothing to do with me.
