| Somewhere over Lake Erie, Santa began to feel uneasy. He could tell the reindeer were perturbed as well; perhaps they could feel the clipper creeping in from Canada. The weather didn't worry him; he had flown through the worst whiteouts in history. His wife thought his dedication extreme, but understood that, for him, this night was personal. The sleigh whispered over the glass-blown lake. Reclining in his seat, he knew that he could probably pull his hat over his eyes and sleep. The reindeer knew the route well. After all, he didn't have that many deliveries this year—even fewer than last year. His schedule normally fluctuated year by year as the number of believers ebbed and waned. True innocence, however, had become a scarce commodity and his diminishing workload was just another symptom. Peering over the edge, Santa watched as Cleveland flew by in a colorful smear. He had heard it called the most destitute big city in America. As he soared over the massive industrial cityscape--filled with people Charles Dickens would have found too depressing to write about--he couldn’t help but believe it. The Flats were empty tonight, of course, and the river bereft of traffic. No concerts, either. Nothing was open Christmas Eve. All the usual weekend warriors would have to get drunk at home. Although they'd attempted to renovate the general area, he still didn’t like the Warehouse District. There were a number of beautiful historic buildings in the neighborhood. Most of the structures had been erected in the middle of the 19th century and the modernized constructions had not meddled with the Victorian sensibility of the architecture. They touched down on top of the Riverview Apartment complex. Stepping from the sleigh, he looked across the black chasm to the building next door. It towered over the Riverview building, its bricks a deeper shade--the color of blood--and its towering bulk casting an angular shadow over the rooftop. A column of smoke drifted away from the far end of the building and into the empty, starless sky. Back home, he had read about the string of gruesome murders in the area, and about the bodies discovered in the dilapidated building. “Naugh-tee,” he muttered, shaking his head. Sometimes his job felt as dangerous as bounty hunting or car repossession. Gravel crunching crisply under his boots, Santa hurried to the roof door. He looked back, once, not knowing what he expected to see. Dancer snorted, his hot breath visible. "Up on the housetop, reindeer pause..." The thick metal door screeched across the blacktop as Santa dragged it open. He filled the doorway and if anyone had been standing in the unlit hall, they would have seen a massive, hulking silhouette emerge from the frigid night. Somewhere in the building, music pounded. It sounded like Slayer or Kreator, possibly Bolt Thrower. Nicholas tried to keep up with his metal bands. He hurried down the stairs and wound his way through the grimy, shadowy corridors. Her door stood across from the elevator, which had fallen into disrepair long ago. Last year, her apartment had been numbered ‘thirty’, but apparently the 3 had fallen off. Now she lives in Apartment Zero. He tried the doorknob. It turned, of course. Theresa was forgetful. She had nothing to steal; she didn't even own a television. A digital clock radio-proof of time’s passage—served as her sole link to the world. As he entered its numbers changed from 1:59 to 2:00 and an electronic voice interrupted the music to say, "The time is now two o'clock." A tattered armchair--its pattern worn and faded--sat next to the open window. The room was cold, even by his standards. He imagined her shivering, the floor numbing her feet. If only he could have found her a new home, or a canine companion, or given her enough money to set her up in an assisted living facility for the rest of her life. She had always believed in him, not because she wanted to, but because she needed to believe in somebody. If only it were that simple. It is that simple, you old fool. At least it used to be. He had never even tried to talk to her. Well, of course, she might not take kindly to someone waking her up in the middle of the night, claiming to be old Saint Nick himself. |
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| Santa's Slay by Ed Cowell |