Universal Dependencies - English - GUM

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The Last Christmas of Mrs. Claus

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by Alex Wilson

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Betty was thirty-eight and still believed in Santa Claus.

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But sometimes he could be such an asshole.

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She leaned against the kitchen counter, picking dried glaze from the wrinkles in the back of her hand.

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From the wireless headset that dangled from her neck, her old marine buddies called to her with joyous profanity and the bass of digital gunfire.

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The Xbox was upstairs.

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Her buddies were in San Diego and Cleveland.

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Satellite coverage in Santa’s Village was just another Christmas miracle, like faster-than-light travel and stuffing oneself through gas fireplaces with neither explosions nor lawsuits nipping at your heels.

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It was six o’clock.

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Santa had said he needed to leave at eight.

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So Betty had made Christmas Eve dinner while listening to — instead of participating in — the big special ops campaign game online.

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She’d garlic-salted the yams to the tune of Gomez unloading his Glock into a drug dealer.

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She’d painted the ham with maple glaze while Williams punctuated Patty Smyth’s “Goodbye to You” with bursts from his assault rifle.

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“Her boys,” as she called them, didn’t take a lot of eggnog in their rum.

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Santa had spent his day opening envelopes from North American children and falling asleep watching the Pittsburgh-Cleveland game in the media room.

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Now he was in the kitchen, awake and on his way out the door, because suddenly spending fifteen minutes eating dinner with his wife had become too much of a burden on this most wonderful night of the year.

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His white V-neck undershirt was tucked into his pants in front, pulled taught over his belly.

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It stretched the neckhole halfway down to his happy trail.

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His hands were finding their way through the armholes of his robe.

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“It’s just that there are more children in the world now,” he said.

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“And Santa’s not getting any younger, ho ho ho.”

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“Don’t get much older either,” Betty said.

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Santa’s first wife had died centuries ago, but he always just dismissed the question of his own mortality.

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Betty never knew how naughty she should feel about wanting to strangle him sometimes.

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“You’re seriously going to let me eat alone again on Christmas Eve?”

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“Don’t think of it like that, doll,” Santa said.

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“Think of the children.”

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He slung his belt around his back, and gave it a quick tug.

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His waist shrunk from dangerously obese to barely jolly.

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A few crumpled bills in American currency fell out of his pocket.

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Santa bent down to pick them up, mumbling about “emergency money.”

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“Can’t you get dressed in the bedroom like a normal person?” Betty asked.

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Distorted shouting erupted from Betty’s headset.

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She imagined red and yellow mosaic bursts lighting up the sunless snowscape outside, as if there was an HDTV behind the blinds instead of their kitchen window.

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One of her boys probably stepped on a landmine.

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Williams, she guessed.

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She thought she could hear Gomez laughing.

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She picked up the pans in which she’d made the potatoes and maple glaze.

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She put them in the sink to soak.

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The gingerbread batter bowl could wait a day, even though it would take longer to clean tomorrow.

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For now, she appreciated its fight to cover the ham-stink that coated the room.

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The jingle bell chimed on Santa’s cell.

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“Nutcrackers,” he said.

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“Santa can’t reach it, and it’s probably Ginny.

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Would you be a doll?”

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“Your secretary’s calling, and you need me to answer it?

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How efficient.”

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Betty wiped her fingers on a hand-towel.

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She lifted her headset’s microphone to her mouth.

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“Moroz out.

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Back in five.”

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“Copy that,” Gomez said on the other end.

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“It’ll take that long to put Humpty back together again anyway.”

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Betty switched off her headset mic.

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She unclipped the cell phone from the back of Santa’s girdle, and pushed the button with the green arrow, serrated to look like a double-edged diving knife.

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Or a Christmas tree, if that was more your thing.

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“Hey Ginny,” Betty said into the phone.

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“Oh hello, Mrs. Claus,” Ginny said.

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“Merry Christmas.”

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“For heaven’s sake, call me Betty.”

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“Sorry, Mrs. Claus.

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Has Mr. Claus left yet?”

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“On his way,” Betty said.

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“He was just thinking of the children.

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One at a time.

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He’s very thorough.”

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“How wonderful!”