A North Pole Wife

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... BEEP... BEEP... BEEP... BE-THUD!

The small, black plastic, alarm clock had been fighting this battle for well over an hour now, and so far it was losing. Every nine minutes the chirping would begin anew, one piercing beep after another, starting out barely audible and slowly rising in pitch and tenor until it reached earsplitting volume before being unceremoniously silenced. This ritual repeated itself countless times, each attempt trying with futility to rouse those nearby from their slumber, only to be greeted coldly with the heavy slap of a leathery hand on the big red button labeled SNOOZE. Glowing LED lights illuminated the dimly lit room, a red hue splaying the time across the glossy finished wooden top of an antique nightstand. It was 7:46 a.m.. A calender hangs loosely on the back of the maple door, adorned brightly with red X’s marking the days gone by, 23 of them on this page. A bright red circle is drawn around the 25th box, but one empty space, today’s date, remains ominously unmarked before it: December 24th. Christmas Eve.

In just over 16 hours, kids throughout the world would be lying in bed, pretending to be asleep, listening for sleigh bells. They would pull the covers over their head and imagine reindeer on the rooftops and Old Saint Nick coming down the chimney, filling their stockings with treats and leaving parcels under the tree. It had been this way for as long as they could remember. The next morning the cookies would be half eaten, the milk drank, and the carrot left for Rudolph would be gone, presumably fueling the magical flight to the neighbors and beyond. Most importantly, there would be presents. Wonderful, magical, joyous presents with shiny wrapping and big red bows. The night was torturous: Every creek of an old house’s floorboard sounded like sleigh landing on the tile roof, and every time those young eyes peered at the clock on their bedside it seemed as if time had become trapped in suspended animation, like some trickster constantly moved the hands backwards each time a tired eye closed. Some children would be brave enough to sneak down the stairs to the living room and watch the fireplace with anticipation, waiting patiently for that perfect moment that lived inside of them as only a dream, when Santa Claus would descend into their hearth and pull treasures from his sack. But tonight, they would not catch a glimpse of Santa, because on this particular Christmas Eve, Santa Clause was sleeping through his alarm clock.

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... BEEP... BEEP... BEEP... BE-THUD!

“Nick, its time to get up!” shouted Mrs. Claus, with frustration from the kitchen, where a pot of coffee sits brewing on the stove, and hot pancakes smolder on the griddle iron. Usually the smell of maple syrup was enough to rouse her husband from his slumber, but today, nothing was working. She had tried all of her normal subtle tricks: delicious breakfast aroma's of coffee and sugar; Jingle Bells blaring loudly over the kitchen radio; open bedroom windows that let the crisp North Pole air blow an icy breeze through the house. None of it was working today.

“Today of all days,” she muttered to herself, as she poured a glass of water. “This should do the trick.”

The past few years had been difficult on the Claus family. The recession in America had hit everyone hard, including the first family of Christmas. In Washington D.C., Congress was too busy fighting about a debt ceiling debate, a representative phallic photo shoot, and other trivial things to pay any attention to yuletide politics. The Santa’s Workshop Bill had not been renewed, the government funding and subsidies that the Claus’ had enjoyed for decades had quite suddenly all dried up. The North Pole was quickly running out of money, and making matters worse, the elves were not happy. The first thing Santa did was freeze elf pay: No one got a raise, and no one was hired. There was some grumbling in the workshop but things carried on mostly as normal. Toys were made, carols were sung, and the naughty or nice list was double checked--twice. When the eggnog and cookie station budget was slashed, things began to get more hostile. There was growing tension at the Pole: The elves began threatening to unionize and strike, to ruin Christmas! It was only through a very heated, sugar cookie aided, negotiation that Mrs. Claus had managed to satiate the workers for one more Christmas season. She knew that after the presents had all been delivered she was again going to have a crisis on her hands, the tenuous agreement with the elves was only good until December 26th, but that was not important today. Today she needed her grumpy husband to get out of bed and make Christmas magic happen, and so far her persuasive tactics had fallen short; a glass of icy North Pole water was needed.

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep... BEEP... BEEP... BE-SPLASH!

“HOLY MISTLETOE, THAT’S COLD! WHAT IN THE NAME OF RUDOLPH! I’M AWAKE GOSH DARN-IT, I’M AWAKE!”

“You’ve been hitting the snooze button for hours, dear. Its Christmas Eve, you don’t want to be late for the children, do you Nikolaus?”

“No, no, of course not.... but did you have to wake me up like that?”

“I tried everything else, darling, you’ve been refusing to get out of bed for hours now. This poor alarm clock has been working overtime. I bet even the elves in the workshop could hear you beating its snooze button every 10 minutes.”

“Oh, what’s it even matter anyway, damn kids are so jaded today. Hardly any of them believe in me anymore.”

“That’s not true, Nikolaus, and you know it’s not. They still believe in you. They just need a little reminding now and then.”

“Reindeer-shit! They don’t even sing carols anymore, not one of them decorates a gingerbread house! Most of them think their parents leave the presents under the tree. Can you believe that?! Whats the point?”

Mrs. Claus furrowed her brow and let out a long sigh. She was worried. Her husband had had bouts of melancholy before but he had never sounded as disillusioned with the holidays as he did this morning. The state of the world was deeply troubling him. Christmas cheer was at an all time low, and it was eating away at her husband like a parasite.

“Whats a Claus to do,” she asked herself as her husband plodded his way into the bathroom and began drying the icy water from his once white beard.

The grey hair was new this year, it had come along with the fiscal issues, as well as a smaller waist line, a longer face, sullen eyes, and a noticeable reduction in jolly. It had been a troubling year in the North Pole, no doubt, a year that had turned white beards gray, and Santa’s Christmas cheer into Christmas sneer, but today, more than any day, her husband had to put on his jolly face and get through it. The children needed him.

“I made your favorite breakfast,” she called into the bathroom, “eggnog pancakes with maple syrup!”

There was no reply. This was serious.

The life of a North Pole wife was never easy. There were the regular things: Cooking and cleaning, doing laundry (Four loads a week: Whites, reds, reds, and more reds), taking care of the house. Lately however, it seemed as though Mrs. Claus’ duties had multiplied, and the weight on her shoulders had become increasingly more burdensome. There was a tenuous agreement she had brokered between Santa and the Elves, which had seen the head elf and Santa practically stop speaking to each other except when absolutely necessary, forcing Mrs. Claus to become an unwilling intermediary for workshop correspondence. She had taken to taking more care than normal for things that were usually her husbands job: the naughty or nice list, sleigh maintenance, and feeding Rudolph. Worse of all, perhaps, was dealing with her increasingly bitter husband. His attitude had worsened with the Dow Jones, and while the declining amount of letters from children hadn’t phased him at first, it was starting to wear on his soul. Mrs. Claus had to do something, she had to save Christmas, and she had a plan.

When Santa emerged from his shower he was looking a bit more like himself. He had donned his traditional Christmas robe that Mrs. Claus had meticulously cleaned, ironed, and set out for him the night before. While his beard still showed a hint of gray, the white was beginning to glisten and a renewed twinkle in his eye was almost visible. Despite the difficulties of recent years, he was still in love with the holiday spirit. Today was his day, and even though he may have started out sluggish, he was determined to make the best of it. After all, it is Christmas.

Before him at the breakfast table laid a holiday feast. Brown fluffy eggnog pancakes topped with blueberries, whipped cream and sprinkles; crisp fried bacon; perfectly cooked sausage; lightly scrambled eggs with melted cheese; apple cider, coffee, and milk; maple syrup, sugar, and cream. Everything a man could ask for before the longest work day of the year, but despite the smorgasbord Santa’s eyes fixed immediately on something else at his sitting. On his plate sat a white envelope, small and sealed clumsily, with sloppy blue crayon handwriting on the front. ‘SANTA’, it read. Intrigued, Santa took his butter knife and slid it into the top of the envelope, separating the fold from the body and removing a wrinkled hand scribbled note.

“Deer Santa,” it read. “I know u dint come to my hous last xmas but may be you can come this yeer. my brother needs a new hart because hes sick. my dad needs a job to make muny for are famlie. my friends say u arn’t reel but i know u are. plees Santa.”

The letter was signed in crayon in big block letters: “SOPHIE”.

Santa put the letter down on the table, finished his breakfast, and set out. There was much to do! The reindeer must be prepared, the lists checked, toys bagged and stowed. He had a renewed vigor. This child, Sophie, this altruistic little child that wanted nothing for Christmas except help for her family, not presents, not skateboards or Barbies, just health and a family to spend the holidays with. This child had given Santa hope; that children out there did still believe, and that they still needed him. He must assemble, he must prepare! There was Christmas magic to be spread.

Santa flew with great haste to his workshop, and he rallied his elves, he laughed a guttural laugh and he ho ho ho’d. He told everyone who would hear him that he had been reminded by a child of the meaning of Christmas; of hope, and joy, and children's dreams. He went to his stable and petted his fleet, he climbed aboard his Sleigh and set out of his flight.

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and, Vixen!” he roared.

“On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!”

Mrs. Claus watched her husband snap the reins and smiled. She gave him a wave and Santa looked back at her, a massive smile on his face.

“Merry Christmas to all!” he yelled, as the Sleigh sped out of the stable and into the night. Christmas was saved. Little boys and girls everywhere would wake up tomorrow with presents under the tree, treats in their stockings, and warmth in their heart.

Walking back into her North Pole home, Mrs. Claus stopped and smiled, staring out at the North Pole skyline, her husband long gone in the distance to make his rounds. She was a proud woman on that night. It wasn’t easy being Mrs. Claus, but it was a job she took great pride in, and sometimes, it pays you back, like a night like this one, where you get to save Christmas. Now, she had to start preparing the Christmas day feast for when her husband returned, but first she had to put a blue crayon back in its box and return it to the elves workshop.

The Memory-Traffic Rotary

I like this quote, and found it particularly interesting.

The thing you about remembering is that you don't forget. You take your material where you find it, which is in your life, at the intersection of past and present. The memory-traffic feeds into a rotatry up on your head, where it goes in circles for a while, then pretty soon imagination flows in and the traffic merges and shoots off down a thousand different streets. As a write, all you can do is pick a street and go for the ride, putting things down as they come at you. That's the real obsession. All those stories.

- Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried.

I really enjoyed this book, and was re-reading some passages from it today for my Literature class. I found that passage especially interesting, because it explains some of the way I wrote my short story earlier today. There are some factual things in my writing, and I know some people might find that weird, Lauren particularly thought it was strange I used our engagement as a setting. But I just cant help it, its like O'Brien puts it here, you remember those things, and they give you a street for imagination to flow down, they get the story moving.

All those stories...

A New York Wedding

It ends on a bridge.

One hundred and thirty five feet above the murky waters of the East River, a blushing bride prepares for death. It wasn’t supposed to end here, not like this: white knuckles griping a suspension cable at the precipice of a historic feat of civil engineering. An ivory wedding dress fights the wind, each successive gust attempting to turn a rain soaked bridal gown into a sail, pulling its wearer off the ledge and towards the frigid depths below. Since she was a child, Madison Whitley had pictured her wedding day in her mind, imagined every detail, planned it during recess with her expensive private-school girlfriends: orchids and roses; black ties and ivory dresses; salmon and caviar. In her dreams, the day was perfect, everything a girl could dream of, no sign of the choking taxicab exhaust, the dirty brownstone architecture of the Brooklyn Bridge, or the icy water swelling in anticipation below it. When did it all start to go so terribly wrong, when did the thread begin to unravel? All that was left to do was to let go.

She had been so happy on that unusually warm October day in Central Park. The sun was shining and her boyfriend wanted to take a stroll, a strange desire for such a busy man like Lucas Chase. Madison couldn’t hide her excitement, he was up to something, she knew it. After slipping on a tight fitting, white Prada dress and a cashmere cardigan, she stopped to fix her makeup in the hallway mirror. She had grown quite beautiful. The young girl, who wore pink ribbons in her hair, who had once shared her childhood dreams on a playground, had become a striking woman, the kind of lady a man wants to own, to make his property, to lock away in a bedroom and never let go. She wanted to be owned, she had dreamed of it since childhood, a perfect wedding with orchids and roses, veils and bouquets. Her blonde hair was curled and filled with volume that day, falling softly on her slender shoulders. Pursing her thin lips, she applied apple red lipstick before blowing herself a kiss in the mirror and grinning, her blue eyes twinkling with anticipation; today was the day, she knew it. Lucas had given it away, the way he had stammered with nervous anticipation during the brief phone conversation. She would become Mrs. Madison Chase.

The park was bustling, it was as if all of New York was out to enjoy the unseasonable sunshine; the crowd did not bother Madison, she was the star. Everything seemed to watch her that afternoon, the tourists, the trees, the squirrels and the street vendors. She was an actress on centerstage, the spotlight was shining bright, and it was time for her solo. As they crossed the Bow Bridge, hand in hand, Lucas stopped, Madison could feel that his palm was clammy, his fingers were trembling, she took a deep breath, his nerves were so endearing, she thought nievely. He turned to face his future bride, falling clumsily down to one knee: A diamond ring, a girls best friend! Yes! Absolutely, yes! she screamed with delight, her excitement scattering a gaggle of geese from the lake, fluttering skyward they went, as she smothered Lucas with kisses and wrapped her arms around him, never to let him go. On-lookers smiled, applauded, and cheered; a proposal in the park! They were a beautiful couple, strangers inferred, they are so happy, love is just so grand in the city, park-goers mused. Did Madison miss the signs then, was some dark omen missed, a foreshadowing that had somehow eluded her. Surely she should have seen it coming, she was bright after all, not just some trophy wife, confirmation lay buried in a box in her old Soho apartment, a bachelors degree from NYU, where she had studied literature, immersed herself in Woolfe and Joyce, and dreamed of meeting a husband. But that day in the park had been so perfect, like she had dreamt it as a 9-year old girl, wishing on a star hanging low above the Manhattan skyline.

How could she have known then, that it could all end on a bridge?

Madison set to work planning the wedding, a perfect day, one she had dreamed of since she was a little girl in private school. There would be hundreds of guests, a dazzling dress, cocktails and coattails, a violin quartet. The venue was essential. Somewhere regal, like the Waldorf Astoria, maybe the Empire State Building, perhaps a vineyard up the coast, no, definitely in the city. Her mother insisted on a church. A church? she had argued, They are dingy and old, not fit for my wedding, she would insist to her mother, who was unflappable and resolute in her wishes. A compromise was eventually brokered: St. Patrick’s Cathedral for the ceremony, the Waldorf Astoria for a reception, everything a girl could dream for, a perfect wedding.

The rain began falling heavier now, droplets of Manhattan precipitation soaked through her elaborate bridal gown, turning it from ceremonial pageantry to nothing more than a billowy, ivory weight. It’s supposedly good luck to have rain on a wedding day, for Madison, it will only quicken the fall. Looking back momentarily, she scans the only city she has ever known, the only place she has ever loved. Battery Park to the south, the skyscrapers of Wall Street, Soho and Chinatown, The Empire State Building, towering majestically over Midtown, and further in the distance, the trees of Central Park where she had once been so happy, so elated; a diamond ring, a girls best friend! The sun is almost finished setting on the city, its last gasps of light splay across the buildings of Manhattan casting shadows across its streets and shrouding its pedestrians in shadow. The city had always been there for her, always comforted her, never let her down. As a girl she went shopping on 5th Avenue with her mother and played on the swings at Madison Square Park with her father. As she got older, she explored the West Village, and became friends with the artists and actors of Soho and Greenich Village, during college she enjoyed the night life of the Lower East Side with Lucas. On her wedding day, she stood alone atop the one of the city’s pinnacle landmarks, a marvel of civil engineering, the Brooklyn Bridge, ready for the end. Her mothers pearl necklace encircled her neck, and her blonde hair was woven tightly in bun that framed her fragile, soft face, where sullen blue eyes surveyed her home, her city, her true love. Manhattan had never left her standing alone at an altar.

Surely there had been some sign. Her mother had always loved Lucas, which should have been all the information Madison had needed: she disagreed with her mother on almost all issues, and she had not had a boyfriend before that her mother had approved of. Lucas had that effect on most people, he had charm, he had looks, and he had money, he was compassionate and smart, funny and educated, everything a parent wants for their daughter, a man to own her, to take care of her, to hold her and never let her go. Madison’s father took a fond liking to Lucas as well, and being a daddy’s girl his approval of the relationship presented all the certainty a young woman had needed. She wanted so badly to be a bride, to have the perfect wedding, mimosa’s and buttercreame cake, fine linens and Chivari chairs, that she had ignored the signals: The tremor in Lucas’ voice that October day, the clammy hands, the trembling fingers, so unsure of himself he had seemed in Central Park. It was his self confidence that had first drawn Madison to Lucas at NYU, and this rapid departure of courage should have set off alarms in her mind. But she wanted so badly to be his, to be owned, held in his arms and never let go.

Madison grips the suspension cable tightly in her small hands, her knuckles white as she leans over the edge of the bridge, holding tightly, fighting the wind, not letting go, not yet. The murky East River waters below swath and swell, frigid water flows towards the Atlantic Ocean. A barge carrying paper product slowly trawls downstream, heading to destinations unknown. An evening bus rumbles by behind her, carrying workers whose daytime shifts have ended out of Manhattan to homes in Brooklyn, Queens, and beyond. A coward, she thinks, only I could have picked such a coward. Her mind replays the last time she saw Lucas’ face, the rehearsal dinner at The Four Seasons, it was handsome, but pale, much more so than normal. He had given her a half smile and hugged her gently, looking deeply into her blue eyes before kissing her goodnight. He must have known then what he was about to do, that he was about to break a young girls heart, about to shatter childhood dreams that had been planned since private school playgrounds. He was a coward. She would show him how brave she was, she would let go, just as he had let go of her on their wedding day.

To the south, as the last glimpse of February sun dips out of sight, the Statue of Liberty’s torch twinkles in the twilight sky. Madison admired her in a way, Lady Liberty, she was mysterious, but regal and resolute. She loved New York City, just as Madison did, watching over her home at all times, but, there was a sadness about her, a loneliness that Madison shared at that moment, standing alone on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. Madison had taken a ferry to Liberty Island as a girl, climbed the 354 narrow steps to the crown, where she basked in the view of Manhattan, the city where she was born, her city. From there she tried to find her school, the private school playground where she planned perfect weddings with her friends. Her father had pointed out landmarks to her, Battery Park to the west, the Empire State Building in Midtown, the Brooklyn Bridge to the east. She loved Manhattan deeply, it enveloped her, comforted her, never let her go. A gust of wind threatened to lift her from her perch on the bridge, but she clinged tighter to the suspension cable, knuckles white, not letting go, not yet. Lady Liberty didn’t need a man to own her, to hold her and never let her go, she didn’t need a perfect wedding, with candles and centerpieces, lime sorbet and champagne, she had New York. She had Manhattan.

Lucas was a coward, that was certain, and Madison was not about to let a coward get the best of her. She had New York. She had Manhattan. Carefully, she removed one hand from the suspension cable, and slipped her diamond ring off her finger. A girls best friend! she thought, as she fondled the platinum band between her finger and thumb, giving it one last look before letting go. The ring tumbled slowly down, down to the murky water of the East River, down where barges trawl the frigid waters, bringing goods to the city, down to the icy depths below the Brooklyn Bridge, where it will be lost forever, never again to be held, never to encircle another naive young girl’s finger. Madison did not see it splash, she had already hopped over the railing and hailed a cab, quite a surprise for the driver to find a soaking wet bride looking for a ride in the middle of the Brooklyn bridge.

“Waldorf Astoria,” she told the driver, “there should be some food left at the reception.”