I Cannot Live Without Books

Michael watches eagerly as Santa opens the fireplace doors and retreats into the fireplace itself. Suddenly, Kris Kringle vanishes, as if he were never there. Michael’s jaw drops. He follows where Santa just was, placing his bare feet in the same position as the jolly man’s jingle-belled boots. Bracing himself, Michael squeezes his eyes shut.

Whoosh. Michael opens his eyes to find himself on the roof, next to the chimney. His jaw drops once more, and he turns all around to take in the view. Although the snow-covered suburban lawns are nothing new, the enormous red sleigh and eight reindeer are a bit of a shock. Michael watches in awe as Santa loads his enormous toy bag into the back of the sleigh. The bag remains tightly shut, but Michael can imagine the ribbon,wrapping paper, and joy about to burst forth from within. And then there’s the reindeer! They are gorgeous specimens with luscious brown fur and sturdy off-white antlers that gleam in the moonlight. Santa moves toward the reindeer closest to the sleigh, Blitzen, and slyly feeds him a carrot. 

“Don’t tell your siblings.” Santa whispers, chuckling and turning back to face Michael. He sighs as he locks eyes with the little boy. 

“Are you ready to hop in the sleigh Michael?”

Michael nods furiously, then slides into the left-hand side of the glossy red bench. The hundreds of buttons, knobs, and dials before him fill his head with questions. His head buzzing, Michael begins to list them off, pointing and gesturing as he asks.

“What does this dial do? And this button? What about this one? And why is the steering wheel on the right side? Are you British? How many buttons are there? Why isn’t Rudolph here? Does he only come when it’s foggy? What if it’s foggy in one part of the world and clear in another part? Also, last question: why are you so sad?”

Santa pauses, thoroughly surprised by the young boy’s observant questions. “What do you mean Michael?” he asks.

“Well,” Michael begins. “You used to have a little glimmer in your eye, but ever since I untied you it’s been gone. Not to mention your smile looks more sad than happy.” Michael frowns and looks down at his hands. “You’re supposed to be jolly, but I think I made you sad.”

Santa sighs again, sliding into the sleigh next to Michael. “You’re right, Michael. I’m usually very jolly. I guess I just feel bad for all the children who will wake up and be disappointed tomorrow morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you and I fly back to the North Pole right now, there won’t be enough time for me to finish delivering presents. A lot of kids in the west won’t be getting anything.”

Santa’s heavy words make Michael’s heart sink. Although he’s sure she isn’t loud enough to yell at him from the pantry, Michael can still hear Diana’s voice…

“Let him go, Michael. It’s the right thing to do.”

Michael frowns slightly, thinking hard, then looks up into Santa’s big brown eyes. 

“All right, young man. Are you ready to go?”

Diana’s jaw drops as she turns to face her twin. “Are you crazy? We’d end up on the naughty list for sure!”

“We’re already gonna end up on the naughty list for being out of bed on Christmas Eve and for almost killing Santa Claus. Can’t we at least get something out of it? If Santa takes us to the North Pole we can tell everyone at school about it and we’ll be the coolest third graders in the whole freakin’ world.”

Diana pauses, considering the delightful image of Molly Robinson’s face when Diana tells her that Santa Claus is actually Black. Then, she shakes her head and gives Michael a scathing glare. 

“No way, we’re not doing that.”

Michael sighs, rolling his eyes. “Fine, let’s go get some peppermint hot cocoa from the pantry. The scent of the powder might be able to wake him up.”

Diana nods and leads the way toward the kitchen. Michael follows at a slight distance, and, unbeknownst to his sister, grabs a long, cast-iron candy cane stocking holder and hides it behind his back.

Diana flips on the kitchen light and enters the walk-in pantry. She peers around at row upon row of colorful boxes, searching for the peppermint hot cocoa. 

“Hey, Michael, where’s the–”

“I’m sorry Diana, but I have to see the North Pole.” With that, Michael pushes the double doors of the pantry shut, slipping the candy cane through the handles to prevent Diana from escaping. 

Diana pounds on the door with her fists. “Michael, let me out!”

“Diana, keep up that racket if you wanna wake up Mom and Dad.”

The pounding and shouting ceases immediately. Michael grins at his handiwork, then runs back toward the old man in the living room.

After examining the sleeping Santa and determining his relative height and weight, Michael envisions exactly which lights he’ll need to restrain Kris Kringle. He pulls the perfect string of lights from a bin stuffed away in the closet. After untangling the long green wire and its colorful bulbs, he drags it back to the living room where Santa still lies.

“I have to hurry,” Michael whispers to himself, taking note of Santa’s twitching fingers. The boy moves swiftly and delicately as he props the old man up and ties him up next to the fireplace. Santa’s hat droops in front of his face as his lolling head hangs helplessly. Finally, the bonds holding Saint Nick are secure, and Michael lifts the man’s head up, leaning it back against the fireplace to keep it upright. Michael then shoves a dish towel, which, ironically, has a cartoon Santa Claus on it, into Santa’s mouth.

Okay, Michael thinks, How do I wake up Santa without waking up Mom and Dad?

He pauses, stroking his chin thoughtfully until the idea hits him.

“I can just poke him.”

Michael begins roughly poking Santa in his stomach, ears, arms, and even eyes, though he avoids poking those too hard. After a minute of this incessant poking, Michael’s wet willy finally stirs the bearded old man. Santa’s big, round eyes fly open and he looks around in horror. His face hardens as he takes in his situation, and he locks eyes with Michael. Michael shivers as those dark brown eyes stare into his soul. Nevertheless, he begins the speech he’s been preparing in his head.

“Good evening, Mr. Claus. My name is Michael Hardy. You’re probably wondering why I’ve tied you up and gagged you.” Santa nods ferociously, eyebrows raised. “Basically, Santa, I want you to take me to the North Pole and show me around. And until you promise to take me, I am going to leave you tied up here.”

Santa furrows his brow, but Michael continues with his matter-of-fact tone. “Mr. Claus, you probably should just agree to take me because nobody but my twin sister and me know that you’re here, and she’s…preoccupied.”

Santa appears to be thinking hard, even with the hand towel stuffed tightly in his mouth. After a few moments, Santa starts to mumble something resembling English, so Michael leans forward and snatches the towel away. Santa clears his throat and starts to speak, his eyes glinting from behind his silver-rimmed glasses.

“Michael, it’s very nice to meet you. I wish it were under different circumstances.” Surprisingly enough, the old man smiles at Michael before continuing. “Now, do you really want to force me to take you to the North Pole?”

“Yes.”

Santa smiles at first, then falters. “Oh. That’s not the response I was expecting” He purses his lips, still thinking hard. Finally, he relaxes and begins to speak.

“All right Michael, you win. Once you untie me I promise that I will take you in my sleigh to visit the North Pole.”

“Right away? As soon as I untie you?”

“Yes, as soon as you untie me.”

Michael nods with an evil grin dancing across his face as he begins to untie the Christmas lights, working away at knots and yanking the cords from the fireplace doors. When Michael finally frees Santa, he rises to his feet like any old man does: slowly, with lots of grunts and cracking noises.

Santa bends over to gather his sack of toys, which Michael hadn’t even noticed hiding in a dark corner. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Santa adjusts his hat and glasses. 

“Follow me.”

Sleep will not come for Diana as she lies, tucked tightly in blankets, on the bottom bunk of the bed. Above her, Michael’s soft snores fill the delicate silence of the dark room. Shifting her gaze to the window across the room, Diana sees the glowing red and green lights her mom strung up the day after Thanksgiving. Snowflakes cling to the windowpane, reflecting the beautiful lights hanging above.

“Michael,” Diana calls out hoarsely. After a moment without response, she tries again. “Michael!”

“What is it?” replies a muffled voice. Diana ignores her twin’s irritation and continues.

“I need to get a glass of water.”

“So go and get a glass of water then!” Michael huffs, rolling over noisily up above.

“But it’s Christmas Eve. What if Santa is downstairs and he sees me and we don’t get presents?”

“You’re the only one who wouldn’t get presents. Now, leave me alone.”

Carefully untucking the blankets, Diana swings her short legs over the side of the bed and gets up. She walks blindly toward the bedroom door; the only things helping her see are the cheerful lights outside the window. When she reaches the doorknob she turns it carefully, not wanting to wake her parents in the next room. Opening the door a sliver, Diana inches through the small space. She  pulls on the doorknob and hears the soft click that means it’s shut. She wishes there were a way to lock Michael inside.

Diana makes her way down the long, skinny hall like a ninja, coming to a stop at the far end where the spiral staircase leads downstairs to the living room. She crosses her fingers as she descends, hoping that Santa has yet to arrive. All she has to do is cross through the living room to the kitchen for her water and back. The daunting task seems easy enough—that is, until she enters the living room and finds Santa Claus passed out on the floor.

Diana gasps, her small brown eyes widening in horror. “Santa!”

She races toward him, dropping to her knees by his head. If she weren’t so scared that she just killed Saint Nick, Diana would be in awe of the magical man. His cherry red suit is a beautiful red velvet, decorated along the edges by a white trim of what looks like a cloud. The famous red hat sits slightly atilt atop his bald head, and his enormous, fluffy gray beard reaches down to his chest. Diana looks into his round face, which possesses the jolly quality of James Earl Jones, with glossy eyes. Santa’s glasses balance precariously on his nose, and his heavy eyelids are closed.

“Santa, Santa are you okay?” Diana whispers hysterically, shaking the old man’s shoulder. The jolly fellow does not stir, but instead stays completely still. Diana knows that she should get help, but the thought of waking her sleeping parents scares her even more than a dead Santa Claus. After a moment of critical thinking, Diana observes Santa’s great belly moving up and down as he breathes. Clearly, Saint Nick isn’t dead, but he looks close to it. He sure is taking an intense nap for someone who only works one day a year. The slow breathing seems peaceful but unhealthy at the same time. Santa’s eyelids shift slightly but don’t open, and his limbs stay put in an odd position as Diana ponders what to do next. 

“What do I do, Santa?” Diana whimpers into the darkness. The only answer comes from the blinking of the Christmas tree lights paired with the ragged breaths of ole Saint Nick. Waking her parents isn’t a viable option, so Diana sighs, resigned to her only choice. She needs her brother.

~~~

“Michael. Hey, Michael, wake up.”

Michael groans and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow. 

“Go to sleep.”

“No, Michael, I need your help.”

“I think you can manage getting a glass of water without me.”

“No, I need you to help me wake Santa up.”

His interest peaked, Michael sits up. He locks eyes with his sister, a stern expression on his face. “What do you mean wake Santa up?”

Diana twists one of her braids around her index finger nervously. “He may or may not be passed out on our living room floor right now.”

“What?” Michael throws off his blankets and scrambles to the end of the bed, shooing Diana away so he can climb down the ladder. Together, the twins race down the hallway and staircase to the living room, where Diana crouches beside Santa’s head.

“I just found him like this when I came to get water. I don’t know how–” She stops, looking back to find Michael frozen on the bottom step of the staircase.

“Come closer, stupid. Help me wake him up.”

Michael takes a few cautious steps toward the sleeping saint, then sits down next to his sister. Slowly, he reaches out to touch Santa’s velvet coat. Seeing his own small, milk chocolate-colored fingers against the stark red material proves that he’s not hallucinating. Diana watches her brother with interest; she can see his mind moving a mile a minute.

“We could wake him up,” Michael whispers, deep in thought. “Or, we could do something else.”

“What else could possibly be more important than waking him up?” Diana cries, her brow furrowed.

“Well, we could tie him up and hold him hostage until he takes us to the North Pole.”