Six Geese A-Slaying(7)
“Compared to whom?” I asked. “Scrooge? The Grinch? W.C. Fields with a hangover? Attila the Hun?”
“I admit he’s a total grouch and can make ‘Good morning’ sound like a mortal insult,” Michael began.
“Not that I’ve ever heard him say anything as polite as ‘good morning,’ ” I muttered.
“But at least he’s a reclusive grouch, so we don’t have to see him more than once or twice a month.”
“Wish we could say the same for some of my family,” I grumbled. “I can’t remember the last time we had dinner for two. But Ralph Doleson’s not my idea of a proper Santa.”
“I don’t think he’s anyone’s idea of a proper Santa,” Michael said. “But he’s practically the only guy in town with the requisite white beard and round belly who’s also short enough to fit into the existing costume. You know how cheap the town council is—they would never pay to replace a perfectly good costume that’s only used once a year.”
“Well, at least it’s only once a year,” I said. “And—speak of the devil.”
The short, round, rather toadlike figure of Ralph Doleson was slouching our way. He was lugging a garment bag and a battered canvas duffel that I assumed contained his costume. He’d obviously made an effort for the occasion. He had on a clean pair of overalls. And in an unprecedented fit of vanity, he appeared to have shampooed his beard. Though not his long, stringy hair—a good thing he’d be wearing the Santa hat. His face wore its usual surly expression.
I glanced casually at my watch. Nine o’clock on the dot. He might be lacking in social graces, our Santa, but at least he was punctual. Anyone who arrived from now on was officially late, and would receive the faint frown, the stern scowl, or an actual lecture, depending on how late they were and how penitent they seemed.
“Morning, Mr. Doleson,” Michael said.
Doleson looked up, scowling as if Michael had hurled a string of insults at him.
“Do you expect me to get dressed in that barn of yours?” he snapped. “It’s full of children and animals.”
A Santa who hated children and animals? I was about to snap back that the barn was the only men’s dressing room we had and he could change in plain sight if he liked, but fortunately Michael stepped in.
“Of course not,” Michael said. “We’ve cleaned out one of the more private outbuildings for you. Wouldn’t do for the kids to spot Santa changing into uniform, now would it? Here, let me help you with your luggage.”
Doleson snorted, but surrendered the garment bag and the duffel and shambled off in Michael’s wake.
“One of the more private outbuildings?” I repeated. Maybe elegant estates had outbuildings. We had sheds, in various states of disrepair. Though they looked better than usual at the moment. Mother’s decorating crew had gift-wrapped the more disreputable-looking ones for the season, with green plaid paper and perky red bows, and decorated the rest with wreaths, evergreen garlands, and fake snow that would soon become superfluous.
I managed not to break out laughing when Michael bowed and gestured grandly toward the door of the pig shed. Michael must have done a good job of charming the old reprobate. Mr. Doleson peered through the door, nodded brusquely, and stepped in. Trust Michael to save the day and restore my good mood.
The pig shed was the perfect place for Santa. We didn’t have any pigs, so the shed was rarely used. We’d stashed Santa’s sleigh there overnight in case the snow started slightly earlier than the weatherman predicted. The sleigh was an old horse-drawn wagon with boards nailed along both sides to hide the wheels. The boards were painted to look like runners, and I’d spent several hours the night before scraping off peeling paint, touching up the design, and then literally watching the paint dry—I’d had to run several space heaters to get the air warm enough for it to dry, and I didn’t think it was safe to leave them untended.
Most years having a fake sleigh on wheels worked better than a real one, given how rarely we got a white Christmas in central Virginia. But how well would our ersatz sleigh work if the snow got very deep before the end of the parade? I shoved the thought out of my mind. The Shiffley Construction Company was on call for snow removal duty, standing by with snowplow attachments on all their trucks and tractors. If that wasn’t enough—well, there was nothing more I could do now.
With the sleigh crammed into it, the shed wasn’t exactly palatial quarters but it was extremely clean—I’d made sure of that before we shoved the freshly painted sleigh inside. Mr. Doleson would have enough room to change in privacy, and he could spend the rest of the time until the parade began in the relative comfort of the sleigh’s padded back seat. Since Michael reappeared without him, I assumed Mr. Doleson was satisfied, and I stamped a particularly heavy-handed holly leaf beside his name on the participants’ list.