Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

Santa's Break

Cheryl hung the "Feeding my reindeer" sign on its hook and escaped before one more proud mama could plop a terrified child on her lap. Her stomach was growling enough to terrify any child, and her full bladder had threatened disaster the last time a little boy had kicked her in the belly. She was getting too old for this, she thought. Only the pillow that filled out her Santa suit had rescued her.

She returned waves without slowing down. At the door, she heard a shrill voice behind her cry, "Mommy, why is Santa Claus going in the girls' bathroom?" No way around that one. Mommy was on her own.

The store didn't have an employees' lunchroom, and between the beard and the kids' ownership of Santa, Cheryl had given up trying to eat in any public place. The ladies' room smelled clean, and by now she had it down to a routine. If she was going to spend her lunch hour in a stall, she was at least going to be comfortable.

Having relieved her aching bladder, she washed her hands, retreated into the stall nearest the door, hung her beard on the coat hook, and unbuttoned her red jacket enough to reach into the pillow under it. It wasn't a pillow, exactly, but a padded substitute for a bag or backpack. When she'd helped the women's society at Community Church make Santa suits to rent out as a Christmas fundraiser, she'd appreciated their design, which made it easy to add padding as needed for the Santa to fit the suit. Cheryl certainly needed the padding, but some of hers was unorthodox. Now she pulled out the insulated bag in which she'd kept a cheese sandwich, apple, and Coke cold all morning, and a whodunit for entertainment. She wished the toilet had a lid, but the fake fur on the edge of her jacket kept the rim from digging into her.

"You in there, Cheryl?" The voice coming from beside her belonged to her friend, Barbara, who owned the store and had begged her to do the job.

"Yup." Cheryl recognized Barb's long, slender legs and feet under the divider between their stalls. Her own polished black boots had to be visible from Barb's side.

"I hope you didn't leave anything out here. We've had some thefts in the store, and I don't mean shoplifting. People are remarkably careless with their stuff."

"Thanks for the warning." Can't get much safer than my belly pack, Cheryl thought. Her wallet was tucked inside it. "Maybe you ought to put up a sign."

"I hate to do that. Don't want to alarm the customers."

Better that than have them mad at you when they lose stuff, Cheryl thought, but she didn't argue. Barb would do it her own way. She always had.

"I'll keep my eyes open," Cheryl told her friend. "Who knows, I might see something."

"Thanks."

For a stakeout, it could be worse, Cheryl thought. Beats sitting in a car somewhere. I've eaten, and the plumbing couldn't be handier. What do cops do about that little problem, anyway, especially the women?

She still had some time coming on her lunch hour. She opened her book, but conscientiously checked the crack between her door and the frame whenever she heard the restroom door open. Boring, that's what a real stakeout must be, without anything to read. Girls fixing their makeup giggled over cute boys, children asked mothers to wipe their bottoms, and mothers struggled with more kids and burdens than they had hands for.

"Watch my shopping bags and purse, Jenny," one such mother said and went into a stall with a toddler, but the attention of her four-year-old wandered immediately to the ladies' room door.

"Mommy! Santa Claus is in here!" she cried.

What's she talking about? Cheryl wondered. I'm in here, not out there. Then she saw him. Another Santa suit, almost identical to hers, but with a more realistic-looking beard.

"Ho, ho, ho!" the jolly old elf boomed out.

Cheryl had worked hard on her ho, ho, ho, but she hadn't yet made it sound so deep and resonant. No wonder the beard looked real. This Santa was a man!

"Have you been a good girl?"

The child was instantly won over. "Oh, yes, Santa, I've been very good. I'm helping my mommy now."

"Then you'll find just what you want on Christmas morning." Santa patted her on the head, turned, and left as quickly as he'd come.

Jenny stared after him.

But Cheryl stared at the shelf on which Jenny's mother had left her purse. Empty.

She pulled herself together as quickly as she could and hurried out of her stall. "Where did he go?" she asked the little girl.

Open-mouthed, Jenny could only point to the door while her mother came out of her stall and screamed, "My purse! Santa took my purse!"

Cheryl, her beard half-crooked, ran from the room. She had to spot him, and she had to tell Barb.

How hard could it be to see a man in a Santa suit?

Impossible, it seemed. The man had vanished into thin air, but the woman whose purse he had stolen was on Cheryl's heels, yelling "Stop that Santa!"

Cheryl stopped. A crowd was gathering. Thank goodness, Barbara came toward them.

"I didn't take her purse," she told Barb, as calmly as she could. "There was a man in a Santa suit in the ladies' room. Her purse disappeared when he left."

The mother whirled on her little girl. "Jenny, is that true? Did you see another Santa Claus?"

Jenny frowned. "Santa said I'd get what I want for Christmas."

Cheryl squatted down to her eye level. "Do I look like that Santa, Jenny?"

"Will you bring me a new Barbie?"

Cheryl hated to do it. "No, honey, I'm not the real Santa. I'm just one of Santa's helpers." She stood up.

Jenny's eyes filled with tears. "But you promised!" She was no help. She couldn't tell one red suit with fur trim from another.

Her mother hugged her. "It's all right, Jenny. I'm sure Santa will bring you a Barbie." She looked daggers at Cheryl.

The crowd had grown. A security officer was coming toward them now. No point in resisting arrest, if he even had the authority to arrest her.

Then Cheryl saw him. On the edge of the crowd, near the entrance to the men's room, was a stout man with a white beard. A real one. And black leather boots under his tweed trousers. He carried a shopping bag.

"Barb," she said, and pointed. "There he is." All heads turned. "That's the man."

Barbara nodded and spoke to the security officer. Cheryl followed them over to the man.

"We need to check your bag, sir," the officer said.

"Certainly." The man handed it over, a little smile on his face.

He's sure they won't find anything there, Cheryl thought. But he wouldn't have left it in the men's room, even if he had to stash his Santa suit there. "Ask him to open his jacket," she said confidently.

Barb nodded, and the officer asked him.

Now the bearded man sputtered. "This is outrageous! I come here to buy Christmas gifts, and this is what I get in return! I'm a busy man!"

"I hate to inconvenience you, sir," Barb said. "But this woman is another one of our customers, and she's lost all her money. We're only trying to find it. We can call in the regular police."

"You heard the woman," he boomed in his ho, ho, ho voice. "Search your Santa!"

Now the heads turned to Cheryl.

"Sure," she said, holding her arms out to the side. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'll be glad to be searched. But don't let him get away while you do it."

In the end, with the anger of the crowd rising, he had no choice. Not only the woman's purse, but three wallets and Santa's red pants and jacket took the place of the padding in the pillow Cheryl had been sure they would find under his jacket.

"How did you know?" Barb asked her afterwards.

"Easy," she said. "Underneath the whiskers, his face was thin. And his Santa suit was the twin of mine."

Copyright © 2004 Sara Hoskinson Frommer

About the Author
Sara Hoskinson Frommer is the author of five Joan Spencer mysteries, with a sixth, Death Climbs a Tree, due out in August, 2005. She lives in Bloomington, Indiana, where she is a charter member of the Bloomington Symphony Orchestra's viola section, which has absolutely nothing to do with this story. Visit her at http://www.sff.net/people/SaraHoskinsonFrommer.