Chapter 6 Axel #2
Jimmy climbed onto my lap with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man. I patted his back, handed him a candy cane, and said, “Whaddaya want, Jimmy? Don’t say a puppy, ‘cause those things piss everywhere and Santa’s not dealing with that this year.”
Jimmy blinked, mouth open. I leaned in, let him get a whiff of the whiskey on my breath. “Santa knows when you’ve been stealing your sister’s toys, Jimmy. Might wanna return that Barbie Jeep before Christmas morning if you want anything besides coal.”
Jimmy’s eyes went wide, and he slid off my lap fast enough to leave a friction burn. His mom frowned, but she was out of range before I could elaborate.
Next up was a girl with a red velvet bow in her hair and a face like she knew exactly where every body was buried in the tri-county area. She sat, crossed her legs, and stared me down.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Lindsey,” she said, already bored.
“You been good this year, Lindsey?”
She shrugged. “Define good.”
I liked this kid. “Let’s call it ‘didn’t get caught.’”
She nodded, satisfied. “I want an iPad and a phone.”
I said, “That’s a lot of screens for someone your age. You got stock in Apple?”
She rolled her eyes. “My dad said you’re fake.”
“Your dad’s a cuck,” I said, then leaned close. “But don’t tell your mom. She’d lose her shit.”
She cracked a smile. I gave her two candy canes, just for style.
The line moved on. Each kid had a new flavor of dysfunction.
One kid wet himself, two tried to rip the beard off my face, and one girl asked if Santa could help her “get rid of” her baby brother.
I told her to leave the logistics to the elves.
The parents alternated between exasperation and genuine concern, and the volunteers in the green “Jesus Is The Reason” vests were huddled at the edge of the room, whispering into each other’s ears and shooting me the kind of looks that said they were one more F-bomb away from calling in the clergy SWAT team.
I didn’t care. I was having fun for the first time in months.
At one point, a kid in a wheelchair rolled up, clutching a stuffed bear. His dad, a big guy with neck tattoos and an air of not giving a fuck, hovered close. The kid—Ben—stared at me, not scared, just taking the measure of a man who dressed up to lie to children for a living.
“What’s on your list, Ben?” I asked.
He thought about it, then said, “A new bike. One with a motor.”
I grinned. “That’s the best answer I’ve heard all day. You want a Harley or a dirt bike?”
“Harley,” Ben said, like it was obvious.
His dad snorted. “You can’t even ride a regular one.”
“Yet,” I said, and gave Ben a fist bump. “Santa’s rooting for you.”
The next hour was a blur of fake smiles, sticky fingers, and a growing pile of wrappers and broken plastic at my feet. I tried to keep the jokes G-rated, but every so often, one slipped out. I figured the “real” Santa wasn’t coming back from his bender, so what the hell.
To a kid named Mason who wouldn’t stop picking his nose, “You know, Santa’s elves keep a list of booger eaters. It’s not a good list, Mason.”
To a girl named Madison, “Santa can’t bring you a pony, but I can bring you the phone number for a good therapist. You’re gonna need it.”
And to the cluster of preteens at the end of the line, “If you’re thinking about putting a firecracker in the mailbox again, just remember—the postal service fights back.”
Some of the adults laughed. Most just hustled the kids away, eyes narrowed and lips pressed thin. The air in the hall got heavy with that particular brand of Midwestern dread, the feeling that something bad is happening, but it’s too late to stop it without causing a scene.
Through it all, I saw him watching, the man with the suit and the shoes that cost more than my bike, standing at the far end of the hall, flanked by a wife who looked like she hadn’t blinked since Reagan, and a daughter with chestnut hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders.
He had a way of surveying the room that let you know he owned everything in it.
Reverend Archie Maple.
I’d seen his kind before. The world called them shepherds, but really, they were wolves with better PR.
He let the line wind down, then strode over, each step measured and heavy. When he got close, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. His eyes locked on me, dark and direct, a little smile on his face that didn’t reach the rest of him.
“Santa,” he said, drawing out the name like he was sampling a new wine. “We’re so blessed to have you join us today.”
I gave him the old ho-ho-ho, low and growly. “Anything for the kids, Reverend. That’s what the season’s about, right?”
He took my hand and shook it. His grip was iron, his palm dry and uncalloused. He squeezed a fraction longer than normal, just enough to see if I’d flinch. I didn’t.
He tilted his head, studied my face like he was counting the number of bones he could break before I screamed. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” he said. “But you’re doing a fine job. The children seem… captivated.”
“Just spreading Christmas cheer, Reverend,” I said. “One traumatized brat at a time.”
He didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “We value volunteers here at Fable. We keep a close watch on them, too. For the children’s safety.”
I met his gaze, unblinking. “That’s very responsible of you.”
He looked down at the sleeve of my Santa suit, where the tattoos showed through the fake fur. “You a man of faith, Mr…?”
I shrugged. “Santa.”
He nodded, dead serious. “Of course.”
He let go of my hand and straightened his tie. “We’re about to begin the Christmas Eve service in the sanctuary. After that, the children’s choir performs. You’re welcome to attend, if you’re not needed elsewhere.”
I got the message. Stick around, or I’ll assume you’re robbing the place.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
He gave a last, lingering look, then turned and strode off, wife and daughter in tow. The volunteers followed, leaving me alone on the throne.
I sat back, let the adrenaline drain out, and peeled off the beard. My jaw ached from clenching it so long, and the suit was already soaked through with sweat and kid snot.
I watched the Reverend gather his flock, watched the way everyone moved to give him space, watched the way the daughter—Darla, if I remembered right—walked a step behind, her face set in a way that said she’d rather be anywhere but here.
I wondered how many other wolves she’d seen, and if she’d know one when she met him.
I reached for the flask in my boot, took another pull, and closed my eyes for just a second. Outside, the church bells started ringing, and the last of the Christmas lights blinked and buzzed, fighting to stay alive.
I stood, brushed the fake snow off my knees, and went to find the girl with the chestnut hair.
***
It didn’t take long to find her. In a sea of Christmas sweaters and bored suburban faces, Darla Maple was a supernova.
Modest, sure—green dress with sleeves down to her wrists, hem hovering just above the knee, nothing you could call slutty even if you were born in the 1940s—but the shape of her was pure rebellion.
You could tell she’d been raised to be invisible and learned, over time, to make the world stare anyway.
She was surrounded by children, half of them crying, the other half vibrating on raw sugar and religious anxiety.
Darla crouched low to the ground, coaxed a kid out from under the “NOEL” banner, then scooped her up and set her on a nearby folding chair.
She knelt in the fake snow, hands gentle but quick, brushing tears and snot with the sleeve of her dress like she’d done it a thousand times.
The whole time she smiled, not the frozen pageant-winner smile, but a real one that seemed to light up the dead winter daylight bleeding through the window glass.
Her hair was pulled back from her face but not tightly; chestnut curls spilled down one side, catching flecks of tinsel and the occasional snowflake as she moved.
She had a birthmark just above her right eyebrow—a little comma that broke the symmetry and made her face impossible to forget.
Her eyes were blue, but not icy like the Reverend’s—hers had some warmth in them, a little green at the center, a hint of chaos barely kept in check.
She laughed at something a volunteer said, then looked up and caught me watching.
I didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. But for the first time all day, I didn’t feel in control.
She gave me a nod—just a dip of the chin—and turned back to the toddler, whispering something that made the kid giggle and stop crying instantly.
The other volunteers deferred to her, not in the way people obey out of fear, but with the respect given to someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing.
I watched her for a solid five minutes, long after my own Santa obligations had dried up. Every so often, she’d glance over her shoulder, catch me staring, and arch one eyebrow like she was challenging me to keep it up. I did.
After a while, the crowd thinned out. The sanctuary doors opened, and the congregation began to filter in, faces upturned, ready for whatever holiday nonsense was next on the docket.
Darla hung back, fussing with the decorations, re-setting chairs, scooping up candy wrappers, and shoving them in her apron pocket.
She had the kind of easy competence that made the chaos of the room seem orchestrated, almost deliberate.
I waited until she was alone near the refreshments table before I made my move.
I pulled off the Santa hat, slicked my hair back with one hand, and approached. She was pouring fruit punch into Dixie cups, moving fast but precise. When she saw me coming, she didn’t freeze or smile; she just watched, eyes sharp and alive.
I stopped a few feet away and leaned against the table, careful not to spill anything.
Up close, her skin was pale, a little freckled, and the vanilla scent of her hair cut through the musty church air and the burnt sugar stench of the cookies.
There was something else, too—peppermint, maybe, and under that, sweat.
Real, human, not the plastic air of the rest of the congregation.
She spoke first. “You’re new.”
I shrugged. “Santa’s always new. That’s the gig.”
She poured another cup, handed it to a kid who ran off without saying thank you, then set the ladle down. “You’re not from around here. You’ve got an accent.”
I grinned. “And you don’t?”
She looked me up and down, not bothering to hide it. “Not like yours.”
We stood there, silent, the noise of the crowd muffled by the sheer volume of empty space between us.
She said, “Thanks for helping out.” She took a deep breath, and for a second I thought she was going to ask me something personal. Instead, she just smiled, softer this time. “You did good,” she said.
“Most of them cried,” I replied.
She laughed, a low, unforced sound. “They always do. Kids know a fake when they see one.”
I couldn’t help myself. “So do you?”
She shrugged, but her cheeks colored. “I try to. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
Before I could think of a comeback, the Reverend’s voice boomed from the other side of the room.
“Darla, we’re ready for the children’s choir.
” He was already walking toward us, tie straight and shoes shined so bright you could signal rescue planes with them.
When he got close, he put a hand on Darla’s shoulder—not rough, but there was no mistaking who was in charge.
He looked at me, then at Darla, then back again. “Did our new friend introduce himself?”
Darla shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Santa,” I said, extending a hand.
He took it, squeezed. “Archie Maple. Pastor here. My daughter, Darla.”
We held the shake a fraction too long. I could feel him looking for an angle, a weakness. I didn’t give him one.
He turned to his daughter. “We’re counting on you, sweetheart. Like always.”
She nodded, face shifting to that same blank mask I’d seen in the crowd. She peeled away, headed for the makeshift stage, leaving me alone with the Reverend.
He watched her go, then leaned in just close enough that nobody else could hear.
“I appreciate what you did for the kids,” he said, voice all honey and daggers. “But I hope you understand how things work here.”
I smiled, lazy. “You mean the hierarchy?”
He almost smiled, too. “That’s one word for it.”
I let the silence stretch, then said, “Your daughter’s got a gift. The way she handles people.”
He bristled, just for a second. “She’s a good girl. Raised to serve. Raised to lead, when she has to.”
I nodded, filed it away. “You ever worry she’ll outgrow this place?”
His eyes went hard. “No. She knows her duty.”
I wanted to say something—wanted to say a hundred things—but I just nodded, gave him the beard-and-hat, and left him standing there.
I watched the choir from the back of the sanctuary, keeping one eye on the Reverend and the other on Darla. She sang, sure, but mostly she watched the other kids, making sure they got their cues, mouthing words to the ones who forgot. Every so often, she glanced at me, then looked away.
After the benediction, I slipped out before the crowd could catch me.