The Santa Shack Up – by Susannah Erwin
THE SANTA SHACK UP
BY SUSANNAH ERWIN
Mom ambushes me the night of Thanksgiving.
She picks her time well. I’m in bed, lulled into a false sense of security by an overdose of tryptophan.
Just as I’m wondering if I can sneak downstairs to the kitchen and take the last piece of pecan pie without being spotted by the rest of the family, she appears in my doorway.
To be fair, her arrival was not wholly a surprise.
But our lives have been under so much strain and since most of November passed by without a word from her, I thought she’d forgotten.
I should’ve known better. Her expression is ready for battle. And in her hands she holds…
“No.” I shake my head and scramble backwards on the bed, the better to avoid the certain disaster staring me in the face. “Just…no.”
Mom continues to thrust the red-and-white striped tights and short green tunic at me. “Lizzie, we all need to do our part.”
“Fine. I’ll help Pete with the tree baler.” I am not wearing that costume. It was bad enough I wore it during my high school winter breaks. But I graduated last summer. I’m too old to be an elf. Officially.
Mom gives me her patented Mom stare. “You’re allergic to sap.
I’m not going through that again and you don’t want to, either.
” She puts the pile of colorful felt and Lycra on the bed and sits down next to me.
“Honey, I know these last few months haven’t been what you wanted.
Dad and I appreciate all you’ve sacrificed. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
My face is hot enough to roast chestnuts.
“It’s okay. I just want Dad to get well.
” I glance around my bedroom to avoid Mom’s sympathetic gaze.
The decor hasn’t changed much since my sister Angie moved out when I was twelve.
A queen-sized four-poster bed replaced the two narrow twins, and romance and science fiction novels occupy the space on the bookshelves where Angie’s prized porcelain pig collection once resided.
But other aside from those minor changes, same yellow buttercups on the wallpaper.
Same scratched oak furniture, heavy and stout, a hand-me-down from my grandparents, whose house this had originally been.
Same travel posters of Madrid and Cape Town and Tokyo, mocking me with their cheerful exhortations to fly and see the world.
I love my family. I do. But I want more.
I had plans. Frugal ones, as our finances were already tight thanks to a brush fire that took out a third of our acreage three years ago and needing to replant the lost trees.
Then the stroke felled Dad and put him in a rehabilitation center the week before I was supposed to leave for college.
“You kids have been so great. Joe stepping up to run the financial side of the business, Angie working on the marketing, Pete and Paco taking care of the trees. But I couldn’t have survived without you, Lizzie Belle.
If you hadn’t offered to stay home and help full time…
” Mom’s jaw makes a chewing motion, and tears form in the corners of my eyes.
This will never do. We Sandovals like to keep our emotions tightly bottled inside, the better to preserve them. “So, to thank me, you’re making me wear an elf costume,” I point out. Not only do I hope it will make her smile, but it’s true.
A smile does indeed form. “No one can run Santa’s Workshop like you do. You manage to keep both the children and the parents happy while they wait for their turn with the big guy.” The Mom-briskness tone is back in her voice. Emotional crisis averted. We’re both relieved.
“I’d be happy to run Santa’s Workshop. In flattering street clothes.”
“And what kind of a holiday tradition is that? That’s not why people come here.”
Yeah. I know. Sandoval Family Holiday Farm, Putting the Holly in Your Day Since 1953.
My great-grandparents were the original owners, buying as much acreage as they could afford in the San Bernadino Mountains, two hours and an entire mindset away from Los Angeles.
The motto is engraved on the gate over the driveway that leads to the cut-your-own-tree area.
“And holiday tradition means elf. Not a teenager in jeans and a puffer coat.” She stands, her crossed arms indicating the conversation is over and the matter is settled. “Make sure you find the boots. The kids will notice if your toes don’t curl up,” she says from the doorway.
“I’m only a teenager for another year!” I call after her, but her only response is the echoes of her steps as she descends the stairs.
Great. Just…peachy keen awesome great. I sigh and throw myself backwards on the bed. It would take a miracle to get out of being an elf. Not that I believe in miracles. Not after this past year.
There’s only one good thing about manning the Santa Shack, as we Sandoval kids grew up calling it.
After high school graduation, Sean Boswick went to Florida to play college football, and his team is slated for a New Year’s Day bowl game.
If, heaven forbid, another Incident of Hot Shame happens this year, he won’t be around to see it.
I’m up with the sun, dressed and at the Santa Shack by seven A.M. To most people, the day after Thanksgiving is Black Friday. But to us, that Friday is red and green, silver and gold, blue and white.
We need a good holiday season, more than ever. Last night, I couldn’t sleep after Mom’s ambush. I left my bedroom and went downstairs to get that slice of pie after all. When I passed the dining room on my way to the kitchen, I heard my mom curse.
She never curses.
I stayed in the shadows and watched her face crumble and her shoulders fall.
Joe was with her, shuffling through a pile of paper on the dining room table.
His lips sat in a straight line and his eyebrows made a “v” in the middle of this forehead as he entered numbers into a calculator.
When my calm, placid brother slammed his fist down, scattering the bills, I fled back upstairs.
So I put on my costume and I make sure to give Mom and the rest of my family a huge smile whenever they see me in it. They don’t need the aggravation of my aggravation. The smile falls as soon as they walk away.
The costume is even more unflattering on me than before.
The waistband of the candy cane striped tights digs into my hips, leaving an angry ridge.
At least they’re new. I made sure last year’s pair went straight into the dumpster.
The hem of the kelly green tunic hits at the widest section of my thighs.
The rubber elf ears smell like wet clothes left in the washing machine too long, a procession of tiny red bumps forming where the fake ear rubs against my real ear.
And the boots pinch. But Mom’s right—the feet are one of the first places children look when they meet me.
“Looks like shooting season is almost ready to begin.” Zuri smiles at me as she finishes securing her camera to the tripod.
One of the few bright spots to Santa Shack duty is I get to work with my brother Paco’s fiancée, who I adore.
She’s the sophisticated older sister I didn’t get in Angie, who thinks Hershey’s qualifies as single origin chocolate because it’s made in Pennsylvania.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Hershey’s – I just finished filling the bowls near Santa’s throne with silver-foil wrapped Kisses and snuck maybe four or six for myself.
But I had plans to study abroad while in college and I’d hoped to taste chocolate in Belgium. Or Ecuador. Or?—
Too late, I catch Zuri’s quizzical stare. I smile at her, but the crease in her forehead remains. “Yep, we’re just about ready.”
I can’t hold her gaze any longer, so I turn to make one last visual check of the Santa Workshop area.
The line ropes are in place. The old-fashioned cash register is set up and ready to accept money, although I’ll mostly use the credit card reader attached to my tablet to take orders.
The Shack itself has never looked better.
Paco and Pete did an outstanding job with the pine swags, dripping from the eaves.
Fresh wreaths of dark green holly leaves and bright red berries decorate the door and windows.
Twinkling multicolored lights reflect off shiny glass ornaments packed tightly among the greenery.
Santa’s throne dominates the scene, the gold leaf trim gleaming against the crimson velvet upholstery.
“Except we’re missing the most important thing of all. Where’s the star of the show?”
Zuri shrugs. “I’m sure Mr. Boswick will be here any minute.”
Sean’s grandfather is our Santa Claus, has been for as long as I’ve been alive.
Which, as a small kid running around with Sean during the holidays, was pretty cool.
When we were older—and especially after Sean became Mr. Awesome Spectacular Football Hero and I was, well, that girl who lived on a tree farm who would rather read or binge the latest Star Trek series than go to a pep rally—it wasn’t so cool.
Sean stopped visiting his grandfather sometime during freshman year, until he suddenly showed up last holiday season with his football teammates.
The memory causes my hands to turn clammy cold and I wipe them on the hem of my tunic. My face must show my panic as Zuri gives me a pat on the arm. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We’re going to have a good holiday season. And your dad will be running us ragged next year..”
I nod. Zuri is right. What matters is the success of the farm, so Dad has something to come home to. “You look—” she runs her gaze up and down my costume--“very…festive.”
“Gee, thanks.” I surreptitiously adjust the waistband of my tights under my tunic.
“But don’t do that,” she continues, shaking her head. “Just…no.”
Adjusting my costume is part of what led to the Incident of Hot Shame. I drop my hands. “Grand opening is in half an hour. Mr. Boswick is really running late.”