Professional Courtesy

The wig did not look white in the yellowish glow of the old incandescent bulb that barely lit Harry McGillicuddy's attic. But Harry knew that it was white, as a polar bear's fur is white: the polywhatever artificial hairs were almost perfectly transparent, so any light that struck them was reflected back, softened, but unchanged in color.

A few more minutes of searching unearthed the beard and the red-velvet hat and suit, both trimmed with fake fur of the same colorless color as the wig. Harry suppressed a sneeze as tiny filaments of the "fur" found their way up his cavernous nostrils and took up ballroom dancing with the mold spores and the microscopic flakes of skin that (he'd heard) made up most household dust.

"I — ah — found the Santa suit — ah — chwmmf," he gasped. "It's kinda dusty…"

"Well, bring it on down, Harry," Maude McGillicuddy said. "I'll run the Hoover over it before Harry Junior comes to pick it up."

Harry stuffed the whole rig back into the ancient plastic bag (the logo of a long-defunct dry cleaner still visible on one side) and carefully lowered himself down the creaking ladder.

"Here it is," he wheezed, digging a threadbare handkerchief from his hip pocket as he passed the bag to his wife. He blew his nose, made his usual detailed examination of the result, then wadded the hanky up and replaced it in his pocket.

Maude rolled her eyes. "I wish you'd use tissues like civilized people do now," she said. "You must be raising a fine crop of microbes there in your pocket."

Harry laughed. "Well, I always did want to be a farmer …"

As predicted, Harry Jr. arrived just as Maude finished running the upholstery brush of the venerable Hoover upright over the Santa suit.

"Mom! Dad! I'm home!"

The two Harrys and one Maude exchanged rib-bending hugs while Harry Jr. recounted his adventures on the snow-covered roads from downtown to "the 'Burbs".

"People are crazy," he said, shaking his head. "Some have winter tires and anti-lock brakes and figure they can drive like it's summer. Some have neither, and insist on going five klicks an hour on the highway —"

"And some have neither, but still figure they can drive like it's summer," Harry Senior said. "Cars get smarter, people stay the same — or maybe get worse."

"Well, as long as you drive carefully," Maude said, "you should be all right."

Harry Jr. stayed just long enough to deliver gifts from Janet and the grandkids, then headed out again. "The kids are waiting up for Santa to arrive, and Santa's gonna take a while to make the trip back," he said.

"Can't disappoint the little ones," Maude said cheerfully. But her smile faded as soon as Harry Jr. climbed back into his car.

"A two-hour drive, he said, and he stayed all of ten minutes," she murmured.

"We'll see the whole crew in a few days," Harry said. "Christmas is more for the young children than for old relics like us."

Then Maude looked down and shrieked, "The Santa suit! He forgot the Santa suit!" Sure enough, the new bag she had used to pack the freshly-vacuumed suit was still by the door.

Harry Jr.'s taillights were faint red dots disappearing around the corner. "I'll call him before he gets too far," Harry said. But his attempts to call Harry Jr.'s cell phone yielded only the "subscriber not available" message.

"We have to go after him," Maude said. "The poor children — if he gets halfway home before he realizes he doesn't have the suit, they won't get their visit from Santa at all — or not until the wee hours of the morning!"

Harry nodded. After a moment's thought, he said, "I'll wear the suit — that'll save time at the other end. And you — " He looked at Maude and laughed. "All you need is to throw on your coat and boots!"

Maude was wearing a red pullover with appliquéd reindeer and candycanes over red slacks. "If I wear my red toque, I guess I'll look enough like Mrs. Claus," she admitted.

They were on the road within minutes, Maude clutching the passenger door handle as the car ploughed its way through axle-deep snow the consistency of brown sugar. "I think you're going too fast, Harry," she said. "We'll do no the grandkids no good if we wind up in the ditch — or the hospital."

"Hush, Maude, don't distract me now," Harry grunted as he spun the wheel madly to pull out of a skid. He was, fortunately, a veteran of winters in Northern Ontario, and his car was equipped with … snow tires and anti-lock brakes.

Unfortunately, the car that clipped his rear end just before the bridge over the Humber had neither a skilled driver nor appropriate equipment for the weather. Harry's front bumper slammed through the guardrail and they were airborne.

Maude screamed, and Harry cursed, and both waited for the terrible impact to come.

And waited. And waited.

"Are we hung up on something, Harry?" Maude asked, her voice trembling. "Is that why we aren't in the river?"

"Errr — actually, Maude, I think we're flying!"

"And are those sleigh-bells I hear?" she asked.

"I don't think I want to know," Harry replied. "Shouldn't look a gift reindeer in the mouth."

A few minutes later, the car settled down on another snow-covered road with a soft whumph and continued forward. "We're back where we should be — ahead of the game, in fact, only a couple miles from Harry Jr.'s house," Harry said.

They arrived without further incident, just before Harry Jr. pulled up.

"Should we tell them what happened?" Maude asked.

"What, that the real Santa rescued us?"

"And why, Harry? Why did — he — do that?"

Harry looked down at the old red suit and shrugged. "Professional courtesy?"

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