Ronny reached for another ornament, one of the dark green ones with the glittery white stars in the center, but it darted away before he could lay a finger on it. It rose level with his head, then began spiraling about him like a tiny planetoid. Two more joined it.
"Tammy, quit orbiting me!" yelled Ronny. He made a grab for one of the decorations, but it danced away from his hand.
"I'm not orbiting you, the ornaments are," said Tammy, Ronny's sister. At ten, she was two years older than Ronny and forever teasing him.
"MOM!"
Mom poked her head out the kitchen.
"Tammy, stop orbiting your brother and get that tree finished. Your father's almost home."
Tammy smiled evilly and sent all three ornaments to hook themselves on the Christmas tree before Ronny could react.
"That's not fair," said Ronny.
"Whatever," said Tammy, suddenly bored with the whole thing.
Mom exited the kitchen, crossed the dinning room where the decorated tree stood – "Good job," she said as she passed – and opened the front door just as Dad surmounted the porch steps. His arms were laden with festively wrapped Christmas presents.
"'Bout time," said Mom, smiling.
Dad, face nearly obscured behind the gifts, said, "Well, it takes time to drive all the way to the North Pole and back."
"You didn't go to the North Pole," said Ronny.
"Oh, yeah? Then where'd I go, sport?" said Dad. He always called him sport when he felt Ronny trying to read his thoughts.
"I don't know," said Ronny truthfully. Dad was the only person Ronny had ever met whose mind was closed to him.
"So, Santa gave them to me," said Dad.
"I don't believe in Santa."
"Maybe you should."
"Mom doesn't."
"Ronny Wilson, you know it's impolite to read people's minds like that," said Mom.
"Well, you don't," said Ronny. "Neither does Mrs. Combinesta across the street or Mr. Brewster, or –"
"Some folks know the truth and some don't, that's all," said Dad, straightening up from arranging gifts under the tree. "Maybe they don't believe because they're not gifted like us."
"I don't believe in Santa because I'm gifted," said Ronny. "Grownups don't believe in him, so neither do I."
"Santa doesn't want too many adults knowing about him. He'd never get anything done that way," said Dad. He grew solemn and said, "Look, would you believe in Santa if you met him?"
"Yeah, but –"
"Alright, then," said Dad, as he fished his car keys from a pocket. "I'll be back in a bit."
With that, he left.
Mom was as perplexed by Dad's sudden exit as Ronny. Usually he could rely on her thoughts to clear up confusion – adults tended to know what was happening even when they wouldn't say it aloud – but not this time.
They made caramel apples to pass the time. While they waited Ronny tried, for the millionth time, to glean the nature of Dad's abilities from Mom's mind, but it was no use. She didn't know.
Even to an eight-year-old that seemed odd. How could they have been married twelve years and she still didn't know his gifts? Was his power simply keeping his mind locked away from his own son? Ronny thought that a singularly horrible ability.
They had cut the apple pie and were just sitting down to enjoy a few bites when Mom said, "You're father will be here in a moment. And Tammy, when you're sixteen you're going to date a boy named. . . Bradley. Don't go parking with him, you'll regret it."
"Okay, Mom."
The front door opened. Dad came in followed by a man dressed as Santa Claus. He wore the entire suit, even the boots, belt and cap. His long, silvery hair might have been a wig, but it was a good one.
"Guess who followed me home," said Dad.
Ronny said nothing, but delved immediately into the man's mind.
"Who is this?" he asked his voice incredulous.
The fat man's head was full of strange thoughts and even stranger memories. They were unlike anything Ronny had ever experienced. They felt . . . greasy, it was the only word for it. Reading them was like trying to hold one of those rubber snakes that shoots out of your hand whenever you squeeze it.
The thoughts came in flashes: an urge to take a second look at his lists of naughty and nice, Mom's apple pie smelled tasty, his current coal distributor had raised prices and he needed to find a new supplier.
Below these surface thoughts lived myriad memories: cavorting reindeer, little men in curly shoes and bright clothes, a matronly Mrs. Claus kissing Santa's frost bitten cheek after a long Christmas night, a beloved arctic desert that meant home.
"It's nice to meet you all," said Santa in a grandfatherly voice. "Is this the boy who doesn't believe in me?"
"Yep, that's my boy," said Dad, smiling.
Santa stuck out his hand. Ronny shook it, feeling dazed.
Twenty years later:
The phone rang and Ron heard Dad pick up on the other end.
"Hey, Ronny, Mom said you'd be calling."
"She tell you why?"
"Yep. You need me to do the Santa trick for the kids?"
"Yeah, Carl says he doesn't believe."
"Give me an hour, I'll swing by the mall. You got a few dollars? I hate blanking a man's memory without giving him a little something."
"I've got fifty. Thanks for this, Dad."
"No problemo, sport."
"Hey, I wasn't trying to –"
"Ronny, I can feel when you try to read my mind."
"I'm sorry, I just want to know how you do it."
"Seldom, that's how. I don't want folks asking questions."
"Yeah, I know."
"Just be thankful our family has these little traditions. That's what makes the season special -- Christmas lights, pumpkin pie –"
"Fooling department store Santas into thinking they're the real thing?"
"Yeah. Traditions."
Find more by David A. Jones in the Author Index.