December 24th: He Never Was Very Good At Math by Curlew

Hutch glanced into the family room, where his small son was lying on the floor under the Christmas tree, reading aloud to a patient black and white dog. Smiling, he pulled the door closed, and turned to his partner.

“I guess so Viking’s more or less finished teaching Zac to read, don’t you? How are you doing?”

“Man, look at the time-we got to get going!”

“Starsky, you’re not going to be able to…”

“I can do it, I can do it!” Starsky struggled up, then swore as he put his bandaged foot to the floor, and dropped back in the couch. “I can’t do it. Pass me the phone, will you?”

“Why?”

“Going to call Melissa — see if she’s free.”

“I’m free. I’ll take him.”

Starsky’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “You? Seriously?”

“Are you suggesting I can’t manage taking our son to see Santa Claus?”

Starsky’s pause was a little too long to be flattering, and Hutch’s head went up. “Babe — it’s in the big mall the week before Christmas. It’ll be packed. There’ll be a line. And it’s Santa Claus — the Capo di Capo of euphoric sentimentalism! Let me call Melissa, please.”

The dubious look on Starsky’s face hardened Hutch’s resolve, and half an hour later they were driving into the mall. His heart sank a little as he took in the crowds and the loud music, but rose again when he looked down at the fizzing bundle of excitement beside him — green eyes wide and reflecting the colored lights that decorated every store.

“Come on then, big boy. Remember, it’s busy, so hold my hand. And we might have a long wait.”

“I don’t mind. Have I told you what I’m going to ask Santa for?”

“No. Tell me now!” He listened as they made their way towards the sign for Santa’s Cabin, Zac’s words tumbling out as he described a red bike with chrome handlebars and wheels and a black saddlebag — exactly like the one currently hidden in the garage back at home. Score for Dad Starsky, he thought with a fond smile.

“Do you think he might bring it for me, Papa?”

The language of Santa was new to Hutch — it had not been part of his austere, adult-centered childhood — but he was learning. It was hard not to, in the storm of baking and decorating that had been his life for the past two weeks.

“You need to ask him. Maybe if he thinks you’ve been good enough. Look, here’s where we wait.”

“Will it be long? It looks long.”

Privately Hutch agreed and cursed the ill-judged basketball game that had put a temporary halt to Starsky’s festive activities.

“I’m sure it’ll move quickly. Let’s play I Spy to pass the time.”

But Zac was too excited to concentrate for long, and was soon swinging on his father’s arm and making friends with the other children around him, all equally restless and excited. Soon though, after one near miss on a lady with her arms full of packages, Hutch called him sharply back, and only his inner Starsky saved the child from a scolding. The same inner Starsky reminded him of the bag of candy that had been rammed into his pocket at the last minute, and relative peace was restored. The line shuffled forward, Zac ate candy. Hutch ate some candy too, reminding himself that it was fine for children to be seen and heard, especially at Christmas.

“Papa…”

“Zackary?”

Zac giggled — he always found his full name unaccountably funny — but was soon serious again. “Papa — I’ve been thinking. How many children are there in the world?”

“Well — there are about four and a half billion people — so probably about one and a half billion children. We can look it up when we get home.”

“Can I have another candy?”

They shuffled forward a little.

“Papa?”

“Zackary?”

“How far is it round the world?”

“About twenty-five thousand  miles.”

Another pause, then suddenly, without warning, something hit him very hard in the stomach. He gasped and doubled over, just as a scream of fury drowned out the chatter. He caught his breath, then to his horror, his son began to shout, his voice clear despite the fury.

“You lied! Dad lied! Everyone lied! It’s not TRUE!!!!!”

Hutch felt horror run down his spine like icy water as understanding dawned, and the eyes of every parent turned on him. He could hear their unspoken thoughts, and the color rose in his face.

“Zackary! Be quiet!!”

“No! You say it’s wrong to lie, but you LIED!”

Zac’s tantrums were infamous, and he was now kicking Hutch’s shins as he yelled, “Liar! Liar! Liar!”

People began to draw their children away, and Hutch grew redder and hotter, through a mixture of embarrassment at the scene they were making and terror at what Zac might be going to say next. He tried to gather the child in his arms, but the flailing limbs made it impossible. At last, in rage and desperation, and with a firm resolution never to let Starsky risk a basketball injury again, he grasped the back of Zac’s belt and picked him up, still screaming.

The line parted as he carried his son, like a very reluctant gym bag, away from the fake snow-covered log cabin. He kept going until he was sure they were out of earshot, then found a seat, pulling Zac onto his lap. The screams had turned into sobs, and Hutch’s fury dissolved in the face of the little boy’s heartbroken, tear-stained face.

“Oh, baby. Would you like a hug?”

The sobs turned to whimpers as Zac clung to him, arms and legs clinging like a monkey, hot face buried in his shoulder. “Papa — is he real?”

Hutch knew what he meant, and had never felt more unequal to a task in his life. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and dried his son’s eyes, thinking fast. “Are you sure you want to know? Because you can’t un-know things.”

The auburn curls bounced up and down as the little head nodded furiously. “I don’t want to believe things that aren’t true.”

Hutch smiled. Zac was Starsky’s son — but so much his own person as well. Starsky made a point of believing three impossible things before breakfast, but Zac had thought about the figures and come to his own conclusions.

Suddenly Hutch knew what to say. “Ok, then. He’s not really real…” Zac’s lip began to tremble… ”but he is, sort of. The grown-ups are Santa for the little kids. And when kids get too old and clever to believe — when they start to do the math like you did — then they start being Santa and bring the presents for the little ones.”

The green eyes widened. “So, I’m Santa now? And so are you, and Dad? And Mummy?”

Hutch nodded solemnly. “Yep. Shall we go and buy some presents? Your first sackful? I’ve got some ideas. But Zac — it’s very important you don’t tell anyone. They have to work it out for themselves. Do you understand?”

Zac contemplated, his head on one side. “I understand. It’s a special secret — only people who know can talk about it. But Papa…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think Dad’s worked it out yet. So we won’t tell him.”

Hutch laughed and stood up, setting Zac on his feet and taking his hand. “I think you’re right. He never was very good at math.”