Instead of a dream holiday honeymoon on Bermuda’s pink beaches, I’ll be spending Christmas Eve 1964 in the Immanuel Methodist Church’s slightly damp basement, supervising the cookie table at the annual carol sing.
Right now, I’ve got a few dozen cookies to bake, so I tighten my apron strings and sift more flour. I can almost hear my former fiancé Steve (“I prefer Steven”) again, mocking me up one side and down as I defiantly cut out the gingerbread Santas. “Aren’t these a little juvenile?” were his exact words when I gave him some last year. That’s not the only reason I returned his ring a few days later, but it was high on the list. Anybody who doesn’t get why Santa isn’t just for kids … Well, so long, Steve.
So, 1963 wasn’t exactly a banner year. Or maybe it was?
I’m singing “The First Noel” with Andy Williams and frosting mincemeat spice bars (both things Steve loathed) when my sister June strolls in with her energetic kindergartener. “Before we go, Fay, Joey needs a favor.” With every hair typically in place, she perches on a kitchen stool, admiring her nail polish and watching me box up the cookies, not lifting a finger to help. Also typical.
I hope my nylons survive my favorite nephew’s leg-grappling show of affection. “Aunt Fay, pul-eeeze? You just call this number and they tell you where Santa’s sleigh is! Mommy won’t, but she says you will, so please?” He waves a grubby newspaper and I catch my Pyrex measuring cup on its way to the floor.
June shrugs when I give her a look. “I told Joey his crazy aunt who loves Santa would be happy to.”
I’m about to beg off, but this is something Steve would have sneered at, so I give Joey a gingerbread Santa and take his hand. “Of course we can, sport. Let’s go in the living room.” I slap June’s hand on my way past. “Those cookies are for the carol sing.”
Joey nestles onto the sofa with me and laboriously reads off the numbers from the advertisement while I dial. The phone’s picked up on the first ring. “Merry Christmas! NORAD headquarters,” booms a deep, remarkably cheerful voice. “Captain Gil Wilson on Santa watch. Where are you calling from?”
“Oh, h-hello. I, uh, actually, I’m calling for my nephew Joey. Hold the line, please? Joey, ask the nice captain where Santa …”
Squirming, Joey shoves the phone at me. “I can’t,” he whispers tragically. “I’m too scared. You do it, Aunt Fay.”
“Okay, honey. Captain Wilson, we live just outside Colorado Springs. Is Santa near us yet?”
Joey nods, chewing violently. “TELL HIM ABOUT THE COOKIES!” he hollers.
“Put the phone up to his ear,” the captain suggests. “Good news, son. Our HQ is in Colorado Springs, and our jet pilot escorts report that Santa arrives here around midnight.”
“Jet pilot escorts? For Santa? Woweee!” Joey grabs the receiver, jamming his face against mine. “Mr. Captain? How do ya know where Santa is?”
“Our radar scope picks up the heat signal from Rudolph’s nose. Oh–stand by–there’s a fresh report coming in … yep, Santa’s flying over England now, right on schedule. But, remember, you’ve got to be asleep before he comes down the chimney.”
“Gosh!” Joey anxiously bites off Santa’s pack. “Me and Mommy and Aunt Fay gotta go to the Meddafest church first to sing and eat cookies. Is that okay?”
“Sure, buddy. Santa flies right over that church on his way to your house. When you get home, put out the cookies and milk for him, say your prayers, then hit the hay.”
“Listen to the captain, Joey,” I say, laughing.
“Joey,” June scolds languidly from the kitchen, “mind Auntie Fay.”
“Mr. Captain, does Santa like mincemeat cookies? Aunt Fay makes real good ones. Last year, she didn’t make ‘em cuz’ of stupid Steven. That’s the guy who made fun of her Santa cookies. He didn’t even LIKE Santa. Mommy says Aunt Fay sent him packing!”
The captain’s chuckle rumbles over the line. “Say, Joey, how does Aunt Fay feel about airmen?”
I make a grab for the phone, but Joey vaults over the sofa back, taking it with him.
“Joey,” I hiss, “give me that!”
He ignores my snapping fingers, giggling. “I think she likes ‘em,” he yelps, wiggling backwards and dodging my flailing hand.
“Joey, we don’t have time to play,” June mentions around a mouthful of something, probably cookie.
The captain’s laugh sounds loud and clear. I kneel, squeeze behind the sofa, make a frantic lunge, and finally pry the phone from the small, sticky hand. “Sorry, Mister Captain — uh, Captain,” I say when I catch my breath. “Joey gets carried away. Anyway, t-thank you for telling us about Santa’s flight. Good night, sir. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Aunt Fay and Joey,” he says, chuckling. “Hey, save a mincemeat cookie for me. They’re every bachelor’s favorite.”
I hang up, feeling a little lightheaded. He wouldn’t … would he?
June drifts into the living room, nibbling a contraband cookie. “Are we ready now?”
“Almost,” I say, whipping off my apron and bolting upstairs. “I’ve got to change.” The white spangled damask dress from my trousseau might be a bit much for a carol sing, but suddenly, it seems the perfect thing to wear tonight.
&&&
Nat King Cole’s mellow crooning is barely audible over the Yuletide racket in the church basement. Around the punchbowl, lipsticked girls in crinoline-poufed dresses preen self-consciously, eyeing Shetland-sweatered boys and the plastic sprig of mistletoe overhead. Humming with the record, I slip off my patent pumps and give my cramped toes a stretch, well-hidden behind the long tablecloth.
“Pardon my reach.”
I know that laughing voice. A long, Air Force blue sleeve gently sideswipes me, leaving a heat signal all its own.
“It’s a Christmas miracle! Mincemeat cookies.” The towering, husky man turns to me, cookie in hand, the twinkle in his hazel eyes warming into the kind of look a girl likes to see. “I’ve been searching for you–I mean, these–all night.” He takes a bite and tilts his head, eyes closed in rapture. “Please”—he opens one eye—“tell me you’re Fay.”
I nod, trying not to stare at the strong jaw, close-cropped brown hair, broad shoulders. “Mister Captain Gil, I presume? But, how…?” My toes grope desperately for my shoes.
His crow’s feet crinkle into laugh lines. “NORAD training. We can track more than Santa. Colorado Springs only has a couple of Methodist churches, and the others didn’t have any tall, beautiful, blue-eyed brunettes serving mincemeat cookies.”
Joey barrels up to us, eyes gleaming with joy. “Golly! Are you Aunt Fay’s captain?”
Gil grins, glances at me, then the mistletoe. “Well, Joey, if Santa grants last-minute wishes, could be. Fay, how ‘bout you put your shoes on, and let’s go get some punch?”
We laugh like old friends.
With some vigorous assistance from Joey, I locate my pumps and slip into them, then slide my hand into the crook of Gil’s arm. He immediately snugs it against his side, and offers my delirious nephew his other hand.
“That sounds delightful.” I steal a look at the mistletoe, and make a Santa wish of my own.
The End
PS–Want to join Joey, Fay, and Captain Gil in tracking Santa? Here’s the link to NORAD’s Santa Tracker website!