Kris (34 page)

Now it is 1871, and a weathered wooden passenger ship prepares to depart from a port in Venice, Italy. A simple young woman carries a small gift in one hand and a suitcase in the other. She walks behind a line of plainly dressed people boarding in the steerage class of the ship. As she makes her way onboard, she sees a man of her acquaintance and greets him with a gentle smile. He wishes her a happy holiday, and she hands him the gift. He hugs her warmly, and tears fill their eyes.

Now it is America in 1910, and a woman's extravagant hat flops about as she walks along the pier. She halts in front of a large cruise ship anchored there. A line of people exit the first-class decks, making their way slowly down that ship's long, heavy ramp. A wealthy man suddenly appears behind them and waves to the woman from the top of the ramp while holding a beautifully wrapped gift in his hands. As he approaches her, the sunlight glistens off the brightly wrapped package. She runs to welcome him home.

Now it is World War I; along the western front explosions of mortars fade to silence. The land is covered by a sea of bitterness and blackness beneath a dome of sparkling stars. Interrupting the silence of the night are the low rumbles of shells fired in the distance and bursts of bright red light that punctuate their explosions in the sky. A British soldier sits in a muddy trench as he opens a Christmas package from home. He laughs when he pulls out a cookie shaped and decorated like a Christmas tree, which brings loving memories of home.

Across no-man's-land, the thick stretches of mud-trenched earth that separate the armies, a German soldier bites into a gingerbread man that he withdrew from the opened package beside him.

Now it is Brazil in 1956, and a poor old man sucks the last drops of soup from a dirty bowl, settling back against the wall of a dilapidated
building where he hopes to sleep. A care worker covers him with a blanket so he might have a bit of warmth throughout the Christmas night.

Now it is 1984, and a sleepy young Indian child is held warmly in the arms of her father, who tucks her into bed, giving her a gentle kiss upon the cheek. Beside him, on the girl's nightstand, a small gift sits beautifully dressed with a red velvet bow.

Now it is 2003, and all across China, children dream of the gifts that will be left by Santa this Christmas Eve.

Now in a vast department store, children wait anxiously to greet Santa. Tabby, next in line, runs past the elf helper and plops onto the big Santa chair, scooting and pushing to make room.

“I'm Tabby,” she says. “I know you're not really Santa, but that's OK. I'm getting too old for that.”

“I never liked that excuse.”

Her little hand tests the softness of the white fur lining the thick red Santa coat.

“I've seen Santa before in other malls,” she says as proof of her perception.

“You know, even Santa needs a little help now and again.”

“Santa needs help?” she asks, having never quite considered it that way.

“Oh, yes, there are many children …”

“I want to help Santa, too.”

“That's easy, Tabby, be the Santa in you. Santa wants you to know that if you are good, you will have a surprise under your tree at Christmas.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Tabby wraps her little arms around my belly and gives me a hug. Hopping from my lap, she runs to her mother and tugs on her blouse. “Mommy, Mommy, Santa says if I'm good I'll get the Barbie Dream House for Christmas!”

“What's this?” her father asks, excited to hear what Santa said to her.

“Santa says if she's good he'll get her a Barbie Dream House for Christmas,” Tabby's mother tells him resolutely.

Her father lifts Tabby high above his head and lowers her for an Eskimo kiss.

“Well, then we had best be good for Santa, hadn't we?” he commands with a smile.

Her father looks at me as he sets his daughter on the ground, and gives me a smirk and a nod.

I wink back at him and smile. He's a good boy, John. Always has been.

Without warning, Matthew, a fiery five-year-old boy, hops up onto my lap.

“Santa?” he asks, to make sure I am the jolly guy that he has come to see.

“Yes, Matthew,” I assure him.

He gives me a quizzical look as if to ask how I already know his name.

“I remember you from last year,” I say with a grin.

Matthew reaches toward the white fringe of my coat.

“Why is your workshop in the North Pole?” he asks.

“Oh, because they say people live forever up there.”

“Forever?” he asks in awe.

“Forever!” I respond in equal enthusiasm.

Matthew lifts the wooden snowflake pendant hanging from my neck and runs his fingers across it, feeling its engraved designs and pointy edges. “And how do reindeer fly?” he asks.

I look him directly in his eyes and whisper, “One secret at a time, little one. One secret at a time.”

The End

I
truly hope you have enjoyed the story. Like a piece of theatre
on opening night, this book represents a collaboration of friends and colleagues whose love and toil have coaxed from the fires of its creation a greater complexity than can come from one individual's inception of an idea.

The simple story was born in 1995 when I first stepped in for Santa and wore the Santa suit for a group of kids in New Jersey. They were singing “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and I threw open the doors to be greeted by a four-year-old girl whose eyes grew to the size of silver dollars. Lifting her arms to the sky, she beckoned to be picked up. That day I lived as the man that would never do a child wrong. I was more than friend—I was confidant. I was more than character—I was a living legend in their minds. At the end of the day, three fathers, probably in
their mid-thirties, asked if they could take a picture with me. Without thinking I said, “Have we been good this year?”

“Yes,” each one replied most earnestly.

I realized then that there is a child inside every adult who still yearns for Santa. I decided that day to start searching for the story that would give teenagers and adults back the hero of early childhood and to create the story that would resolve the question for all time—
Is Santa Real?

The story I found was a story that reveals a man who, like all men, faces trials, failures and self-doubt. A man who teaches us the obvious truth that Santa lives in each of us and whose very existence is a call to action: “Be the Santa in You!”

I can only say that God placed the core story inside my head because I woke up one day, and it was there. Then years of research and the contributions of many expanded its scope and detail. The first person I told the story to was a dear friend of mine, Dan Mackler, whose intense response launched me into a committed pursuit to see this story made into a movie. He, along with Bill Hill, John Higgins, Dominick Salfi, Bob Di Cerbo and others, spent the next six years of their lives in the dedication of that cause. The original short story was taken in dictation by my amazing and supportive wife, Joanne, who on that day kept me from making a tragic mistake in its writing. She then gave me two beautiful children, Caius and Jinnai, who taught me what a challenging and rewarding task Santa has taking care of all the children on the earth.

Over the next eight years, the story took multiple forms—from the screenplay to the pseudo-historical documents of the first
Santa is Real
book published in 2006. Each form has influenced the subtleties and depth of what is in this novel. I would like to thank my incredibly talented collaborator Joseph Kenny who served as a contributor and
writer on this novel. His work helped me transition the story from its many forms into the book you read today. Without him there would be a beauty missing from its reading. I must also thank my primary writing partner on the screenplay and many other aspects of this project, Donte Bonner. His thoughts flow throughout the entire story. Early on in the screenplay process, Ben and Stephanie Lowell were very helpful. Sandy Thrift lent me her years of experience. Stella Sung gave him music. Connie Chattaway gave him poetry, Huaixiang Tan gave him art, Eric Craft and Alvin DeLeon designed his first home, and Bill Brewer gave him clothing. Chris Sprysenski gave us legal counsel, Frank DiPietro made us accountable, Tim Baker and Doni Keen gave us the “Santa Talks,” and Per Heistad pulled no punches on his analysis of our entire project. Shannon O'Donnell helped me keep it together, Peter Weed gave me heart, and Jayson Stringfellow gave me motivation to jump. My dear friend Jason Diller brought his incredible writing talents to this project and even lived with my family for more than a year as we refined the total work. The song about snowflakes was written by my friend and business partner John Higgins, and the song about the lumberjacks is an American folk song from the mid 1800's.