Santa Cruise (6 page)

I wish that the safety instructions didn't have that new advice that if you can't reach a lifeboat, you should put one hand over your mouth, hold down the shoulder of your life jacket with the other hand, and pretend that you're just walking off the ship as you jump into the water. It was ridiculous. Walk or jump you're still hitting the water in a most unpleasant way. That kind of talk scares people—I know it scares me. I can just see myself standing on the rail with the ship going down, and trying to delude myself I'm out for a stroll.

Dudley shrugged his shoulders. There was enough to worry about without borrowing trouble.
If anything else goes wrong I may be walking the plank anyhow, he thought. I cannot believe the Commodore was so mad at me this afternoon. Was it my fault that that waiter didn't pay his alimony? No. Was it my fault that that first prong on the rock-climbing wall fell off? No. The Commodore should have been thrilled that I escaped with only a few bruises on my buttocks. I could use a good soak in a tub, he thought, but of course
my
room doesn't have a tub. I'm lucky it has a sink.

But I
did
hire the waiter, he admitted to himself. And the screwup on the room was an honest mistake. When I received the letter from Mr. Crater's nurse showing me the receipts for all the money he had given to charity this year, and saying that his final wish was to be with good people like him on this cruise, how could I refuse? I just wish I had written it down when I gave his name to the reservations people. Maybe I didn't get the final count straight, but it's their fault for assigning two people to the same room!

“Okay to come in?”

The first Santa Claus had arrived. “I'm Ted Cannon,” he said.

He's one of the quiet type Santas, Dudley thought. He doesn't seem like a barrel of laughs. I can't picture him saying, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“Great to see you, Ted,” he said in his most enthusiastic voice.

The Santa Clauses had been told that as a condition of coming on the cruise, they'd be expected to wear a Santa outfit at the first and final dinners at sea. Dudley was turning over in his mind how best to present the Commodore's newest idea—that he'd love to see them wearing the outfits as often as possible. The Commodore wanted his passengers to enjoy a festive atmosphere, having no idea that Santas all over the ship at all times would more likely drive his guests out of their minds.

The other nine Santas arrived within the next two minutes and crowded into the supply room. In those two minutes, Dudley had perfected his speech. Don't let them think they're doing us a favor, he reminded himself—let them think they're being honored by being chosen to work.

He felt relief as the men began to smile when he told them how proud the Commodore was to have them all aboard. “He wants to put the spotlight on the good you have all done to create warmth and joy for so many people during the holiday season,” Dudley explained, thinking that some of the Santas probably promised kids presents they didn't get. “Because the Commodore understands how much love you provided to children
of all ages when you wore your Santa outfits, he was hoping that you'd want to spread that love as often as possible during the cruise by wearing these outfits.” Dudley pointed to the rack. “As often as possible,” he repeated. His voice rose. “Morning, noon, and night.”

The smiles vanished. Bobby Grimes, the rolypoly guy from Montana, who looked as though he should have been the cheeriest of all, said, “I thought this was supposed to be a free trip, thanking us for all the work we already did. Some thanks. When I work as Santa Claus, I get paid Santa Claus wages. This is a rip-off. What you call a breach of contract.”

The troublemaker of the group has just identified himself, Dudley thought. I wouldn't put it past him to make a ship-to-shore call to one of those lawyers who advertise on TV. “Did you fall? Or almost fall? Maybe you suffered psychological damage when someone gave you a dirty look. We'll sue for you. You deserve it.”

Some of the others were nodding and agreeing with Grimes.

“I've been wearing a Santa costume since Halloween,” one of them griped. “I'm sick of it. I wanted to sit in a deck chair in a pair of shorts, not spend all day in a hot, scratchy suit.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” another
Santa chimed in. “I was a volunteer Santa. I didn't get a nickel for traipsing around lugging a heavy sack over my shoulders.”

Ted Cannon felt sorry for Dudley, but the last thing he wanted to do was wear the costume every night at dinner. In the two holiday seasons since Joan died, the Santa appearances were painful reminders that she was gone. She had always accompanied him to the nursing homes and hospitals, and afterward they'd go out for dinner together. Joan had laughingly insisted on paying for dinner those nights, he remembered. She'd said that Santa deserved a good meal after squeezing down so many chimneys.

“I agree with Bobby,” Nick Tracy from Georgia drawled. “I'll wear the suit tonight and the last night, and that's it.”

Ted saw the look of desperation on Dudley's face and decided to help out. “Come on,” he urged the others. “We're enjoying a free trip. What's the big deal about putting the suits on for an hour or two a day?” He pointed to them. “They're even lightweight.”

Dudley wanted to kiss him.

“But look at those beards,” Rudy Miller from Albany, New York, pointed out. “We're supposed to eat with them on? Are we on a liquid diet?”

“You can take them off while you eat,” Dudley
promised. “What we really want to do is let people take pictures with you.”

Ted Cannon walked over to the clothes rack and began to check the sizes of the outfits. “These look as if they're cut pretty big,” he commented. “I guess I'm a long.” He removed one hanger, folded the contents over his arm, then took a beard, stocking cap, and sandals from the boxes next to the rack.

“I like wearing a Santa suit,” Pete Nelson from Philadelphia piped up. “I was always a bit shy, but wearing the suit made it easier to talk to people. My therapist said it was like being an actor. He said that many actors are really very shy when they're not playing a part.”

“He sounds brilliant,” Grimes snapped. “Who cares whether actors are shy? Most of them are overpaid jerks.”

“I resent that,” Nelson said. “I'm just trying to share what my therapist is teaching me.”

“Well, most therapists are overpaid jerks as well,” Grimes countered.

Nelson frowned. “I really don't think you're cut out to be a Santa.”

“You're right. This was my last season.”

Maybe next year he should play Scrooge, Dudley thought. We're off to a great start. Why did I ever think up this Santa Cruise? This will turn me
into a confirmed landlubber. He began to hand out the suits. By the time four of the Santas had taken them, there were only four left on the rack.

“I can't understand it,” Dudley said, his voice alarmed. “We're missing two suits. Mr. Grimes, unless I can track them down, you will be relieved of your obligation to spread good cheer on this cruise.”

“What?” It was clear that Grimes was caught off guard. The truth was that he loved dressing up as Santa Claus.

Ted Cannon sized up Grimes as the type who always complained no matter what. “Maybe we can rotate some of the suits. I'm in the cabin next to Pete. We're about the same size. We can share one.”

“My therapist would be proud of you,” Pete Nelson said with a smile.

“Mr. Grimes, if you wish you may share a suit with Rudy. Or you won't have to wear one at all, if you don't want to,” Dudley sniffed.

“Whatever. I'll work it out with Rudy,” Grimes said begrudgingly.

When the Santas left, eight of them carrying outfits, Dudley scoured the supply room. Not only had the two suits vanished into thin air, but the sandals, beards, and stocking caps to go with them were also definitely gone. Why would anyone else
want them, and how am I going to explain having only eight Santa Clauses to the Commodore?

Who could have gotten into this supply room? It was always kept locked, so it had to have been someone with a key.

Dudley got nervous. I didn't have that waiter checked out, he thought. As a matter of fact, I didn't check
anybody's
references. We all know that most references are given by people who are forced to do a favor for their unemployed friends and most résumés are a pack of lies.

Someone on the ship was up to no good. Dudley didn't know whether it was a passenger or a crew member.

What Dudley
did
know was that if something else happened, it would be his fault.

All of a sudden, walking off the ship didn't seem like such a bad idea.

O
h, I sail the ocean blue, and my saucy ship's a beauty,” the Commodore sang, as he looked in the mirror over the couch of his sitting room and smiled at his reflection. His new uniform, a resplendent midnight blue tuxedo with gold-braided epaulets on the shoulders to match the buttons on the jacket, struck exactly the note he was hoping to achieve. He wanted his guests to view him as both a commanding presence and a genial host.

But it would be nice to have another opinion, he decided.

“Eric!” he called.

The door to the guest room was closed and locked, a gesture the Commodore felt was a trifle unfriendly. After all, he reasoned, with this large living room between the bedrooms, it's not as if we're crowding each other. Closing the door was one thing, locking it another. Certainly Eric
couldn't think I would barge in on him? When I tapped on the door a few minutes ago and got no response, I only wanted to peek in to see if Eric had been catching a cat nap. I simply wanted to warn him that it was getting late. But the door was locked, then Eric called out in a very cross voice that he was stepping out of the shower and what did I want?

Maybe he
should
have taken a nap, the Commodore thought. He looked terribly tired today, and he certainly was cranky. Well, I know that he shares my concern that the voyage goes well from now on despite a few bumpy patches at the outset. . . .

There was a knock on the outside door of the suite. The Commodore knew it would be Winston with his plate of fancy hors d'oeuvres. I much prefer enjoying them here in my suite with a glass of champagne than munching on them while I'm shaking hands and posing for pictures with the guests, he thought. Nothing worse than a crumb on the chin or a dab of mustard on one's cheek when posing for a photo. People should feel free to point out offensive particles of food stuck to another person's face, no matter how exalted the position of the stuckee.

“Enter, Winston,” he called out.

Winston entered the room in dramatic fashion,
a tray with an open champagne bottle, two glasses, and two plates of hors d'oeuvres held over his head. A small smile played on his lips, indicating that he was very pleased with himself. But then he always was. He placed the tray on the coffee table and ceremoniously poured a glass of champagne for the Commodore.

The Commodore inspected the selection of hors d'oeuvres—tiny potatoes sprinkled with caviar, smoked salmon, baked mushroom puffs in pastry shells, and sushi with dipping sauce. His face darkened.

Winston looked alarmed. “Are you displeased, sir?”

“No pigs in a blanket?”

A horrified expression came over Winston's face. “Oh, sir,” he protested.

The Commodore slapped him on the back and laughed heartily as he settled on the couch. “Only jesting, Winston. I know you would drop dead before you would ever serve such a middle-brow item. But they
are
tasty.”

Winston didn't comment, but he obviously didn't agree. The same selection of hors d'oeuvres had been placed in all the guests rooms, a gesture that Winston felt was surely unappreciated by most of the cruisers. They'd probably have preferred popcorn, he thought. He placed one plate of hors
d'oeuvres on the table and picked up the tray. Then he turned and began to cross the room. Before he had gone six steps the door of Eric's room opened. Pulling it closed behind him, Eric gave the Commodore a blinding smile as he hurried to sit beside him on the couch.

“Sir, I hope I didn't sound unpleasant a few minutes ago when you called me.” He tried to laugh. “Fact is, I stubbed my toe in the shower. I'd just been muttering something I won't repeat when I heard your voice.”

“That's perfectly all right, my boy,” the Commodore assured him as he bit into a mushroom puff. “It did enter my head that you sounded a bit cross, but a stubbed toe is the very devil.” A slight frown creased his forehead. “You're not dressed for the evening. You're running rather late, aren't you?”

Winston placed the second plate of hors d'oeuvres and a glass of champagne in front of Eric. I wonder if he'd rather have more of his potato chips, Winston thought disdainfully. I'll have to inspect his room when I turn the bed down. The last thing I want is him ruining the Commodore's guest bedroom with hidden junk food. It's also interesting, Winston thought, that for someone who claimed to have just stepped out of the shower. Eric had put his daytime uniform back on. “Mr.
Manchester,” he said, “Is there a problem with your dress uniform? Does it need pressing? I'd be happy to take care of it for you.”

“No,” Eric snapped. “I haven't showered yet.”

“But I thought you stubbed your toe when you were showering,” the Commodore said.

“I was getting ready to shower when I stubbed it,” Eric corrected himself quickly. “I knew you were waiting to have a glass of champagne. I didn't want to keep you waiting.”

“Very well.” The Commodore turned to Winston. “That will be all, my good man.”

Winston's bow was pointedly aimed at the Commodore. “You have but to beckon, sir.”