Santa's Christmas Blacklist

Bear Creek Country Club, a golfing mecca for the wealthy elite, sits halfway between Euless, Texas, nicknamed Useless, and the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. An unseasonably frigid winter in the forgotten Dallas suburb, Davey Phillips, out of school for Christmas vacation, stood in frozen brush up to his knees, feet ice-cold in rubber waders, using a wooden rake to comb for errant golf balls. The perfect school break job, ball boy, or so he thought.

He’d found a few in the several hours he’d been searching. “This bites,” he said to no one. “If an idiot freezes to death and nobody’s there to hear him, does he utter a silent scream?”

Ruminating, not paying attention to where he was trudging, Davey tripped, landing face down in the mossy muck. “Damn it.” He picked muddy clumps off his plaid coat and stomped his feet. On the ground, one end of a silver, carry-on suitcase poked out of a frosty puddle, half covered with brush and scum. He pulled on the hard-sided case. On the third try, it came loose with a sucking sound. “Perhaps some sexy lingerie to make this horror show survivable,” he thought. But the case was secured with a combination lock. “Of course.”

The fringe land surrounding the golf course was a quarter mile give or take from the bus stop. He knew he shouldn’t but curiosity got the better of him. He hauled the heavy suitcase by the handle until he reached a paved surface. Rolling the case down the rows of luxury cars, he was winded and shivering by the time he reached his destination.

~~~~~

Crouching in the shed behind the Phillips’ modest, ranch-style home, Davey lay the case on its side. Guessing the combination was futile, easier to pop the hinges, he figured. But this case was no Samsonite. By the time Davey managed to wedge the frame open, the carry-on was demolished.

Inside sat a thick, bulky canvas bag. To his amazement, when opened, out tumbled stack upon stack of banded hundred-dollar bills. “Holy shit.”

Each banded stack held one-thousand dollars, twenty in all.

“Wow.”

Davey inspected the case. Inside an inner pocket, wrapped in tissue paper, was a small, black leather notebook. Written on the lined pages in neat blue cursive were names, dates, and phone numbers.

He switched on an overhead light and thumbed a stack of money. “Just like Ozark,” he thought. “Gotta be drugs, racketeering, whatever that is.”

~~~~~

Davey’s mother, Claire, sat hunched over a wineglass, in her bathrobe, half-dressed in pantyhose and heels, typing on her laptop computer.

“Where’s dad?” He maneuvered around her, carrying his new-found gain hidden in a box of old Christmas decorations.

She reached around to tighten the sash on her bathrobe. “He’s riding with Bailey. Old Bessie wouldn’t start this morning.” She sniffed the air. “What smells musty?”

“It’s a project. Maybe I’ll win the Pulitzer and buy dad that Mustang he’s always wanted.” He mounted the stairs.

“I’ll win the Publisher’s first,” she called.

~~~~~

Davey sat with the black notebook and his school-issued laptop. Every name he googled was a mega-rich, old money, Texas T from the greater D/FW mania-plex. He bounded to the door. “Did dad volunteer for Letters from Santa again this year?”

“His favorite overtime job without pay.” He heard his mother lament.

~~~~~

Davey stared in the mirror wearing a yellowed cardboard mask of Santa. His reflection holding the notebook aloft. “Mr. Jones,” he practiced. “We have the book. Place one thousand dollars in a black envelope addressed to Santa’s Workshop, North Pole by midnight or we go public.”

He positioned the laptop on his desk so the Zoom frame didn’t catch anything identifiable. Scramble software acquired from the Mr. Robot fan club made sure his number stayed secret. “What could go wrong?” he thought. “If the money was legit. I’ll get bupkis. If not, the nice guy wins for once.”

He clicked on the icon to place a call.

~~~~~

The next morning, Davey woke up just in time to shower and join his dad at the breakfast table.

Eddie Phillips, dressed in his starched postal uniform, poured a cup of coffee and concentrated on the sun glinting off the crisp, white snow. “Ahhh,” he said. “A good day to be alive.” He slapped Davey on the back. “Back to the old Bear Creek today, son?”

“Actually, I thought I’d come to work with you. Help you with Letters to Santa, like you’re always asking me to, every year since I was twelve.”

Davey’s father lit up. “I’ll teach you all the tricks.”

“OMG, Eddie.” Claire waved from the sofa.

On the flatscreen, the morning anchors braced for a news update. One with long blonde hair held with a scarf donned her best compassionate face. “The non-profit community is in mourning as the wreckage of the twin-engine Cessna Canary has been identified as belonging to charity fundraiser, Dallas Allas. Allas was a passenger on the aircraft and is presumed dead. Her little black book of “anonymous” donors was legendary. She will be sorely missed.”

Davey dropped his spoon into the bowl of frosted flakes. “Shit.”

~~~~~

Davey and Eddie entered the carriers’ lounge of the Central DFW Post Office. Davey handed his gym bag and backpack to his dad. “When do the Santa letters get here?”

“Around noon. Carriers separate them from the regular mags and rags and I pick them up.”

“I can do that. Beats wading through high-priced sludge.”

His father pushed up his glasses. “Those rich people didn’t get that way by being stupid. You might learn a thing or two.”

“If they spoke to me whilst scrapping me off the bottoms of their shoes, I guess.”

Eddie shook his head. “Riches come in all packages, so does poverty. Look on...”

“...the bright side. I know.” Davey patted his father on the hand. “Wanna Coke?”

~~~~~

After lunchtime, Davey Phillips’ approached the first carrier’s Santa bag, cold sweat beading on his upper lip. A black envelope stared at him from the top of the pile.

“Kids today,” the carrier remarked. “Goth, you know. My girl‘s obsessed.”

“It’s the style,” Davey said.

He moved as if through molasses from carrier desk to carrier desk gathering the Letters to Santa. Behind the dumpsters he counted the black envelopes—thirty—all containing the requested amount. He leaned against the brick. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m fucked,” he thought. “On the other hand, a new car, a year of college, a fresh start.” He stashed the envelopes in his gym bag.

~~~~~

Eddie went straight to work opening the Santa Letters. Davey watched his father read each one. Hundreds of children write to Santa in the Dallas/Fort Worth area, so individual responses were impossible. Davey’s job was copying, stuffing, and sealing a “personal” handwritten letter from Santa to each child.

When his father’s shift ended, Davey noticed him fold a stack of letters and put them in his satchel. “Are those Santa Letters, too?”

His father’s face fell. “Some of the wishlists are pretty tough. Things no child should ever need to ask for, like food or heat. They get a real handwritten letter, maybe a ten or twenty, if I have it.”

~~~~~

On the way home, Davey sat heavy with his thoughts. His father had many truisms but none had ever felt genuine to Davey, until now. “Riches and poverty come in all packages.” He knew what he had to do. “What if Jeff and I deliver the special letters in his jeep? Since Old Bessie’s in the shop.”

Eddie seemed lost in his own thoughts. “That’d be nice.”

~~~~~

Claire Phillips lingered, filling out her nineteenth entry to the Publisher’s, stirring a glass of sweet tea with her finger. “So nice of you to help your dad out, sweetie. You guys delivered a lot of mail. We’ll invite Jeff to dinner soon.”

“Sure, mom.” Davey fell into his bed, exhausted, but relieved to have the weight of the black envelopes off his shoulders. The mangled carry-on was still underneath his bed with its stacks of hundreds and little black notebook. “Back to the swamp for you tomorrow. Much as I hate to do it.”

The walls in the old Phillips’ house were paper thin. Davey heard every cry, fight about money, friendly argument, and secret giggle, so it wasn’t unusual for him to fall asleep listening to the ten o’clock news. The blonde lady chirped and the monotone guy agreed. Always.

“The holiday wishes of thirty deserving families came true today when Santa responded to their children’s wishlists with an extra one thousand dollars! A spokesperson for the postal service was dumbfounded. The families are calling it a Christmas miracle.”

“Davey!” He heard both of his parents yell in unison.

“Shit,” he said.

~~~~~

Detective Thibodeau towered over Davey and his father, his torso as wide as a wrestler’s. The mangled silver carry-on, twenty-thousand dollars, and the small, black notebook sat in a pile on his desk. He uttered the words no “interviewee” wants to hear. “So, let me get this straight.”

Davey envisioned himself in an orange jumpsuit, chained to other inmates on the side of the road. “I swear, sir, that’s all I know.”

The detective’s smile bore a hole through Davey. “Do you think you could show me where you found the case?”

“He certainly can.” Eddie nodded with his whole body, gripping Davey’s shoulder.

The detective’s chest rose and fell. He eyed Davey. Finally, he sighed. “It appears Dallas Allas was absconding with half a billion dollars of donor money. Donors who have an interest in remaining anonymous. The IRS suspects tax fraud. Cooperate fully and I’ll talk to the DA.”

“You’ll need waders,” said Davey.

~~~~~

Eddie and Davey sat in silence on the bus ride home. Walking up the driveway of the run-down, ranch-style, Davey groped for his nerve. “I’m sorry, dad.”

Davey’s father peeled his fingers off his satchel. “Everything has a value, Davey, and everything has a cost.” He grasped his son by the shoulders. “Nothing is more valuable to your mother and me than you, your future. I’ve failed you. I’m sorry.” He went inside, letting the screen door slam.

Nothing his father said could have hurt Davey worse. He played the last two days in his mind and wondered if he would be replaying those days for the rest of his life.

~~~~~

The next three weeks stretched by like a life sentence with no chance for parole. Christmas sucked, old Bessie came home shoe-stringed together, as usual, and Davey’s father continued his natural optimism.

“Think of the joy for the families. Your heart was in the right place.”

“Damn, I lost the Publisher’s.” Claire fell back from her laptop onto the sofa cushions. “Why are the winners always seniors from Iowa?” She perused a pile of mail. One by one, she sent junk mail envelopes sailing across the room. “Don’t people ever write actual letters anymore?”

Davey poured cornflakes into a bowl. The sun streaming in from the kitchen window felt warm on his face. He ate the cereal dry. “Look on the bright side,” he thought.

A scream jolted Davey out of his stupor. His father came running in from the stairs.

“Claire?”

Claire Phillips rose from the sofa, a check in one hand, a letter in the other. “It’s a miracle!”

Eddie snatched the letter, studying it, “In light of David Phillips’ cooperation....” He nodded to Davey, eyes tearing for the first time in Davey’s recollection. “One hundred hours of community service at the Dallas Food Bank. Further, the IRS credits...”

“Mr. Edward Phillips.” Claire chimed in. “...with the recovery of the missing money and rewards him twenty-thousand dollars.” She folded her hands and gazed skyward. “Thank you, Jesus.”

Davey hugged his father tight. “Santa really showed up this year, I guess.”

“He always does,” said Eddie. “He always does.”