Page 31 of Chasing the Fall

Floyd’s Toy Emporium hasbeen a staple of Lucy Falls for generations. One of the town’s cornerstone businesses, it boasts a coveted corner lot on Main Street, with a cheerful red and white striped awning and a meticulously designed window display that everyone around has come to look forward to during the holidays.

This year’s display is a charming rendition of Santa’s workshop, with dozens of packages wrapped in kraft paper and red ribbon, each one tagged with a different name.

Floyd’s was one of my favorite places to visit as a child. I didn’t play with toys a lot, but they had the absolutebestselection of puzzles and brain games for miles. I beeline straight for the aisle where I used to find them, and grin when I see that Floyd Junior stilldoeshave the best selection.

“I see some things never change.”

I give Floyd a tight hug. “Place looks great, and no…some things never will change. Love the window.”

He shrugs. “Figured it would be good with having Santa and his elves visiting. Speaking of, your guy’s in the back getting into costume. He did not look happy.”

I laugh, imagining Bran scowling. “That’s just the way he looks.”

“As long as he’s jolly to the kids…”

“He will be perfect. You’ll see. I have faith in him.”

Bran emerges shortly afterward from the back of the store, his belt undone and hanging loose around his waist and his beard around his neck. I issue a snort and go to help him, tugging the silvery beard up to cover his own dark bristle.

“Looking like Santa after a bender,” I tell him, pulling the belt taut and fastening it. He catches me by the arms, holding me still when I finish and would have stepped away.

“I am never, ever going to forgive you for this,” he says, voice gravelly.

I pat his chest and tug the beard into place. “You’ll be doing this for me every Christmas before you know it, big guy.”

“Holy crap, I need a picture. You guys are perfect.” Floyd eyes us. “I think…yeah. Twiggy, can you stand on that present? It’ll highlight the size disparity between you…you really do look like a freaking elf; it’s crazy.”

I climb carefully onto a sturdy “package,” and Bran takes his place beside me. Floyd presses a smaller package into my hands.

“All right, Santa, put your hands on your stomach and say ho, ho, ho.”

“Fuck you, you, you,” Bran says instead.

“Oh, dear.” Floyd shakes his head in exasperation. “Don’t say that to any kids.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself.”

Bran takes his place on the throne, a shining, gold-painted seat Floyd created, and I stand beside him, ready to assist. Floyd goes to open the doors, and Bran runs a finger around the inside of his collar. “This fucking suit itches.”

“Hush. Here they come.”

Kids and community home volunteers and a few foster parents begin approaching, forming a line. I greet each child first, squatting down so I’m on level with them and asking if they’re excited to meet Santa. I remember being in that line as a kid, hopped up on sugar and holiday spirit.

The only thing that’s changed is where I’m standing.

I help the first kid, around four, climb into Bran’s lap. She pushes long ringlets back from her face and stares at Bran curiously, her little fingers reaching as if she wants to touch his beard.

Bran just stares, nonplussed.

“Psst,” I hiss. “Ask her what her name is. What she wants for Christmas…”

Shifting slightly on his throne, Bran clears his throat. “Hi, there. What’s your name?”

She frowns. “You’re supposed to say ho, ho, ho. Is your beard real?”

“Oh…um, yes. It’s real.” Bran shoots a look at me. “Ho, ho, ho.”

“So weak,” I cough the words.

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