On Christmas morning, as Santa Claus and two of his helpers returned to the North Pole, they came under attack by a group of holiday Icons angry that Claus was monopolizing the holiday glory. This year, stranded in the human world with no way home, Santa will be forced to take on the tasks for every other holiday — the Icons are on strike.

Previous Installments:

• Prologue-Christmas Day
• One-The New Year
• Two-Valentine’s Day
• Three-St. Patrick’s Day
• Four-Easter
• Five-Mother’s Day

Six: Father’s Day

When Mrs. Claus walked onto the factory floor, she was taken aback at just how briskly everything was moving. Toys were assembled, painted, packaged and stored away quickly, efficiently. As rapidly as the parts appeared on the assembly line, a set of elfin hands snatched them up and turned them into something certain to delight a child come December. It would have been a remarkable thing to behold, if not for a lack of… Mrs. Claus rolled it over in her head. What was wrong? They toys were being made, were waiting in stacks of product as substantial as anything the workshop had constructed in the past. Perhaps even more — it was only mid-June, after all, and some of the shelves were as laden as she’d seen them by the Fourth of July.

It was the music, she realized. Or rather, the lack of it. In times past, the workshop was a constant source of singing, humming, whistling. There would always be someone happily creating a tune of some sort, either alone or in concert with their fellows. Today, as Mrs. Claus looked out over the thrumming heart of her husband’s operation, she heard nothing but the snapping, hammering, and rustling that was the inescapable byproduct of the work. Although the North Pole had a fully-functioning Multiplex (one could watch It’s a Wonderful Life any night of the year), horror films had never been popular there. This, then, was the first time Mrs. Claus had ever noticed how uncomfortable silence could truly be.

“Ah, Mrs. Claus! I was told you were visiting the factory floor today.” Edgar approached, a clipboard-laden assistant hustling along and trying her best to keep up.

She nodded to him. “Edgar. It seems as though you’ve got everything running smoothly.”

“Well, I don’t like to brag, but I am proud of how many toy cars we’ve turned out this week. You know, if it weren’t for the Lego people, we would technically be the largest tire manufacturer in the world.”

“How lovely.”

“What brings you here today?”

“I just wanted to be sure things were on track. I suppose I needn’t have bothered, you’ve done just fine.”

“Well, I don’t blame you for checking up on us, but thank you for saying so.”

Mrs. Claus watched again as the parts for the toys were rolled out, this time following along the line as an elf snapped on a set of arms and legs, then passed it down to someone else who checked the circuitry inside. As it moved along, she recognized what was being assembled.

“Edgar, isn’t that the toy we discussed a month ago? The one we decided was unsafe?”

“We re-evaluated it before we put it into production, don’t worry.”

“And you solved the problems?”

“We re-evaluated it, yes,” he said still smiling. She looked at his smile, curious as to what lay behind it. She had known Edgar for a very long time. He was known for his attention to detail and dedication to the work — it was why Santa had made him second in charge of the shop, after all — but Mrs. Claus also remembered how fiercely he had campaigned for that position. It was another trait he had, not as celebrated as his efficiency, but no less prevalent.

“I don’t suppose you have any news about Santa Claus?”

“Well, we’re still looking, but… I mean I need to prioritize. I’ve spent my time in the factory lately.”

“Of course. The children should come first, after all.”

“Yes, they certainly should.”

She nodded again and presented him with a smile as mirthless as his own. As she walked away, Edgar’s assistant handed him a clipboard with a list of names. Edgar looked down at it and his smile grew wider.

June 17, 8:45 a.m.

The breakfast Gary made for Santa and Blinky was, not to oversell it, magnificent. Eggs Benedict, fresh orange juice, a cheese plate… It was the best meal either of them had eaten since they were so unceremoniously ejected from the North Pole.

“You know, Gary, just because we’re old enough to be your two dads didn’t mean you had to do anything special for us today.”

Gary chuckled, wiping up some hollandaise sauce with a toast triangle. “Well, I lost my own Dad years ago, Bill. I just thought it would be nice to celebrate again.”

Santa and Blinky exchanged glances. It had been a month since they learned about Warren, but neither of them had attempted to broach the subject of their host’s son. Today, of all days, it felt to Santa as though he should do… well, something. As Gary gathered up the dishes and asked his guests what their plans were for the day, though, it was clear he had none of his own.

“Come on, Boss,” Blinky had asked him the night before. “Can’t you do anything?”

“It’s June, Blinky. My power is at as low a point as it gets. At least next month I’ll get a little boost from Christmas in July sales, but now? So far removed from the Pole? I’m practically mortal again.”

“Mortals can talk Boss.”

“Well… yes.”

But talking had proved difficult. After several aborted attempts, Santa concluded it was remarkably difficult to ask somebody about their estranged wife and child when there was no logical, mortal way to explain how you knew about such things. He’d dropped broad hints, mentioned Father’s Day repeatedly and asked Gary if he was going to do anything, and even made repeated references to Warren Buffet in the hopes that the name would stir conversation, but he was unsuccessful. Gary didn’t blink. And as he gathered up their breakfast dishes, Santa was resigning himself to the fact that he’d failed in this task, which — for today at least — had even superseded returning to the Pole on his list of priorities.

As Gary walked off to the bathroom to take a shower, Santa and Blinky sat across from each other, Blinky still rolling a few pieces of fruit around on his plate. “Boss, we’ve gotta say something to him. Do something.”

“What? Are we supposed to come up with some wacky scheme to trick him into calling his ex-wife? This isn’t some sitcom, Blinky.”

“You could just try being straight with him.”

By now, Santa wasn’t even a little surprised that a third party had joined them at the table. The man next to them had a craggy but unlined face with dark hair scattered with salt in his whiskers. He had on a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a hideous tie hanging loosely around his neck. Someone trying to guess his age could land anywhere between 30 and 60, and nobody would argue with them.

“Hello, Father,” Santa said.

“This is Father?” Blinky asked. “The Father’s Day Father?”

“Being a father is a biological function. Almost anybody with the right parts can do it. It might be a cliche, but I think being a Dad is much harder.”

“Well, you know, he’s Father Christmas.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right. Like that’s the same thing. Finish your fruit, Blinky, do you think that stuff grows on trees?”

Blinky looked down at the cherries and orange slices on his plate, then back up at the father. “Yes.”

“So what’s the task going to be today, Dad?” Santa asked. “You’re going to whisk me away, make me spy on some father and son until I come to some realization about the nature of their relationship? Because I think I already know–”

He raised a hand, shaking his head. “No, that’s not my gig. That feels more like Mother.”

“She was a little mad when I talked to her.”

“Well, she’s always felt like you take the kids’ attention away from her.”

“And you don’t?”

“I’m used to it. You know, Mom has that tendency to protect her child. Always. In perpetuity. In the animal kingdom, the female of the species is far more dangerous than the male when her den is in trouble.”

“And fathers don’t protect?”

“Of course we do. But it’s different for fathers. Fathers know that, sooner or later, it’s time for the child to move on. Sometimes, Nick, I think you actually help with that. It gives us a small period of time, even from the time they’re little, where they don’t look to their parents for everything. Even if they’re wrong.”

“Wow,” Blinky said. “That was almost insightful. I’m impressed.”

The father smiled. “Hi, Impressed! I’m Dad.”

Blinky groaned and looked to Santa.

“Look, if you’re going to set him up like that, there’s nothing I can do.”

“So what’s the deal with your friend? Why isn’t he going to see his son today?”

“From what we’ve gathered, it’s his ex-wife. She doesn’t want anything to do with him, and Gary seems to have accepted that.”

“That’s not how it works. Not for a true father.”

“You know that and I know that. I don’t think anybody ever told Gary.”

Gary, carrying his shoes but otherwise cleaned and dressed, walked into the room. “Oh. Who’s your friend?”

“Um…”

The icon stood up, tightening his tie. “I’m Dad. Gary, right?”

“Dad?”

“Yes, Dad. The Father’s Day Dad. Like this guy here is Santa Claus?”

Santa and Blinky’s jaws fell. If he had been mortal, Santa was sure he’d be in the midst of a heart attack. But Gary just looked at them quizzically. “Well yeah, he’s Santa Claus, but I’ve never heard of some anthropomorphic personification of Father’s Day walking around.”

Somehow, Santa and Blinky’s jaws fell further.

“You know?” Blinky said.

“I’m not an idiot, guys. I mean, granted, it’s a little farfetched, but sooner or later you have to accept reality, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Long white beard, fixes everything, associates with a little person — no offense.”

“But–”

“You were hanging out with a leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Day. I’m pretty sure I found some rabbit hair on my counter on Easter — why did you think I let you guys stay here for so long?”

“Look, this isn’t about him,” Dad said. “What’s with you, son? Why aren’t you going to see Warren today?”

This time it was Gary’s turn to look shocked. Santa smiled. “We weren’t the only ones with secrets, my friend.”

“Come on, Gar, it’s Father’s Day. You shouldn’t be here with us. You should be with your kid.”

“How do you even know about Warren?”

“I heard you talking to your mother.”

“How did–”

“Santa Claus. I have methods. But I don’t know why. Tell us what happened.”

“It’s just… it’s his mother. She left, she decided she wanted a whole new life, and that didn’t include me. Who am I to tell her she’s wrong?”

“If it was just her, nobody,” Santa said. “But it’s not just her, is it?”

“No, but–”

“In the long run, Gary, what’s more important? Tricia’s privacy, or Warren having his father?”

“You don’t understand, Nick.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Gary stammered, looking Santa in the eye. He didn’t say anything intelligible, but there was a bead in the corner of his eye. He trembled, but turned and walked out.

“That could have gone better,” Blinky said.

“I’m not so sure.” Dad jerked his head in the direction of Gary’s bedroom. “He’s going to be on the phone right now.”

“Doing what?”

Dad smiled, then twirled his hand in the air. A drinking glass appeared.

“You’re not going to put that against the door to listen in, are you?”

“It’s a metaphor,” Dad said. “I’ve got my own ways.” The glass expanded, the outer rim ballooning until it was the size of the TV in Gary’s living room. Inside, they saw Gary staring at his phone, tapping the screen to pull up his contacts. The image focused on the name TRICIA. Instead of clicking on it, Gary just peered down at the screen.

“Come on, Gary,” Santa said.

“Go in there, Boss. Tell him something.”

“I can’t make him do it,” Santa said. “He has to want to do it.”

The phone trembled in Gary’s hands. Eventually, they realized it was the hands themselves shaking. Santa didn’t know he was holding his breath until Gary finally tapped the screen, and he let the breath out.

“Tricia? Yeah, it’s me. I want to come over. Yes, today. Well, if we’re being honest here I don’t particularly want to see you either, but I deserve to see him.”

“Tell him, Gary,” Blinky shouted, pumping his first in the air.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but this isn’t about you. Yeah, there are things that aren’t about you.”

Dad grinned. “Daaaaaaaaang, Son.”

“The judge, that’s who. Remember the term ‘shared custody’? Yeah, I just remembered it too. I’ll be there in an hour. What? Tell him the truth. Tell him he’s going to spend the day with his Dad.”

Gary turned off the phone, and his face fell into his hands. Dad made the image evaporate before the inevitable happened, and the three of them sat in silence for a long moment. Blinky looked around at the other two, finally clearing his throat. “It’s not as satisfying as it was when you could just slam the phone down, is it?”

A few minutes later Gary, composed, came out of the bedroom with his car keys. “I’ll be back tonight, guys. We can talk about the whole Santa thing then.”

“No rush,” Blinky said. “There are a few weeks until Independence Day.”

“I’m sure that will make sense later.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

He left the apartment and Dad stood up. “Well, Nick, nicely done. You handled that like a Dad.”

“Wait, that’s it? We’re done?”

“Dads don’t muck around. We just do what we have to do. Mostly because we want to get home in time to watch the game.”

“Oh, is there a game today?” Blinky asked.

“You a Mets fan?”

“Gary is. I’ve kind of gotten into it.” He went into the living room and turned the TV on. “Do you need to be going right away? Santa isn’t a huge sports guy, I wouldn’t mind having someone to watch it with.”

Dad smiled and popped open the can of beer that he hadn’t been holding seconds earlier. “I got a little time,” he said.

* * *

Across town, in a small apartment with a small television. Eleanor was also watching the game. It was nice to have a weekend off for a change. She liked her job, but everybody needed a break. Fortunately for her, people didn’t typically throw parties for Father’s Day.

 

To be continued…