5
One by one, the elves approached, holding their little arms out with their little mugs. Holly, Scout, Fred, Elvis, Candy, and the rest. They all came. An army of friendly faces, the politest mob there ever was.
“Do you mind if I have one of your big marshmallows, Santa?” “Can I?” “Do you have enough for everyone?” “I’d love to try it, too.”
It had never dawned on me to ask or offer. I certainly didn’t mind sharing.
“Well, go on and get a fresh cup of cocoa and I’ll share as many marshmallows as I have.”
The elves moved to the corners of the workshop where hot chocolate stations provide all-you-can-drink hot cocoa. As they circulated through the lines, they would meet up with me again, and I’d place a marshmallow atop their hot cocoa mug. With each puffy placement, a smile would expand. An endless parade of gratitude would persist until the last elf rejoiced, “Thank you so much, Santa!”
Mrs. Claus surely delighted in the impromptu festivities. She moved around the room turning off all machines, this after raising the volume on the record player. A declaration had been made, unspoken: we were taking a break to have a small party of sorts.
But I had mixed feelings. On the outset I was quite joyful. What better gift can you receive than a smile? Multiply that by a workshop full of adoring apprentices. A part of me truly felt blessed to share such a simple luxury. But another part of me felt otherwise. A darker part of me felt lost and confused and troubled by reluctant questions.
That evening, having oppressed my haunted mind throughout the remainder of the day and into dinner, I booted and bundled up and went for a walk, explaining to Mrs. Claus that something just wasn’t right. The bitter cold bit right away, as if its icy winds were a warning. The snow, the fog, the dark of night all forged a front to keep me from leaving. But the weather only made it easier for me to realize where I would have to go in order to be granted peace. The darkness called and I was ready to meet my ghost.
***
Mrs. Claus was still up when I slinked into my candy cane pajamas. The hour was late but neither of us was tired. I had kept her worrying for far too long.
“I’m not a good boss.” I stood at the center of the room, not quite deserving of the bed. I watched for my partner’s reaction.
“What are you talking about? Of course you are.” Mrs. Claus has always been supportive and nurturing, outright strong in her convictions and comforting in your corner. Here, she was reserved and inquisitive.
“I don’t treat the elves right. I’m not fair to them.” I had to sit. I guess I was getting tired.
“In what way?”
“I don’t treat them as equals.”
“They’re not equals. They’re elves.”
“They’re living souls like you and I. They have a right to choose the size of their marshmallows.”
“Sure, you gave them that choice today. Who knew?”
“Exactly. Who knew? No one knew. We never gave them the choice before because we assumed the smaller marshmallow would be more fitting for them. Who even decided that?”
“That’s just how it’s always been.”
She wasn’t getting my deeper point. She even made it worse by adding, “The elves never complained.”
“You’re not understanding.” To Mrs. Claus’s credit, she was poised to try. “The marshmallow is just a small example. The problem is much bigger and much worse. We have elves that work for us, right? They make toys, they take care of the reindeer, they spread holiday cheer—“
“—They’re wonderful, of course…”
“But we don’t pay them.”
“Of course we do. We feed them—“
“They cook the food—“
“We house them—“
“They clean and maintain the property—“
“We sing with them—“
“That’s not a payment.”