The Day the Elves Died

Christmas Eve arrived and the game was afoot. Reindeer clip-clopped on our roof and a shadow flashed by our front window. Our children were fast, but never fast enough to catch sight of the elves who delivered an early Christmas gift at the front door. There was no surprise to what would be inside the boxes. Year after year, Santa’s elves would make a stop by our house to drop off new pajamas.

“Santa wants you to wake up on Christmas morning in new PJs,” I would explain.

As the years went on, our two kids became suspicious. The once-joyful tradition was now a competition between us and our children. The elves (usually my husband) had to become trickier each Christmas Eve. “Where’s dad?” our son would ask right after dinner, and they would dash to the front window, sure they would catch him in the act of tossing a rock on the roof and clutching two packages. My husband was light-footed and never got caught, even as he returned through the back door a little out of breath.

Our daughter would confront him at the door. “Where were you?”

“Taking out the garbage.”

They weren’t buying it. “You guys are the elves.”

Echoes of earlier years came to me – squeals of delight, small feet racing to the door and the immediate tearing of wrapping paper. I shrugged off their disbelief, unable to let go of these memories. “When you don’t believe in the elves anymore, they don’t show up.”

This would result in exchanged glances between them and a silent mutual agreement to keep quiet. At least until the next year.

The tradition came to a screeching halt the year we spent Christmas at my parents. Their sprawling ranch house required a full-on sprint from a side door around to the front, and our kids were on full alert. A clatter on the roof caused their heads to swivel as they determined which parent was missing from the room. The doorbell rang, there was a grunt and a thudding of footsteps on the front walk. Our kids didn’t budge. There was no anticipation, no eagerness for a gift at the door. Our son, the older of the two, rolled his eyes and threw his head back. “Ugh. Is it those dumb elves again?”

I tried my best to rekindle the Christmas spirit in my all-knowing pre-teens. “You should see if there’s something out there.”

My husband stumbled in the side door, breathless and rubbing a knee. “What’s going on in here? I thought I saw reindeer on the roof.”

The kids double-teamed him. “You rang the doorbell,” said one. “There are no elves,” said the other.

My husband glanced around the room, bewildered at the mutiny. “What happened to your knee?” I asked in a low voice.

“I slipped on the grass. I think I cracked something.”

We finally got the kids to fetch the packages. Their expressions were as bored as could be when they drew out the new pajamas. They trudged down the hallway to change their clothes.

My husband poured us each a robust glass of wine and joined me on the couch.

I stared into the fireplace and watched the flames lick higher. When had our children grown up? “I think it’s over.”

He gave a long, drawn-out sigh and uttered one word. “Finally.”

****

Julie Howard is the author of the Wild Crime series. She is a former journalist and editor who has covered topics ranging from crime to cowboy poetry. She is a member of the Idaho Writers Guild, editor of the Potato Soup Journal, and founder of the Boise chapter of Shut Up & Write. Learn more at juliemhoward.com.