By John Leatherman
Accountant Barnaby Rudge plunks a thick file folder onto my desk. “I’m finished with Pickwick’s papers, Mr. Scrooge.”
“About time.” I pull a leather-bound ledger from the drawer. “Now process Dombey & Son.”
“Certainly—there’s just one thing.”
I scowl. “Do you still have great expectations of going home early for Christmas? Humbug! Nobody leaves before the chimes at five.”
“No, it’s not that.” He holds up a yarn-haired rag doll. “I found this by the closet. Is it a gift for someone?”
The closet? I wince. “No, no…”
“Then my little Dorrit would love it.” He digs in his pocket. “What do you want for it?”
Snatching the doll, I snarl with rage. “It’s not for sale!” I call to the other bookkeepers, “Nickleby! Copperfield! Go home! We’re closing early…” I groan. “For Christmas.”
***
Alone in the counting house, I open the closet. A torrent of toys tumbles out—dozens of dolls, bundles of balls, piles of plush toys, hills of hobby horses.
Every morning, these playthings simply appear in my office. I try to hide them before the staff arrive. That rag doll must have slipped out as I stashed this morning’s lot.
It defies explanation, though I have noticed an odd coincidence: The more I say or think bah or humbug during a particular day, the more toys appear the next morning.
I’ll never get them back into the closet. Needing a more drastic measure, I fetch a large burlap sack from my apartment above the office and stuff the toys in.
There is no thoroughfare in town where I’d want my neighbors to see their loan guarantor toting a large mysterious bag. I fashion a disguise by stuffing pillows into Mama Scrooge’s old red nightclothes. What a glutton she was—it took nine hours to bury her.
With her nightcap and a long beard of cotton to obscure my face, I don my black boots, heave the bag over my shoulder, and trudge out into the cold.
Two blocks south, I approach the large hollow oak that remains green even in the midst of winter and knock at the wooden hatch above the lowest branch.
The hatch creaks open, and a tiny gray-whiskered, pointy-eared figure in colorful garb greets me in a mousy lilt. “May I help you?”
I pull down the beard. “Chuzzlewit Elf, I need your help.”
***
Inside the tree, infantries of industrious elves shine shoes, burnish boots, stitch soles, and crate cookies. I empty my sack in front of Chuzzlewit.
He examines a whistle’s workmanship. “Such quality. And you’re not selling them?”
I frown. “Watch me try to peddle these putrid playthings.” I beckon the elf girl who brings Chuzzlewit’s monthly payments. “You, there, Cricket. Pick anything. Make me an offer.”
She picks up a shiny brass trumpet. “Tuppence for this?”
“Very well.” I reach down to her, and she sets a coin in my palm.
The trumpet promptly turns tarnished, trashed, and twisted.
I sigh. “Now, I’m thrifty but no thief. Therefore, I must issue…” I whisper the next words like some forbidden incantation. “…a refund.”
Trembling, I force my forearm to return the coin to Cricket, however haltingly. The trumpet is restored to its original resplendence.
I turn to Chuzzlewit. “You can see these toys must be given away. But I’m a businessman—I can’t be known for that. Now, you elves can get into any home to fix shoes. Surely you could also deliver toys?”
Chuzzlewit Elf calls to his work crew, “All right, everyone! This problem needs some elf-control!”
***
As the elves sort the toys, Chuzzlewit works out logistics. “Since we know shoes, we’ll put toys in their socks.”
I study his delivery map. “Hold on, I don’t want you going to every home. I’ve made a list.” I produce a roll of parchment. “These nattering no-accounts have been very naughty with their payments. So it would be nice if their children could—” A tiny winged figure, clad in purple, flutters past my face. “Does she have to be here?”
“Indubitably. If we toss a ton of toys over the transoms without telling the tots, that’ll terrify the town!” Chuzzlewit gestures to the interloper. “Our mutual friend here is a sugarplum fairy. Her winged warriors will explain everything to the children while dancing in their heads tonight.”
I seize the fairy’s ankle with my thumb and forefinger, pulling her to my eye level. “Just don’t mention my name, understand?”
She nods, spreading a spray of sparkly dust.
Releasing her, I address Chuzzlewit. “If any humans connect these toys with me, I’ll double the mortgage rate on this old curiosity shop!”
He nods. “All right, we’ll think of something. Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge.”
“Bah, humbug.” I suppose I’ve already started on next year’s toys.
***
At the tenth hour of Christmas morning, Barnaby Rudge knocks on my door. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge, and thanks.” He hoists a rosy-cheeked toddler girl with curly golden locks, clutching a familiar rag doll. “Look what Dorrit found in her stocking.”
I balk. “You believe I effected that? Rudge, do you think I’d sneak into your house at night?”
Dorrit lisps teasingly. “Papa, Mithter Thcrooge couldn’ta taken toyth to all the kidth latht night. It wath jutht like the thairieth told uth.”
Rudge’s jaw drops. “But–But that sounds like a ghost’s bargain. Elves made the toys? And some fat red-suited phantom delivered them all?”
“Yeth, Papa, it wath the thanta!”
I chuckle. “Of course. One person? To every house? In one night? It had to be the ‘thanta’!” Assured of my anonymity, I let limitless laughter consume me.
Rudge smiles. “Well, Mr. Scrooge, if this ‘thanta’ exists, he’s given you a gift too—he’s brought great joy to your bleak house.”
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