“Beard’s kinda attached, kiddo.” He pointed at the patch. “That’s my nickname. Truck.” Grinning at Vanna over Kitt’s shoulder, he was glad to see her smile in return. “People call me Truck so they don’t give away my real identity. It’s a secret. Can you keep my secret, and call me Truck?”
Eyes narrowed, Kitt considered this for a minute, then grinned and nodded. “Two door, three door, four door, crew cab,” tipping his chin up further, he stared at the ceiling, continuing his confusing recitation of words. “Dually, dual axle, fifth wheel.” Pausing he sighed, rolling his eyes at whatever it was the ceiling wasn’t telling him. “Flatbed, dump, stepside, fleetside, cargo.” He sighed again, stepping back and turning to look at his mother. “Truck Santa.”
“Yeah, honey. This is Truck. He’s a friend, but has to go, and it’s time for you to head back to bed.” Vanna was clearly accustomed to dealing with Kitt and his behaviors, and she gently urged him towards the stairs. Kitt was halfway there when he spun and ran back to stand in front of Truck.
“Four, six, eight, V, inline. Automatic, standard, three speed, four speed, five speed, overdrive, four wheel.” Kitt sucked in a breath and on the outward burst of air said, “Truck.”
Truck bent his knees slightly, dipping down to look into Kitt’s face. “Head back up to bed now, Kitt. Merry Christmas, son.”
Eyes bright, Kitt whispered the words back to him, “Merry Christmas.” Dropping his gaze, he was staring somewhere in the vicinity of the second button on Truck’s shirt when he said, “Leave the ornaments. Ornaments stay on the tree until two days past when Santa comes. Santa came. Merry Christmas.”
“Right-o, will do, son.” He smiled and held still as Kitt reached out, wrapping one arm around his chest to pull close in an awkward hug. “Goodnight, Kitt.”
“Ni-night.”
Palm resting on Kitt’s back, Vanna twisted her neck to look over her shoulder at Truck, mouthing the words, “I’ll be back.” He nodded and sat down on the couch, slowly reaching out for the plate with the half-finished cookies. As he ate, without her there he was free to look around her living room, taking in the comfortable but uncluttered décor with a different eye. No sign of a man anywhere, this was a carefully neutral room not coming close to reflecting the personality of the owner, much less a spouse or significant other. No old man here, he thought.
Twisting to look at the rest of the pictures, he saw evidence that even when she was with a group, if she wasn’t with Kitt, she was alone. Friendly, the pictures attested to that, but even with friends she stood by herself for the most part. Woman alone on Christmas Eve, opening her home to a stranger, offering to break bread with him. That made him think her being alone wasn’t a decision so much as something thrust on her. Alone, and maybe lonely. She had rushed to accept his conversational openers, showing him her interest without guile. Taking it farther, trusting him with her memories and stories, and trusting him to be careful with her son. Warm and giving, Vanna was so much more than her house might make a person think.
He remembered the precise placement of things in the kitchen, making it easy for him to track where things would be. He would bet money that her entire house was arranged for Kitt. Arranged and decorated with the boy’s needs in mind.
“What a good momma,” he whispered, setting the empty plate on the table, stacking the plates together. He grinned at the memory of her panicked look when she realized her son was on his way downstairs and all evidence pointed to Santa having bypassed their house that night. A few bites of sweet cookie and a quick storytime for a boy was small repayment for the hospitality she’d offered him tonight. “Do it again, anytime.”
He stroked his beard slowly, shaking his head. Wasn’t the first time kids had mistaken him for Santa, and sometimes he even dressed the part at the club’s holiday parties. Toting around a big red bag, handing out brightly wrapped presents to the kiddos, heart hurting that none of them were his. Leaning his head back against the couch cushions, he finally pieced together all the things Kitt had said there at the end, realizing they were different kinds and types of trucks. “Truck Santa.” He laughed quietly, eyes sinking closed.
Vanna
She stood in the archway between the living and dining rooms, listening to the soft skritching crackle of the record player battling the quiet breathing coming from the couch. It had taken longer than expected to calm Kitt and get him back to sleep. She had perched on the edge of a chair in his room for a long time, waiting until he settled in and finally dozed off.