The child seated on the Santa's lap was scared but excited. The bearded, bespectacled man with the gray nostril hair and coffee breath seemed so real now. His wrinkled pink paw rested on the boy's knee, and his deep voice held memories of cigarettes past.

An hour earlier the boy had come upon Santa asleep. During a lull, the old man had drifted off, his chin resting on his chest, prompting the youngster to worry that jolly St. Nick had passed away. But his mother assured him Santa was merely napping and that they'd stop back before their day of shopping was complete.

Now the seven-year-old was perched on the legend's knee, sweaty palms holding his Christmas wish list.

"I don't enjoy children especially," Santa whispered to the boy as the youngster's mom snapped photographs in the distance. "Never have, really. But a man needs to make a living."

The puzzled child thought he misheard and smiled nervously, holding up his list, hoping to speed up the process.

"You've brought requests," Santa continued. "Do you know I have a list of my own? Yes indeed. The problem is, I don't have anyone to share it with. Should I ask my parish priest if he'd let me sit on his lap that my wishes might be delivered to God?"

The boy fidgeted anxiously. He felt the sudden urge to return to his mother's side. But she was visiting with other women in line, and Santa now had an arm around the boy's shoulder.

"Of course if God were in the wish-granting business, don't you think he'd grant the wishes of abducted children who pray fervently as they're being whisked away by disturbed kidnappers? Don't you think those young, innocent prayers are the ones God would answer before all others, returning those bright-eyed boys and girls to their worried parents? But he doesn't, does he?"

The boy felt himself moving to a safe place in his mind. He was frightened, barely noticing his mother smiling and waving in the distance, pointing him out to other parents.

"So if God isn't granting any wishes, how can I? I'm a mere mortal. I've got nothing to offer. Nothing but simple advice: Learn to live with less, son. Find a way to make peace with pain."

The boy tried to pull away but the old man pulled him close with a stiff right arm.

"Not so fast, I haven't read your list. Let's find out what you think would make existence more pleasant.... Hmm, video games, a remote-control plane, boxing gloves for you and your brother? You aim so low. Why not ask for parents who won't oppress your teen years, a world where you're not always the weakest and most vulnerable of citizens?"

Right then the boy broke free, racing across the tile floor to his mother's side. He was silent and shaking, gripping her leg as she stared perplexed, bidding farewell to the other mothers.

"What are you so afraid of, honey?" the mother asked. "It's just Santa Claus. C'mon, we'll go home. I'll make you spaghetti."

In the background the man in the red suit stood and straightened his pant legs before returning to his chair and greeting the next child in line, a young redhead in pigtails.

"Hello, little missy," Santa said, picking her up and setting her down on his knee. "Did you know reindeer are incapable of pulling a sleigh through the sky? That's right, kiddo. That's why I drive a Ford Taurus and live in Wayzata."

In the parking ramp the young boy remained silent as his mother prattled on about her own memoires sitting on Santa's lap as a young girl.

"I was afraid of him at first myself," she said, putting her arm around the child. "But then my daddy told me he was no different than my own Grandpa—a kind, gentle, loving man."

Back in the mall the girl in pigtails was now pulling away as well, calling for her mother, who was studying a nearby retail window display.

"Don't get so upset," Santa said, holding her arm as she struggled to escape. "I'm simply stating a fact. Suicide rates skyrocket this time of year."

In the car the young boy kept his cheek against his mother's arm. She sang softly to him as they glided along the busy freeway. Finally, he spoke up.

"Tell me it's you putting those presents under the tree each year, Mommy," he said. "Tell me it's always been you."