Santa Hunk Read online

  I decided to go look at the river, so I turned left on Court Street and stood on the bridge, looking down at the water.

  The river was high, and the water looked like it was boiling as it flowed.

  I thought about Sam Patch, one of Rochester’s famous old dead people. I was kind of obsessed with Sam Patch when I was a little kid, I guess because I knew I wasn’t anything like him. He adored getting attention, while I was the sort of kid who hated it if anyone noticed me.

  Of course, with Sam Patch, liking attention is what killed him. What happened is he began setting up these daredevil stunts. He started by going over Niagara Falls—not once, but twice. Twice, because the first time he did it, there weren’t enough people there to watch. So he did it again, with more publicity the second time so that he’d have a bigger audience.

  But even that wasn’t enough. He came to Rochester, where we have a waterfall also. It’s not as big as Niagara Falls—the High Falls on the Genesee River—but he must have figured that going over waterfalls was his thing and he needed to keep doing it.

  In fact, he did the exact same thing at the High Falls that he did at Niagara Falls. He went over the falls once, and he didn’t think enough people had come out to watch him, so he did it again. Only that time, he didn’t make it. It killed him.

  And then he became the most famous he’d ever been.

  I don’t want to be famous.

  But I also don’t want to be invisible.

  Who does?

  So anyway, after I finished looking at the river—and thinking again about Sam Patch—I crossed the bridge to Exchange Street.

  And that’s where I saved the guy from getting run over by a bus.

  SAVANNAH

  It was all over the papers! I’ve saved all the clippings and can show them to you.

  But what’s peculiar is that none of the news accounts mention anything about “Santa.”

  Not a single one.

  CLARE Dec 9 con’t

  Everyone who has a story like this says the same thing. “It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think. I just did it.”

  And it’s true.

  I remember walking down Exchange Street toward Main, and that the wind picked up. The snowfall was heavier and the wind made it all swirly.

  I love when the snow is like that.

  At times it was so thick I couldn’t really make out the buildings across the street.

  It was like being back in time. It was like being in a fantasy world.

  Then the snow swirls kind of parted and like curtains had been drawn back, I saw this African American guy.

  He was walking, too, in the same direction I was, but a little ahead of me.

  I don’t know why I noticed him. Maybe because he was having such a bad day. He was on his cell phone and at first he sounded like he was having an argument but then his tone of voice changed and I could hear him saying things like, “Please, baby, I didn’t mean anything by it. I love you. Please don’t say that. I don’t have anyplace else to go. Don’t hang up.”

  And whoever he was talking to must’ve hung up, because he stopped talking. Then, instead of talking, he walked with his phone in front of him, looking down at it—maybe he was texting or maybe he was looking for another number, I don’t know. But I noticed also—I was a few paces behind him—that his shoulders were shaking, and I thought to myself, the guy’s crying, or maybe trying so hard not to cry that he’s shaking.

  I felt so bad for him.

  Here it was, the start of the Christmas season—the time of year when everything is supposed to be magical—and instead, things were going all wrong for the guy.

  And I started thinking maybe I should say something to him.

  I don’t know what. Just something friendly, to try to make him feel better.

  Then all of a sudden he turns to his right—he was still looking down at his phone—and steps off the sidewalk into the street, and I saw two things at the same time.

  First, I saw that he kind of lost his footing as he stepped off the curb. He kind of stumbled into the street.

  And at the exact same second: I saw the bus.

  I think I yelled. I’m pretty sure I yelled.

  But yelling wouldn’t help—there was no way he’d be able to react in time.

  And anyway, I wasn’t just yelling, I was also taking a flying leap at the guy.

  It wasn’t some conscious idea I thought through first, like, “oh, I should try to push that poor guy out of the way of that bus.” It was a reflex, is all. Like when you open the cupboard door and a box of teabags falls out and you catch it without thinking.

  I’m not very big but the guy was kind of tottering on one leg so when I hit him he went flying.

  And then I felt something hit me WHOMP and I was upside down in the air and then a second later WHOMP again.

  I don’t know what the second WHOMP was. Maybe when I hit the street? Or maybe the bus ran over me?

  I don’t know. In fact, I’m not even sure what happened next or how long it was before I opened my eyes.

  All I know is that when I did open them, I was flat on my back and there was icy water seeping into my clothes.

  And I was looking straight into a pair of the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen.

  CLARE: December 9, con’t

  “There you are,” he said to me.

  I didn’t answer. And not because his words didn’t really make any sense.

  I couldn’t answer.

  I had no words.

  Those eyes.

  I can’t describe it. They were … intoxicating. They sparkled. But they were also so intelligent, and concerned. And there was something there, also, that made me think we were sharing a private joke.

  I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to keep drinking in those gorgeous blue eyes.

  “You gave us a scare,” he said. “Can you sit up? We need to get you off this wet street.”

  All of a sudden I remembered the bus. I couldn’t remember anything that had happened afterward, but I made an educated guess.

  The bus had hit me.

  And my next thought was: was that guy I pushed okay?

  I may have muttered something to that effect—I know I sat up then, noticing as I did that I seemed to be in one piece.

  And it was like my attention had been focused in this little narrow field of vision, but now it suddenly started to expand and I noticed that there was a crowd of people around me.

  All looking at me.

  “She’s okay,” someone said.

  “She’ll be fine,” said blue eyes, and as he spoke our eyes met again and I forgot everything else. Forgot, even, that I needed to know if the guy I pushed was okay. I just wanted to drink in those gorgeous gorgeous eyes.

  “Here,” he said. “Let’s get you to the sidewalk.”

  And I noticed that he had more going for him than just those eyes. I mean, okay, so he was manly—that strong jaw with its short, neat beard—maybe that sounds silly. But there’s something about a face that is manly yet also so friendly and kind.

  My heart started doing excited little cartwheels.

  And then he put his arm under mine and clasped me behind the back and helped me to my feet and he felt so strong, yet so gentle.

  I noticed then that people were all chattering to each other.

  “I’ve called 911,” someone was saying.

  “She should be checked by an EMT,” said someone else. “She could have internal bleeding.”

  But although I could hear the words, it was as if they were talking about someone else.

  All I knew was that this man had his arm around me.

  And I’d never felt anything like it. Our bodies seemed to fit together. I could feel how strong he was—the compact, muscular manliness of him, his arm, his torso. I leaned against him, letting him support me. And there, like that, in that man’s arms, I knew I was fine. I knew I didn’t need medical attention. I was fine.

&nb
sp; “You’re fine,” the man murmured into my ear—like he could read my thoughts?—as I took a few steps.

  The little crowd parted so I could get through to the sidewalk.

  “Here,” someone said and handed a coat to blue eyes, who spread it out on the sidewalk, and then he eased me down to sit on it.

  “She should be … dead.”

  The words were spoken in a whisper but for some reason they caught my attention and I turned my head to look at the person who’d said them.

  It was a middle-aged woman in a knit cap. Her lips were pursed and there was a deep worried furrow between her eyes.

  And I realized that whatever had happened to me, it had looked pretty bad.

  And then I noticed, standing beside the middle-aged woman: the African American guy with the cell phone, the one I’d pushed out of the way of the bus.

  “Hey,” I said to him. And he knelt on the street in front of me and reached out a hand out to me, and I took it, and he had tears in his eyes as he shook my hand.

  “Thank you,” he said. “God bless you. God bless you.”

  And something about being there, like that—like, he and I, we’d both just nearly died. This will sound funny but it was like: we’d shared something, the two of us. We’d both stood at the doorway between life and death—which meant we’d shared something nobody else there had shared. It made us—not friends. But closer than friends.

  I had no way of knowing who he’d been talking to earlier, on the phone—who he’d been arguing with and sad about. But at the same time, somehow, I did know. I knew it was his live-in girlfriend, and they’d been together for years and had a kid together, and things had been rocky for them. But they loved each other. They still loved each other, very much.

  And so I didn’t even think twice, I just spoke the words that popped into my head. “Call back your lady friend,” I said. “Keep telling her you love her. She’ll listen to you, I promise. She’ll hear you.”

  And he didn’t even blink. He didn’t ask me how I knew about his lady friend or act bothered that I was giving him advice about his personal life.

  He knew. He knew I was saying the right thing. So he nodded and said. “I’m gonna do that. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

  And then I noticed that there was a bus driver there, looking down at me too, and I smiled at him and the worry on his face loosened up.

  Meanwhile, the blue-eyed man was squatting on the sidewalk next to me and through it all I was still so aware of him. I’d never really believed in auras before but it was like there was an aura around him and when I was next to him like that I was inside his aura. Even when he wasn’t touching me. Although he did touch me. Every few moments I felt him touch my shoulder. And he had a faint spicy smell and I turned to look at his face again—and what a face. It wasn’t just his eyes. He was the hunkiest man I’d ever seen. Close-trimmed beard and a mouth that looked like it would deliver the most delicious kisses on the planet ...

  And then came the wail of a siren and the ambulance pulled up and a second later a police car.

  And I thought no, don’t take me away from here—don’t take me away from blue eyes!

  Good grief. Here I was soaking wet sitting on a curb in the snow about to be driven to ER and all I could think about was that I was getting all hot for some man?

  Sounds incredible, doesn’t it.

  And then the EMT guys were telling the crowd to move back and one of them was asking me questions, what day was it and could I move my toes, and he was shining a little light into my eyes, while someone else was pushing up my sleeve and putting a blood pressure collar on my arm. And the policeman was talking to the bus driver and the cell phone guy.

  “Are you the husband?” I heard one of the EMT guys say to blue eyes but I didn’t hear him answer and then they were lifting me onto a gurney.

  And I thought wait! They’re taking me away—and I don’t even know his name!

  But it was as if he could read my thoughts, because suddenly he was walking along next to the stretcher and … those eyes!

  And as if the EMT guys pushing the gurney knew what blue eyes wanted, they suddenly paused and blue eyes leaned over and whispered into my ear.

  “I like trees,” he said.

  And I know. I know! That sounds like the strangest thing anyone could say, given the situation.

  But right then, in the moment, it didn’t faze me. It seemed completely natural.

  So I just nodded.

  And then he said, “You can find me in the Oak Grove in Durand Eastman.”

  And he straightened up and winked at me.

  And it still didn’t seem in the least bit odd.

  Of course later, when I told Savannah—then, it seemed strange. But not then, not while I was looking into those amazing eyes.

  So I just grinned and nodded and a moment later I was inside the ambulance on my way to ER.

  SAVANNAH

  So, Savannah here.

  Clare left out the next part of the story.

  She was probably trying to be nice.

  She called me from the ambulance. She was so matter-of-fact that at first I thought she was joking. I mean, imagine if someone called you and said, “Hi. I was hit by a bus and I’m on the way to the hospital.” Her voice was as calm as if she’d said she was stopping at the store. My brain couldn’t compute.

  Finally I figured it out, though, and I immediately jumped into my car and broke all the speed limits on the way to Rochester General.

  About a half hour after I got there they told me she’d been put into a room. They said she seemed fine, but they were keeping her in overnight for observation, as a precaution.

  I went into her room. She was sitting up in bed looking like nothing had happened.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  It was odd. She not only looked fine—she looked happy.

  I wondered if maybe she was on pain meds or something.

  Of course I asked her to tell me what had happened.

  “I saw a guy trip on a curb and there was a bus coming, so I pushed him out of the way, and the bus hit me,” she said. “But I’m fine.”

  I was skeptical, to put it mildly.

  Of course I wasn’t going to argue with her. I wasn’t going to say “how can you possibly be ‘fine’?”

  Instead I said the kind of thing you’re supposed to say in these situations. I told her how glad I was she was okay. I asked her what the doctor had said. I said, “what a miracle nothing was broken!”

  Then she turned to me and I thought, here it comes. The real story.

  “I met someone,” she said.

  Met someone. Universal girl-speak for “I met a cute guy.”

  For a split second I thought she was talking about Josh. I thought ohmygod she’s confused. She’s telling me about Josh. Doesn’t she remember it was me who found him and got them set up?

  “What do you mean?” I said, trying not to sound too alarmed.

  “He was there,” she said. “He helped me up afterward—when I came to, I mean. I was lying on the street, and he helped me get to the sidewalk to wait for the ambulance.”

  “Who?” I said. “Who was there?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know his name. But he was wonderful.”

  I probably nodded or something. I know I was trying to be all calm on the outside. Meanwhile, on the inside I was thinking, first of all: humor her. And secondly: was she in any shape to count this as a Met Someone? But of course I didn’t say anything like that out loud. I said, “he sounds like very a nice man.”

  She grinned. “Nice doesn’t even come close. He was the most gorgeous, most sexy, most delicious man I have ever seen. Ever.”

  Ever?

  But what about Josh Martin, the Measure of all things Boy?

  I probably tried to smile back. But I was starting to feel a bit alarmed. You see, I’d expected bruises, fractures, a concussion. I’d expected her to be badly shaken up, at the
least.

  But instead she was … glowing?

  “Clare,” I said. But I couldn’t finish my thought. It didn’t seem particularly … nice … to scold her at that particular moment.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, smiling. “But he’s—he’s my soul mate or something.”

  I’m pretty sure I wasn’t smiling back any more at that point, not even a fake smile.

  “In fact, I’m surprised he’s not here,” she said. “I thought he might follow the ambulance to the hospital to check up on me.”

  “I see,” I said. “What did you say his name was?”

  A little flicker passed over her face. “I—I don’t know,” she said.

  I was sitting on a chair pulled up near her bed. Now I reached out and took her hand. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “He knows where they took you, right?”

  She frowned. “You don’t understand,” she muttered.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  I was thinking, poor girl. She’s in shock. Here I was thinking it was odd, how steady she seemed, but it wasn’t that she was steady. Not at all. She was in shock.

  It hadn’t really hit her, yet, what had happened.

  “He had the most beautiful blue eyes,” she said. “Savannah—it was like we’d known each other forever. He knew me—I knew him. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know his name.”

  “Sure,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I know exactly what you’re saying.”

  I’d crossed the line. I noticed that she was now glaring at me. She’d figured out that I was humoring her.

  Clare always could see right through me.

  So she dropped the subject.

  Then her parents got there, so I said good-night and left to go back to the apartment.

  So you see: I didn’t believe her. I didn’t believe anything out-of-the-ordinary had happened. I figured she’d had a shock, and some nice person had been kind to her, and somehow the shock of the accident had made her misinterpret his kindness as being something more personal and significant.

  And of course the article in the next day’s paper didn’t say anything about a gorgeous guy with blue eyes.