• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Now I got it. Dingleberry’s feelings were hurt.

“That’s because there’s nothing to tell, Ding,” I said. “That story is all made up. Snitch is fishing or just putting things in her column to make people read it. Butternut Snitch lies like a rug.”

“But you love Rosebud,” Dingleberry said. “I can tell.”

“Can you now?”

“Yep, you’re different, Gumdrop,” Dingleberry said. “Something is. I figured it was her.”

Dingleberry was right about one thing—I was different, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I was all mixed up inside. I used to think I knew what time it was. I checked the list, found the naughty kids and delivered coal. My life was that simple. But my world wasn’t simple anymore. Coal wasn’t the answer, neither was giving kids everything they wanted. Raymond Hall grew up and eventually got better. Tiny Tim grew up into a monster. It all depended on which direction they were shoved, when and who shoved them. I started out wanting to make a difference, but now I was all tied up in knots and I had nothing but thumbs. But there was no use dragging sweet, pure, wonderful Dingleberry into all of that, so I kept it light.

“I am kind of partial to Miss Jubilee,” I told him. “And maybe someday there will be something to tell. And when there is, my friend, you’ll be the first to know.”

This seemed to cheer Dingleberry up a bit. “Good,” he said. “It’s not good for you to keep secrets and stuff inside of you. Even good ones.”

“In that case, can you keep a secret, Dingleberry?” I asked. “It’s a big one, between you and me. You’ll want to blabber about it, but you can’t tell a soul.”

Dingleberry’s face got as solemn as a sermon and he nodded his head in the affirmative as seriously as he could. So I made his day.

“By George is real. He’s alive,” I said. “I’ve met him. He saved my life when I was on the other side of the bridge.”

Tears welled up in Dingleberry’s eyes and his mouth didn’t know whether to gape or smile. “All that stuff you read in your comic books about Bailey being a hero is bona fide, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different. He and his lasso are doing good things out there in the world. He’s helping his neighbors and teaching the neighbors to do the same. Just like you do, Ding, just like you.”

“Did you talk to him?” Dingleberry asked in a whisper, as if saying it any louder would shatter such a perfect notion.

“Just for a second,” I said. “We didn’t have much time in all the hubbub of the escape, but you know what he told me? He said, ‘Gumdrop, please tell my old pal Dingleberry thank you. Thank you for making toys, for the By George fan club, everything.’ That’s what he said. You, Dingleberry Fizz, make Bailey proud, by George.”

I’ve seen Dingleberry Fizz on a Christmas morning when his toys get into the hands of a little kid. I’ve seen him when kids squeal and giggle and start making noises when they play with the thing that Dingleberry made with his hands and his heart. Ding’s happy then, but at this moment, Ding was as happy as I’d ever seen him. But he was crying.

“I knew he was real,” Dingleberry said. “I always believed. They weren’t just made-up stories, parts of them were real. The good parts. I hope you’ll read them now, Gumdrop, and see what I mean. I’ll share them, I will. I’ve got fourteen boxes of books.”

“I’d be honored, friend,” I said. “Maybe that’s how we’ll celebrate the New Year.” I raised my glass and Dingleberry clinked his. We were quiet for a few minutes, but Ding was restless. “Thank you for telling me, Gumdrop,” he said. “But if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to take a walk by myself before the Loading of the Sleigh Parade starts.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll see you up there.” I watched him go, bursting with goodness and happiness and hope, because believing in something had paid off for Dingleberry Fizz. Even though I saw George in the flesh and he saved my hide, doubt still gnawed at me. But Fizz was different. His faith was real. At that moment, I envied him more than any soul on earth.

I sat there for a while, stewing and chewing