Claus and Effect: A Holiday Tale of the Arts Department

To the real Merlin Kennedy, who brought Black Santa to town…

December 17, 1966

Adams Park

Millington, Illinois

“Why are you stopping me?” Santa asked calmly as the officer pulled him none too gently from the “sleigh.” If there were to be one cool head this frosty Saturday morning, it would be his.

The boy was blonde and blue-eyed, like Officer Friendly in a Norman Rockwell painting or the fellows used to goose-step Jews off to the livestock cars.

“No way in hell you’re gonna be in this parade today,” the cop stated, leaning in. “There’s only one Santa, and it sure ain’t some…it sure ain’t you.”

The others -- started to advance. Officer Friendly’s partner looked like he wanted to puke as he held weakly to Santa’s silent assistant.

Santa squared his shoulders. “Am I under arrest, Officer?”

“That what you want, ‘Santa.’” For the first time, the boy smiled. “Kenny, you cuff that…that gentleman, and if you fellas might give me a hand with the others…”

“THEY’RE ARRESTING SANTA!!”

It broke the crisp December air like a rifle crack. The cop whipped around, and the little man with the camera continued to chant. Then he caught the other eyes – terrified, wet, pleading, outraged. Brown eyes, blue eyes. At that moment, the children knew only one truth. 

The blue fire extinguished, and the cop looked straight at Santa before turning.

“Nobody’s getting arrested,” Officer Friendly assured the kids with a death’s head smile. He went in nose-to-nose with Santa. “You get the fuck out of here, but the sleigh stays.”

His fists curled as he watched Santa stride out of sight, and he spat his familiar, inevitable final word…

December 17, 2024

“This should be the place.” Thea halted roughly 30 feet from the Southeast corner of Adams Park. “This is where Santa almost got hauled off to city lockup without milk or cookies.”

“The second Santa,” Safiya Smalls murmured, half-baiting Professor Mason as she stuffed her gloved hands deep into her puffy pink jacket. This was the chef’s first Christmas north, and the petite textile arts prof, who’d grown up with the lake-effect bluster and diesel-gray snows of South Chicago, simply smirked.

“Santa,” Thea repeated. “To me, at that age, Downstate Illinois might as well been backwoods Mississippi. 

“After Blumstein’s in Harlem hired its first Black Santa in ’43, it caught on in the northern cities. You know, Arthur Cleveland was head of the local NAACP, so he was used to death threats and a few broken windows.”

“How’d he get out of this with his skull intact?”

Thea scanned the downtown skyline, which from the second floor up hadn’t much changed since Arthur Cleveland had been evicted from his sleigh. 

“Well, in ’65, the Millington Chamber of Commerce allowed the NAACP a float in the Christmas Parade. That was Arthur’s first turn as Santa, and the float urged locals to buy from downtown stores that hired black workers. Mayor Mahearny didn’t like folks rocking the boat, and he got the council to pass a ‘One Santa’ ordinance and the Chamber to drop the NAACP float. So when Arthur showed up next year in his Santa suit, on a sleigh the size of a small yacht, couple eager young cops stopped them before they could reach Main and told Arthur and his guys they could take their sleigh back across the tracks or spend the night in jail. Arthur said a couple ‘strong-arm boys’ were ready to mix it up. Fortunately, he and his ‘elves’ had a contingency plan. 

“In addition to a state NAACP delegation down from Chicago, a local human rights advocacy group called All Millington sent a couple of photographers to help if things went south. They were white -- cops probably assumed they were with the Millington daily. But when Trent Post – that was his name – started hollering that the cops were hassling Santa, it was a different game. There were kids – dozens of them, white, black, rich, poor, East Side, West Side – watching.

“A full-out race riot with weeping children wasn’t the kind of Christmas Pageant the Chamber envisioned. So the cops let Arthur walk the parade route. But not before letting Black Santa know who was who and what was what. You know what I mean.”

“Oh, too well,” Safiya breathed, stepping up the pace.

**

“It’s a different world today,” Thea addressed the assembled local dignitaries, interested citizens, momentarily distracted shoppers, and the homeless of the Main Street “drag.” “Though maybe not different enough. That’s why we remember and commemorate, why Director Bronte Garrison and her team are proud to unveil The Santa Clause: Codifying Racism and Reclaiming Christmas, a month-long multimedia exhibition detailing former NAACP Chairman Arthur Cleveland’s groundbreaking public debut of Black Santa, the municipal furor that led to approval of a whites-only ‘one Santa rule,’ Cleveland’s defiance of the unjust ordinance, and the spirit of yuletide solidarity that prevented a civil conflict from escalating into violence.”

Thea turned from the dais above the Millington Historical Museum steps to eye the fresh banner a story up. “Black Santa is about so much more than ‘simply’ diversity and representation. From the 1910s into the 1950s, black educators and community leaders argued the ‘Negro Santa Claus’ would elevate black self-esteem and counter racist Santa figures such as the Dutch Zwarte Piet, or Black Pete, a somewhat sinister servant to St. Nicholas popularized in the 1840s and portrayed in blackface.

“In the U.S., the ‘Negro Santa Claus’ met generally with threats and demonization, and was depicted as a punisher of naughty children. American newspapers played them for comedy and manufactured stories about black Santas burning to death after ill-fated chimney falls.

“Gradually, postwar economics began to reshape the narrative as major metropolitan department stores hired black Santas to cater to urban customers, and Negro Santa evolved into the Civil Rights Santa. In 1967, open housing activists in Milwaukee staged a protest with their own Black Power Santa with a brown beard and a red-trimmed black coat. American Nazi Party leader George Lincoln Rockwell insisted Black Santa was a revolutionary plot. ‘Can you imagine the effect of seeing your little toddler on the knee of a black Santa Claus?’ Mr. Rockwell posed.

“In a moment, as we reopen a forgotten chapter in the struggle toward multicultural equality, as we commemorate a long-awaited moment of recollection and reconciliation between the central figures in our tale of two Santas, and we enjoy a Christmas/Kwanzaa extravaganza at Santa’s Station on the south museum lawn, please help me celebrate a 21st Century Christmas where Santa is for every child and every childlike hope.”

Amid the applause, Thea scanned the VIPs behind her shoulder. Bronte Garrison, like a blonde topper on a Miss Carolina float; Eli Cleveland, like his father, President of the Millington NAACP chapter and tonight’s Santa; Eli’s dour brother Luther, whose West Side minimart had provided the Kwanzaa wrappings, décor, and treats for the Station; pasty, ginger Fourth Ward Councilman Gene Thrusherman, whose district took in a healthy slice of both the West Side and the gentrified near-East Side; and elfin Mayor Chris McNairy, a social sciences prof counting the months until the chilling will of the “majority” caught up to this blue island in a Midwest sea of maize and red.   

Thea stepped back, and the lanky museum director leaned down and in. “Where the hell did Laughlin go?”

“I spotted him in the atrium right before we started,” Bronte drawled. “Lemme go check.”

Thea returned to the crowd. “Before we proceed, Councilman Thrusherman informed us he has an important meeting and must leave before the unveiling. So could we get a quick word, Eugene?”

The councilman, shivering slightly in his thin pinstripe, gently but eagerly seized the mike. Thea and Bronte bustled inside the former courthouse, trailed by Luther Cleveland.

“Chickened out, didn’t he?” Arthur’s younger son growled, echoing through the marble sanctum. “I told Eli this was a bad idea.”

“We got this, Luther,” Thea said briskly. “Mr. Laughlin! MR. LAUGHLIN!”

“He was scamming us!” Luther shouted, beelining for the circular stairwell. “Probably trashing the exhibit right now!”

“LUTHER!” Thea Mason snapped. “Kevin Johnson has two fake knees, COPD, and a couple or dozen fused vertebrae. He couldn’t make it to the first landing!”

Luther’s leg was still locked between the second and third stair, but his right hand abruptly released the brass rail. 

“The Station!” he yelled, dashing past Thea down the south corridor. She stalked after Cleveland, blinded momentarily as he threw open the door to the Santa’s village he had earlier helped trim.

Bronte braked beside Thea as she stared at Luther slumped in the doorway to Santa’s Station. Thea managed to nudge the stunned man aside, but fell back against Luther as she spotted the figure in the throne the University Theater Department had supplied. 

Santa was sprawled over one arm, and his boot rested against a stack of prop “presents” – red, black, and blue -- to the side of the red velvet chair. Luther hadn’t yet moved, and as she spotted the Elvis-sized sequined buckle securing the vintage suit, Thea realized why. She’d helped curate the unearthed photos Trent Post’s estate had gifted the museum, and shuddered before lifting the scarlet cap that had fallen over the dead Claus’ face.

“Shit,” Bronte gasped, peering under Luther Cleveland’s arm into former Officer Kevin Laughlin’s cold, dead, blue eyes.

“Guess he made his point,” Luther muttered hollowly.

**

“And just what did he mean by that?” Detective Curtis Mead inquired, ushering Thea back onto the fake snow overlooking the burrito and Chicago dog joints across Franklin Street.

“Mr. Laughlin had asked to offer a public apology to Eli and Luther Cleveland for his role in detaining their dad,” Professor Mason related. “Eli felt it would be a healing gesture. Luther wasn’t sold. He thinks Laughlin snuck in while the Station was empty and ‘borrowed’ the suit to make a point about Mayor Mahearny’s one-Santa rule.”

“Met him a few times at department functions,” the middle-aged cop said. “He’d went all roller trying to shake his past. Thing is, Laughlin’s eyes showed petechial hemorrhaging, and we found bruises on his throat. Under the collar of Cleveland’s Santa suit. He was literally throttled.” Curtis glanced across the lawn where Luther waved arms at an impassive uniform.

Thea surveyed the interior of Santa’s crime scene, then nodded. “Nah, he’s not even a suspect. In fact, you move fast on this, you might be home for supper on time tonight.”   

**

“I wouldn’t be averse to another slice,” Anand Deshpande murmured. The macroeconomist had suspended his customary austerity, and Saanvi smiled affectionately. Thea rolled her eyes as Earl silently implored her, and Wei Zhao and her entomologist soulmate Will nodded boyishly. Profs. Skillruud and Aboud smiled assent, and even Melissa Urquardt shrugged with a smirk that for the borderline sociopath constituted a five-star Yelp.

“Told you we were gonna need two,” Thea Mason crowed, regarding Safiya with pride. “Ethan, don’t you pretend you don’t want seconds. I told you it was vegan.”

“Not a speck of lard, no matter how much it hurt,” Safiya beamed. Assistant Professor Cooper, who looked like a farmhand in his Yuletide plaids, had abstained from the applewood-smoked turkey he’d helped Earl craft, but had ravaged the bounty of Gullah and Chicago, Indian, Chinese, Syrian, Scots, and down-home sides.

“It has a delightfully savory aspect this year,” Anand commented as Safiya retreated. Saanvi winced slightly, but Thea, the regular pastry chef, waved it off.

“We like it a little sweeter up here, while the Carolina version is more sweet potato-forward,” she acknowledged.

“And we don’t throw in the whole spice rack,” Safiya chided. “Cinnamon and nutmeg and maybe a little ginger if we’re feeling loosey-goosey.”

“That loosey-goosey just came out of your mouth says you’re a little goosey on Tom’s Brunello Amontillado,” Thea snorted.

“Brunello di Montalcino,” Prof. Skillruud sighed, brushing crumbs from his distended cardigan. “The pie’s exquisite, as were your ma’amoul, Malik.”

Associate Professor Aboud nodded almost imperceptibly as Tom selected another date/pistachio cookie to dispel any perception of favoritism.

“If the Festivus Mutual Appreciation Society’s over, you want to fill us in, Thea?” Melissa Urquardt murmured drily. “Tom sidetracked us with the honors seminar on Winter Landscape with Skaters and a Bird Trap before you could explain what tipped you to the killer.” 

“In honor of Arthur Cleveland and the exhibit, we were simultaneously observing Christmas and Kwanzaa,” Professor Mason noted. “We carried that into Santa’s Station — Eli and the local NAACP decorated the station with ‘gifts’ wrapped in signature Kwanzaa colors. Red represents the struggle and blood of our African ancestors, black our African descent, and green our hopes.

“So what to my wandering eye should appear but a bright blue package atop the tier? Detective Mead was focused on dead Santa, and the other cops wouldn’t have noticed. To me, it stood out like a sore thumb.”

“Which suggested the killer substituted a ‘gift’ for the empty wrapped box on top of the pile,” Saanvi murmured. “If we assume Eli possessed a balanced aesthetic, a green package had been removed from the station. Why?”

“Because while red or black might not have shown blood, green certainly would,” Malik supplied, betraying his past FBI tenure. “Santa’d got his claws into the killer. The murderer spotted his blood on the green wrapping paper and replaced the box with another…”

The Syrian-Scots art historian paused, frowning, and Thea recaptured the ball. “There were two entrances to Santa’s Station — from the street, or through the museum. You’ve just slain Santa —which way would you go? The museum was unlocked for the exhibit, but empty for the dedication. And it’s Christmas. The killer must have spotted the blue-and-silver boxes on display at the atrium gift shop.”

“But why was Laughlin wearing Cleveland’s Santa costume?” Wei asked

“The killer was afraid of being spotted by a museum staffer. That day, Kevin Laughlin was wearing a parka. The killer borrowed it to sneak into the museum — Brontë Garrison reported seeing ‘Laughlin’ roaming around the atrium. Then, the killer realized replacing the coat risked transferring trace to the body. People might question the absence of an old man’s coat on a cold day, unless Laughlin was found wearing a Santa costume.

“Eli, Luther, Brontë and her staff, and of course I would have known about the Kwanzaa decor. If the killer were white, that sets up an entirely different motivation. And I remembered why there was something familiar about Trent Post’s photo of Arthur’s confrontation with Laughlin.

“Maybe somebody didn’t want that past unearthed any further. Officer Sisniak died 15 years ago, with no survivors. So that leaves the men threatening Arthur and his float crew — the ‘strong-arm boys’ Arthur’d referred to, who were anonymous until we uncovered Post’s slides. Gimme a moment here. Tom, I swear if you dredge up Pieter Bruegel while I’m gone…”

“The killer was concerned about leaving any evidentiary trace on the victim, but gave no thought to the trace the victim may have been left on him,” Saanvi related in Professor Mason’s absence. “Once she fixed on the likely culprit and made her case to Detective Mead, he had his tech go over the suspect’s clothes. Sure enough, they found dandruff, loose white hair, and other septuagenarian residue.”

Thea reentered the dining room armed with an 8X10 black-and-white photo. “Factor in that the killer declined the invitation to view the Santa exhibit. Or that the killer was fashionably underdressed for the weather, and could fit easily into a parka and run to his car a half-block down from the museum to stow the coat and green gift in his trunk. Where Detective Mead found it, by the way. Put your eyes on this.”

Officer Kevin Laughlin’s eyes blazed as he leaned into Santa’s impassive face. Rookie Billy Sisniak was frozen like a deer caught in the headlights at a four-way stop. A Greek Chorus of wrath loomed just beyond.

“The middle guy, the not-so-jolly redhead, looks like he’s about ready to find a rope and a poplar,” Thea said as the photo traversed the table. “You can see his coat’s hanging open, and he’s wearing coveralls stitched with a company name.? ‘USHER HEATING ampersand COOLING.’”

“Councilman Thrusherman is probably 60 pounds lighter than his late dad, but he didn’t want to give the museum patrons a side-by-side comparison. Ward 4’s about 30 percent black. You imagine what this could do to his political career? Officer Kevin wanted to come clean about the whole thing, and Santa’s Station was the perfect place for a pre-apology tete-tete. Christmas is a season of joy, reflection, and even in these times, reconciliation. But it’s work.”

“Amen,” Earl intoned before the wine began to flow anew.

May 12, 2025

Adams Park

Millington, Illinois

On December 17, 1966, in this place, West Side civic leader and former Millington City Councilman Arthur G. Cleveland made his stand on the basic proposition that Santa Claus belongs to all children, regardless of race…

Millington’s original Black Santa beamed in relief against the newly erected bronze plaque as the small but to Professor Mason’s view appreciable crowd disbursed. 

“You know,” Thea said hoarsely despite the brevity of her dedicatory remarks. Safiya squeezed her brocade-draped arm. “Few years before he passed, Arthur told me about that day he almost got his skull cracked open. And that walk along the Main Street Drag, handing out suckers to kids who finally had their own Santa and tossing goodies to children who couldn’t understand why their folks wouldn’t wave or even smile at Santa. ‘God bless the child,’ Arthur said.” 

“God bless us everyone,” Safiya asserted with less irony than Thea might have expected given the near-term sociopolitical forecast.

“Mm,” the professor shrugged. “Let’s get some pie and coffee for the road. If it’s not too sweet for your refined Southern tastes.”