by Mark Teppo
Blitzen waited for me near the door, and we both peeked out nervously. Rudolph was battering himself against the walls of the hall, and he bucked and sneezed. Each impact left a scorched hole in the wall, and by the time he reached the far doors, his skin was shining brightly.
"Are you wearing protection?" Blizten asked, his gaze dropped down toward my groin.
"What? A condom?" I asked.
"No," he snorted. "Lead-lined undergarments."
"I wasn't given a pair at the hospital," I snapped. "So: no. I'm not."
Blitzen made a face and looked away.
"Hang on," I said. "I wasn't wearing any that year we went to hell either. Are you telling me—?"
"I'm not telling you anything," Blitzen said. "Those thermal suits are pretty good, I think. So you're probably okay."
"You think?" I sputtered. "Probably?"
"Don't get worked up," he said. "It's probably nothing to worry about. Really."
Rudolph had turned back, though he was still wobbling from side to side and shaking his head like he was warding off invisible wasps. Behind him, the door opened and a pair of uniformed men charged through. They were wearing transparent riot helmets and were carrying police batons. A couple more guys were right behind them.
The whole squad came to a sudden halt when they saw the glowing reindeer. Rudolph faced them, steam curling up from his body, tiny streamers of fire flickering at the tips of his antlers. Everyone stared at one another for a long moment—the men fidgeting with their batons, Rudolph tapping the floor with one hoof—and then Rudolph sneezed one last time. It was a big one, and the burst of light and heat that came off him was like a firebomb detonating in the hallway.
I blinked several times, trying to see past the starburst afterimage burned onto my retinas. We had kept our distance, but I still felt like I had been standing too close to a bonfire. Eventually, my vision returned to normal, and I could see well enough to notice the damage done to the far end of the hall. The walls and floors were black, and the security squad was down, though they were all still alive judging from their groans and tortured movements.
It was—I have to admit—not unlike "The Dance of the Wretches" from the musical, though with less jazz hands.
Rudolph stood in the center of the hall, looking none the worse for wear. His eyes were clear, and his skin no longer glowed. "Bernie," he said in a much more normal voice, though not without a touch of annoyance. "What were you reading?"
I let out a sob of relief. "It's you," I gasped. "You're okay."
"Of course, I'm okay," he said. "It's not like I haven't been drugged before."
"Hey," I said. "That was for your own good."
"That's what they said here too." His tone darkened as he repeated his question. "Bernie. What were you reading?"
"It's this thing," I said. "Up in Seattle. Some play that a local company is putting on. It's nothing, really. In fact, it's probably not going to happen."
"Why isn't it going to happen?" he asked.
I looked at Blitzen, who shook his head and started studying the floor.
"It's a really bad Christmas story," I said.
"There are no bad Christmas stories," Rudolph said, correcting me.
"Well, let's leave that open for discussion, shall we?"
Rudolph came closer. "There are no bad stories," he said. "There are only stories that need our help. Right?"
"Sure," I said, somewhat weakly. I knew where this was going already. But I tried anyway. "It's a lie, Rudolph. It's just meant to hurt people. It's not even in the proper spirit."
"It's still a Christmas story," Rudolph said. "And we don't cancel Christmas, do we? Or its stories." He looked around at the other reindeer. "Do we?" he asked when no one said anything.
"No, sir!" Ring shouted. Cupid stifled a laugh at the younger reindeer's reply, and then immediately hung his head when Rudolph glared at him.
"Bernie. You said this was a play. When does it open?" Rudolph asked.
"It's not going to open," I said, and Cupid looked up at me with big WTF? eyes.
"Er, what day is it?" I asked Blitzen, hastily changing my song.
"Tuesday," Blitzen said. "The ninth."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Friday," I said when I could breathe again. "It was supposed to open on Friday."
"Seventy-two hours," Rudolph said, ignoring the crazed sound of my laughter. "We have three days to fix it."
I waved the script at him. "Do you know what's in here?" I asked. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to let him read the whole thing and see just how bleak it was. How utterly without hope the character of Rudolph was. I cringed as I thought about the end; in fact, I cringed thinking about the beginning.
And then I saw something in his face that made me stop being so, well, dramatic. I recalled the conversation I had had with Barb in the bathroom at her house over Thanksgiving. The discussion about making new things, and how we found creative expression in the darkest of places.
I stopped tensing all those muscles in my neck and lower back. "Seventy-two hours," I said, letting the words out slowly. "That's a lot of time."
Rudolph smiled. "That's the Bernie I know. That's the Spirit."
December 10th
I stood in the center of the stage and addressed the entire company—what was left of it, that is. It was right after the lunch break, and the crew usually dragged themselves back in with some reluctance, their bellies weighed down with hastily eaten food. The afternoon rehearsals were never very good, and given what had transpired in the last twenty-four hours, there was no expectation that today's tech rehearsal was going to be anything other than a very, very tedious afternoon.
I had spent most of the morning up in the office getting all my ducks together for this final push. Rudolph had hung around for a half hour before it became clear that I was in my element. "SECO," he had snorted softly before wandering off. It hadn't been derision in his voice, but rather gentle annoyance that I didn't need him.
I did, but not for the paperwork.
"Thanks for coming back from lunch," I said once it seemed like I had most of the company in the audience. "As you know, the show is scheduled to open tomorrow, and we've got a few things to do before then, don't we?" I paused and glanced at my watch, pretended to do some math. "This'll be our first tech rehearsal. After that is dress, and then we have a preview show for the press, right? I think if I have pizza and beer brought in, we can pull an all-nighter or two and be ready. In fact, let's just push opening night out to the 13th, okay? Give ourselves a little bit of time for a final spit-polish." I slapped my watch and then clapped my hands. "So, are there any questions before we get started?"
There was a long pause, and then someone finally raised his hand. One of the chorus. The guy who had been having problems with the inner ear imbalance, if I remembered his face correctly.
"Yes," I said brightly, pointing at him. "What's your question?"
"We have no lead," he said. "Franklin—you know—got shot in the basement."
"He did," I said. "I know. I got a real nice private performance of what was supposed to be his death scene. A little overdramatic, frankly. But he did dinner theater, and I hear that you're supposed to chew on the tablecloth as much as you can. For the people who pay more to sit up front." I smiled at the guy as if I had just answered a very technical question, even though he really hadn't asked a question. "Anyone else?"
"What about Henrik?" This was from his assistant. "He . . . he died!"
"So he did," I said. Probably from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, but I didn't bother to point that out. "But most of you know your choreography already, don't you?"
More stares from the audience. They were starting to wonder what sort of drugs I had been shot full of in the hospital. I didn't bother telling them that it wasn't me who had been doped up these last few days.
"So, Henrik's gone. Franklin's gone." I listed them off on my fingers. "And so is Ted. The accountant." I paused and
looked down at them. "None of you knew Ted, right? So it's not like he's really missing then, okay? And who else? Ah, yes, Erma. The box office manager. Is that it?"
I waited a few seconds. Waited for someone to speak up.
"Right," I said when no one did. "So a couple of assholes who were going to rip you all off and disappear with your money are gone. Is that about the gist of it? They didn't like you. They were planning on screwing you over from the beginning, and they set all of this up to make fools of you. Is that what happened?"
That got their attention.
I pointed toward the doors at the back of the house. "If that's the story you want the local papers to tell, then go ahead and walk right on out those doors. I'm sure the gossip columnists would love to hear all the juice you've got to share with them." I wiggled my finger. "Go on. March right on out. Tell your story. See what it'll get you. See what it will do for your career."
No one moved. They knew I wasn't done, and they wanted to hear the rest of my speech. I kept my smile hidden, but I could feel the Spirit working in my stomach.
"This show is a disaster," I continued. "It's a ripe piece of garbage that was meant to embarrass you, me, everyone involved with this production, and everyone involved with Christmas. It's nothing more than a lot of hate and vitriol masquerading as comedy. And it isn't funny. It's horrible. And you know what? If we walk out now, that's how it will be remembered. People will read the script and they'll say: Oh my god! Who in their right mind would want to put on a show like that? And they'll look at you and whisper: He was part of that show! They'll all nod, and give you lots of space on the bus, won't they? Is that what we want?"
I waited for someone to speak up, and for a moment, I wondered if I had gone too far. If I had played this too over the top. And then I heard a voice from the back. A lone voice that said what I wanted to hear.
"No."
It was Barb, bless her.
"No," I repeated. "No, we don't. So what are we going to do about it? Are we going to stand around with our mouths hanging open, wringing our hands like we've been handed a shit sandwich and told it was the most gourmet delicacy ever offered poor, working hacks like ourselves?" I mimed holding a very sloppy, nasty sandwich.
A few more shouted in the negative this time.
I held up my make-believe sandwich. "It is a shit sandwich," I said. "Let's not kid ourselves. But there is no reason we have to eat it. We can make our own sandwich. A different sandwich, with less, you know, nasty brown stuff in it. We have tech to do. We have a dress rehearsal. And then we have a preview show to put on. We have an understudy, and if any of you don't know your dance steps by now, let's be honest: A) You're never going to learn them, and B) no one is going to notice anyway."
I got a laugh at that, which was a good sign.
"Look," I said. "The gang of four played you. They brought you together with the promise of making something amazing, and they lied to you. They didn't love the theater. They just loved the idea that they were smarter than you. That they deserved something more than you. They took advantage of your dreams and your desires and hung them on this mockery of a Christmas story. You are all here because you wanted to be a part of something. Well, you were. You were part of a long con intended to suck a whole bunch of money out of Mr. Metcalfe and myself, and it might have worked if they hadn't been so greedy.
"And if we quit now, if we turn off the lights and go home, then they will have been right. We're stupid; we're gullible; we're the rubes who get used and left behind. But that's not us, is it? We aren't stupid. We aren't gullible. We're theater people, dammit, and it's our jobs to make the impossible possible."
I waved my hand at the set of Rudolph's gothic throne room. "This is a creative gift to the world," I said. "This is our miracle. Because that is what Christmas is all about. It's about giving. So let's make this happen, shall we? At the very least, no one will ever be able to say we didn't give everything we had."
I was on the phone when Barb came up to the office an hour later. I nodded at her and indicated she should make herself comfortable in the big leather chair. She came around the massive desk, frowning slightly when she realized one of the big floor-to-ceiling windows was outright missing. Most of Ted's ludicrous paperwork was held in place by a few heavy rocks that had been brought in. The temperature in the room was in the high fifties, which suited me fine. I was keeping busy, and that meant I was warm.
"That was a nice speech," Barb said when I hung up the phone.
"Thanks."
"I think you left out the part where you called upon their future selves to strip their sleeves and show the scars they earned on this day."
"I had it in an early draft," I said. "But I thought it was a little much."
"‘We few,'" she quoted, leaning her head back against the chair. "‘We happy few, we band of brothers . . . '"
"I went with a slightly different source of inspiration," I said.
She blushed lightly when she caught my meaning and looked away, her gaze coming to rest on the empty window frame.
"I need your help," I said, drawing her attention back to me.
"My help?" she asked. "Why? Why do you need my help?" When she looked at me again, her eyes were bright.
"What do you mean?" I asked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in her voice.
"It was very chaotic here after Henrik and Franklin did . . . did whatever they did down there in the basement. You said you were down there. They took you to Harborview, didn't they?"
I shrugged. "I'm not really sure where they took me, actually," I admitted.
"Is it true?" she asked.
"Is what true?"
"What happened at Harborview."
I didn't say anything, and she leaned forward in the chair. "I heard stories. And I've been thinking about what you said at Thanksgiving. You said Prancer was dead, and you said it like you were there."
"I was," I said, my mouth dry. "And it's true."
"All of it? Even . . ."
"Yeah. All of it. I was there."
A sob slipped from her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. I watched her, my heart a wounded sparrow in my chest. For all the big speechifying I had just done, I didn't know what to say to her. I wanted to take away the pain in her heart, but I didn't have the words. And so I just sat there, watching her. Waiting for her to say something instead.
She lowered her hand slowly, her fingers closing into a fist. A single tear escaped, and it slid down her cheek and hung, quivering, on her jaw. "Why?" she whispered. "Why didn't Santa . . . why was I the only one who—"
"I don't know . . . I don't—"
"Why don't you just call on God to come down and help you?" she said. "Why doesn't He send angels to fix everything?"
"Because it doesn't work that way," I said. "You can't depend on them if you can't depend on yourself." I leaned forward, stretching out to touch her leg. "I need you," I said. "You believe in this show. You know something about the theater. I don't know which is stage left or stage right. I'm just the money. I'm not the heart and soul of this show. You are."
She choked out a laugh and opened her eyes. They were wet with tears, but that didn't make her gaze any less strong. "Me?" she said. "I'm the heart and soul?"
"You are," I said. "Because you've never given up."
She wiped away the tear with the heel of her hand and stared out the windows. "I want to hate you," she said. "I really do. I want to find some way to blame you for what happened to Daniel. But what for? You didn't throw those eggs. You didn't force Daniel to go running after that kid. And you certainly didn't trip him. You aren't responsible for any of that." She dropped her head and stared at her fingers knotting themselves in her lap. "And my happiness isn't your responsibility either, is it?"
"Well," I said. "I'm trying."
She shook her head. "I let myself believe in a miracle that was never going to happen, didn't I?"
"You have to, though,
" I said. "You have to let yourself believe in the possibility. It's just—" I felt that awful weight of Prancer's skull when I had lifted it against Satan. "—the price of miracles can be very high."
"And hope?" she asked. "That's still free, isn't it?"
I nodded.
She took a deep breath, and it brought color back to her face. "All right then. Let's start with that."
"Speaking of the band of brothers," I said. "Could you round up Bucky and Sally for a meeting? I meant what I said about opening the show on the thirteenth, but we've got a lot of work to do. I have another call to make, and then we can get down to business."
She left the office, and I dialed a private number in Montana.
I had spent a couple hours the previous evening after our return from Beverly Hills talking with the Seattle Police Department. Most of the conversation was routine follow-up since they had Erma in custody. She was singing any song they wanted to hear, and Metcalfe was still alert enough to send his posse of hardened lawyers. Erma was going to shove the brunt of blame on Franklin and Henrik, of course. She wasn't stupid. But Metcalfe wanted some satisfaction while he was still around to enjoy it, and that meant throwing some lawyer hours at Erma.
And Ted was still missing. Erma didn't know where he'd gone, but she had been happy to tell everyone what she thought of him. He would do well to keep running in whatever direction he had gone.
Once the SPD had taken my deposition, I was clear to finish the job I had been hired to do, and the one thing I had been following up on was whether Metcalfe wanted to still be involved in the production in any meaningful way. I finally got through to the ex-cattleman himself shortly before Barb returned with the two I had sent her to find.
Metcalfe spoke slowly but clearly. I said little, and most of it was variations of "yes, sir."
Bucky Dowminster was rounder than Franklin and had a broad nose that reminded me of a hand trowel. He spoke in a breathy voice, and he had fingers that were long and spindly. Sally Hollis—the Costume Director—was Bucky's opposite, tall and lanky like a shoot of bamboo. She wore her hair back in a ponytail, and her round spectacles softened the angular shape of her face. She wore muted clothing that didn't make her stand out in a crowd, but from the cut and the fabric, I could tell it was from designer racks in Paris.