Claus: The Trilogy

by Tony Bertauski

  He pulls out a shiny pocket watch, just like the one Templeton is always looking at.

  “That’s what lets you in?”

  “I think you can get in here without it, but getting back out would be difficult.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s easy to get lost in your thoughts. That’s what the wishing room is, just your thoughts crystalized. As far as I know, we’re actually standing on a bunch of leaves, staring at trees like a couple of stoners, but we’re seeing all this. It’s easy to forget you’re in here, that all of this is created by your thoughts. The pocket watch will show us the way out.”

  He points at the sky. The North Star is flashing bright, turning red, then green, and then white again.

  “If you’re ever in doubt,” he adds, “the North Star only turns those funky colors in the wishing room.”

  “But why me?” she asks again.

  “Don’t you feel it?”

  The world is starting to turn again. But she struggles to process this. First her mom dies, then she meets Mr. Frost, and now this. It’s right out of a science-fiction book, but she’s standing on weathered boards, listening to monks chant, and feeling the wind.

  And there’s the boy of her dreams, leaning fearlessly against a creaking railing with thousands of feet below.

  She just needs a moment.

  Joe whispers.

  I dream of her

  In times of need

  She gives to me

  Her blushing greed

  He looks up.

  Sura feels the chanting move inside her while his words warm her chest. He speaks directly to her, soothing her unrest, melting her anxiety.

  Breathing for her.

  To be with her

  Is all I feel

  To kneel with her

  To make this real

  He looks at the mountains. Somewhere, a bird calls.

  “What is that?” she asks.

  “Something I wrote,” he says. “The day I first met you.”

  Sura’s chin trembles. All the crap in her life just seems to fall away in that instant. The world stops turning and she’s not going to stand against the wall anymore. She takes him and kisses him fully on the lips. He wraps his arms around her, returning her affection with warmth that’s soft, yet firm.

  I feel it, Joe.

  They click together. Apart no more.

  And the railing threatens to dump them over the edge, but it’s just thoughts. They fearlessly cling to each other. Perhaps they’d remain that way until the banister breaks and they tumble back to reality, still swimming in each other’s desire.

  Only the phone interrupts them.

  She pulls back and shyly touches her forehead to his chin. He pulls the phone up, forcing himself to read the text.

  “Jonah wants to know if the game is over,” he says.

  “What game?”

  “The basketball game I’m at.” Joe wraps his arms around her, tapping a reply with the phone behind her back.

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Overtime.”

  They share laughter while their bodies remain connected. Sura ponders the evergreen hills hidden in the mist and wonders what’s really out there.

  -------------------------

  Mr. Frost drapes his arm over the lounger; his fat fingers doodle in a pail of salted krill. He funnels a fistful through his whiskers, chewing leisurely, while holographic images of Joe and Sura play out the scene that’s occurring in the wishing room.

  She held it together.

  Most people might think their first trip to the wishing room would be thrilling—a chance to step inside your mind and live out your fantasies is quite alluring. However, when reality reveals itself, the experience is more like a carnival ride, one that takes a few trips to get accustomed. The direct experience of one’s delusions is a dangerous one. When the curtain is pulled back on fantasy, there can be surprising elements at work. Whether they know it or not, humans prefer to remain delusional. It’s better to believe the fantasies are true.

  Truth can be hard and cold.

  That was risky, sir.

  Quite enlightening, though. Did you know that her mother was interested in the Buddhist temple?

  She meditated. It should come as no surprise.

  But isn’t it interesting that Sura chose it? Perhaps we’re seeing an evolution of her soul.

  Mr. Frost trickles more krill into his mouth and swirls the small crustaceans around his tongue, savoring the salty flavor while Sura and Joe embrace. He watches them hold each other tightly, feeling the elation of attraction in his own chest, as if he’s experiencing the uplifting sensations of courtship and admiration.

  When they exit the wishing room, the holographic images disappear. Mr. Frost sits quietly in the tower, dangling his arm to scratch Max’s head. He feels so present when they are together.

  The human experience.

  The elven experience has faded for Mr. Frost, perhaps a side effect of the root, or the result of two hundred years in isolation. Nevertheless, he finds reason to live when he can share their experience.

  He pulls the tin box from his jacket and fingers a few nuggets. The little box—when pressed against his skin—transfers these memories and experiences into the kernels. Max sits up.

  I’m happy for your experiences, sir, Freeda says, without a hint of sincerity, but there are more important matters at hand. The helpers have an order ready for shipment.

  Mr. Frost closes his eyes. Turn up the music, Freeda.

  A long pause before the volume rises on Bruce Springsteen’s remake of an old Christmas favorite: “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Mr. Frost is a fan of the original song, but the newer versions of old holiday tunes have grown on him lately. Anything that celebrates the season.

  And sells product.

  Soon, another shipment will distribute technology that originated in his toy factory around the world… be wrapped in Christmas paper and placed under trees. He’s not proud of what he’s doing. At one time, he thought he was spreading goodwill and cheer to all mankind, that his gifts would bring small relief to a weary world.

  But the root deceived him.

  It was all part of the plan to spread this special technology around the world. Because when Jack comes back, it will turn against them. It will all be over.

  Prepare my coolsuit, he thinks.

  You need to inspect the product, sir.

  Send Templeton. I’ll be in the wishing room.

  Sir, I don’t think—

  He knows what he’s doing, Freeda. Mr. Frost sprinkles the kernels on the floor for Max, snapping the silver lid closed. I’ll come to the toy factory once I’ve had a little walk.

  Freeda doesn’t answer. He hasn’t been to the wishing room in quite some time. He always returns invigorated, and that’s why it’s there.

  It’s why she lets him go—to keep him fresh, to keep him alive.

  To bring back Jack.

  THE TUNING FORK

  II

  The gift seemed unusual.

  The grandfather watched the boy rip the paper off his Christmas present and pull two tuning forks from the box. He held them up to the firelight. The grandfather saw the gears turning in the boy’s head, his mouth downturned in confusion.

  “What do they do?”

  “Magic,” said the grandfather.

  He took one of the tuning forks from the boy and struck it on the fireplace. The prongs vibrated with a melodious tune. He moved the humming tuning fork near the boy.

  The boy’s eyes widened. His lips formed an “O.”

  His fork started to sing.

  J A C K

  December 13

  Saturday

  They get to stay inside the shelter today as long as they listen to a lady talk about something. It’s raining, so everyone stays.

  Jack sits in the front row, picking at the growing bald patch on his arm. Maybe it’d stop if he didn’t mess with
it, but the skin is so smooth and cold and blue. He pulls out a few fat and curly hairs and holds them under his nose. They don’t smell. He puts them on his tongue, minces them.

  Tastes like… cabbage. Weird.

  “Yo, garbage man. You want to help?” someone shouts.

  “No.” Jack brushes his white tank top. The mustard stain is permanent.

  “That wasn’t a question.”

  “Sounded like one.”

  They mutter while chairs clash. They’re telling on him.

  “Jack,” Willie shouts, “get off your fat cushion and give us a hand.”

  “You want me to do everything?” Jack throws up his hands. “Fine. I’ll do everything.”

  His oversized feet catch the chair next to him and he almost falls. He stomps over to a stack of chairs but can’t reach the top, so he pulls on it until it begins to tilt.

  Willie pulls it back.

  “You want me to help or not?” Jack says.

  “You need to relax, man.” Willie grabs his arm, pulling him off to the side. “You want a sweatshirt or something? You’re freezing.”

  “I’m not cold.”

  “Yeah, you are.” He turns over Jack’s arm and points at the patch. “What’s with that?”

  “I like to pick.”

  “No, I mean the blue skin.”

  “Oh, it’s just… I colored it with… an ink pen thing. I was bored. I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”

  “Why are you cold?”

  “I’m not cold, Willie.”

  “Have you been sneaking into the walk-in freezer? I told you that’s off-limits, Jack. I catch you in the kitchen and you’ll be sleeping in the ditches.”

  Jack gets the Willie-stare: the x-ray truth-teller works on everyone.

  “No. I. Haven’t.” Jack pulls on his shirt “And I don’t appreciate your accusations.”

  Willie’s usually right, but not this time. Jack doesn’t go into the kitchen anymore. If they had sardines, maybe. He’d smell it if they did. And Willie’s double-wrong because Jack doesn’t feel cold. In fact, he feels just fine. He doesn’t need as much light to warm up.

  Jack helps set up the chairs, this time without kicking them. He did it on purpose last time. He slides them side by side until there are five rows, all nice and neat. He plops down in the front row, same seat, with no one on either side of him, and begins to examine the bald patch.

  Willie introduces a lady from United Bay or Lighted Way or something. She’s young, super happy, and her name is Mickey. And Mickey likes to clap; she tries to get them to clap, too.

  She doesn’t stop until they do.

  She talks about volunteering or something. Christmas, probably. That’s all they talk about around here is Christmas. Jack’s already bored. He doesn’t understand why they’re waiting for it—just do it already. If it takes much longer, Jack will fall off the good list.

  If he was Santa, here’s what he’d do. He’d give presents to everyone, the end. That’s what he’d do. What’s with all the judging, waiting, and life lessons? That’s for reality TV.

  And the singing of those wretched songs, oh man, oh man. His ears will bleed if he hears about one more sleigh ride or another walnut. Christmas is all about getting stuff, so let’s just stop pretending it’s about goodwill.

  “So,” Mickey says, “we’ll be needing volunteers at the pet shelter to help with the animals. Does anyone like animals? Anyone?”

  Jack picks at a different stain, this one pink. Ketchup, maybe.

  “The next opportunity is at the park,” the lady says. “We’ll be building a new playground, so you’ll get a chance to use your muscles and contribute to the younger generation. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  Jack might be the only one in the world that doesn’t want a Christmas present. He just wants to chat. Five minutes, that’s all he’s asking. He’s got a feeling, though, that he won’t have to ask any questions. Jack thinks… no, he knows, that he’ll take one look at Claus and remember.

  Just stay on the good list.

  “Okay, next.” Mickey runs her finger down a list. “Anyone like Santa?”

  “ME!” Jack springs out of his seat. “Right here, right here! Santa fan, right here!”

  “All right.” She chuckles. “We have one, that’s good.”

  She backs up. Jack settles down, nodding but still waving.

  “This is a special assignment—”

  “Good list!”

  “—you get to be Santa Claus at the downtown—”

  “Me! That’s me!”

  He doesn’t hear the rest; all he knows is that if he can be Claus, he’ll be vaulted to the top of the good list and never look back. Somehow, that red coat will change him.

  “Not without ID.” Willie steps between Mickey and Jack. “Pick someone else, Mickey.”

  “Wut?” Jack’s lower lip hangs. “Willie, for real? Is this ’cause I kicked the chairs?”

  “It’s because you picked on the lawyer and she left without getting you an ID. Listen, I’m not going to let a bunch of little kids sit on your lap until you get an ID.”

  “And you stink,” Pickett mutters.

  “Shut up,” Jack says.

  “Someone else, Mickey.” Willie crosses his arms.

  “Um.” She slides her finger down the list again. “There’s one he might be able to do… if you think it’s okay.”

  She flashes the clipboard at Willie.

  He looks to where she’s pointing. His hair swings over his eyes while he rubs his chin. “I suppose,” he finally says.

  “No, wait. Tell me first,” Jack says. “What is it?”

  Mickey shows him the clipboard and points at an assignment.

  Jack holds his breath and reads the words in the little box. For a moment, he looks less green. Willie and Mickey begin to look worried.

  “Face!” Jack spins around. “In your face! In your face! In your face!”

  He runs around the room, pointing with both hands, finger-guns popping at each and every resident, kicking empty chairs (on accident this time), nearly falling, stopping near Pickett in the back row, and hauling in one last deep, deep, deep breath—

  “FAAAAACE!”

  He doesn’t hear Willie shout, doesn’t sense Pickett’s rage. He rushes outside, hands up, head turned to the clouds, rain drizzling on his upturned face.

  The red coat.

  For some reason, he’s always wanted to wear the red coat.

  To be good.

  -------------------------

  The live oak grove is north of the house. It’s perched at the top of a slope that overlooks the orchard and rice fields. Sura and Joe stand beneath sprawling limbs as thick as tree trunks. Freshly cut logs are scattered around the remains of a fallen limb.

  “No, you make a fist with this hand.” She demonstrates, pressing her fist to her midsection. “And then rest the other hand on top.”

  “Feels like my fist is wearing a hat.”

  Sura tries not to laugh. She straightens her back, opens her chest. “Smooth steps, slow steps. The body walks. The mind is open.”

  She breathes through her nose, counts her breath, and quickly rests into a meditative state.

  “I can walk slower than that.” He barely moves.

  “Hey, you asked me how to do it.”

  “No, I asked what’s the point.”

  “Well, I’m giving you the bonus answer. Aren’t you lucky?”

  “Charmed. Now is there a chant that’ll make the sand fleas disappear?”

  Joe’s phone goes off. Jonah’s face fills the screen. Joe gives several one-word answers, finishing with, “On my way.”

  He starts loading the firewood into the back of a utility vehicle. Sura helps with the smaller stuff, thinking about Jonah, wondering if he was always angry at the world. He looked just like Joe when he was the same age and Joe could never be as bitter as his dad. It’s impossible.

  Or is he destined to become like his dad
?

  “Has your dad always been like that?” she asks.

  “Like what?”

  “Cranky.”

  Joe rests in the driver seat, thinking a moment. “He’s just quiet and to the point.”

  “You know, he looked just like you when he was your age.”

  “How do you know?”

  Twilight hides her blushing. He doesn’t know she stalked him on the school database. “I saw a picture,” is all she says, resisting the urge to lie.

  “You know you look just like your mom?”

  “I get that all the time.”

  “No, I mean exactly like her.”

  Joe pulls out his phone, moves images around the glass, and taps through folders until a photo comes up. He holds the phone sideways. It’s a picture of her mom and his dad standing in the sunken garden among the boxwoods. He’s leaning on the end of a rake; her hands are clasped in front of her stomach.

  Sura takes the phone.

  She always knew they looked similar, but she didn’t often see photos of her mom when she was sixteen. It’s like looking at her identical twin. She spreads her fingers across the glass, zooms in on their faces, their heads tilted slightly, ever so slightly, towards each other.

  Sura has a dreadful thought. Her mouth starts to move.

  “No,” he says. “He’s not your dad and she’s not my mom.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I asked. You think he’d let me near you if they were?”

  “He doesn’t seem to like me.”

  “Proves my point, doesn’t it? If you were his daughter, he wouldn’t treat you that way.”

  “I don’t like it.” She hands back the phone.

  “It’s sweet.”

  “No, I mean, it’s like looking at us twenty years ago.”

  The phone rings again. Maybe Jonah’s watching. Or maybe his ears are burning.

  “Hop on.” Joe smacks the passenger seat. “Jonah is heating up.”

  “I think I’ll walk.”

  “Why? You think he’ll be mad?”

  Yes. “No, I just don’t want to hurry, that’s all.”

  “You’d rather get thoroughly eaten by sand fleas than ride with me?”