by Pat Cadigan
I was also a little worried. Well, more than a little. We hadn’t raised Scrooge’s ghost; he was there apparently by sheer strength of will. As long as his strength held out—which is to say, as long as he stayed psyched about what he was doing—he’d be fine. But it’s like if you decided to try juggling and somehow just did it—three objects, four objects, even five. You’re all jazzed for a while at discovering this brilliant skill. But you’re not used to it and you start to feel the strain in your arms and shoulders. Then you realize that you went into it without knowing how to pace yourself, how to slow down, or how to keep your muscles from cramping. When it finally dawns on you that you have no idea what you’re doing, you drop everything. And then later, you try to do it again but you can’t figure out how because you just did it the first time without thinking—you get the idea.
Fortunately, Scrooge wasn’t juggling without a net, to mix a metaphor. Even a prima donna like Marley would share the spotlight with him, yielding focus if necessary. Because once the curtain goes up, the show must go on.
Marley pulled out all the stops on his entrance. He was so ghastly-looking, the whole audience gasped as soon as he appeared. The chains were thicker and noisier, the moans were louder and more painful, and his voice was so sepulchral, I was afraid the kids in the audience might start crying. All his emoting out-shined Scrooge sometimes to the point of near-invisibility (although I must admit that when he said, “Mankind was my business!” the hairs on the back of my neck stood up). But he didn’t overwhelm Scrooge completely—he let Scrooge affect him. It was all much more dramatic than it had been in rehearsal and I wondered what the rest of the live cast would make of this.
The rest of the live cast. Some of whom might want to go the men’s room, where we had left Scrooge. I ran back downstairs, although I really had no idea what I was going to do.
The sign on the men’s room door said OUT OF ORDER, USE LADIES’ in Coco’s unmistakable hand. I went in; no legs were visible under the still-closed stall door so I took a look over the top from next door again. Scrooge was now seated in a full lotus. I winced; I’ve never been able to manage a full lotus and I was pretty sure Scrooge couldn’t have, either. But I couldn’t argue with Coco’s solution—it was practical for keeping him hidden and for a little boost on the mystic plane. I just hoped none of the cast got too nosy.
I managed to get back upstairs in time to see Scrooge and Christmas Past flying in a slow circle over the stage before floating gently down together.
Oh my God, I thought, feeling what Coco refers to as a great rush of shit to the heart. It was how I felt when we found out about the curse. Except for the ghosts, there had been no flying by any of the living cast. How the blue blazing seven hells were we going to explain that to anyone? There was a ringing in my ears as I started to black out.
The next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor with Coco propping me up. “You almost fell face first onto the stage!” she whispered. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Scrooge was flying,” I said weakly.
“So he was flying! Get a grip!”
“But how do we explain—”
“Who cares? Pull yourself together or that’ll be the least of our worries!” She dragged me to my feet and pushed me back in the wings so that I wouldn’t upstage anyone with an unscheduled entrance if I did faint.
I tried as hard as I could to pull myself together, but every time I thought I might be steady, Scrooge would do something else only a ghost could do—he’d float in mid-air or walk through a solid object onstage—and I’d nearly wet myself. It was all very well for Coco to throw caution to the winds, I thought, being so intoxicated with the production and Scrooge in particular, who had achieved in his afterlife what had eluded him in real life—i.e., real connection with the rest of the cast, living and otherwise. But I couldn’t take any pleasure in it. Tonight’s triumph would last only until the curtain call. There was a dead body in the men’s room and it couldn’t stay hidden behind an OUT OF ORDER sign forever. And once everyone knew, it would sap all the enjoyment out of what had been a happy evening for everyone.
By the time Scrooge awoke reformed on Christmas morning, I had gone from terrified to numb. Then I discovered I had one last burst of panic in me, when Scrooge was supposed to lift Tiny Tim up in his arms so the boy could deliver the last line of the show: God bless us, everyone!
Ghosts can do a lot of things but manipulating inanimate objects in the material world is dicey—sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. And they can’t touch living people at all. It’s impossible.
I held my breath, wondering what Scrooge was going to do—
—then let it out in a rush when I saw him pick up Tiny Tim and perch him on his shoulder. Tiny Tim smiled beatifically and said, “God bless us, everyone!”, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Even the living cast believed that was what they had just seen onstage.
“Glamour,” Coco said as we watched everyone take their bows. “Come on, illusion-casting is Spells and Whistles 101.”
“That was some pretty major illusion,” I said. “You even fooled Tiny Tim.”
“I got by with a little ghostly help from our friends.”
“How about the dead body in the men’s room?” I asked. “You got a glamour for that, too?”
“No,” she said. “Tact.”
* * *
We kept the cast out of the men’s room by saying one of the toilets had overflowed, and sent them all off to the after-show party in the cafeteria. Then my sister found the fire marshal on duty and had a word with him. After that, it was ridiculously easy.
It shouldn’t have been.
Everyone at the party wanted to know where he was—we put them off, saying he was on the phone with a relative. Finally, the fire marshal said Scrooge had been called away on a family emergency.
Bob Cratchit twigged first, but then, he was a cop, after all. Fortunately, he had the good sense not to spill the beans. I did my best to dodge him; he could talk to Coco, I thought, she was Explanation Woman. I was just going to smile and nod, eat snickerdoodles and gingerbread cookies, drink watery fruit punch out of waxy paper cups (no booze on school property), and wait for the night to be over.
As if. Bob Cratchit ambushed me as I came out of the ladies’ room off the cafeteria. “You’ve got to relax or you’re gonna give the whole thing away.”
“The whole thing?” Oh my God, I thought, what does he know?
He moved so that he was blocking my view of the cafeteria. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You just went white, like you’d seen a ghost.”
The power of speech deserted me. I could only stare up at him with my mouth hanging open.
“You gotta pull it together or everyone’s going to know there’s something wrong,” he told me. And then, unbelievably, he put his arm around my shoulders and walked me back into the ladies’. “Look, I know it’s a shock to find a body, especially when it’s someone you know, but you guys did the absolute right thing.”
“We did?”
“You kept anyone else from finding out what happened to Steve. We can maintain the cover story till after Christmas—”
“We can?” I could hear how stupid I sounded.
“We can,” he said. “After Christmas, we’ll tell everyone he passed away peacefully in his sleep.”
“Who did?” I seemed to be getting stupider by the moment.
“Steve,” Cratchit said patiently. “Scrooge?” He took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “You’re in a state of shock. Maybe you should just go home and lie down.”
“Maybe I should,” I said.
“Yeah, I think that’s best,” he said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten after you like that. You and your sister worked miracles with this play. And I gotta say, Steve gave the performance of a lifetime.”
“He sure did, didn’t he?” Now I felt myself perking up.
“Yeah, he was really something. All t
hat stuff he did with the ghosts, I was blown away just watching from the wings. It must have knocked the audience dead. Damn, bad choice of words,” he added quickly.
“No, it’s okay,” I said, smiling as energy flowed back into me. “And I’m glad you talked to me. I was feeling kinda shell-shocked.”
“Hey, I’d’ve felt the same,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I admire you two, not only for putting on probably the best Christmas show this town has ever seen, but also for making sure what happened to Steve didn’t take the shine off it. If it weren’t for your quick thinking, the only thing anyone would remember about this would be how Steve died on the toilet. He deserves better than that.”
“You all do,” I said. “So let’s go back out there and celebrate.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because I could run you home—”
I shook my head. “Steve deserves better than that.”
* * *
We stayed till the custodial staff called a halt and threw everyone out. The Cratchits invited us over for post-party drinks but we begged off, saying we were exhausted. Mrs. Cratchit looked even more exhausted than we felt, and she was obviously relieved when we said no.
We were too tired even to remove the “projectors” and toss them in the back of the bus. “Tomorrow’s Christmas,” I reminded Coco as we let ourselves into the condo. “Which means we probably won’t be able to get them till the day after.”
“So we’ll stay for Christmas,” she said. “I think I’d rather spend it here rather than on the interstate.”
I went into the living room and found CNN playing to the empty sofa. “Jeez, sis, you gotta be more careful. We don’t want them deducting for the electricity bill,” I said.
“I didn’t leave the TV on,” she said.
“Neither did I.”
We looked at each other, then sat down on the couch while she used the remote. We went through a dozen channels that were off the air. I was about to tell her to give up when suddenly Scrooge’s face was beaming at us, several times larger than life.
“Hey, sorry to leave you a canned message,” he said. “I wanted to say goodbye live and in person—well, in person. Or personally. Or, well, you know what I mean. Anyway, this was some experience. I had my suspicions about you two and your ‘projections’”—his image made air quotes. “I didn’t think they could possibly be that good. I thought there was some kind of trick and I was afraid you guys were gonna take off with the town’s money and maybe a bunch of stuff that wasn’t nailed down and when the curtain went up for the play, we’d all just be standing on stage like dummies, wondering what to do.
“Well, I was right—it was a trick. I just didn’t know what kind. I gotta thank you for saving my dignity. I know it was quite a shock for you. But not any more than it was for me, let me tell ya. I was just minding my own business—doing some business—and all of a sudden, blam! It was like a grenade went off in my chest.
“But as soon as it did, I knew everything—about the ghosts, I mean, that they were real ghosts. And I thought, man, if I can just stay connected to the play and the other actors, including the ghosts, then I won’t let anyone down. And it worked.
“Of course, I had some help. I owe Marley and the Christmases for helping me stay focused. And you two for giving me a chance. I always wanted to be in a Christmas play. Sounds kinda silly, I guess, a big ol’ jarhead wanting to be in a Christmas play like a little kid. It’s just one of those things I always wanted to do but I was too shy. And Christmas is for children of all ages, right?
“Anyway, I’d love to do it again for you, like Marley and the others, but I can’t. I’m supposed to…” he hesitated, looking pained. “I can’t tell you. Just that this is goodbye. Merry Christmas, ladies, and thanks again. Oh, and hey—really sorry about that curse of yours. I don’t think it’s right that you should have to answer for something your great-grandfather did. That really sucks the big green turnip.”
The screen went blank.
“‘The big green turnip’?” I said. “That’s not nearly obscene enough for a Marine.”
“Yeah, but it’s Christmas,” Coco replied. And she was right; it was.
A few hours before sunrise, a surprise blizzard hit and we were snowed in for two days. Despite that, we managed to be gone by the time the news about Steve broke. The Shop-A-Rama website did a big article about him, as well as the play and us (complete with some video the trembling intern had taken). The article, presumably by Mr. Shop-A-Rama, compared Steve Rock to George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life, which I thought was way off. I mean, it was A Christmas Carol, for God’s sake—there were easier parallels. But strained or not, the piece was a tear-jerker and both Coco and I were glad we hadn’t had to experience its effects firsthand.
* * *
In a perfect world—or plane of existence—that would have put paid to at least half of our curse. I mean, jeez, even the guy who died went away happy. Instead, it put us exactly 17.45% to the good, according to the email from the Powers-That-Are (if people only knew how much cloud there is in cloud computing). Well, I have yet to hear about any realm where the scales always balance the way they should. I’ve never known a ghost who wasn’t full of complaints, ours in particular. The way they groan and moan (especially moan), you’d think they were the only ones who ever had to labor under a curse. Like being alive is all just beer and skittles.
Not that I don’t want to be alive, of course. But at least they know exactly why they’ve been cursed. Coco and I won’t find out till we pay it off.
Now is that fair? I ask you!
Copyright (C) 2013 by Pat Cadigan
Art copyright (C) 2013 by Goñi Montes