The Santa Society

by Kristine McCord

  The

  Santa Society

  by

  Kristine McCord

  Blue Azalea Press

  Copyright © 2013 by Kristine McCord

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. Any references to real people, historical events, or real locales are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief excerpts for review purposes.

  First Edition, October 2013

  ISBN: 978-0-9890741-2-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9890741-3-1

  Library of Congress: 2013950222

  Cover Design by Blue Azalea Press

  Cover Images by Coka/Shutterstock (man) and

  Josh Anon/Shutterstock (snow/cabin scene)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  To Hunter, Logan, William, and Alyssa~ I love you.

  Chapter 1

  I TURNED 30 YEARS OLD the day I killed my mother. It was Christmas—officially the worst day of my life. I haven’t slept much since then. My heart aches, and now I’m stuck here alone in Christmasville, where joy, peace, and yuletides pervade everything. Except me. I’m just a hollow participant—a recluse. And I hate Christmas.

  End of story.

  At least, I wish it could be that simple. Soon, a year will have passed. Late November has almost completed its colorful passage into the bereavement of winter. All around me, I see an artist’s pallet. Burnt orange, flaming ruby, and vivid gold adorn every tree and blade of grass like jewels.

  A Milky Way wrapper tumbles across the pavement, and I kick it aside. My eyes don't care about beauty, but if they did, they would compare these garnishments to earrings and pendants worn by a proud and loving earth as she heralds the nearness of the biggest day of the year—which, of course, is Christmas, the finale of life embodied in birth, celebration, and the joy of giving.

  For me, it’s the anniversary of the worst day of my life, the day I shouldn’t have been born, and the day I honored the only wish on my mother’s Christmas list: to die at home. I should have burned the list.

  As I near the coffee shop, I step over a leash tied to a tree. A large dog wiggles his rear end at me, as though I’ll scratch his ears and indulge in his silky fluff of cinnamon colored fur. I stumble as he wraps his leash around my legs mid-stride.

  “He loves to make new friends.” The deepest voice I’ve ever heard comes out of nowhere. “Looks like he caught you.” He laughs.

  I turn to see a tall man leaning against the corner of the old building that houses the coffee shop. He wears a black cowboy hat, stands with one knee lifted just enough to rest the bottom of his shoe on the wall, and holds a large paper cup in his right hand. Wisps of steam rise out of the plastic hole in the lid, reminding me of chimney smoke. Just above his head, a hand painted message stretches across the umber bricks: Fall in Love with Mistletoe Blend. He wears the words like a second hat.

  I wonder how I missed seeing him but abandon the thought as a cold wet nose nuzzles my palm. The dog gazes up at me with gigantic eyes. His nose and mouth are pink and over pronounced—like a primate. He wears an intense expression, as if he fancies himself a person and expects a proper conversation. I find it hard not to speak to him.

  “Hi, there.” I bend down to scratch behind his ear.

  The dog bows his head to me, a quick maneuver that mimics a formal greeting. It leaves me wondering if he did it intentionally. I blink at him.

  He looks at my feet with a sharp downward cast then lifts his large head just as sharply to meet my eyes again. He waits, alert and expectant. What a strange face for a dog. For a moment, I begin to feel imposed upon by his intensity. I just wanted a cup of coffee, now I’m caught in a social interaction, as though this dog and I know each other, as though I’ve run into him in the aisle of a grocery store.

  I squat down. Immediately, I know I’ve chosen the correct response. He leans into me and rests his head on my shoulder. From this angle, he’s taller than me.

  The man laughs again. “He likes you.”

  Despite myself, I relax into his fur. I haven't been in such close proximity to another living being since—I close my eyes and see my mother’s face. I feel my arms holding her, wanting to keep her with me and never let her go. Just as my chest seizes with the sorrow that haunts me, I shove her memory away with as much force as I can summon.

  As I open my eyes, I sit back on my heels. The dog raises his head and looks me right in the eye. Somehow, he knows what I’ve done.

  He does not turn his back on me, though. He waits.

  I still haven’t spoken to the man who leans on the wall. I hear his shoe scuff the pavement and realize he’s taken a few steps closer.

  I look up. “What kind of dog is this?”

  “The kind who knows a lot.” For a moment, laugh lines swallow his dark eyes. When his face relaxes, curiosity shapes them round like glittering onyx. I realize he’s probably not much older than me, maybe even my age.

  “No, I mean, what breed?” I clarify, trying to decide if he means to be funny or serious.

  “Oh, well that’s a good question. No idea.”

  I turn back to the dog and rub the sides of his face in different directions. It gives him a mushy look like play-dough in my hands. He closes his eyes.

  “He looks like a mastiff. I had one once, as a kid. He’s the color of a chocolate lab, though.”

  “I agree,” he says.

  “Well, I better get going.” I glance at my watch and see I’ve wasted more time than I should’ve. The early bird special ends in five minutes. I give the dog one last pat on his head. He watches me rise to my feet with a confused look on his face as though he expected me to remain here on the sidewalk, petting him forever.

  I nod at the man, trying to be polite. I don’t look at his eyes this time, only his chin.

  He gives me another quick smile and checks his own watch. It looks like an antique—one of those manual ones with gold sides and a numbered face. It’s attached to a leather band with a knob on the side for winding. He lets go of his sleeve and the watch disappears.

  “Me too.” He reaches for the front of his cowboy hat and straightens it with a sharp tug then holds his arm out in a gentlemanly fashion, allowing me to go first.

  I pull my scarf tighter and step around the dog as I continue on to the door. I can see through the window that it’s empty of patrons. Not many people get up this early on a Saturday, which is exactly why I’m here in the first place.

  As I reach for the door, I see the dog’s reflection in the window of the storefront. He watches me from behind a
s the man leans down to give him a quick pat and speaks to him in a low voice. I can’t make out what he says. Then, instead of untying his dog from the tree, he tosses his cup in the trash can and walks away—alone. He passes behind me as he heads up the street, in the direction of town square.

  Before I can stop myself, I call after him. “Hey—why’re you leaving him here?”

  He turns back just as he presses the crosswalk button at the corner.

  “Because he doesn’t belong to me.” He gives me another one of his crinkly-eyed smiles.

  “He doesn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  I glance around the street. It’s still empty except for the three of us. Is he kidding?

  “Oh.” My voice deflates like a balloon.

  “He’s been out here a while. He’s probably getting cold. Maybe you should take him home.”

  “No, somebody put him here. I’m sure they’ll come back to get him soon.”

  “Maybe so.” He shrugs and looks around. “And if not, you can reconsider. He seems to like you.”

  “Why can’t you take him home? You were here first.” I tense as I realize he’s leaving me stuck with this dog situation, abandoned.

  “I would, but I have enough animals. And I stay pretty busy.”

  “Well, I need to sell my house and move. Besides, I don’t even want a dog.”

  The dog looks at me with round amber eyes, and I feel guilty for the insult. Worse, I realize he’s shivering. The tag on his collar makes a soft clinking sound. A tag. That’s good. There’ll be a number on it—probably even an address. No big deal.

  I hear the man approach, stepping through leaves on the sidewalk. When I turn to look, I see him dig in his back pocket. He pulls out some kind of small silver case with scroll work engraved on it. He opens it and extracts a cream colored rectangle. He offers it to me. It’s a business card.

  “If you need assistance selling your home, I’d be pleased to offer my services. I specialize in hard to sell properties.”

  I bet you do. I eye him with irritation for a long moment before I accept the card. He isn’t willing to stick and help this dog, but he’s more than willing to sell my house.

  “Thanks.” I shove it in my pocket without looking at it.

  “You’re very welcome.” He turns to walk away again. When he reaches the crosswalk, I see it has timed perfectly for his return. It now displays a green man walking inside the black box. He calls back to me as he makes his way across the street. “And hey, don’t worry about the dog. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing here.”

  I hear him chuckle like he said something funny, but I turn my back on both of them. I have one minute left to get a half-price coffee. I’m not wasting it.

  An hour has passed. I sip the last dregs of my second overly sweetened coffee, knowing that the dog watches me as I drink. I still feel his eyes on me, even though half an hour ago I moved to another chair so my back faces him. It’s hard to indulge in hot coffee when a shivering dog stares at you from the cold side of a window.

  Not a soul has entered the shop other than me. I sit here alone watching the large woman who owns the place wipe the counter above the pastry displays. She hums while she works, her hair bound in a massive bun and, like usual, it’s shrouded in a white net—an entire hair net devoted to one bun. We never speak much, but she always smiles. If I could still be a woman who valued eye contact, I would probably know more about her. As it is, I know only that three of me could fit into her apron, that she speaks with a heavy accent, and she yells in Italian at a small, skinny man who works in the back.

  The dog has a tag, I remind myself. Thoughts of not being able to get in contact with the owner nag at me. I am not sure why I feel this is my problem. I didn’t put him there. I don’t even know him.

  A thought suddenly occurs to me.

  “Excuse me,” I call to the woman who now cleans the tables around me, even though no one’s used them since I’ve been here.

  She looks up at me as though I am unexpected, a discovery she sees for the first time. She wipes at the sweat above her lip and eyes me curiously. “Yes”

  “That dog outside, is he yours?”

  She cranes her neck to see where I point.

  “Ohhh.” She smiles and her cheeks expand at her jaw-line like rising muffin tops. “Ohhh, nooo. Not my dog. Prolly cold out there, no?”

  So much for that idea. “Did you see who put him there?”

  “Ohhh, nooo. I see nobody put him. I just look, and he is there.” She motions with her hands to emphasize her surprise. The washcloth dangles from her fist as she clucks her tongue and turns away. Now I’m eye level with her backside as she wipes the last table. Only mine remains. When she finishes, she shuffles away and disappears through the kitchen door.

  I lift my cup and realize I’ve already taken the last sip. I don’t have any further reason to sit here, except for the one I’m avoiding, tied to the tree outside.

  I rise from my chair and gather my trash from the table, shoving used sugar and creamer packets into one of the empty cups. I toss it all in the trash and head for the door. The bell jingles, and the dog gets to his feet to watch me step out onto the sidewalk.

  I survey the area again but still don’t see anyone around. I focus on his tag, crossing the space between us without looking directly at his face. This is a task, a quick duty. That’s all.

  I lift the red tag to read it. Someone has engraved the name, Klaus, on it. I say it in my mind like “house” but with a K sound. I flip it over and my heart sinks. It’s blank.

  “Great,” I say out loud. His ears perk up. He gives me that queer once-over again, as though he reads me. I realize his leash has slipped to the base of the tree. Whoever tied him here didn’t do it very securely. They only wrapped it around the trunk.

  I can just walk home now—pretend I’ve never met this dog and have no idea he shivers out here in the cold, barely tied to a tree. At least there’s no traffic yet. And I’ve done worse things. Like the cancer decision.

  I should’ve talked my mother out of dying, especially dying at home. Nothing about it felt dignified. I can’t get it out of my head. I should’ve taken her to the hospital—done something. But I didn’t. So this—leaving this dog here for someone else to deal with—it’s not that big of a deal.

  I start walking home.

  Behind me I hear silence…then, the faint clink of a dog tag. I know, even before I feel his soft snout brush my hand. He’s following me.

  Chapter 2

  THE HOUSE WATCHES US through the maple trees as we approach. Its dark window-eyes peek through branches and russet leaves as we near the concrete stairway that leads to my yard. Klaus keeps pace beside me, dragging his leash on the pavement. I hear the scratchy crackle of leaves as it sweeps through them.

  I refuse to hold that leash. If he belongs to me, let it be of his own volition—not mine. This way, when he sees what a mess of a person he’s chosen, it won’t be my fault. And if his owner should turn up, I’ll be able to say with a clean conscience I didn’t steal him from the tree outside the coffee shop. Already, I wonder if someone has returned to find him missing. In my mind, I imagine the robust Italian woman describing me to a police officer in her broken English.

  “She only come early. Dark hair. Very stick, no meat. Always wear one—what you say—beanie? Black scarf, other clothes is—well—plain.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t go there again or else march him right back and tie him to the tree, just like I found him.

  That isn’t what I do, though. I climb the stairs and follow the walkway leading to the porch steps. Leaves have blown through the rails to gather in drifts like colored paper snow around the bowed legs of my mother’s white rocking chairs. I haven’t moved them since I came back here last fall. They still lean face-first against the wall, upturned and out of service.

  Voices drift over from the neighbor’s yard. The man of the house stands on a ladder, hanging strings of Chris
tmas lights along the eaves. His wife and young daughter unfold an inflatable snowman in the grass while plastic reindeer gather around them. I can see them over the tops of the bitter cherry shrubs.

  Klaus nudges my leg as if he has a duty to keep me focused. I slip my hand in my jacket pocket to get my keys but find only small bits of lint beaded in the seams. Dread passes over me. I check the other side. Soon, I am moving my hands over my jean pockets, patting at them repeatedly, knowing but not wanting to believe I don’t have my keys.

  I grab at the door handle with a small bit of hope. Maybe I forgot to lock it. The cold metal knob doesn’t budge.

  Klaus makes a loud huff and plops his bottom down on the whitewashed floorboards.

  I cut my eyes in his direction. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m only human.”

  He returns my sideways look, then lies down and looks away. I begin pacing. There has to be a spare. I try to remember. She must’ve kept one out here somewhere. My mother stayed prepared, always.

  The brick. She kept it under there once a long time ago.

  I hurry down the steps toward the border that surrounds the overgrown bushes in front of the house. One brick sits askew, raised a little higher. I snatch it up. Freshly exposed worms and pill bugs scurry over the moist soil looking for hiding places. I check the bottom of the brick, hoping for a patch of black tape, but instead I find a shriveled spider and some kind of cocoon. Several bricks later, I’ve found nothing but more bugs. I shove the bricks back in place. I don’t even have a cell phone with me. I left it inside.

  My shoulders slump, and I blow out a gust of breath. It’s been a long time since I felt this screwed.

  Klaus watches me from the porch, his head resting on his front paws.

  Cold moisture seeps through my jeans as I continue to kneel in the grass. I could go check the back door and the windows. I try to hope, even though I am a meticulous nighttime lock-checker, and I know I haven’t opened any of the windows this past year.