“Seriously?” I say to Klaus. I can’t believe he stole the cookies.
Margaret looks toward the kitchen and shrieks. She lunges for Pigs as he begins to growl.
It’s enough to send everything over the edge.
Klaus scrambles forward, running in place as his nails claw across the hardwood floor without traction. The setback gives Pigs a head start. He tears down the hallway, running straight for the bedrooms with Klaus chasing after him. Klaus barks so loudly I have to cover my ears as I run after him.
Somewhere behind me I hear Margaret scream at Charlie. “Don’t just stand there. Do something!”
I turn down the hall, thankful I keep the doors closed. But wait, no open doors could be bad news for Pigs. Then I remember one door. Dread rises in me. I don’t know if I should be glad for Pigs to have somewhere to hide, or freaking out that it will be in my mother’s Christmas room, where I got the cloth for Klaus’ bandana.
My eyes adjust halfway down the hall. I see no sign of Klaus or Pigs, but I hear a horrible crash ahead, followed by more barking and a horrible noise—one that reminds me of a baby screaming. My heart pounds in my chest as images from Wild Kingdom fill my mind. I have to save that cat.
I hear Margaret wail. “Pigs! Oh my god, my baby!”
I slam into the doorframe as I try to turn into the room without slowing down first. Inside, I squint against the sunlight blazing through the open curtains. Wait—they aren’t open. They’re gone. Only one remains and Pigs hangs from the top of it, his claws sunk into the fabric.
Klaus stands on his back legs with his front paws planted against the wall. I see his tail wagging just as I hear the sound of fabric beginning to tear. I stumble over a box of Christmas decorations and grab his collar. “Stop it, Klaus!”
He lowers his feet to the ground, but keeps his focus on the cat, staring at Pigs as if the cat is a ripened fruit. I struggle to pull Klaus back, but he doesn’t budge. I can’t believe his strength.
Margaret bursts into the room. I turn as she gasps, her mouth formed in a large “O.” She clambers over the box.
“Nein! Hier!” A deep voice booms through the doorway.
Everyone, including Pigs, freezes in place. I jerk my head around. Reason stands in the doorway. His sudden, massive presence fills the room with silence.
“Hier.” He thunders. Is he speaking German?
Whatever it is, Klaus obeys. He creeps over to Reason with his head hung low in shame. Reason points up the hallway. “Voraus.”
Klaus slinks past him and disappears around the corner.
Beside me, Margaret works at unhooking Pigs’ claws from the curtain. I stand to help her. Together, we free his last paw. She pulls him close to her chest. I can see how fast the poor cat is breathing. She checks his pulse and glares at me.
“Is Pigs okay?” Reason asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.” Margaret’s back faces Reason. She continues to scowl at me. I notice a hint of a smile beginning in the corners of Reason’s mouth.
He steps forward as though he really intends to address the question to Pigs directly, but an unmistakable sound interrupts. It’s a strange gulping belch that can mean only one thing: Pigs is going to puke.
Margaret wastes no time depositing him on the plastic lid of my mother’s Christmas decoration box. His sides bulge, clench, expand, and heave. My throat thickens as I watch him. Soon my eyes begin to water. It goes on forever.
I can’t take it anymore. I gag and run for the door just as he finally vomits.
I hear Margaret baby-talking to Pigs as I move up the hallway. By the time I reach the living room, her voice takes on a more urgent sound. Pigs must be preparing for another puke. I wipe my eyes and try to relax my throat.
Charlie sits on the sofa with his hands folded in his lap. He steals a glance at me and wipes his eyes. A shudder passes through his shoulders...and then another. His pressed lips have turned yellow, while the rest of his face deepens to a scarlet flush. I’m about to ask if he’s okay when a strange noise escapes him. It sounds like a wheeze.
He wipes his eyes again. And the sound comes again. It’s definitely a wheeze, like Muttley from a Hanna Barbra cartoon. I realize, as I watch a vein bulge in his temple, he’s fighting with all he’s got to keep from laughing. Margaret might hear.
He holds a finger to his lips, begging secrecy.
From the hall behind me, I hear her approaching. “Let’s go, Charlie.”
He doesn’t answer. He quickly dries his eyes and composes his face into a mask of concern.
“Charlie!” She implores.
“Yes, dear.” He shakes it off and jumps to his feet just as she appears in the living room. She swivels her head from side to side checking for Klaus then heads straight for the door. The cat watches me from over her shoulder.
“I’m very sorry. Really.” I’m not sure if I speak to Margaret, Pigs, or both.
Margaret doesn’t acknowledge me. Only Charlie does. He shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing the need for any apology. He closes the door gently behind them. Outside, I hear Margaret chide Charlie for not protecting Pigs. Her voice drifts farther away until I can’t hear it anymore. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
A large warm hand covers my shoulder. “I’ll clean up the mess. Is it okay if I go in the kitchen?”
Still stunned, I only nod.
Chapter 6
IN WHAT IS PROBABLY supposed to be an apology, Klaus has sealed himself to me like a third leg. We move in tandem wherever I go. Right now, we’re in the doorway of the spare room, watching Reason reinstall the curtain rod. He’s just finishing up.
The trash can from under the kitchen sink sits in the middle of the room next to a bottle of all-purpose cleaner. A garbage bag full of used paper towels sits nearby, cinched closed and ready for disposal. Something murky has smeared across the inside of the bag. I look away, focusing instead on the room.
Stacks of storage boxes line the walls. Through their clear plastic sides, I see Christmas colors: green, gold, red, and white. My eyes move from box to box, shelf to shelf. I have enough Christmas things here to fill a small retail store on Main Street. I haven’t opened my mother’s Christmas room until today. Beside the window where Reason now works, where Pigs hung for his life, my mother’s writing desk boasts a selection of miniature houses. The rest of the Christmas village remains packed in a box on the opposite side, right where she left them when I found her bent forward, her hand braced on the desk top, too tired to continue. I told her to go lie down—I’d finish it. But after I led her back to bed, I never did. And by the time the medical supply service delivered a hospital bed to our living room four days later, I still hadn’t assembled her Christmas village on the hearth. I swallow and avert my eyes.
My gaze comes to rest on the back pocket of Reason’s jeans—a nicely shaped pocket with a faded square outlining his wallet. I try to tell myself I won’t be here much longer. I’ll sell this house and hold a huge estate sale—or maybe donate everything to charity. The kids at the children’s hospital downtown would appreciate these things in the way my mother would want. My stomach relaxes and, for a moment, lifts the heaviness from my chest.
I struggle to decide if I’ll thank Reason for cleaning up this mess, or if I’ll give him a good lecture about being considerate and giving me advance notice or at least being punctual.
“Good as new.” He turns from the window and looks right at me. My sudden upward glance makes it clear I’ve been gazing at his posterior.
Slow recognition changes his face. At first surprise flashes in his eyes, then crinkles appear. He grins.
Heat rushes into my face. For a moment, I want to disappear. Then I begin to feel dismayed at his amusement. “I wasn’t doing what you think I was doing. I mean, I was thinking about other things. You know, staring off into space.”
He straightens his face.
“I didn’t even notice your backside. No offense.�
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“None taken.” He sticks the screwdriver in his back pocket and scoops up the trash can. His free hand grabs the spray bottle and hangs it on the rim. He hooks his thumb in his belt loop.
“It looks good—the curtains, I mean.”
“Thank you.” The grin returns. He seems so at ease and comfortable it irritates me.
I turn on my heel and leave. Klaus moves out of my way with expert coordination, and together, we head for the kitchen.
I hear Reason return from taking out the trash. I’ve just replaced the bag and returned the can to the cabinet. I try to remain oblivious to him while I sweep the scattered dog treat crumbs into the dustpan, working around where Klaus naps next to me.
Reason’s presence overwhelms me. He stands somewhere behind me as I work. I imagine he watches me as I squat here, so I stand and quickly dump the crumbs in the trash. When I turn, I see he isn’t looking at me at all. He stands next to the counter where he’s placed a small stack of documents. He holds a pen in his hand while thumbing through the pages, drawing small stars next to signature lines.
“I just need you to read over these and sign.” He doesn’t look up as he draws one last star. He neatens the stack of pages before sliding them toward me with a pen lying on top.
I see a business name. It reads “Santa Society” in elegant font. Beneath that, there’s an address in Destin, Florida.
I look up. He’s busy looking at his cell phone. His thumb glides over the screen as he reads. He gives it a quick tap and shoves it in the pocket of a long black wool jacket, one that comes to his upper thigh. I wish he’d been wearing it earlier. In the space between his lapels, I see the top button of his off-white dress shirt is open. I look away quickly and return my attention to the paperwork.
“What is this?” I point the pen at the name at the top of the page.
“It’s the name of my broker.”
“In Florida?”
“Yes. It’s a parent company.” He tugs at his unbuttoned shirt collar as though it’s too tight.
I lower my eyes and scan the contract. It’s just a bunch of legal jargon. By the time I get to the last page, I really have no idea what any of it says. So I start signing.
When I finish my last “Erin Sinclair,” I click the pen, tidy the stack, and slide it all back with the pen resting in top.
Klaus still rests on the floor beside me, head between his front paws and his back legs stretched out behind him. He looks like a huge frog floating in a peaceful pond. You’d think the earlier crisis never happened.
I watch Reason return the pen to his pocket. “What did you say to Klaus when I couldn’t get him away from the window?”
“German.”
“Well, I guessed that much, but how did you know those words—how did you know he’d listen?”
“German sounds strong. I thought it might get his attention.” He runs his hand across the top of his head.
“How do you know German?”
“I don’t really, just training commands. I used to train animals. Still do sometimes.” He meets my eyes.
“But, he seemed to know exactly what you said.” I realize I’ve made more eye contact with him in the past two days than I have with anyone else all year.
“Yeah, I don’t know.” He shrugs his shoulders and adjusts his shirt collar again.
I study him. He smiles at me and scoops up the paper work. I am probably just imagining he’s uncomfortable, just like I imagined Klaus knew those German commands.
“Thanks for the signatures.” He takes a step back.
“Well, I don’t guess we’ll be hearing back from those people.”
He laughs. “Probably not, but no worries. I’ve been getting a lot of inquiries. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me this week.”
I don’t say anything. I want to sell this house, but as always it's feels like a riddle of contradictions. I feel almost glad Klaus ruined today’s showing. What would my mother say to know a hairless cat lives here, one who is—albeit unknowingly—the leader of a one member cult.
Reason clears his throat and continues, “I’m very sorry about your mother’s Christmas room.”
I haven’t told him anything about that room. I search his face. His dark eyes make his serious expression seem intense. He shifts his weight.
“How did you know that?”
“Know what?” He shifts again.
“Whose room—that she called it the Christmas room?”
He smiles. “I didn’t. It’s just that it’s a room with Christmas stuff in it, and it’s in your mother’s house. I just put two and two together.”
Heat returns to my cheeks. It does make sense, put that way. For some reason I keep acting suspicious, like I’m a police investigator. He’s probably beginning to wonder if I have mental issues. After all, I’m obviously selling the house because I’m depressed and can’t let go of my deceased mother. He must be surprised I didn’t have her corpse seated at her desk in the Christmas room.
“Are you okay?” His eyes look so warm. No half-formed smile on his face, no look of amusement. His features resonate with compassion—beautiful compassion.
For a moment, I can’t speak. I just stare.
“Did I say something wrong?” Concern furrows his brow.
“No. It’s just—” I shake my head and swallow against the thickness in my throat. What is it about someone noticing I’m about to cry that makes it so much harder not to? I shake my head, trying to clear out the clutter of emotion. “I’m just not myself…and I haven’t been in a long time. And right now, it just really stands out to me.”
His hand grazes mine with a feather-like touch. “Wanna go for a walk?”
I look at him like he’s crazy. I totally want to climb in my chair, read some more depressing romance, and fall asleep. I can’t imagine myself keeping up my half of social niceties throughout an entire walk. But instead of saying no, I hear myself say, “I don’t know.”
It’s a weak protest.
And so, without a decent excuse to save myself, I find I’m walking out the door with Reason.
Chapter 7
WE PASS CALLIE’S HOUSE where the giant Santa reminds me of a red and white Michelin Man. A small herd of reindeer surround him. On the opposite side of the lawn, a life-sized nativity scene glows with a hidden light. Baby Jesus sleeps in a manger, his face lit perfectly within the circle of Mary and Joseph’s adoration. Three wise men stand back a respectable distance, watching with gifts in hand.
The crisp evening air isn’t quite cold enough to be miserable. My scarf, knitted cap, down vest, and heavy sweater keep me warm enough that I can’t justify making it an excuse to go back home. I try not to imagine what Klaus will do to the house when he wakes up and finds himself alone. Then again, we’re close enough to turn back. Maybe I should use this as an excuse.
“So, what did you do in New York?” He barely leans his shoulder into mine.
“I worked as a Stenographer.”
“Really? Wow. That’s like, what—” He shrugs his shoulders and laughs, “Okay, I don’t really know exactly what. Isn’t it the little machine you type on really fast?”
“Yeah, something like that.” I shrug. “I did court reporting.”
“Well? Come on, don’t sound so bored. That’s really interesting. How’d you get into it?”
I see him out of the corner of my eye. He watches me with curiosity as puffs of breath escape from his smile. I give in. “I call it the Year of Catastrophes. That’s the year I left home. I ran off with a boy—lasted about two months. I had too much pride to ask my mom for money to come home. So, I didn’t tell her I wanted to. I rented a room near a court reporting school. So I enrolled. Then my apartment building burned down, along with my stenography machine.”
His eyes widen and I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it sounds so miserable. “Look, I don’t have any ‘happy’ interesting stories.”
“We all have happy stories. Som
etimes you just have to look a little harder. What did you do after that?”
“The school donated me an old loaner machine. I found another room to rent, and one of my classmates shared clothes with me until I could afford new ones. My mother begged me to come home when I told her about it, but I wouldn’t. I was determined to overcome it on my own. So I practiced nonstop, built my speed, and graduated a year early.”
“Wow. That took a lot of determination.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Because, I’m not. I’ve come home.”
He doesn’t press, and I am thankful. We lapse into a comfortable silence as we pass through the golden halos that encircle the iron streets lights. Everything in Christmasville is meant to evoke nostalgia, which includes lights with fluted poles and Victorian inspired lamp-fixtures. The city even owns and maintains the mailboxes which feature iron posts, lantern shaped boxes, brass letter slots, and rear opening doors. The city council focuses most of their efforts on drawing year round tourism, especially in November and December—the time of year when the city-center explodes with decorations.
All the houses on my street, except for mine, have Christmas lights lining the eaves, windows, and porch rails. Strands of colorful bulbs illuminate shrubbery and trees, wreaths hang from every mailbox and door, and fake candles flicker in each window. I’ll probably get a reminder notice soon.
We turn right and pass from the Historical District into the outskirts of downtown, better known as the Merchant District. In Christmasville, everything is divided into districts, until you leave the city limits. After that, nothing much exists but miles of wilderness. Most people call it “The Wildlands.” I never figured out why.
I presume the rugged emptiness is what inspired the name. During my school years, most all the local children took the name literally. Like those places on old maps declaring, “Here be Monsters,” we imagined creatures and passed on all kinds of spooky stories. But as we grew older, the mystery faded. More of us ventured into it, where we saw nothing but a small mill village and miles of nothing but lava rock and wild sage. The Wildlands lost its intrigue after that.
The Santa Society Page 4