The Storyteller

by Aaron Starmer

  Mr. Dwyer and Mrs. Dwyer, with Kyle in the middle in his wheelchair.

  Snow starting falling as soon as we saw them. If Dad wasn’t there, the silence might have lasted for hours, but he’s allergic to silence. “Merry Christmas,” he said in as close to a jolly voice as he could muster.

  Mr. and Mrs. Dwyer nodded in response.

  “Right back atcha,” Kyle said, and he reached up and pretended to doff his cap, even though he wasn’t wearing a cap. Snow was dusting his dark, slicked-back hair, and go on and strike me with lightning, but I’m gonna be honest again. Cleaned up and sitting down, by the light of the moon, the streetlights, and the luminaries, Kyle Dwyer looked cute.

  “I’m sorry,” Alistair said to no one in particular. To the entire Dwyer family, I suppose.

  Kyle shook his head and started to reply. “Buddy, don’t even worry about—”

  But Alistair cut him off. “No. I’m sorry for everything that you’re going through. All of you. I’m doing whatever I can to help get Charlie back.”

  A sour look swept across Mr. and Mrs. Dwyer’s faces, and Mom leaned over and whispered something about “what Ms. Kern said” into Alistair’s ear.

  “Maybe Santa will drop him down the chimney for us,” Kyle said.

  It was so inappropriate that I cracked a bit of a smile, and I could tell Kyle appreciated the reaction, but I was the only one who found this amusing.

  “Merry Christmas,” Mrs. Dwyer said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

  “And Happy New Year,” Mr. Dwyer added.

  Then they got the hell out of there, pushing Kyle past us and through the fresh snow, leaving a trail of wheel marks that some gullible little tyke will probably end up mistaking for evidence of Santa’s sleigh. I didn’t hear anyone in my family heave a sigh of relief as the Dwyers left, but I know there was relief. Sleighloads of it.

  “Let’s head back,” Mom said.

  So now we’re safe in the cozy Cleary home, away from the assorted awkwardness. Mom and Dad let us open one present before bed. We do this every year. It sort of eases the pressure, like squeezing a little liquid out of a blister, only the blister is our raging desire to rip into packages. Which is nearly unbearable. Every year. Except this one. I haven’t thought much about presents. So when I opened my Christmas Eve one, I was caught off guard.

  I figured it was a book, because it was shaped like a book. And it was a book, but not one to read. Another diary.

  “We know you’ve been writing a lot lately,” Mom said. “Stories and all that. You should keep at it.”

  “Seriously,” I said, running my hand across the leather cover. “How did you know?”

  “We’re parents,” Dad said. “Doesn’t mean we’re clueless.”

  It was only a diary, probably worth about five bucks or so, but the thought really did count in this case. There were so many responses I could have had to that, but my response was to hug them. Both. So tightly.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said. “I’m more than halfway done with the first one.”

  Alistair smiled at me, and man, did it feel like a big brother smile. Again, I don’t know how to explain it, because I’ve never had a big brother, but I have to think that’s how one would smile at me. Tilted head. Raised shoulders. Adoring? Yeah. Kinda aw shucks, look at you, kid.

  When the hugging and smiling was through, Alistair opened his present. It was a Sega Genesis. I get a book of blank pages and this kid gets an entire video gaming system! The world’s best video gaming system at that!

  “Holy snikeys,” I yelped. “Aren’t those impossible to find?”

  “I know people,” Dad said. People who work at Sears or the toy store, I suspect, which aren’t exactly celebrities and politicians, but certainly help when Christmas rolls around.

  “It’s for both of you,” Mom told us. “We figured … well, Alistair used to play the Nintendo over at…”

  She didn’t want to say “Charlie’s house” and she didn’t have to. We could all fill in the blank.

  “Where are the games?” I asked as I pulled the box from Alistair. I was definitely more excited about it than he was.

  “You have to wait until tomorrow for those,” Dad said.

  “What a gyp, right, bro?” I said as I handed the box back to Alistair.

  He smiled again, only this time it seemed forced. “Thank you,” was his only response. It was a tired thank-you, a polite one.

  “No violent games,” Mom said. “That’s my one condition.”

  Hilarious. Mom obviously knows nothing about video games.

  NIGHT

  I’m settling in for the night. A month ago, I could never have imagined this would be how things would end up. I’m wondering about Glen and Mandy, home in their beds, probably excited for Christmas morning, probably not thinking about me at all. I’m wondering about Dorian Loomis, unpacking his truck somewhere, setting out on a mission, probably down the wrong path. I’m wondering about Kyle, who needs his parents to lift him in and out of bed now, who needs his parents to help him onto the toilet. I’m wondering about Debra, the preacher. How much of the original story of Christmas does she really believe? Does she ever doubt her faith? I’m wondering about Jenny Colvin down there in Australia, more than fourteen hours ahead of us Americans. Her presents are probably all unwrapped. That is, if she celebrates Christmas. They celebrate it all over the world, but plenty of people don’t. I’m wondering about all these other kids Alistair mentioned on that tape to Jenny. Boaz was one of them. That’s a peculiar name. Chip and Dot? Sound like cartoon characters to me.

  I’m wondering about Fiona and Charlie, but the problem with wondering about them is my mind goes to the darkest places. I’d rather my mind go somewhere beautiful. So while other kids turn to thoughts of Santa, I’m going to turn my thoughts to Aquavania. I was willing to believe in Santa once. It’s not so strange that I can believe in something else.

  THE KID WHO BELIEVED

  There was once a boy named Ian who was born without the ability to doubt. If you said something to him, anything, he would believe you. “The sky is made of strawberry ice cream,” you might tell him, for instance.

  “Sounds perfectly reasonable,” he would reply. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to carry a waffle cone.”

  The thing about a kid who believes everything is that he’s never disappointed. Because when something turns out to be a lie, he simply believes the next thing you say.

  “Sky ain’t made of ice cream,” someone else might tell him, for instance. “It’s made of molecules and blue junk. Sky stuff.”

  “Hmmm,” he would reply. “Blue junk. Sky stuff. Works for me.”

  Some people called what he had blissful ignorance. It wasn’t that, though. Because he knew a lot of stuff. He was hardly ignorant, only sometimes misinformed. Others called it optimism, but it wasn’t that either. Because he believed bad stuff too. Gullibility was close to what he had, but gullible people often discover their mistakes and wallow in shame. Ian had no shame. Only pure faith.

  It led to some tricky situations. When people had rumors to spread, no matter how vicious or ridiculous, they brought them to Ian. Ian would tell the rumors to everyone he knew, because he liked to share the information he learned. Innocent people were hurt. Lives were thrown off course. Ian became an outcast, someone not to be trusted.

  And yet he trusted everyone.

  One day, Ian was walking down the street when he ran into the Devil. The Devil didn’t introduce himself as the Devil, but he wore a red suit and had hooves for feet. A tail was tucked into his pants leg and flopped and wiggled beneath the fabric like it wanted to escape. Anyone with half a brain would’ve guessed this man was the Devil, but when Ian said, “Hello, sir, my name is Ian. And who might you be?”

  The Devil replied, “My name is … Lou. Lou Cipher.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lou,” Ian said. “What are you up to this fine afternoon?”

  What
the Devil was up to was buying souls. That’s what the Devil does. He goes out and offers people whatever they want and then takes their souls in return. But this is not what he told Ian, because the Devil isn’t the most straightforward fellow. “I’m out shopping for … presents,” he said.

  “Christmas presents?” Ian asked.

  “Sure,” the Devil said. “Why not?”

  “There’s a lovely store around the corner,” Ian said. “They sell all sorts of wonderful things.”

  “I’m terrible with directions,” the Devil said. “Do you mind showing me?”

  “Not at all,” Ian said, and he led the Devil around the corner. Onlookers kept their distance. They didn’t want to be associated with either the gullible, rumor-spreading Ian or the soul-shopping Devil.

  The store was a lovely store indeed, selling gifts and fine foods, but the Devil stopped before they could go inside. “You know what?” he said. “I left all my money at home.”

  “Oh,” Ian said. “That’s a shame. Would you like me to lend you some?”

  “You are so kind,” the Devil said, “but I can’t ask you to do that. If only the store would let me pay in something other than money.”

  “Maybe they will,” Ian said. “What do you have?”

  “Wishes,” the Devil said.

  “Should I go inside and ask them?” Ian said. “They may accept wishes as payment.”

  Usually, this was the point when most people would become intrigued. So, this character has wishes to spend, they would think. I’d like a few wishes myself. Maybe I’ll buy his wishes so that he’ll have the cash to buy presents. A wish is worth more than any cash I have. I’ll come out the winner in the end.

  But Ian wasn’t like most people. When you trust everything and everyone, it’s hard to be greedy. The reason most people are greedy is that most people don’t trust everything and everyone. They fear that if they don’t snatch up all the wealth they can, someone else will beat them to it.

  Ian didn’t have that fear. He didn’t have any fears, actually, because fearing is about doubting. Which should have made the Devil’s job easier, but actually had the opposite effect. The Devil expected greed, fear, and doubt. He relied on it.

  “I don’t think we need to ask if they accept wishes as payment,” the Devil said. “In fact, I know they don’t because it says so right here.”

  He pointed to a CASH ONLY sign on the door. The sign wasn’t there a moment before, but the Devil is known to be a skilled conjurer and he can certainly conjure a CASH ONLY sign.

  “Well, look at that,” Ian said. “You are certainly right. Now we’re in a bit of a pickle, aren’t we?”

  “If only someone needed my wishes,” the Devil said softly, “and had the cash to pay for them.”

  Ian pondered this. What use did he have for wishes? Life for him was quite fine, thank you very much. “I bet there are some kids down at the hospital who could use a wish or two,” he said. “I’m sure their parents would buy them.”

  The Devil was astonished. How was Ian not taking the bait? Surely the Devil could move on to someone else and buy another soul, but this soul was unique. He had never met anyone like Ian. The Devil now wanted his soul more than anything else.

  “You know what?” the Devil said. “My wishes are about to expire. I don’t think I have time to make it to the hospital before they become useless. I need someone nearby or else they’ll go to waste. Hmmm…”

  “Hmmm…” Ian replied, and then, “I got it!”

  “Yes.”

  “Use them yourself!”

  “Oh, but they don’t work that way. I must sell them to someone to make them work. And those Christmas presents I hope to buy? I haven’t told you yet, but they are for the children in the hospital. If only someone nearby would give me money for the wishes, I could buy the children presents and that person could use the wishes however he or she likes. To help the children in the hospital, for instance.”

  “Well, that’s quite an intriguing predicament. If only there were someone…”

  At this point, the Devil was gritting his teeth and scuffing his hooves on the ground. He had never met such a clueless person. His cool demeanor cracked for a moment. He grabbed Ian by the collar and gave him a good shake.

  “Your soul, you fool!” he snarled. “I was going to sell you the first wish for all the money in your pocket. Then when you got a taste of how fantastic wishing is, I was going to sell the second wish for your soul! Most people wish to never grow old or to be always rich or to find love. They’ll sacrifice their souls for such things.”

  “Is that so?” Ian said calmly.

  “But you’re such a simpleton that you didn’t even buy the first wish!”

  “So I’m a simpleton,” Ian said, without even a hint of sarcasm. “News to me, but makes sense.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” the Devil said. “I’m the Devil, you moron. I need your stinkin’ soul. But I can’t have it unless you agree to it. I should just tell you to give me your soul and be done with it. You’re probably so stupid that you would agree.”

  Now, you probably thought this is one of those stories where the hero outwits the Devil, didn’t you? Well, there are too many of those stories already, and the Devil wouldn’t be the Devil if he were constantly outwitted. So no, this isn’t one of those. This is one where the Devil wins.

  “Why didn’t you just say so?” Ian said. “If you need my soul, then you need my soul. I’m happy to give it to you. Only I don’t know where I keep it.”

  The Devil grinned. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’m sort of an expert.”

  Then the Devil transformed into a vapor that swirled in the air and went into Ian’s mouth and up and around to where his soul lived. It tickled Ian’s nose and he sneezed out both his soul and the Devil.

  The Devil transformed back into the hooved man with the red suit, bowed to Ian, and said, “I’d like to say it was a pleasure doing business with you, but…”

  “But what?” Ian asked.

  The Devil shook his head in sympathy and said, “See you in Hell.”

  “Until then,” Ian said, and tipped his hat.

  And the Devil was gone.

  Flash forward to seventy years later. Ian lived a long and healthy life. He married a kind, caring, and tolerant woman named Sophia. They had kids, who had their own kids, all beautiful and with only average gullibility. Ian had done some dangerous things over the years—jumping off bridges, driving too fast, and so on—because of bad advice and peer pressure, but he had also listened to plenty of good advice. He was lucky that the bad didn’t outweigh the good, that most people are honest people if given the chance.

  Sophia was an honest woman, and when she sat by his deathbed, she told Ian, “You’ll do so well in Heaven. Everyone tells the truth there.”

  “But I’m not going to Heaven,” Ian said. “The Devil owns my soul. It’s Hell for me, it seems.”

  Sophia sighed. And smiled. “Me too,” she said.

  “Is that so?” Ian said.

  “It is,” Sophia said. “When I was a young woman, I met the Devil. I was in the hospital and very sick. He sold my parents a wish, a wish that made me better. When I found out how well the wish worked, I wanted another. I sought out the Devil and he sold me a second wish. But this one cost me my soul.”

  “What was the wish?” Ian asked.

  “That I’d fall in love with a man who was honest and listened and always believed in me,” she said as she petted her dear husband’s head.

  “Always believed in you?” Ian asked.

  “In this life and the next,” Sophia whispered as she embraced her husband.

  He whispered back, “I believe you.”

  And that’s when Ian passed away.

  MONDAY, 12/25/1989 (CHRISTMAS)

  AFTERNOON

  I got my best night’s sleep in months last night. Which is funny. I never used to sleep on the night before Christmas. Yes, yes, you guess
ed it. Too many reindeer hooves on the rooftop causing a racket.

  Did you know that Satan is an anagram for Santa? Of course you did, because you’re smart, Stella. Did you know that an anagram is when two words or phrases share the same letters? Like ART, RAT, and TAR? Or SATAN and SANTA?

  Of course you did. How could you not?

  We started opening presents around nine this morning, which is insanely late for us, and it took Mom, already munching on cookies, to get things going. “Well, I’ve never seen such a bunch of lazybones in my entire life,” she said. “There are presents, people. Presents!”

  Mom isn’t one of those people who wears Christmas sweaters all year and has stacks of Christmas records, but the holiday gives her a different kind of joy than it gives the rest of us. For me and Alistair, it’s always been about presents. For Dad, it’s been about watching us get all excited. For Mom, it’s about forgetting. She doesn’t seem to remember any problems on Christmas. At least she pretends not to. Her bedroom could be on fire and she’d close the door and shrug it off with “Let’s have some eggnog.”

  In case you were wondering, Stella, my haul for the year consists of: two sweaters, five books, four tapes, eye shadow (what!), a pocketbook, Rollerblades, a jacket, four Sega games (to share with Alistair), socks, and at least a pound of Sour Patch Kids.

  Alistair got books, tapes, games, and candy too, along with those clothes Mom and I picked out. He seemed to like the clothes just fine. “Snazzy duds,” he said, which is something Dad would say.

  As we were getting to the end of the pile, there was a badly wrapped present sitting near the back of the tree. The box was small and the paper was orange and black, more Halloweeny than Christmasy.

  “Who’s that one for?” Mom asked.

  Dad practically leapt from his chair and snatched it up. “This,” he said as he handed it to me, “is for Keri.”

  I looked at the tag, which was another piece of wrapping paper, cut small and crooked, folded, and taped on. Written on it was: FOR KERRIGAN, LOVE GLEN.

  “How’d this get here?” I asked.

  “He stopped by a few days ago,” Dad said. “Asked if I could slip this under the tree. He’s a thoughtful guy, that Glen.”