Santa Hunk

by Mortensen, Kirsten

  It was a nice article. The reporter pointed out how nice it was when people come together for the holiday season. Clare had shown us all the true spirit of the season by saving a guy’s life. It also mentioned that some of the witnesses were sure, at first, that Clare had been killed. The impact, when the bus hit her, tossed her about ten feet through the air, apparently. So it was also a Christmas miracle that she wasn’t killed or seriously injured.

  I checked the online version of the article, too.

  It had photos that people on the scene had taken with their cell phones.

  I looked at those photos. Clare in a heap on the street. Clare sitting on the curb with a group of people around her. Clare on a gurney being wheeled to the ambulance.

  I’ve looked at those photos a hundred times since that day.

  There’s no cute guy in any of them.

  I see the other people she’s talked about. The bus driver, the African American guy she pushed out of the way of the bus. Even the worried lady in the knit cap.

  But no cute guy with blue eyes.

  He’s not in the picture, anywhere.

  CLARE: December 9, con’t

  I know Savannah didn’t believe me. I could tell by the look in her eyes.

  And the sad thing is, after a few days went by, I started to disbelieve it a little bit, myself. It started to fade, the way a dream that is so vivid when you first wake up seems less and less real the longer you’re awake.

  But let me write it all down …

  What happened is: the morning after I was hit by a bus, the hospital told me I could go home. There was no sign of any internal injuries or anything. I was one lucky young woman, they said to me.

  So I took a cab home and then Savannah finished her shift and picked up Chinese at Wegmans.

  And we ate, but when I tried to talk about blue eyes, she gave me one of her funny looks.

  “He told me to meet him at Durand Eastman Park,” I said.

  Her response: “That’s odd.” She wanted to know why he didn’t suggest we meet for a cup of coffee or something. “Why would he want to meet you at a park? In December?”

  She didn’t say “he’s probably a serial killer” but I knew what she was thinking.

  I could see that the funny look in her eyes was partly fear.

  Maybe mostly fear.

  So I realized I couldn’t talk about it. Not to Savannah.

  Plus, I was starting to feel a bit uneasy about the whole thing myself.

  You see, up until then, I expected him to show up. Starting with when I was at the hospital. I thought he’d come there to visit me.

  No … that’s not true. What I really thought was that he’d come and take me out of the hospital. Take me home with him.

  Crazy, right?

  He hadn’t told me he’d come for me. But that’s still what I thought. Like: that connection I’d felt with him was so immediate and strong, of course he’d come for me, right?

  I was so convinced of it that all night long, any time I heard anyone come near the doorway to the hospital room I popped up, wide awake, expecting it to be my blue-eyed guy.

  And he didn’t come.

  Then it was time for me to be discharged, and at first I thought: maybe I’ll get a taxi, and have it drop me off downtown, near where I’d been hit by the bus, and I’ll find blue eyes there.

  But I was feeling uneasy.

  Why hadn’t he come?

  What had it meant, when he’d winked at me that way, while I was lying there on the gurney?

  And Savannah was right. It was a bit weird.

  I couldn’t be in love with a guy when I didn’t even know his name.

  And he didn’t know mine.

  I didn’t really think he was a serial killer. But there were a lot of other possibilities.

  Like maybe he was married. No guy that gorgeous could possibly be running around single, right?

  Or maybe he was a real jerk when he wasn’t helping people get up after they’ve been hit by a bus. He was probably a druggie, or a ruthless heartless executive. Or gay, maybe.

  So now my heart was in a big argument with itself.

  Part of my heart knew that I’d met the love of my life—no, the love of beyond-my-life.

  But the other part of my heart thought I was being ridiculous.

  The funny thing is, when Savannah went to work the next afternoon, I realized I was still listening for footsteps in the stairway up to our apartment.

  And then a couple days went by, and I began to think he wasn’t going to come.

  So I started to feel disappointed and let down.

  I thought a lot about what he’d said—about liking trees and about how I could find him at that park, in an oak grove.

  Only now the strangeness was sinking in. It was, like, okay, I don’t know his name and I had this feeling he’d come looking for me, but he told me to look for him … it was like this big mush of thoughts and feelings.

  Oh, I Googled it. Wouldn’t you? I Googled “Oak Grove, Durand Eastman Park.”

  The search didn’t tell me much. There didn’t seem to be a place designated by the park as an official oak grove.

  I found a couple references to a spot called Oak Picnic Grove.

  And I found an article about the history of the park that mentioned another oak grove. The article said it was between Sunset Point and Horseshoe Roads.

  I thought about asking Savannah to drive up with me to check them out.

  But I didn’t—because I was starting to realize how crazy it was.

  Savannah was right.

  He didn’t know my name. Or where I lived. Or anything about me.

  I thought, okay. I was conked on the head or something when that bus hit me.

  It gave me delusions.

  Only now that I was deciding blue eyes was a delusion, it felt like my heart was going to break.

  SAVANNAH

  Okay, so now I have something else to feel guilty about.

  Not only didn’t I believe her, but since I didn’t believe her, I wasn’t there for her while she was going through all this broken heart stuff ...

  L

  CLARE: December 10

  You don’t really “get” the holiday shopping rush unless you work retail.

  It’s insane.

  Fifteen days to Christmas and work is starting to stress me out totally. Every day, it’s the same. You straighten the merchandise displays and five minutes later they look like someone stirred them with a giant egg beater. The check-out lines are ridiculous. And we get no breaks. Every day, by the time I’m done with my shift, my feet hurt, my calves hurt, my head hurts.

  So on Monday, I left work and as I walked out to my car, I realized how cooped-up I’d been feeling.

  I should mention, I work at an Abercrombie. The store is so dark. It’s supposed to be, that’s what gives it atmosphere. And of course there’s music playing constantly. I like the music but little by little, as your shift goes on, you start to feel like you’re trapped. You can’t escape the customers, you can’t escape your co-workers, you can’t escape the music.

  Stepping outside Monday afternoon, I felt almost dizzy it was such a relief.

  And it was snowing.

  I told you already how I feel about snow.

  And it was perfect, Christmas snow: big white fluffy flakes drifting down like they had all the time in the world.

  Everything seemed so quiet and clean and … I don’t know. Uplifted, somehow. Light.

  I started off toward home.

  But the thought of going back to the apartment wasn’t very appealing.

  I’d been inside all day.

  I wanted to be outside in that beautiful snowfall.

  So I thought, well, I’ll just go look for the oak grove.

  Why not?

  That’s what parks are for, right? So people can spend a little time outside with Nature.

  And it’s not like I ever expected to see the blue-eyed man. He wasn
’t going to just hang out there all day every day after we met, waiting for me, right?

  Of course not.

  So I told myself: this wasn’t really about the blue-eyed man at all. I just wanted to spend a little time outside and why not spend it that way?

  CLARE: December 10, con’t

  I guess I’d probably driven through Durand Eastman Park before, but I can’t say as I ever really noticed the trees.

  But this time, I did.

  I got there by driving up 590 and going through the roundabouts and then turning onto Durand Parkway. And that parkway—it’s a beautiful road! It winds through a corner of the park, and there are enormous trees on either side. So it’s like you’re driving through the forest.

  I felt a bit awed by how large and beautiful and otherworldly the trees were, with their graceful branches heavy with snow …

  Durand Parkway connects with Lakeside Drive by Lake Ontario. From there, I turned left onto Log Cabin Road—heading back into the park.

  When I got to a place that seemed like a picnic pavilion I pulled over and parked.

  I figured this had to be Oak Picnic Grove, right?

  And sure enough, there was a huge tree growing in an open area near the pavilion.

  I wondered if it was an oak.

  So I got out and walked over, and around the base of the tree I knelt and pushed some snow aside and cool: I found an oak leaf under the snow.

  “So, you’re an oak,” I said.

  I stood up and looked around. There was nobody else there, which I suppose isn’t surprising, late afternoon on a work day.

  And so that was that.

  My outing was going to be just like that.

  I was going to look at trees and nobody else would be around, and then I’d get into my car and drive back to my apartment and have something to eat, and watch TV, and Savannah would come home and watch TV with me.

  I sighed and got back into my car.

  And for a second I felt so disappointed that I almost didn’t go check for the second oak grove.

  After all, what was the point?

  My life was set on its course. And in a few days, I had a date with Josh Martin. I had no reason to complain.

  So why did I feel so … sad?

  And the thought of going back to that apartment—being back indoors—was almost more than I could take …

  So, silly as it was, I decided I might as well look for the second oak grove. Because at least, that way, I’d be outdoors for a little while longer.

  CLARE: December 10, con’t

  By then it was getting close to dusk.

  To get to the second grove, I had to go back out onto Lakeshore and turn west.

  Horseshoe Road, it turns out, was closed, so I took the next left onto Sunset Point.

  I found a parking area and parked.

  As I stood outside my car and looked around, I started to feel a little better.

  It was so beautiful. How can you feel sad, in a place that is that beautiful?

  And deserted. Just like the last place I’d explored, there was nobody here.

  I had the place to myself.

  I looked at the trees around me. They were covered in snow, their limbs and branches coated with it. The only sound was a single twittering bird and, every so often the distant, muffled swish of a passing car.

  I turned toward Horseshoe Road—the direction where the article said the oak grove was.

  I stepped over the wooden guardrail and into the trees.

  Before me was a gentle gully. I crossed it and climbed the other side and beyond it—

  Well, I don’t know if I’d ever really seen a “grove” before.

  But there was no other way to describe it.

  It was a grove.

  I’d say it was about the size of a football field—so not very big.

  But it was breathtaking.

  How to describe it?

  The trees were so straight, so majestic.

  I knew they had to be oak trees, this time. I didn’t need to look for leaves under the snow. It was how they felt. Your whole life you read about the sturdy oak, the majestic oak, the ancient oak—and here were trees that meant those words, that embodied those words.

  There were dozens and dozens of them, planted in what could have been a pattern but at the same time seemed completely natural.

  I walked under the trees, through the snow, drinking it in.

  I tipped my head back to look up. The limbs of each tree arched up and out and then meshed with the arching limbs of the tree next to it. It reminded me of pictures I’d seen of the interior of old cathedrals in Europe: the stone arches coming together overhead to make an enormous vaulted ceiling.

  I’d never seen anything like it.

  And I couldn’t believe nobody else was there. The snow on the ground around me was smooth and unmarked, except, here and there, dashes of animal tracks.

  Where was everyone? How could such a beautiful place be completely deserted?

  It was funny, to notice that. Because on the one hand, I knew I was alone. No serial killer was lurking in the trees somewhere, watching me, waiting to pounce.

  Even if it was going to be dark, soon, I was safe.

  But on the other hand, it confirmed that Savannah was 100 percent correct. Either I’d imagined the blue-eyed man entirely, or—if he really existed, and had really said I should meet him at the oak grove—he was Loony Tunes.

  And then I happened to glance over to my left, in the direction of the lake.

  And I noticed something strange.

  It was past sunset now, so the ambient light from the sky was fading.

  But one of the trees at the far side of the grove: it was covered in little lights.

  It took me completely by surprise.

  And it’s one of those things that is so unexpected, I didn’t even realize how impossible it was. I thought, oh, look! The town has put up Christmas lights on a tree in the middle of the park!

  It never occurred to me that there was no electric service out there, that far from the road. And really, Clare, why would a town put up Christmas lights in a place like that, where nobody would ever see them?

  Instead I got all excited and walked closer, to get a better view.

  I saw that the tree with the lights on it was bigger than the other trees in the grove. It had an enormous, thick trunk, and its main branches were much closer to the ground, making the tree’s appearance very broad and massive.

  And then, as I got closer, I noticed that there was something odd about the lights. They didn’t look like electric lights. They were too diffuse. They were more like little glowing balls than lights.

  The effect as I got close enough to see the entire tree was overwhelming, it was so beautiful.

  I stopped and stared.

  And then something moved and I looked back toward the trunk of the tree—and there he was.

  The blue-eyed man.

  CLARE: December 10, con’t

  And he was smiling. And he spoke to me.

  “Clare,” he said. “You came.”

  And I was gripped, suddenly, by a quick startle of fear. It was like my mind was suddenly a confused rush of questions: how did you get here? Where did you come from? How did you follow me? I didn’t see anyone following me!

  And then he took a couple steps toward me and I felt my entire body tense, because naturally my instinct was to run. I was going to make a dash for it—try to get away from this crazy person who’d somehow found out I’d left my car and had come into these woods and how had he followed me?

  But I didn’t run.

  Because his eyes were on my eyes, and suddenly my fear was gone.

  Those eyes!

  How well I remembered him, now! That intelligence—that good humor, like he and I were sharing a private joke.

  And he seemed to realize that he’d frightened me. He stopped coming toward me—he stood still, a quiet smile on his lips.

  And I fel
t like he was taking me in—drinking me in, the way I’d been drinking in the beauty of those amazing snow-covered trees.

  And because he’d stopped coming toward me I calmed down and my senses caught up to me. First, of course, there were those eyes that I remembered so well from the day I’d been hit by the bus. And his face—masculine, intelligent, yet gentle. His beard, more of a neat stubble than an actual beard. And lips that looked so soft—so kissable …

  And I noticed also, then, that he was dressed kind of oddly. He was wearing a cloak, for one thing. Who wears a cloak?

  He shrugged the cloak back off his shoulders so that it draped behind his back.

  And his shirt was plain and white, like a Henley kind of, with buttons partway down from his throat. And behind his shoulders (have I mentioned how broad they were?) where the cloak was now folded back I noticed fur—the cloak was fur-lined. And he wore black pants that were sort of loose except gathered again at the bottom where they brushed the tops of his black leather boots.

  And suddenly I was aware of his body and I remembered what he’d felt like that day he’d helped me up from the street, the muscular warmth of him.

  And I had this overwhelming impulse to just fall forward, fall into his arms—

  But then I caught myself.

  I was being crazy. That was crazy.

  “Clare,” he said again, and I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes.

  Crazy.

  “How—how do you know my name?” I said. “How did you get here? There’s no car—no tracks.”

  “I’m here because you believed,” he said.

  Okay, that was odd.

  And quite honestly, the bizarre combination of feelings that kept charging up through my gut was almost more than I could stand.

  I wanted to be there.

  I wanted to be there!

  But was it smart?

  No.

  So I took a little shuffle step backward—away from him. Because I could suddenly hear Savannah’s voice in my ear, warning me that the guy was at best crazy, at worst dangerous, and what was I doing here, exactly? And was I nuts?

  “How did you know my name?” I repeated, and then because I was nervous I didn’t wait for him to answer—I could still hear Savannah, saying I was nuts, reminding me that I knew nothing about the guy. “And, you.” I said. “What’s your name?”