Hark! the Herald Angels Scream
Page 2
A couple of idiots who’ve had too much booze or too much dope and decided to prank the neighbors.
All she has to do now…
She opens the bedroom window, drops out the bag, and walks back into the front room, where the two figures stand silent at the window. She strides up to it and raises her voice. “You want wine and food, right?”
No answer. Those unnerving masks stare at her, and as hard as she tries to spot eyeholes, she can’t.
Absinthe. Just the absinthe.
“There’s a bag beneath the back window,” she says. “It has wine and chocolates. Now, if you insist on singing us a damn song, go for it.”
Silence. Then they say in unison, “Give us food. Give us wine. Then our song shall be thine.”
“I did!” Ava’s voice rises. “It’s right outside the window.” She jabs her finger toward the bedroom. “Go get it.”
Neither figure moves.
“Peyton,” Michael whispers.
Ava glances at him.
“It’s Peyton or Chris,” he says. “They’re both at the chalet tonight. They know where we’re staying, and they were there when you talked about the mummers. They set this up.”
He walks to the window. “Peyton sent you, didn’t she? Or Chris.” He glances back at Ava. “Maybe Jory. Your brother knows where we’re staying, doesn’t—?”
The glass smashes. Four hands reach in and grab Michael. Grab and yank him off his feet so fast that he’s sailing out the window before Ava realizes what’s happening.
She snatches at his feet as they fly through, and she catches one, but the mummers easily rip it from her grasp.
She starts scrambling through the window, screaming for them to stop. She’ll give them what they want, whatever they want.
“Give us food. Give us wine. Then our song shall be thine.”
Their voices float back as they cross the snow at an impossible speed, Michael struggling and shouting as they drag him behind.
Ava wheels. Her gaze lights on the bottle. Not good enough. She flies into the kitchen and grabs a knife. Then she races out the door.
* * *
—
They’re gone.
Completely gone.
Ava can’t even find tracks in the snow. She’s been out here for at least twenty minutes, walking and listening and trying to hold it together. Every whistle of the wind or cry of a bird has her jumping, knife raised. She’s long since lost feeling in her feet, but she never considers going back for her boots or coat.
As she walks, she thinks of earlier, envisioning a moonlight walk in the snow.
The perfect cap to a perfect evening.
She swallows back a gasping sob.
When she hears a grunt, she follows it, expecting to find an animal. Instead…
She isn’t sure what she’s seeing at first. The moon has disappeared behind cloud cover, and all she can make out is three figures standing in the forest. When she blinks hard, she sees white pillowcases over the heads of the two mummers. But it isn’t Michael between them. It’s a tree. They’re flanking a tree, and they’re…
Give us food. Give us wine. Then our song shall be thine.
One lifts a glass and takes a drink. The other pushes something into his mouth.
Michael. Where is—?
The cloud passes, and the moonlight shines down, and she sees Michael. He’s tied to the tree. Bound and struggling, grunting against a gag.
Blood streams down his chest, glistening in the moonlight.
The first mummer presses his glass against a cut in Michael’s neck, filling it with blood. The other chomps down on Michael’s arm, ripping out a chunk of flesh and gobbling it down.
Ava runs at them, screaming, “No!”
The mummers stop. They just stop. She’s twenty feet away, running as fast as she can through the snow, and they just stand there, watching her. She sees Michael’s eyes go wide, and he madly shakes his head, howling against the gag, telling her to go, to run.
She raises the knife and charges at the first mummer and—
* * *
—
Ava starts from sleep, gasping for breath, Michael’s name on her lips, her fingers aching, as if she’s still gripping the kitchen knife.
She blinks and stares at the lights of the Christmas tree. Behind her, Michael is reading from A Christmas Carol. A half-finished glass of absinthe rests by her elbow.
She pushes up, blinking harder now, trying to clear her head. The lights seem to glitter and glide, and her ears feel as if they’re stuffed with cotton, every sound distorted.
She turns and sees Michael’s empty glass beside her. And next to it…
Is that the knife? From the kitchen?
She rubs her eyes and sits up. Michael sits cross-legged, his sweatshirt hood pulled up as he reads.
“Michael?”
He turns. His hood falls back, and she sees…
A white pillowcase, crudely drawn face grinning at her.
Michael reaches for the knife.
“Give me food. Give me wine….”
CHRISTMAS IN BARCELONA
SCOTT SMITH
There’s a moment, toward the end of the flight, when the two of you flare up into the sort of argument you haven’t had since your early days together. You’re whispering, because of the other passengers, these strangers who started to hate the two of you while you were still taxiing out from the gate in New York, when the baby—your baby—first began to cry. As the plane sped eastward across the Atlantic, their hatred for you mounted, the baby jiggling first on Tess’s knees, then on yours, then back to Tess’s, and so on, all to no avail: the child crying, howling, shrieking, more or less continuously for the entire flight. And now, as you descend toward Barcelona, Tess’s whispered assault emerges in a hissing sort of gale. Your response is more guttural—half grunt, half cough—but it amounts to the same thing. Each of you is blaming the other for having suggested this trip, which at one point, though it’s difficult for either of you to believe this now, had seemed like such a wonderful idea.
The baby was born the previous April. Such a perfect child. One month in, and he was sleeping through the night. People said he was spoiling you, giving you the wrong impression of parenthood. And it was true: you couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.
For the first six years of your relationship, you and Tess traveled every Christmas. Buenos Aires, Paris, Belize, Prague, Amsterdam, Costa Rica. You both assumed the baby would force an end to this tradition, but as October pivoted into November, and everything about the child continued to seem so effortless, one of you uttered that most dangerous of questions: Why not? You’re certain it was Tess who said these words, and she’s equally confident it was you, and this is what you’re raging about as the plane lowers its landing gear and a foggy-looking Barcelona comes into view beyond the window.
The baby flails in Tess’s arms. Screaming.
It must be the plane, you think. He’ll stop once you’re on the ground. And at first it seems like you might be right. He quiets as you make your way along the Jetway to the terminal, and by the time you’ve reached the baggage claim, he’s sleeping on your shoulder. People who weren’t on the plane with you—people who don’t know any better—smile as they pass: such a sweet-looking child. Tess slips her arm through yours, leans her weight against you, travel-tired, conciliatory. You drop your arm over her shoulder, a silent gesture of contrition, and in the same instant, a buzzer sounds, a door bangs, the conveyer belt jumps into motion, and your flight’s luggage begins to emerge.
Everything is going to be okay.
* * *
—
Or no, maybe not.
Passengers step forward, one after another, to claim their suitcases, then hurry off toward the exit. The crowd dra
ins away, until it’s just you and Tess standing there, your sleeping baby on your shoulder, the same handful of forlorn-looking bags circulating on the belt, unclaimed. You keep waiting, neither of you wanting to be the one to concede what is becoming increasingly irrefutable. Who knows how long you might’ve persisted in this denial had the buzzer not sounded again and the invisible door banged shut and the conveyor belt shuddered to a stop.
The buzzer, the bang, the sudden silence that follows: some part of this sequence yanks the baby back into consciousness. You feel him come awake, a tautening of muscle against your shoulder. He starts to howl again. Without a word, you hand him to Tess. Then you stride off through the maze of conveyor belts toward an official-looking counter, where a woman sends you to another floor, where a man in turn redirects you back to the original floor, but to a different counter, and finally, after more than an hour of ping-ponging like this through the terminal, you receive formal confirmation: your bags did not arrive.
They could be in Frankfurt.
Or London.
Or possibly Rome.
The only thing that any of the airline’s representatives can agree upon is that wherever your bags might be, it’s definitely not Barcelona. Off and on, as you wander the airport, searching for assistance, you hear your child crying, somewhere in the crowd.
Invisible, but undeniably yours.
The airline promises to contact you as soon as they find your missing luggage. Someone will deliver the bags to your hotel. This might be later today. Or, more likely, tomorrow. But since tomorrow is Christmas, it might also not be until the day after tomorrow. But since the day after tomorrow is Sunday, it’s conceivable that it might not be until the day after the day after tomorrow. The various representatives assure you they are extremely sorry for the inconvenience. One of them gives you a slip of paper that will grant you entry to the airline’s Premiere Access Club. Another hands you two free-drink vouchers.
* * *
—
You text Tess, arrange to meet her at the taxi stand.
* * *
—
The baby is still crying.
Loudly enough, in fact, for the first driver to wave you off.
He’s smiling, good-humored, but still: it feels like an affront. His job is to ferry passengers to their destinations in the city, and he won’t take you. You start to protest, in English, since you don’t speak Spanish, but the driver just keeps smiling, holding up his hands, palms-out, pushing you and your screaming child away from his car. You’re saved by a sharp whistle: another driver has pulled to the curb, stepped out of his taxi. He waves for you to approach, opens the cab’s rear door, gestures for you to get in, and for the second time since you left New York, the baby falls quiet.
Once again, that thought arises—a pat on your hand: Everything is going to be okay.
The driver is a short, voluble young man, with a shaved head, a five-day beard. He smiles in the rearview mirror at you and Tess, says something in Spanish. Tess smiles, says something back, and he laughs, and responds, and you say: “What’s he saying?”
Tess ignores you, leaning forward, the two of them speaking rapidly to each other. Tess’s gestures change when she speaks Spanish, become more sweeping and exaggerated, like an actress in a silent movie. It seems like she and the driver are talking about the baby, who has fallen asleep now, with his usual abruptness, strapped into his car seat between you and Tess. You shut your eyes. Perhaps you nod off for a moment, too, because when you open them again something has shifted. The driver has stopped smiling; the tone of Tess’s Spanish has grown heated. The way she’s emphasizing her words, with hard little finger-taps against the driver’s headrest, makes you want to reach for her hand and hold it. When the driver responds, his voice doubles in volume. He keeps looking at you in the rearview mirror, as if you’re part of this too, shaking his fist at you. Tess makes a scoffing sound, utters a string of words that even you can tell must be an insult, and then the driver brakes, pulls the taxi to the curb, gestures for you both to climb out. Tess doesn’t protest; she pushes open the door, spills onto the street, stands there, staring off, with her arms folded across her chest, while the driver continues to harangue you, urging you from the cab. You fumble with the baby’s car seat, unbuckling it, but too slowly for the driver. He starts to poke at his horn in impatience, short bursts—a man slapping his palm against a door.
* * *
—
From your pre-trip web browsing, it seems clear you’re not in the same neighborhood as your hotel. There’s an edgy, industrial feel to the buildings. Tess appears to know where you are, or at least which direction you need to head in, because she’s already in motion, striding up the sidewalk with an air of assurance.
You follow her, the baby’s car seat clamped under your arm. Somehow the child has managed to sleep through all of this commotion—the raised voices, the horn, the jostling as you wrestled him out of the cab.
Tess stops on a corner, allows you to catch up.
There are so many questions you could ask her at this point.
You could ask: “Where are we?” Or: “How far to the hotel?” Or maybe just: “Are you okay?”
You could tell her that you love her.
Or you could even say nothing at all, just put your arm around her waist, kiss the top of her head.
Only an idiot would ask, with a peevish, aggrieved tone: “What did you say to him?”
You’re an idiot.
Tess turns, crosses the street, starts up the next block.
You hurry after her.
Perhaps it’s not as far as it seems. Perhaps it’s only a mile or so that the two of you walk like this, Tess ten strides ahead of you. But it feels much longer. A blister begins to form on your left heel, and you start to limp, possibly with a slight degree of exaggeration, though for whose benefit it would be hard to say, since Tess doesn’t glance back.
Not once.
It’s almost noon when you reach your hotel.
Both you and Tess had hoped to sleep on the flight over, but the baby’s distress had made this impossible. Aside from your brief head-bob in the cab, you’ve been awake for twenty-five hours.
* * *
—
Tess has an email from the hotel, which seems to assure the two of you that you’ll be allowed to check in early. But when she shows the email to the woman at the front desk, the woman points out that this isn’t actually what the email says. The email assures the two of you that the hotel will do everything possible to enable an early check-in. But if there are no rooms free, then obviously there is nothing possible to be done.
There are no rooms free.
You and Tess take this news surprisingly well. The woman behind the front desk has a kind smile. The baby is still sleeping. There are comfortable armchairs in the lobby. Complimentary tea and coffee is available. Doughnuts, too.
Tess settles into one of the chairs. You pour a cup of tea, wrap a doughnut in a paper napkin, and bring both to her—a peace offering she accepts with something that isn’t quite a smile, but close enough to feel like one. You sit across from her, a low table between you. The baby is in his car seat, on the floor at your feet. You feel the same thought stirring—everything is going to be okay—but this time you have the wisdom to resist its lure. You’ve learned your lesson; you’re not going to hex things again. Pleased with yourself, you settle more deeply into the big chair, and as you lift your foot to cross your legs, the toe of your shoe nicks the car seat, jostling the baby awake.
The open mouth, the sharp inhalation…
In the instant before the baby begins to cry, you glimpse Tess, staring at you with a look of loathing.
The lobby has a high ceiling, a marble floor: the child’s screams echo off the hard surfaces, doubling and redoubling. You take him out of his car seat, bounce
him on your knee. You can sense people turning to stare, and you make a show of checking the baby’s diaper. Five minutes pass. When you see the concierge start in your direction, you know what he’s going to say. There are the other guests to consider. If you can’t quiet your child, perhaps you could find somewhere else to wait until your room is ready?
* * *
—
This is how you end up out on the street again, with the baby in a pouch on your chest. Tess remains in the lobby, sipping her tea, nibbling her doughnut, dozing in her armchair. If it weren’t for the blister on your heel, you probably wouldn’t harbor any ill feelings over this arrangement. You’d feel chivalrous. But there is the blister on your heel. There’s also the weather, which has turned wet: fifty degrees, with a misty drizzle that seems to carry a faint smell of sewage.
You’re worried about getting lost, so you walk in a manner that always keeps the hotel in sight: you circle it, never straying more than a block or two away. The rain gradually soaks through your shoes. Your socks. Your blister tears open, and your limp grows proportionately more dramatic.
After nearly an hour of this, the baby is still crying.
You reenter the hotel, pushing through the revolving door, and find Tess standing by the elevators with an impatient expression. She’s holding a key card in one hand, a half-eaten doughnut in the other. “Where have you been?” she asks. “I’ve been texting you.” She utters these words with an air of exasperation, as if she assumes you must’ve spent the past sixty minutes sipping whiskey in the hotel bar.
The fury that her tone elicits in you is too intense to permit speech, and this is an excellent thing—a blessing. Nothing good would come from you being able to put your feelings into words at this moment. Nothing at all.
Your room is ready.
You tell yourself that this is the only thing that matters, and then you climb onto the elevator with Tess and your wailing baby.