Relief changed the shape of her son’s face. Of course his mother was telling the truth. What was it her dad used to say about kids? Oh, yes: Mother is God to child. Gods do not lie. Not when you’re three.
He hugged her hard, his tiny arms moving around her neck. He said something, but she couldn’t make out the words.
“I love you, Hunter. Okay? Mommy loves you so much.”
She didn’t cry, but it was close.
It was always close.
No day care that day. She was sort of handicapped but in the best possible way. There were treats, and in no time her baby boy had forgotten all about his nightmares.
Deanna remembered them, of course. That, too, was part of being a parent. Keeping the nightmares at bay.
Jeannie showed up just around lunchtime and borrowed Deanna’s keys for exactly long enough to transfer all the presents from her own trunk to her sister’s car. While she did that, Deanna made coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches with crisp bacon. Decadent, but screw that, it was the holidays. She made a promise to include dieting in her New Year’s resolutions.
While they ate food and drank much-needed caffeine, Jeannie chatted about what was left to do in the day. The next afternoon they were supposed to meet at their parents’ home for dinner. “Why is it called ‘dinner’ when we don’t have it at dinnertime? Shouldn’t it be called Christmas lunch?” Jeannie’s brow was wrinkled with her deep thought expression again. Of course that same expression covered almost everything but her little sister’s smile.
“I think it’s one of those traditions that was lost over the centuries, you know? Just something that started out and now nobody understands it.” She smiled at her little sister. “That, or it’s a good excuse to nibble all the livelong day.”
“I think it’s the nibbles.” Jeannie looked at Deanna’s neck for a long moment. “Cool necklace.”
She’d forgotten it was there and for just a moment Deanna felt a flash of guilt, though she had done nothing at all wrong. Her fingers touched the small figure of a man made from holiday greenery.
“Ella gave it to me.” She shook her head and leaned in to whisper. “Which kind of makes me feel like an asshole, because I didn’t get her anything.”
Jeannie’s smile was slightly frosty. “Oh. Well, that’s very pretty.”
“What did she get you?”
“Nothing. Not so far at least. But we’re supposed to meet up tonight for a drink after dinner.”
“Well, maybe I can get something set up for her and you can give it to her for me? I can’t imagine I’ll see her before Christmas.” She brushed aside her sister’s cold expression. She had done nothing at all to promote the gift. She’d only met the woman twice, for Christ’s sake. “I think it’s a pity gift, because I was bawling my eyes out yesterday. Still, I should get something for her, shouldn’t I? Don’t you think?”
Amazing how a few words could change a perspective. Jeannie warmed up again, having an excuse for why the woman she was interested in was giving her sister presents. That old scar about Matt was still there and apparently it was still tender. That was okay. Any grief she received over that was probably well deserved.
Jeannie reached over and ran her fingers across the tiny man on the necklace. “That’s beautiful.”
“It is. I can’t imagine what she’s getting for you. If this is an example of her work, it must be something special.”
Jeannie smiled. “Well, I told her what I want. You never know.”
Before Jeannie left, Deanna ran back into her bedroom, grabbed the wine and cheese sample, and wrapped it. Because she actually had a lovely wicker picnic basket, she went ahead and slipped the wrapped package inside of that and handed the entire affair to Jeannie. The tag on the basket said To Ella and Jeannie! Merry Christmas!
Jeannie gave her a peck on the cheek and told her she’d see her in the morning. The plan was to go together to their parents’ house, the better to face their passive-aggressive mom and dad as a united front.
It was the holidays. Best to be prepared for the emotional bloodshed.
* * *
—
After the munchkins were all tucked away, Deanna went out to the car and pulled out all of the packages Jeannie had stowed away for her. She thanked God for her sister again, and then started placing the gifts. There were a few in there with different paper and labeled for her. Jeannie was the best.
She put her presents for Jeannie under the tree as well. They’d do an exchange before going to their parents’ house.
The winds that had been snapping around the house all day were continuing and as they shook the structure again, the lights flickered for a moment.
Perfect. Just what she wanted for the holidays. A little blackout or two, to keep things properly edgy. The lights on the tree flickered once, then again, and then faded to black. Out on the street the lights were gone, too. The world fell to complete darkness.
Thirty seconds later, as she was reaching for her phone to try the flashlight function, everything came back on.
Outside the winds were shrieking again. Deanna looked at the phone for a second and then sent Jeannie a text message: Power outages. Yay.
Jeannie texted back: Nothing here. You okay?
Yeah. Didn’t bother the kiddos. So we’re good.
There was a long silence and then: See you in the morning. Will bring coffee.
She was about to text back a snarky comment about her Mr. Coffee working just fine when someone knocked at the door.
Nine o’clock at night and someone was knocking. If it was carolers, she might have to throw a pitcher of cold water at them.
A peek through the window showed nothing, but Deanna answered anyway. There was no one at the door. She frowned. No footprints at the door, either. Obviously it had to be the wind.
That didn’t stop the shivers. For a second she felt a deep and unsettling wave of déjà vu. No, she thought. Last time there were boot prints. Military-style, just like Matt’s. Oh, yes, there it was, goose flesh all over her back, neck, and arms.
That last Christmas together, Matt had been at his worst. Home for three weeks and everything started out so nicely. He was happy and he was smiling, even if he was a little quiet. He held his baby son in his arms for the first time ever and he cried a few small tears, smiling the whole time.
But by the end of his stay, the anger had shown up. What was he angry about? Everything, she supposed. He was angry because he was stationed in the Middle East. He was angry because he’d missed his son’s birth. He was angry because all three of his sons were too damned noisy for his liking. He was angry, he was broken, and he was okay with making sure she knew about it. He only slapped her once, that was at the end of his stay, but she couldn’t really call the time they’d shared in bed lovemaking so much as angry sex, as if hammering her into submission was a required part of consummating their relationship.
Maybe it wasn’t rape if she said yes, but that didn’t make it any less painful or humiliating.
She thought about that and headed for her bottle of zinfandel without any conscious thought. She’d have the cocoa before she went to bed, naturally, but for now it was time for Mother’s Little Helper.
Deanna set down the glass and recorked the bottle. She was heading back toward the sofa next to the Christmas tree when the lights went out again.
Naturally, she’d left the damned phone on the table in front of the sofa, right next to her cookies.
When the front door opened, she looked toward it and saw a silhouette that looked far too familiar. It was there one moment and gone the next.
Deanna’s heart twisted in her chest, a sharp pain that was followed by a surprising well of cold. The last time she’d felt anything like it was when—
Matt! Oh, God, Matt!
—they’d told her that
Matt would not be coming home.
Her phone rang and she stumbled toward the sound, fumbling and smashing her toes into the corner of the table in a flare of hard pain.
The screen said it was an unknown number.
“Hello?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her mind was already playing enough tricks on her that she’d had to suppress a scream as she answered.
Ella’s voice was an unexpected but pleasant surprise and she felt relief wash through her. Someone comforting. Someone sane. “Do you know what your sister asked for? For Christmas, I mean?”
“Ella? I’ve got a power outage here. I think someone broke in.”
“No one broke in.” Ella’s voice was reassuring.
“How do you know?”
“Because you can’t break into your own home.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jeannie got drunk last week and told me about Matt. She wished there was a way for you to have your husband back.”
“Ella? What the hell are you talking about? Matt is dead.”
“I know, honey. I know. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have him back.”
Deanna shook her head. That feeling in her chest moved to her stomach and became a snowstorm deep inside of her. The air howled again and the snow swept through the open door. Enough. She couldn’t let all the heat out, so Deanna moved toward the door and fumbled with the phone, trying to find the flashlight function.
Ella’s voice sounded wrong as Deanna finally reached the door and closed it, remembering to lock it this time around.
Ella said, “Christmas is a time for miracles, Deanna. I’ve been known to help work those miracles from time to time.”
The phone went back to her ear. “Seriously, Ella, what the hell have you been drinking?”
“Nothing. I’m just laying here in bed and thinking of how I can make my special girl happy. You hurt her a lot when you stole Matt away. I have to go. Jeannie’s going to wake up soon.” There was a pause and then, “I don’t think she even wanted him, but you took him, for better or worse. I guess you’ll find out once and for all which one it really was.”
The phone call ended.
Deanna stared hard at the screen as if it might have answers for her.
In the preternatural silence of a house without power, where almost every hum was silenced, she heard the breathing that came from the short hallway that led to the bedrooms.
In the darkness, Matt’s voice sounded completely wrong.
“Merry Christmas, honey. I came home, just like I promised I would.”
The wind howled and the house shook. Aside from that, there was only silence.
SNAKE’S TAIL
SARAH LANGAN
(STORY CONSULTATION BY CLEM AND FRANCES PETTY)
This happened.
You won’t remember it. You never do.
Look. It starts in that little town on the bay. Quiet, right? You might even call it sleepy. Those are fishing boats. That’s the factory. Chain stores and homegrown ones, too. When it’s overcast, fog rolls in like wet campfire smoke. We navigate by that lit-up church spire. Tallest structure in three counties. At midnight, its tolling bells turn into a pretty “Ave Maria.”
You probably don’t want to believe this, but all Gods are the same. Sure, some come from virgin births, some burst from their fathers’ heads, some just happened, like stars or the big bang. But once you get past that superficial stuff, the stories blend. Crucifixions, crusades, female rivalries, children who overtake their parents, resurrections, and eternal life: they all satisfy the same need for meaning from nothing, for parents we can blame when we’ve steered our own ships off course. We make them, obviously. They exist because of us. Not just the stories; God, itself.
The thing people really hate remembering, even as they celebrate a guy nailed to wood: all Gods demand a sacrifice. They’re so fucking hungry.
It always happens at the same time. People all over the world have given up and this surrender hits an event horizon. Think of a star whose gravity finally overcomes its mass, drawing inside itself and then exploding from supernova to black hole and back in time again, to a star. The future is a funnel that reverses, pulling its children in first, spitting them out in reverse. You make this happen. Every one of you.
Think I don’t know you, specifically? I do.
It’s Christmas Eve. The night’s thick as velvet punched with holes for stars. Agnostics, Chaotic Naturalists, Jews, Islamics, Catholics—it doesn’t matter, they acknowledge the day. Presents are left under trees and in stockings. Some wrapped with ribbons, some shoved naked with no care at all. A sorry few have no presents or trees at all. It turns midnight. “Ave Maria” plays. Then, it begins. The star collapses.
It happens. To the good, to the bad, to the ignorant, to the wise.
This time, a mom named Laurel Frances notices first. She’s checking on her youngest, whose asthma hasn’t lately resolved with simple inhalers. Laurel peers into her daughter Izzy’s night-light-illuminated bedroom. “Ave Maria” finishes its last chime. The child lay with her nose and chin just poking out from a Celestia Pony comforter purchased at Target, her breath rattling like a water-clogged leaf blower. Laurel gazes with an aching heart, for this sickly child is her joy. The impossible one, who came in older age. Yes, the clock chimes, and by the time it stops resonating, the child is gone.
Disappeared from her bed.
Laurel searches under the sheets. In the closet. Under the bed. She opens the window and gapes into the dark, calling the girl’s name until her husband arrives, disheveled from sleep and too many glasses of the neighbor’s merlot.
What do you do when such a thing happens? Do you run from your house? Go screaming into the street? Do you search under nooks and behind locks, like the item that is missing is a precious nugget of platinum?
Laurel Frances flips the mattress. Tears apart the room. “Where’s the baby?” her still-drunk husband shouts, and how can she explain? He’s only recently confessed to his affair, his plans to move out and sue for custody because he believes Laurel’s sadness has made her unfit. Will he not imagine that in her desperation, she’s been the one to hurt their child? What if that’s exactly what she did, and she only imagined the child’s disappearance because she’s gone mad? Isn’t that the only logical explanation? She climbs out the child’s window and scales down while her shocked husband gapes. Then she runs screaming down Poplar Street until a squad car picks her up with bloody feet.
“Izzy! Izzy, where are you, baby?” she cries. She does not stop crying this entreaty. It repeats inside her like a car alarm for the rest of her shortened life.
Little Izzy Frances isn’t alone. Three other children go missing at the stroke of midnight, Christmas morning. Police are called. They come to homes. Detective Patrick Clement wonders at first if it’s a kids’ prank. These post–high school grads without jobs or college get weirder and more reckless every year. They tear down signs and huff paint because they can’t figure out how to make good meth. Maybe they’ve turned to kidnapping. So he listens closely to Laurel Frances’s story, along with the others’. “You’re sure they disappeared? Right in front of your eyes?”
All nod.
Detective Clement does what he always does. Every time, I fool myself into imagining he remembers this from before: this is the eureka moment. “What would make children disappear into thin air?” he whispers. Then he returns to the mundane. The idea he’s got is too crazy. He’s got to pull anchor and let it go.
He orders a roadblock to keep strangers from escaping with kidnapped children. He calls reinforcements from other towns and these quickly arrive. The clock chimes one a.m. By now the town holds a peculiar charge. You can stick out your tongue and feel the electricity. Some part of their DNA remembers. Knows the unknown. People wake to sirens and the frantic shou
ting of children’s names followed by commands like Answer me! And Where are you? And most frequently, Please come home.
They do what they’ve always done when they have the feeling of unease. They check on their tribe. Oliver Dodd is watching his blond son. He lay over his covers, the radiant heat turned too high. Long limbed and impossibly agile. Varsity, and just a sophomore, at that. A scholarship, surely. Then a good job in a big city far from here. The boy will have all the things Oliver does not, and this will validate him in ways his own life has come up short.
The chime’s echo fades. The boy disappears. No smoke. No dispersion of air. Just, gone.
This goes on.
The clock strikes two. More missing.
At three, eighteen more children go missing and the entire town is awake. Those directly affected, and even some who are not, walk over dark roads in slippers and robes. Make frantic calls. Punch trees. Tear clothing. Pray to God. Pray to Satan. Pull their heirlooms from hidden safes and offer them to police as bribes. Wonder if this is their fault. If it is worth looking, when something inside them tells them that the loss of their children is inevitable.
The FBI arrives. Helicopter searchlights shine through windows and overhead.
At four, 116 more children disappear. There are too many witnesses to discount. This is happening. The most-searched term in North America: “The Rapture.”
By five in the morning, most children have been corralled by their parents into single rooms, where they’re held like tethered balloons filled with helium. A few are taken to boats on the bay. Some are taken around police barriers and through still-dark and snowy woods. Fewer still are ushered to basements, lambs’ blood smeared on doors, and held tightest of all.
Just one, smothered.
“You should have called me!” people scold the smothered child’s father. As if, in that hysteria, they’d have answered his calls. As if they had not known he was the nervous sort, whom they should have checked upon.
Abnegation. Abnegation. Abnegation.
The child’s name was Tobin. He had patched black skin. I remember this, because you refuse. You. Yes, you. I’m looking straight through this page. I see you.
Hark! the Herald Angels Scream Page 15