Boo Humbug

by Rene Gutteridge

  Wolfe laughed. “Surely you’re used to it by now. It hasn’t grown on you even a little?”

  “Sort of. Like an asymmetrical mole that needs the attention of a doctor.”

  They both spotted Oliver rushing into the coffee shop, headed straight for their table. Several expressions flashed across his face. “Hi,” he said, grabbing the free chair and sitting down. “Hi.”

  “You okay?” Wolfe asked.

  Oliver glanced at Alfred, then at Wolfe, and then, with what seemed like a great deal of labor, stretched a smile onto his face. “Yes. I’m perfectly fine. Life is more terrific than I could ever imagine it would be. I’m so happy, I’m beyond words.”

  Alfred groaned. “See what I mean?”

  “Really?” Wolfe said. “I’m barely holding on by the skin of my teeth.”

  The smile dropped off Oliver’s face. “You, too? Thank goodness. I thought I was the only one. It’s terrible. I’m a grown man who feels like he could cry at any second. I’m exhausted. My wife has lost her mind. And a person who can’t even stand up by himself has complete and utter control over every single thing in our lives. Do you know, just the other day, I was forced to eat strained spinach so Ollie would want to do what his daddy does?” Oliver looked at Wolfe. “So how’d you escape?”

  “I offered to go to the store. I haven’t made it there yet. You?”

  “Community center Christmas meeting.”

  “That was yesterday.”

  “I know. But I can wander around for a while, asking people how I missed it. Throw up my hands when I get home and blame lack of sleep.” Oliver glanced around covertly, then said, “Listen, if you want some time out of the house, I’ve got a way.”

  Wolfe leaned in. “How?”

  “My cousin is putting on a Christmas production of A Christmas Carol. I got the lead role of Scrooge.”

  “She’s doing A Christmas Carol?” Alfred asked, his tone serious.

  “Yes! And we have rehearsals! Several nights a week!” Oliver rubbed his hands together. “Isn’t that great?”

  “Yeah … except I don’t really see you as Scrooge. And you’re not really into theater, are you?” Wolfe asked.

  “Not at all. But I can pull off any character for a chance to get away from the house. I mean, how hard can Scrooge be? You just act spiteful and cranky.” Oliver glanced at Alfred. “Like Alfred here.”

  Wolfe noticed that Alfred suddenly seemed in a particularly foul mood. “You okay, Alfred?”

  Alfred’s glowering expression faded, and he looked at Wolfe. “Fine.”

  “Are you sure? You seem very annoyed. More than usual.”

  “I’m just distracted by the little old lady whose earrings are blinking out of sync with her sweater.”

  “You don’t like Christmas?” Oliver asked, as they studied the woman sitting with a friend. The thought seemed unfathomable to Skary residents. Wolfe had grown used to their gusto and glee over the years, and he supposed he’d become the same way. But he knew how Alfred felt. There were years in the past when Christmas came and went without so much as a pause in his life. He would look down from his house and see the town bustling with activity, but he wasn’t a part of it. Not until Ainsley.

  Alfred pulled on his trench coat. “Is that a crime here?”

  Oliver looked to Wolfe for help. Wolfe winked at Alfred. “You never know. You might convert.”

  “Funny,” Alfred said, swinging his scarf around his neck. “If you see me in a ‘ho ho ho’ sweater, it means I’ve gone insane.” He bade farewell and was out the door.

  Oliver looked at Wolfe. “I can get you in. Lois will listen to me. If you want a role, just say the word.”

  “No offense to your cousin, Oliver, but I’m not sure Lois really gets’ Dickens. First of all, she thought he was an undiscovered writer. Second, tackling A Christmas Carol? That’s a beloved story.”

  “She’s got an out-of-the-box idea for it. She said people will never see it coming.”

  “What kind of idea? People don’t like their beloved stories tampered with. Believe me. I tried updating ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ in a short story collection and got hate mail for months.”

  Oliver sat back in his chair and studied Wolfe. “To tell you the truth, I don’t care. All I know is that I can get out of the house at least four times a week. Are you in or not?”

  Wolfe weighed the options carefully. His mother had always told him never to go to bed angry, but no one ever explained what you should do if you never went to bed. Should you make a decision or wait and sleep on it? Assuming sleep might come sooner rather than later.

  “All right, fine,” Wolfe said. “I’m in. But I only want a small role. Make sure Lois knows that.”

  “I will.” Oliver grabbed his coat and stood.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got to go stand in front of the community center for a few minutes.” “Why?”

  “The last time I tried to escape by way of servicing our car, Melb ran into Larry, who said I hadn’t been in. So this way, there are witnesses who can say I was standing there, scratching my head and looking confused about why the meeting wasn’t there.” He shot a meaningful glance at Wolfe. “And you’d better get to the grocery store. Trust me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”

  “No!” ALFRED SCREAMED. The little boy stared, his eyes gaping holes, his mouth open and moaning. His skin looked white and dead, and Alfred was afraid that if he peered forward, he might see maggots coming out. Nothing would be more terrifying, except seeing the devil himself.

  “No!” Alfred said again, walking backward. But no matter how he moved his feet, he could only stay still. “No!”

  A hand grabbed his arm, and Alfred shrieked.

  “Alfred!”

  “What?”

  “Alfred! Snap out of it!”

  The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his own couch, staring into the eyes of someone much less terrifying. Well, not much less.

  “Lois?”

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Why are you in my home?” he asked, sitting up.

  “I was outside knocking, and I heard you scream. Your door was unlocked, so I came in. You were dreaming, I think. Either that, or you were trying to impress me.”

  “Impress you?” He flew to his feet. “What do you mean by that?”

  She grinned. “You want a part, don’t you?”

  “A part of what?”

  “A part in my play.”

  “No, I don’t want a part! Are you crazy?”

  She frowned. “Why would I be crazy?”

  He backed out of the room, pretending there was something in his kitchen he needed to attend to. He put the teakettle on. “Would love some, thanks,” Lois said, trailing behind him. She parked herself on the stool at the breakfast bar. “To tell you the truth, I wanted you to play Scrooge, but the parts already taken. People are scrambling as fast as they can to get a role. Wolfe just called me to see about it.”

  “Then why do you need me?” Alfred asked, keeping his back to her. “Obviously, you have enough actors.”

  “Yes, but are they the right ones? I want the right ones. I’ve been thinking this over, and I think I would like you to play the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

  “No!” He turned and fixed his eyes on her. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Is it too big of a role?”

  “I just don’t want to be involved. Period.” Lois was about to say something, but he cut her off. “Cast Wolfe. He’s perfect for that role. You know he’s going to tell you he just wants a small role, but on the inside, Wolfe really likes acting, and he’s just too humble to ask for th
e bigger roles. Insist that he take it, okay?”

  Lois seemed to be thinking about it. “I suppose he would be good in that role. The bags under his eyes will work for him, in this case.” She stood. “I would love to chat, but I really should go. I’ve got to talk to Marlee, see if she wants the role.”

  “For what? Mrs. Cratchit?”

  She tilted her head. “Mrs. Cratchit? Of course not. She’s all wrong for that. I’m going to cast her as Marley.”

  “Jacob Marley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jacob Marley is male.

  “I took her name as a sign that the role should be hers. You should learn to read signs better, Alfred.”

  “Jacob Marley is an old, penny-pinching miser, just like Scrooge.”

  “I know,” Lois said, her voice lowering as a mischievous twinkle gleamed in her eyes. “That’s what everyone is expecting, right? In case you haven’t noticed, Alfred, I don’t like the status quo. There’s nothing wrong with stirring things up a little. Besides, come on. Really. How many people have actually read the book?”

  “Everybody I know.”

  She chuckled. “Overstating things, as usual. I guess that’s what made you good at whatever it was you used to do. I’ll be going now, but think about it, will you?”

  Alfred watched her trot down the porch steps, and he shut the door just as the teakettle whistled.

  His mind wandered back to his dream. He hadn’t dreamed about it in years, but it was no wonder he was doing it now. “Calm down,” he told himself. He could still see the boy’s face in his mind. He wasn’t sure if it would ever go away, not as long as A Christmas Carol was still around. And since it had been around for more than a hundred and fifty years, it probably wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  Pouring his tea, he wondered what had happened to Susie Perry. She’d played Want. Alfred thought she was the cutest eight-year-old he’d ever seen. Her hay-colored hair fell in long ringlets down her back, and her eyes twinkled blue, no matter what kind of light she stood in. When she smiled, deep dimples creased both cheeks. It was hard getting her to look ugly, as the role of Want dictated. Much harder than it was to make Alfred look that way.

  They’d rehearsed together as Ignorance and Want for weeks, and with each passing day, he fell more and more head-over-heels. Susie seemed to like him too. And since they only appeared once in the entire play, they had a lot of time to talk. She liked marbles and pickup sticks. They spent some of their time playing dice games behind the theater building.

  One day while they squatted near each other, rolling the dice, Alfred got up the nerve to kiss her. For a solid thirty minutes, he had slowly inched closer to her. Biting his lip, he watched her roll the dice and giggle with delight as two sixes came up.

  Squeezing his eyes and puckering his lips, he leaned in, his lips brushing up against her soft cheek.

  “Alfred Tennison!” she exclaimed. “What in the world are you doing?”

  Alfred opened his eyes, expecting to see a smile, but there wasn’t one.

  “Oh … um …” Did he really need to explain what he was doing? “It’s just … well, Susie, I like you. I hope you like me. I really like you.”

  Susie’s eyes widened, just like they did in the play when she was supposed to look scary. “Don’t say such a thing!”

  “Why not?” Alfred asked.

  She put her hands on her hips. “I’m in love with Jonathan.”

  “Tiny Tim?” Alfred could hardly believe what he was hearing. “He’s half your size! And walks with a limp!” Jonathan Swaim was cast as Tiny Tim mostly because he was, indeed, tiny. His eyes were naturally sunken, and his skin was pale because his mother would never let him go outside to play.

  “He’s cute,” Susie said.

  “What about me?”

  “I don’t know,” Susie said earnestly. “I mean, you can look very scary.”

  “I’m acting.

  “I know,” she said, looking overwhelmed by the moment. “But my mama always told me to stay away from ignorant boys.”

  “I’m not ignorant! I play the character Ignorance.” Susie just blinked at him and shrugged. “What about Tiny Tim? He’s about to die, you know.”

  “That’s just pretend.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” young Alfred insisted.

  Susie set her shoulders square. “I like him. I don’t like you. Does that make better sense?”

  He nodded, staring at the dice on the ground. He hated playing Ignorance. He’d played that role since he was six. His father was a theater director and for two years had cast his son as Ignorance. Truthfully, Alfred really wanted to play Tiny Tim, but he’d overheard his parents conversing about it one night. His dad said that he just didn’t fit the part. He wasn’t likable enough. Tiny Tim had to be likable. So instead, he got to play a character described as wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. Yellow, meager, ragged, scowling. Wolfish. Yes, wolfish. And if that wasn’t enough, Dickens went further: No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

  That’ll win the ladies.

  And apparently he’d played the part quite well. When he’d peeked out from under the spirit’s robe, the audience had gasped, recoiled, put their hands over their mouths. One woman cried.

  Eventually he rebelled and refused to do the role, but he never outgrew his disdain for Charles Dickens and his horrible story. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to completely blame Charles Dickens for his insolence toward Christmas. After all, Alfred’s parents could certainly share in the blame. They did Christmas the way you did Christmas if you wanted Chevy Chase to star in the movie made about your life. Except his life wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting. The cranky aunts showed up every year, his parents complained about money, his uncles got drunk, and he never got a single thing he asked for. Throughout his childhood, all the way until he turned sixteen, Alfred thought Christmas might, just might, turn out like that movie A Christmas Story. He would lie awake at night, dreaming of his father, with a kindling excitement in his eyes, watching his son tear open a last package, then look disappointed. His father would then exclaim, “Wait! What is this? One more package hidden behind the couch!”

  But no. That excitement was actually for the gifts under the tree, ranging from a set of encyclopedias to an ant farm, which was particularly strange since Alfred, at the age of two, had developed a horrible phobia of bugs.

  Steeping his teabag, he wondered if it might not be better just to return to New York for the holidays.

  Then he heard it. No, it couldn’t be. It was his imagination. He listened. He looked at his television, but it was off. Slowly, cautiously, he tiptoed toward his door, and sure enough, the sound got louder. And louder. And louder. He flung open the door and scowled at the eight women and two men who were about to sing of french hens but instead gasped.

  “What are you doing?” Alfred yelled.

  One small woman said, “We’re singing.”

  “Why?”

  “Christmas caroling,” another woman said. Each held a black book, opened and lying flat in their hands. Though it wasn’t nearly cold enough, each had donned either a stocking cap or earmuffs. All had matching red gloves.

  They were just about to kick into another stanza when Alfred held his hand up. “I don’t want you to sing here.”

  “But—”

  “No! No! Go away! Scram!” That usually worked for all the cats around, and if he’d had a broom nearby, he would’ve used it.

  One woman’s mouth dropped open, some whispered as they backed away, and still others turned and stomped off.

  “It’s December fifth!” Alfred called after them. “The fifth! The FIFTH!” He stepped back inside and slammed the door.

  This was going to be a very long month.

  Dr. Hass sat in his chair, his fingertips forming a steeple as he peered over his glasses at Alfred. Alfre
d clutched the flier left in his door a few weeks ago, offering counseling at a buy-two-get-one-free rate from the man who prided himself on being “practically relevant” but, in fine print, not actually a psychologist in the conventional way. It certainly was no surprise to Alfred that the town shrink was as weird as the rest of the people, but he was desperate for relief … and some answers.

  He was hoping for something like hypnosis. He’d once heard you could cure smoking with it. Maybe it would work with haunting dreams.

  “How long have you had these dreams?”

  “They come and go,” Alfred answered. “But more recently, they’ve been coming frequently. Making matters worse is the fact that Lois Stepaphanolopolis is doing the play. She keeps insisting I need a role.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Alfred, how long did you play the character of Ignorance?”

  “Long enough, until one day, in the middle of dress rehearsal, I stomped off the stage and told my father I would never play the role again!

  Dr. Hass leaned forward. “I bet you felt a lot of guilt for doing that.”

  “My parents made sure of it.”

  “Perhaps these dreams would go away if you did indeed participate in the play?”

  Alfred frowned. “Isn’t that giving in?”

  “Maybe, but it’s also like sticking your tongue out at your folks and telling them you’ll be in the play when you’re good and ready.”

  “Tell me something, Dr. Hass,” Alfred began, ignoring the pseudoshrink’s questionable advice. “Tell me why Wolfe Boone seems to be perfectly content.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’re both in the same predicament, the way I see it. We’re both out of work, for the most part, and can’t seem to resurrect our careers to the place they used to be. We don’t really do anything else well, so getting another job is out of the question. But.

  “Yes?”

  “He seems happy.”

  “Well, Alfred, people can seem happy, even when they’re not.”