by R. L. Naquin
From the porch, the music was much louder, but still nothing I recognized. I took a deep breath with my hand on the knob, then opened the door to step inside.
In the few hours I’d been gone, the room had transformed into something entirely new and utterly lovely.
Somehow, Iris had managed to get the tree there before the leprechaun/selkie fiasco. Apparently, getting it through the door hadn’t been the problem I’d imagined and, while it did take up a lot of real estate, the tree didn’t overwhelm the room.
The tree stood in elegance, adorned with colored lights, red-velvet ribbons, gold and silver ornaments, and a shimmering star on top that was lit from within by a warm, golden light. The star didn’t even touch the ceiling. The fit was perfect.
Twinkling white lights lined the mantel, windows, and doorways. Everywhere I looked, my gaze landed on something beautiful. The piles of stuff were gone, and only a small percentage remained. Maurice could have gone overboard, but he hadn’t.
“Oh, Maurice.” I stepped inside and unbuttoned my coat, trying to see everything at once. “It’s so pretty.”
He moved behind me to pull off my coat and take my scarf and gloves. “Do you like it? I was worried.”
“I love it.”
“We helped!” A small voice drifted from the other side of the couch, and Molly’s littlest, Abby, hopped from the floor to the armrest. A few seconds later, Molly popped into sight, then was joined by Aaron and Fred, her two older boys.
“Happy Wintergreen, Zoey!” Aaron said.
Fred nodded and smiled, a bit more subdued than his younger siblings. “We brought the bunny fluff,” he said. “Would you like to help us?”
“Bunny fluff?”
Molly waved me over. “It is our tradition. This time of year, there is often less of the things we need. We celebrate Wintergreen to remember to be grateful for the things we do have rather than worry for the things we do not.” She directed me toward a basket filled with fluffy white down. “Rabbits share their undercoat with us so we will not be cold when winter takes hold. For the festivities, we decorate with it.”
Molly and the kids each took handfuls from the basket and tucked it between branches and pine needles. I took a little and placed it here and there, but mostly I watched the kids. Their laughter blew the last of my grumpiness away, and I laughed with them when they jumped from branch to branch like little birds, stuffing bunny fluff into the greenery.
When they were done, it looked as if we’d had a light snow in the living room.
“My turn!” Maurice appeared beside me with a grocery bag. “Reach in and grab one.”
I craned my neck to see inside. “One what?”
He snapped the bag shut. “No peeking. Just pick.”
I crooked an eyebrow. If something alive squirmed inside, harmless or not, I’d have to pop him. But if I couldn’t trust Maurice, I couldn’t trust anyone. I held my breath so I wouldn’t scream if something startled me, then plunged my arm into the bag.
My fingertips brushed pieces of fabric. I fished around until I found an especially soft piece and drew it out.
The ugliest hand-painted tie I’d ever seen dangled from my hand. A trout with wonky, mismatched eyes leapt from a stream as a bear chased him. I rubbed the fabric. “Silk?”
“Now, tie it in a bow and make a wish,” Maurice said. “If you wish hard enough, Saint Cedarchip might grant it.”
“What?” I stared at him.
“Oh, my gods, Zoey! Hurry before the magic runs out! Tie it, quick!” His face wasn’t nearly as distressed as his voice pretended to be.
I tied the men’s neckwear into the best bow I could muster, considering it wasn’t meant to go in that shape, then closed my eyes for nearly a minute.
I opened one eye. “Okay, now what?”
He took the tie from me and arranged it on the tree in a cloud of bunny fluff. “Now we have hot cocoa. Duh. Sit, sit, sit!” He gave me a small push into my favorite chair. “Wait here.”
While I waited, there was a tap on the window, so I wandered over to see who it was. I pushed the curtain aside, and Iris’s big grinning face stared back at me. I opened the window.
“Hey, Iris. The tree is gorgeous. Is Fin gone?”
Iris snorted and made chuffing noises I didn’t understand.
Molly hopped to the sill and sat with her legs crossed. “He says the man is gone and will not return. Iris has a souvenir for you.”
Iris held out his enormous, hairy-backed hand. A gold shamrock lapel pin glittered in the soft light. Iris chuffed again, this time with laughter.
I winked and took the pin from him. “How about we make it a new tradition, Iris?” I scanned the room for the right place to show off the leprechaun’s lost luck. One of the red velvet bows had fallen from the back of the tree, so I pinned the shamrock to the center of it, then stuck it on the frame over the front door.
“Christmas luck for all who enter or leave,” I said.
“Sit, sit, sit!” Maurice brought a tray of mugs filled with steaming hot chocolate and placed it on the coffee table. Someone knocked on the back door, and he tilted his head. “Sara and Riley aren’t due for another few hours. Are you expecting anyone?”
I shook my head. Frothy whipped cream clung to my upper lip, and I licked it away.
Maurice returned to the kitchen and came back with three teenagers in tow.
“Blessed Feast of Llyr!” Owen said.
Rhys waved a square basket in the air, and the smell of fish wafted across the room. “We brought the blessing creel. Do you have a big pot for the crabs?”
“I’ll clean the fish!” Brynn snatched the basket from her brother and skipped into the kitchen.
I settled in my chair and sipped my cocoa. The brownie kids hopped from branch to branch, rearranging bits of fluff on the tree. Maurice directed the selkies in the kitchen while they cooked up the fish and shellfish they’d brought.
Behind me, Molly and Iris chatted in grunts and chuffs while she wove the hair around his face into braids, then attached tiny silver bells below his chin.
So many different traditions. So many different holidays.
“Hey.” Maurice knelt next to me with a small cardboard box in his hands. “I thought you might like to add this stuff.”
I reached for the flaps on the box, then frowned, hesitating. “Where did you get this?”
“From the garage. I was looking for an extension cord.”
My heart squeezed in my chest. I knew the box. A lot of Christmases had come and gone since I’d last seen it.
I pulled the flaps open and peered inside. My blobby, clay nativity scene was long gone, but the baby Jesus remained. It didn’t look like a baby Jesus, but I knew what it was supposed to be. Small as it was, it still felt heavy in my hand. One of Dad’s fancy paper snowflakes, heavily creased, unfolded to reveal the elaborate shapes he’d cut from the pages of my Nefertiti report. I shoved aside a few ribbons and half-used candles to get to the wad of paper at the bottom. I peeled the paper away and found mom’s hand-painted china cup in gold and red and green.
I took those three things, forgotten over the years but no less precious, and put them all on the mantle. I tucked some bunny fluff around them to keep them safe.
Wiping away a stray tear, I turned to face my family.
“Happy Wintergreen Saint Cedarchip Feast of Llyr.” I squeezed Maurice’s hand.
“Merry Christmas, Zoey.” He kissed my cheek. “What did you wish for when you tied your Saint Cedarchip bow?”
I sighed, content. “Nothing. I didn’t wish for a thing.”
“How Greg’s Chupacabra Became a Small Town Legend and Ended Up Between the Wooden Eye and the Wig Collection at the Caney Valley Historical Society”
My ex-husband is a great guy. You’ll never hear me say a bad thing about him. But the truth is, we’re from two different worlds. He called me up one day and asked if I’d heard what happened. I had not. “Somethin’ ate my damn g
oats,” he said. I don’t know what it was about how he said it, but I couldn’t stop laughing, and “Greg’s Chupacabra” was born from those four words. This story originally appeared in the September 2010 issue of Seahorse Rodeo Folk Review. Sorry about your goats, Mike.
Greg pulled himself into the bed of his rusty Ford and peeled the tarp from the coagulating mass of flesh. He covered his nose and mouth with the back of his hand in an attempt to stifle the stench. Four other men gathered around, jostling each other.
“Sure is an ugly son-of-a-bitch,” Roger said, crinkling his weathered face in disgust.
“Stinks, too,” Steve said. He pulled a bandana from his back pocket and tied it around his face, then climbed into the back of the truck. He hunched down for a closer look. “What the hell is it?”
Greg nudged the carcass with the toe of his work boot. It made a wet, squelching sound. “Dunno. Bastard’s been killing my goats, so I shot him. I was hoping one of you might know what the hell it is.”
Trevor tipped his ballcap backward and scratched his head. “Ate your goats, did it? Might be one of them chupacabra things they got down in Mexico.”
Steve scooted back from the body in alarm and nearly toppled over. “In Kansas? You’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell would it be doing this far north?”
“Couldn’t say,” Trevor said. “But there was a lady down in Texas found a dead one last year. It was all over the news. Killer bees, pythons—everything’s moving north. Global warming, they say. Can’t see why the goat suckers wouldn’t move north, too.”
Jimmy shook his head in disgust. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. There ain’t no chupacabras. And that lady in Texas had the DNA tested. They said it was a mangy dog or fox or something. Probably same as what Greg’s got here.”
“Think what you want,” Trevor said, nodding his head wisely. “If the university couldn’t say what the DNA was, they wouldn’t likely admit it. Probably just called it a dog to avoid a panic.”
“The way I see it,” Roger said, turning his head to spit, “doesn’t really matter what it is as long as it’s dead. Any idea if it was on its own? I heard it was a pack of them down in Texas.”
Greg had been feeling self-satisfied and victorious up to that moment. His face fell. “I guess there could be more. Makes sense. Maybe I better get back home and keep an eye out.” He pulled the blue tarp back over the carcass and secured it in place with a few bricks.
“What’re you going to do with it?” Steve asked. He jumped down from the truck and pulled the bandana from his face.
“Bury it. Burn it. Dunno,” Greg said. “Thought maybe I’d take some pictures first. See if the newspapers might be interested.”
Jimmy snorted. “I hear they pay good money for pictures of bald, dead coyotes.”
“Don’t you let them do DNA tests,” Trevor said. “Won’t do you any good. They won’t tell you the truth anyway.”
Greg jumped in the cab and started the engine. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “I better get back. I can’t afford to lose any more stock.” He pulled out of the parking lot at the Short Creek Bar, dust clotting the air in his wake.
The four men watched him go, his taillights glowing through the veil of settling dirt.
“Think there’s more of them?” Steve asked.
“There’s always more,” Roger said. “Even Bigfoot has a wife.”
~*~
In small town Kansas, a man can’t throw a rock without hitting somebody he knows. With a population just under two thousand, Caney was no exception. Three days later, Roger and Steve were right out front of Caney Agri shooting the breeze when Greg pulled into the parking lot to pick up a supply of feed.
“Well, hey,” Roger said. “How’s that chupacabra, Greg?”
Greg swung out of the cab and shut the door. He leaned his shoulder against the truck and folded his arms. “Doing just fine. Dropped it off in Edna this morning, in fact. I’m having it stuffed.”
Steve choked. “You what?”
Greg gave a self-congratulatory smile. “Took it to a taxidermist.”
“Thought you were going to get rid of it,” Roger said. “Whatever they do to that ugly thing, I guess it’ll still stink.”
“Probably so,” Greg said. “The wife’s not too happy about it.”
“I bet not.”
Steve strolled over and gave a cursory glance at the truck bed. “Find any more?” he asked.
“Now that’s a funny story,” Greg said. “After I saw you the other day, I ran right home, parked my truck by the barn, and sat on the porch half the night. Kept my rifle right by me, just in case.”
“Did you see anything?” Steve asked, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes wide.
“No,” Greg said. “But I heard something. A weird, scratchy whine coming from several directions. I don’t mind telling you, the hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up and saluting.”
Roger was notably quiet but moved closer.
“I grabbed my gun and started to move off the porch when it sounded like something had jumped into the back of my truck. There was a snuffling sound, the crinkle of the tarp, and then a loud yip. When I got there, they were gone, but the tarp was pulled off the carcass. I haven’t seen or heard anything since.”
Steve sounded out of breath. “What do you suppose happened?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Roger said. “It scared them off. Scared them good. And now they’re at my place. I’ve lost two ducks, and my cow is so spooked she won’t hardly let me close enough to milk her.”
Greg considered this. He tucked his hands into his armpits and crossed his ankles. “Sorry about your ducks, Rog. You want to borrow it after I pick it up? Maybe they’ll leave your place alone if you have it over there a few days.”
Roger looked relieved. “I heard that scratchy whining myself last night. I’d appreciate the loan.”
“I’ll bring it over soon as it’s done. No problem, buddy.”
~*~
Within a month, the stuffed carcass was a sought-after commodity. Roger kept it in his yard for four nights before Steve came over with Greg for his own turn with it.
“Take it,” Roger said. “Did the trick the first night out. Within two days, Gertie’s milking was back to normal, and I haven’t missed a single bird.”
When Roger showed it to him, Steve swallowed hard and backed up three steps. “What the hell is that?” he said, trying not to sound like a little girl.
“Scary, huh?” Greg said. “The taxidermist tried to make it look natural. Said he had to get creative, not knowing what the hell it was in life.”
It bore little resemblance to the squashed mound of flesh Steve had seen before in the truck. The bluish-black skin had a sparse covering of thin, white hairs. These had been fluffed out to look almost like quills. The claws were polished to an ebon sheen, and the ears pinned to look fierce. Lips were peeled back to better display vicious fangs, and the cloudy, cataract-laden eyes had been replaced with glowering red glass.
“It was gross before, but now it’s down-right terrifying. My wife’s going to pitch a fit when she sees this out back.” He paused. “Can’t afford to lose another pig though. It’s worth it, I guess.” Steve looked queasy. Whether it was the sight of the animal or the thought of his wife’s ire, they weren’t sure.
The carcass spent just three nights at Steve’s before it was passed to Trevor.
“Two of my best hunting dogs were in a terrible scrap with something out there, and one of my wife’s cats has gone missing,” Trevor said.
“Help yourself,” Steve said. “It scares the hell out of my wife, and the pigs have quieted down. Sounds like the pack has moved on to your house.”
Greg’s chupacabra became a town legend. It was no secret that something was out there stirring up livestock, and whoever had the ugly thing on their property didn’t seem to have any trouble afterward. Despite Greg’s decision not to call the papers, they
eventually found out and pestered him for interviews. When he wasn’t forthcoming, they moved on to other Caney residents and printed whatever rumor and hearsay they could dig up.
Jimmy was noticeably loud in his opinions. “I saw it before it was stuffed,” he often said to anyone who would listen. “It ain’t no chupacabra. Just a mangy dog that’s been fancied up by the taxidermist. Ain’t no such thing, and you can quote me.” Jimmy’s negative press was probably the biggest favor he could have done for Greg. The story died down after a few months.
And the chupacabra continued its grand tour of Southwest Montgomery County.
After six months, most landowners in the area had, in turn, displayed the macabre trophy somewhere on their property. It was a point of pride to be able to call a farm “Chupacabra Free,” and local real estate agents had even begun using it as a selling point.
Mostly, the animal wasn’t needed anymore, and Greg kept it under a blanket in his garage. Weeks had passed since the last person had come by to borrow it.
The knock on the front door was almost timid. Greg, not even certain he’d heard it, opened the door and peeked out. Jimmy stood with his Royals cap in his hands, worrying it around in a circle.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Greg said. “What’s up?”
“My chickens are dead,” he said, staring at the ground.
“Sorry to hear that, buddy.” Greg smothered a smile and tried to look serious. “What do you suppose happened to them?”
Jimmy scuffed his feet and mumbled into his hat.
Greg leaned forward and cocked his head toward him. “Sorry, didn’t hear that. What’d you say?”
“I said, ‘Can I borrow it, please?’” Jimmy’s voice was louder and a little defiant.
“Borrow what?”
“Fine,” Jimmy said. “You want me to say it? I’ll say it. Can I borrow your damn chupacabra?” He jammed his hat over his head and stood fuming.
“Of course you can, buddy. All you had to do was ask.”
~*~
With nothing worse than the occasional fox or coyote roaming their lands, the farmers around Caney had no more use for the stuffed chupacabra. Greg himself didn’t want to look at it anymore, and not even taxidermy and the passage of time could completely eradicate the stench. The Caney Valley Historical Society was both pleased and baffled by his donation. With so many pieces of historic value, Greg’s gift was badly suited for the rest of their collection. In the end, they tucked it in a cramped corner with Amanda Brighthouse’s wooden eye and Daphne Taylor’s wig collection. It sits there still, collecting dust and staring out through its crimson, glass eyes. And it’s ready, should anyone find the need.