by James Newman
Coulda have, shoulda have...
For Chrissake, he’d even been too much of a pussy to go to his son’s funeral. Too scared of what Donna might say. Too scared of the awful things she might call him (and deservedly so), afraid she might slap his pathetic face in front of all those people.
Too scared that he would never be able to live with himself, when he saw his only son lowered into the ground like yesterday’s trash at the Morgan County landfill.
Fred tried to quit drinking the day after Billy’s funeral. He quit cold turkey, as the saying went, although such a cutesy euphemism couldn’t have been less appropriate for something Fred would best describe as pure agony. His body had been bathed in a constant film of hot, stinking sweat, his clothes plastered to him as if he’d just stepped out of the shower fully-dressed. He thought he was gonna die if he didn’t get a drink. He hadn’t been able to sleep at night, no matter the remedies he tried. And when he was able to catch a few minutes of shut-eye, it had been a restless sleep filled with nightmares like something out of a bad horror novel—especially after he started driving out to the old Heller Home place every few days, parking and just sitting there for hours, wondering what had happened to his son. There were the hallucinations too, things lurking just out of sight in the corners of his eyes. On top of that, he hadn’t been able to stop shaking. Dr. Whitman had called Fred’s condition the D.T.’s, delirium tremens. The quacks always had some sort of fancy name for it.
Finally, he’d been unable to take it any longer. He had failed again—failed Billy again—but what else was new? Two days ago he’d fallen off the wagon. Hard. The death of his only son notwithstanding, Fred knew there was no way he could quit drinking with those terrible nightmares plaguing him night and day. Hell, no. Nightmares of a very old, old man with a long, filthy beard that went on into forever. Couldn’t do it, no matter how hard he tried. So he’d driven down to the liquor store on Somerside Drive, picked up a couple bottles of Jim Beam and Wild Turkey. And ever since he’d been trying to wash it all away.
Fred made a maddened hissing sound through his teeth now as he took another hard swallow of ‘Turkey, as he thought of all the things he would never be able to say to his son. His vision wavering back and forth, he pulled his dilapidated Chevy pickup into the back lot of the Morganville Mall. The thing belched and farted, the ailing transmission grinding sickly as he jerked it out of second gear and put it into park.
Fred checked his costume as best he could in the Chevy’s shattered rearview mirror one last time before exiting the truck. Swollen, bloodshot eyes rimmed with dark circles stared back at him above a fake beard as white as newly-fallen snow. He briefly wondered why he had even bothered coming to work at all today.
Being a mall Santa was easy work, but it barely paid the bills. Especially when you owed the gas company two-hundred and seventy bucks before the end of the month—either that, or freeze to death this winter. When you owed your landlady, that hateful old cunt Mrs. Rude, two months’ worth of back rent you still hadn’t paid and you knew any day now she was gonna throw you out. When you still owed back child support to the government for the better part of the last four years.
But what could you do, when you’d long ago lost your driver’s license to multiple D.U.I. convictions?
Sure as hell couldn’t expect to drive an eighteen-wheeler for a living anymore.
“Ho-fuckin’-ho,” Fred Dawson belched as he stumbled across the mall’s vast parking lot. He headed toward the doors that would open on the court between K-Mart, that hair salon where all the fags worked, and Kay-Bee Toys. This was the site of Fred’s own personal North Pole, where he would spread cheer to all the kiddies before sending them on their way.
“Ho-cocksuckin’-ho,” he mumbled, wincing as his own bitter liquor breath wafted up to meet his nostrils, “and to all a good goddamn night.”
Fred Dawson chuckled, scratched his balls through his itchy red suit with one hand while adjusting his strap-on beard with the other. He licked his lips, grimaced at the taste in his mouth, and entered the Morganville Mall with more curses beneath his breath.
Wouldn’t be such a bad job if he didn’t hate kids so damn much.
And if he were allowed to keep a bottle of hooch by his side while he was on the clock.
CHAPTER 19
They hadn’t told Becca they were taking her to see Santa Claus. That part they kept a surprise until their shopping spree was complete, as the child could barely contain her excitement already.
The Littles split up once they arrived at the Morganville Mall, Becca and Kate going off on their own to buy David’s Christmas presents while David began shopping for Becca. Then, after meeting at a previously agreed upon rendezvous point at the mall’s Food Court where they devoured a quick lunch at Sbarro’s, David took Becca off to shop for Kate. Meanwhile, Kate finished up with the last half of their Christmas shopping for Becca.
When all was said and done, the myriad of bags in Kate and David’s arms were so full they appeared ready to burst like huge white ticks. Becca was in for a wonderful Christmas. Perhaps the best ever. They all were.
After ice-cream cones at Baskin-Robbins, they walked with Becca to the west wing of the mall, where Santa Claus waited. This area of the Morganville Mall had been decorated to resemble Santa’s home at the North Pole, complete with frolicking elves and animatronic reindeer whose heads jerked this way and that as if in anticipation for their upcoming midnight flight. Nearby, various bunnies and other curious creatures peeped out from the huge masses of cotton snow smothering their faux forest home, and icicles of transparent plastic dripped from the leafless winter trees of papier-mâché scattered throughout Santa’s domain.
Becca’s eyes grew impossibly wide as she took it all in. Her mouth hung open.
“What do you see, Becca?” Kate said, handing David several of her bags. Her breaths were heavy from carrying them around all day. “Who is that, sweetie?”
“Wow!” Becca said. “Oh, cool!”
“Do you want to sit on Santa’s lap?”
Becca nodded, stunned by everything before her, and then suddenly she squealed, “Daddy, there he is!” She pointed toward the makeshift cabin in the center of that wintry diorama. “Santa! It’s Santa Claus!”
As soon as the Littles looked his way, Santa let out a loud “ho-ho-ho,” holding his considerable belly as he did so. David couldn’t help but feel that warm, nostalgic sensation inside, a longing for the days when he idolized Santa as intensely as his precious daughter. Oh, to be a kid again, to feel that magic again.
A line of eager children was already gathered down the walkway leading to Santa’s velvety throne, their excited conversation and anxious giggles filling this wing of the mall with a chorus of high-pitched echoes. Becca joined the throng, and could barely stand still as she waited for the line to move forward. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other behind two twin brothers who traded playful blows to quell their own impatience.
David waited outside the manmade North Pole, leaning against the wooden railing that surrounded the Events court. Kate handed him the rest of their bags before moving to stand with Becca in line. He watched as his wife made idle conversation with another mother, a black lady who was also very pregnant. They were like some secret society, David sometimes thought upon witnessing such interaction between pregnant ladies, a group of likeminded, like-bodied women who shared their thoughts and emotions telepathically.
After about ten minutes, Becca was at the front of the line.
“Mommy! Daddy!” the little girl giggled, waving to her parents as she finally climbed onto Santa’s cushiony lap.
Santa waved their way too, before devoting his attention to the child in his lap.
Becca’s expression became one of utmost seriousness now, her tone all business as she leaned into Santa and tried not to forget any of her requests for the upcoming holiday.
The first thing Becca noticed was Santa’s weird smell. Santa Cl
aus didn’t smell right.
But this was Santa! The real thing! It didn’t matter if he smelled like freshly dropped reindeer poop, as long as she could prove to him that she had been a good girl all year and not forget anything she wished for this Christmas.
As soon as she was comfortable in his lap, Santa reached somewhere into his thick red suit and pulled out a small candy-cane wrapped in cellophane. He offered it to Becca with a fat hand that trembled slightly.
“Ho, ho, ho! And what’s your name, precious?”
Becca stared at his quivering belly. Shyly, she replied, “Becca. My name’s Becca.”
“What a pretty name. Hmpfh. Why don’t you tell Santa what you want for Christmas, Becca?”
“Okay...”
“Go ahead.” His huge right hand went to her knee. The other played gently with the golden curls atop her head. Becca couldn’t help but notice how rough Santa’s hands were. And his fingernails, so dirty! Mommy would never ever let her fingernails get that dirty before making her sit still while she took a nail file to them. That was just gross with a capital G.
“Well...” Becca began. Again, the man’s odor assaulted her as he leaned in closer to hear what she had to say. With every passing second she sat upon his hard knee, that smell of his seemed to grow stronger. Mommy and Daddy always said it wasn’t nice to talk about people, but Becca assumed that since she was just thinking about the way Santa smelled, and would never tell anybody, that was okay, wasn’t it?
Unless Santa could read minds. Was Santa like God? Could he know what she was thinking? Oh, no. That would not be good. That wouldn’t be good at all.
Becca tried to block her thoughts from smelly old St. Nick, tried to envision nothing but the colorful wall of presents he would surely bring her this year, but she couldn’t help it. Though she would not consciously make the connection until later that day, Santa’s odor reminded her of that stuff Daddy drank sometimes whenever he’d had a really bad day (“Typical Monday,” he’d say, even if it was Wednesday or Thursday or Friday, which Becca never understood but she thought it was funny anyway), the stuff Daddy kept in the cabinet over the refrigerator that he always sipped at slowly like it didn’t even taste good. The stuff that was the same color of Becca’s own favorite drink, apple juice. That’s exactly what Santa smelled like.
And sweat, too. Santa Claus smelled like really bad B.O. In fact, he was sweating so bad he smelled like he’d just flown in from the desert instead of the North Pole.
Something that looked like dried boogers was smeared on Santa’s pants. Perhaps that was the grossest thing yet. Becca scooted away from that spot in his lap, as far as she could.
“Stop squirming,” said Santa.
“I want...” Becca began again, trying to push all that from her mind, but her train of thought was interrupted when she looked into Santa’s eyes.
Santa’s eyes looked like they had itty bitty blood veins in them, all pink and scary-looking.
Becca shot a glance toward her Mommy and Daddy, but neither was paying attention to her predicament. Mommy was talking to another mommy who was gonna have a baby soon too, and Daddy appeared to be watching some woman with big boobies walk by.
But that was okay. Because nothing was wrong...yet. Was it?
She didn’t understand the feelings of fear that nibbled at the corners of her mind. She knew she was doomed, if Santa could read kids’ minds, knew that her Christmas was gonna be a real bummer this year, but she couldn’t help it. Becca just felt...weird. Kinda like the feeling she somehow sensed she might feel if someone ever touched her in a BAD PLACE. Mommy and Daddy had warned her about that, about talking to strangers and how to know the difference between Good Touches and Bad Touches.
Even though Santa hadn’t done anything to her (yet) Becca felt icky. Like he wanted to Bad-Touch her, but he just hadn’t done it yet. Yes, this was the way a Bad Touch must feel, like a spider or a snake just crawled across your belly.
Becca shuddered, looked again toward Mommy and Daddy. But their attention was still elsewhere.
“Maybe you don’t deserve anything for Christmas,” Santa hissed, and Becca could not even respond at first because she felt frozen where she sat. “Maybe you’ve been a bad little girl all year...”
“No, Santa.” Becca said. “I’ve been good. I promise!”
“Maybe Daddy tries his hardest to love you even though he can never live up to society’s goddamn expectations of fatherhood. Maybe he can’t give up drinking and one day he’s gonna fucking wish he had.”
“Santa!” Becca gasped. “You said a dirty word!”
“You don’t know how good you got it, angel-face. A mommy and daddy who love you. You were probably born with a silver spoon in your pretty little mouth, weren’t you? You never had a father who was a worthless fucking drunk.”
Becca squirmed on Fred Dawson’s lap. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore, Santa. I want my Mommy now.”
Santa’s grip tightened on her knee. Not enough to hurt, but enough to insinuate You’re not going anywhere until I’m through with you.
“Santa, please, I want my Mommy...”
“My son is six feet under, Becca. You know that? He’s fucking maggot food now. And I don’t know why that matters to me, because I never fucking cared when he was alive. Why should I start now?” Santa gave a sick little giggle that sent a chill down Becca’s spine. “Something got my boy out there at Heller Home...and if you don’t watch out, Becca, it’s gonna get you next!”
“Santa Claus, why are you being so mea—” Becca started.
“Moloch,” said Santa Claus.
And then it dawned on Becca what she was supposed to do in situations like this.
Scream. As loud as you could. No matter what.
She opened the floodgates. Began to wail, began to scream like Daddy taught her to if someone ever tried to grab her or touch her the wrong way, screamed and screamed longer and louder than she had ever screamed in her life.
David’s head jerked toward that high-pitched screaming, a distinct shriek he instantly recognized as belonging to his child.
“Oh my God,” he heard Kate say, though her voice was distant and did not seem entirely real beneath the stronger sound of Becca’s terrified wail. “Becca!”
David leapt over the railing that separated Santa’s makeshift North Pole from the mall around it. He nearly tripped over an animatronic bunny in his way; sprinting through all of that cotton proved nearly as difficult as trying to run through real snow, but he had never moved so urgently in his life.
“Becca!”
Santa’s hands went in the air like a bank robber dropping his smoking gun as the police corner him. Becca fell out of his lap, slid down his legs, and just sat there on the hard floor at his feet. Tears streamed down her face.
“I didn’t do nothin’, man,” Santa said. “I swear! I don’t know what’s wrong with that kid!”
“You sonofabitch!” David spat, his hands balled into fists. On all sides of him, parents and mall employees alike stared with wide, curious eyes at the scene in Santa’s cottage. But David was oblivious to their existence. “What did you do to my daughter?”
Kate bent, picked Becca up and held the crying child tight in her arms. “Becca, what happened? What did that man say to you? What did he do?” She turned to Santa, cried, “You scared her...what did you say to my daughter?”
“Please...I don’t know...I don’t know what came over me,” the Santa with the bloodshot eyes stammered. He was shaking uncontrollably now.
And then before Kate could stop her husband, even as he saw in his peripheral vision a chubby security guard running toward them from the entrance of the nearby K-Mart, David reared back and struck Santa Claus with a loud, smacking right hook that echoed through the west wing of the Morganville Mall like a small-caliber gunshot.
Santa crumpled to the floor. The crowd released a collective gasp.
From all around the Littles came the moaning, g
host-like sound of several dozen children weeping at once.
“Santa!” a skinny black kid cried out from somewhere at the back of the line, his face a mask of terror.
David Little stood over St. Nick, his hands balled into tight red fists, his shoulders trembling with anger.
CHAPTER 20
The Littles returned home that evening with Becca calm and no longer crying, though for Kate and David the whole thing proved to be a stepping stone toward yet another argument. They were able to refrain from getting too nasty with one another until Becca fell asleep on the living room sofa, but then David carried her to her bed and returned to the kitchen where he and Kate resumed their bickering.
“Just tell me one thing,” Kate said. “Was it really necessary to punch Santa Claus?”
David shrugged. “I thought so at the time.”
“Well, I hope you’re happy. Those poor children, seeing Santa Claus get laid out like he was up against some kind of...”
Kate was floundering. Against his better judgment, David threw her a line: “Mike Tyson?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. My point is, you’ve probably traumatized those poor kids for the rest of their lives.”
David couldn’t help it. He laughed at that, trying to hold it in at first, but his efforts were unsuccessful.
“It’s not funny,” Kate said.
“Yes, it is. When you exaggerate like that.”
“David, I’m serious.”
“‘Traumatized?’ ‘For the rest of their lives?’”
Kate shook her head, though she could not hide the faint smile that stretched her own tightly drawn lips in the wrong direction. Okay, so her choice of words was a tad melodramatic. Still, her eyes blazed with contempt as she stared at her husband. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Okay,” David said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did overreact. Just a little.”
“A little?”