by Rod Serling
Dundee waved him quiet. “My advice to you, Corwin, is to clean this mess up and get out of here.”
Corwin shrugged, went over to the bag, and started to put the debris back inside.
In the meantime Dundee turned to the policeman. ‘‘And you, Officer Flaherty,” he said devastatingly, “call yourself a policeman! Well, I suppose it’s a demanding task to distinguish between a bag full of garbage and an inventory of expensive stolen gifts.”
The policeman’s lower lip sagged. “You can believe me, Mr. Dundee,” he said plaintively, “it’s just like Corwin says—we’re dealing with somethin’...somethin’ supernatural here.”
Dundee shook his head. “You know...you amaze me, Officer Flaherty. You really amaze me. In other words, all we need to do is ask Mr. Corwin to make a little abracadabra for us and no sooner said—done!” He looked up toward the ceiling. “Well, go ahead, Corwin. I fancy a bottle of cherry brandy, vintage nineteen-o-three.” He threw up his hands in disgust and shut his eyes.
Corwin was halfway to the door. He paused, smiled a little thoughtfully, and then nodded. “Nineteen-o-three. A good year.” He reached into the bag for a gift-wrapped package which he placed on the bench. Then he hoisted the bag over his shoulder and walked out of the room.
Dundee opened his eyes, took out a cigar, pointed it at the policeman. “Now, as for you, Officer Flah—” He stopped abruptly, staring at the beribboned box on the bench.
The policeman walked over to it and with shaking fingers pulled out a large bottle—a gift card hanging from it. His voice wavered slightly as he read it aloud. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Dundee.”
The cork suddenly and inexplicably popped out of the bottle, and the policeman sat down on the bench because his legs could no longer support him.
Dundee’s mouth was wide open as he stared at the bottle. The policeman finally picked it up, wiped the neck, and held it out. “After you, Mr. Dundee.”
Dundee took a couple of shaky steps over to Flaherty. He accepted the bottle and tilted it to his mouth, then he handed it back to the policeman. The two men sat side by side taking turns, doing honors to an oddball gift that they were both sure was a figment of their imaginations, just as the sudden warm feeling in their stomachs must also be illusory. But sit there they did. And drink they did. And the make-believe liquid in the imaginary bottle was the best-tasting brandy they’d ever had.
***
A light snow drifted gently down through the glow of a street corner lamp where Henry Corwin sat, the burlap bag between his legs. People came and went. But they came empty handed and left with whatever precious little thing they had asked for. An old man carried a smoking jacket. A sad-faced immigrant woman in a shawl gazed lovingly at fur-lined boots that she cradled in her arms as she walked away. Two little Puerto Rican children loaded their gifts onto a brand-new red wagon and, chattering like bright-eyed squirrels, ran through the snow. A rheumy-eyed Bowery bum clutched happily at a portable television set. And still people came and went—a tiny Negro girl, barely able to walk, an eighty-year-old ex-First Mate from a banana boat that hadn’t sailed in twenty years, a blind gospel singer who stared, unseeing, into the snow-filled night, crying softly as two of his neighbors helped pull a new organ down the sidewalk toward his tenement room.
And Henry Corwin’s voice carried over the traffic noise and his hands flew in and out of the bag. “Merry Christmas ... Merry Christmas...Merry Christmas... Here’s a sweater for you. What’s that, darling—a toy? Here you are. An electric train? Got lots of them. Smoking jackets? Lots of them here. What do you want, sweetheart—a dolly? What color hair would you like, darlin’...blonde, brunette, red, or what have you?”
And still the gifts came, and Henry Corwin felt a joy, a fulfillment, a sense of contentment he had never before known. It was when bells on a distant church steeple rang out midnight that Henry Corwin realized that most of the people had disappeared and that the bag was empty burlap lying limply at his feet.
The toothless little old man with his smoking jacket worn over his shabby coat looked off in the direction of the chimes. “It’s Christmas, Henry,” he said softly. “Peace on earth, good will to men.”
A little Puerto Rican child, setting up toy soldiers in the snow, smiled at Santa Claus sitting on the curb. “God bless us,” he whispered, “everyone.”
Corwin smiled and felt a wetness on his cheeks that wasn’t snow. The smile persisted as he touched the burlap sack. “A Merry Christmas to all.” He got to his feet and looked at the old man standing close to him. He straightened the phony beard and started to walk down the street.
The old man touched his arm. “Hey, Santa! Nothin’ for yourself this Christmas?”
“For myself?” Corwin said quietly. “Why, I’ve had the nicest Christmas since the beginning of time.”
“But with nothin’ for yourself?” the old man persisted. He pointed to the empty bag. “Not a thing?”
Corwin touched his make-believe whiskers. “Do you know something? I can’t think of anything I want.” He looked toward the empty bag. “I think the only thing I’ve ever wanted was to be the biggest gift-giver of all times. And in a way I’ve had that tonight.” He walked slowly along the snowy sidewalk. “Though if I did have a choice...any choice at all...of a gift”—he paused and looked back toward the old man—“I guess I’d wish I could do this every year.” He winked and grinned. “Now, that would be a gift, wouldn’t it!”
The old man smiled back at him.
“God bless you,” Corwin said, ‘‘and a Merry Christmas.”
“To you, Henry,” the old man said, “to you.”
Henry Corwin walked slowly down the street, feeling a sudden emptiness—a dullness, as if he had traveled through a land of lights only to enter suddenly a gray limbo. He didn’t know why he stopped, but then he realized he was standing at the entrance of the alley. He looked into it and, double-taking, looked in again and caught his breath. All his brain, his logic, his understanding of what could and couldn’t exist told him in this one flashing instant that this was simply an illusion added to a night full of illusions. But there it was.
Set back deep at the far end of the alley was a sleigh and eight diminutive reindeer, And even more incredible, there was a tiny pipe-smoking elf standing alongside.
Corwin jammed his knuckles into his eyes and rubbed hard, but when he peeked through his fingers there was the scene just as he’d seen it.
“We’ve been waiting quite a while, Santa Claus,” the elf said, taking a puff of his pipe.
Corwin shook his head. He wanted just to lie down in the snow and go to sleep. The whole thing was make-believe—of this there could be no doubt. He smiled foolishly and then giggled as he pointed to the pipe. “That’ll stunt your growth.” Then he giggled again and decided there was no point in going to sleep, since obviously that’s precisely what he was—asleep.
The little elf’s voice carried with it just a tinge of impatience. “Did you hear me? I said we’ve been waiting quite a while, Santa Claus.”
Corwin let it sink in and then very slowly raised his right hand and pointed to himself.
The elf nodded. “We’ve got a year of hard work ahead of us to prepare for next Christmas, so come on awready!”
Henry Corwin walked slowly into the alley and, as if in a dream, mounted into the tiny sleigh.
Officer Patrick Flaherty and Walter Dundee walked down the steps of the station house arm and arm, feeling no pain at all. They stopped at the foot of the steps.
“Going home now, Officer Flaherty?” Dundee asked.
Flaherty smiled happily back at him through glazed eyes. “Goin’ home, Mr. Dundee. And you?”
“Going home, Officer Flaherty. This is quite the nicest Christmas Eve I’ve ever had.”
There was a sound and both men looked up into the night sky.
Dundee shivered. “Flah...Flah...Flaherty? I could have sworn that—” He looked at the policeman, who was blinking and rub
bing his eyes. “Did you see it?”
The policeman nodded. “I thought I did.”
“What did you see?”
“Mr. Dundee—I don’t think I’d better tell you. You’d report me for drinking on duty.”
“Go ahead,” Dundee insisted. “What did you see?”
“Mr. Dundee...it was Corwin! Big as life...in a sleigh with reindeer...sittin’ alongside an elf and headin’ up toward the sky!” He closed his eyes and heaved a tremendous sigh. “That’s about the size of it, ain’t it, Mr. Dundee?”
Dundee nodded. “That’s about the size of it, Officer Flaherty.” His voice sounded small and strained. He turned to the big cop. “I’ll tell you something. You’d better come home with me. We’ll brew up some hot coffee and we’ll pour some whiskey into it, and we’ll...” His voice drifted off as he stared toward the snow-filled sky, and when he looked back at Flaherty he wore a smile that somehow shone. “And we’ll thank God for miracles, Officer Flaherty. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll thank God for miracles.”
Arm and arm, the two men walked off into the night—and over the disappearing sound of tiny bells came the deep resonant ringing of the church bells as they ushered in the next day. The wondrous day. The joyous day above all joyous days—the day of Christmas.
The Midnight Sun
“The secret of a successful artist,” an old instructor had told her years ago, “is not just to put paint on canvas—it is to transfer emotion, using oils and brush as a kind of nerve conduit.”
Norma Smith looked out of the window at the giant sun and then back to the canvas on the easel she had set up close to the window. She had tried to paint the sun and she had captured some of it physically—the vast yellow-white orb which seemed to cover half the sky. And already its imperfect edges could be defined. It was rimmed by massive flames in motion. This motion was on her canvas, but the heat—the incredible, broiling heat that came in waves and baked the city outside—could not be painted, nor could it be described. It bore no relation to any known quantity. It simply had no precedent. It was a prolonged, increasing, and deadening fever that traveled the streets like an invisible fire.
The girl put the paintbrush down and went slowly across the room to a small refrigerator. She got out a milk bottle full of water and carefully measured some into a glass. She took one swallow and felt its coolness move through her. For the past week just the simple act of drinking carried with it very special reactions. She couldn’t remember actually feeling water before. Before, it had simply been thirst and then alleviation; but now the mere swallow of anything cool was an experience by itself. She put the bottle back inside the refrigerator and looked briefly at the clock on the bookcase. It read “11:45.” She heard footsteps coming down the stairs outside and she walked slowly over to the door, opened it, and went out into the hall.
A little four-year-old girl stared up at her soberly, her eyes fixed on Norma’s glass of water. Norma knelt down and put the glass to the child’s lips.
“Susie!” a man’s voice cut in. “Don’t take the lady’s water.”
Norma looked up at a tall, sweat-drenched man in an unbuttoned sport shirt. “That’s all right, Mr. Schuster,” Norma said, “I have plenty.”
“Nobody has plenty,” the man said as he reached the bottom of the stairs and moved the little girl aside. “There’s no such thing as ‘plenty’ anymore.” He took the little girl’s hand and crossed the hall to knock on the opposite door. “Mrs. Bronson,” he called, ‘we’re leaving now.”
Mrs. Bronson opened the door and stepped out. She was a middle-aged woman in a thin housecoat, her face gleaming with sweat. She looked frowsy and dumpy, although Norma could recollect that she had been a petite, rather pretty woman not too long ago—much younger-looking than her years. Now her face was tired, her hair stringy and unkempt.
“Did you get gas?” Mrs. Bronson inquired in a flat, fired voice.
The tall man nodded. “I got twelve gallons. I figured that’d take us at least to Buffalo.”
“Where are you going?” Norma asked. The tall man’s wife came down the stairs. “We’re trying to get to Toronto,” she said. “Mr. Schuster has a cousin there.”
Mrs. Bronson reached down to stroke the little girl’s hair, and then wiped some of the perspiration from the tiny flushed face. “I’m not sure it’s wise—you trying to do this. The highways are packed. Bumper to bumper, the radio said. Even with the gas shortage and everything—”
Schuster cut her off. “I know that,” he said tersely, “but we gotta try anyway.” He wet his lips. “We just wanted to say good by to you, Mrs. Bronson. We’ve enjoyed living here. You’ve been real kind.” Then, somehow embarrassed, he turned quickly to his wife. “Let’s go, honey.” He picked up the single suitcase and holding his little daughter’s hand, started down the steps. His wife followed.
“Good luck,” Mrs. Bronson called down to them. “Safe trip.”
“Good-by, Mrs. Bronson,” the woman’s voice called back.
The front door opened and closed. Mrs. Bronson stared down the steps for a long moment, then turned to Norma. “And now we are two,” she said softly.
“They were the last?” Norma asked, pointing to the steps.
“The last. Building’s empty now except for you and me.”
A man, carrying a tool kit, came out of Mrs. Bronson’s apartment.
“She’s running’ again, Mrs. Bronson,” he said. “I wouldn’t sign no guarantee as to how long she’ll run—but she shouldn’t give you any trouble for a while.” He looked briefly at Norma and fingered his tool kit nervously. “Was you going to pay for this in cash?” he asked.
“I have a charge account,” Mrs. Bronson said.
The repairman was ill at ease. “Boss said I should start collecting’ in cash.” He looked a little apologetically toward Norma.
“We been working’ around the clock. Refrigerators breaking’ down every minute and a half. Everybody and his brother trying’ to make ice—then with the current been’ cut off every coupla hours, it’s tough on the machines.” With obvious effort he looked back at Mrs. Bronson. “About that bill, Mrs. Bronson—”
“How much is it?”
The repairman looked down at his tool kit; his voice was low. “I gotta charge yuh a hundred dollars.” He just shook his head disconsolately.
The quiet of Mrs. Bronson’s voice did not cover her dismay. “A hundred dollars? For fifteen minutes’ work?”
The repairman nodded miserably. “For fifteen minutes’ work. Most outfits are chargin’ double that, and even triple. It’s been that way for a month. Ever since...” He looked out the hall window toward the street. “Ever since the thing happened.”
There was an embarrassing silence and finally Mrs. Bronson took off her wedding ring. “I don’t have any money left,” she said quietly, “but this is gold. It’s worth a lot.” She held the ring out to him.
The repairman failed to meet her eyes. He made a jerky spasmodic motion that was neither acceptance nor rejection. Then he looked at the ring and shook his head. “Go ahead and charge it,” he said, keeping his face averted; “I ain’t takin’ a lady’s weddin’ ring.” He went over to the stairs. “Good-by, Mrs. Bronson. Good luck to you.” He paused at the top of the stairs.
The yellow-white sun was framed in the window above him. It was constant now, but somehow an evil thing that could no longer be ignored.
“I’m gonna try to get my family out tonight,” the repairman said, staring out the window. “Drivin’ north. Canada, if we can make it. They say it’s cooler there.” He turned to look back toward the two women. “Not that it makes much difference—just kind of... kind of prolonging it.” He smiled, but it was a twisted smile. “Like everybody rushin’ to fix their refrigerators and air conditioners...” He shook his head. “It’s nuts. It’s just prolonging it, that’s all.”
He started slowly down the steps, his big shoulders slumped. “Oh, Christ!” they heard him say as h
e turned at the landing and went down again. “Christ, it’s hot!” His footsteps crossed the downstairs hall.
Norma leaned against the side of the door. “What happens now?” she asked.
Mrs. Bronson shrugged. “I don’t know. I heard on the radio that they’d only turn the water on for an hour a day from now on. They said they’d announce what time.” She suddenly stared at Norma. ‘‘Aren’t you going to leave?” she blurted.
Norma shook her head. “No, I’m not going to leave.” She forced a smile, then turned and went back into her apartment, leaving the door open.
Mrs. Bronson followed her. Norma walked over to the window. The sun bathed her with its heat and with its strange, almost malevolent light. It had changed the entire city. The streets, the buildings, the stores had taken on a sickly oyster color. The air was heavy and soggy.
Norma felt perspiration rolling down her back and her legs. “I keep getting this crazy thought,” she said, “this crazy thought that I’ll wake up and none of this will have happened. I’ll wake up in a cool bed and it’ll be night outside and there’ll be a wind and there’ll be branches rustling—shadows on the sidewalk, a moon.”
She turned her face to stare directly out of the window and it was like standing in front of an open oven. The waves of heat struck at her, pushed into her flesh, poured through her pores. “And traffic noises,” she continued in a softer voice, “automobiles, garbage cans, milk bottles, voices.” She raised her hand and pulled at the cord of the venetian blind. The slats closed and the room became shadowed but the heat remained. Norma closed her eyes. “Isn’t it odd...” she said, reflectively, “isn’t it odd the things we took for granted...” There was a pause. “…while we had them?”
Mrs. Bronson’s hands were like two nervous little birds fluttering. “There was a scientist on the radio,” she said, forcing herself to be conversational. “I heard him this morning. He said that it would get a lot hotter. More each day. Now that we’re moving so close to the sun. And that’s why we’re…that’s why we’re...”