Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas

by Richard Scrimger

  I wonder if Dad is in the audience? He said he was coming. My poor dad. I have a vivid picture of Grandma whacking him on the leg with the broom.

  It’s as dark as the inside of a toothpaste tube. I think of all the work that’s gone into the show. Me reading the Nutcracker story back in September, and then writing a poem and showing it to Patti. And her eyes lighting up, and then her saying what a great idea it would be if I could write some more poems and turn them into a Nutcracker play, and she could star in it. And Miss Gonsalves saying she would help us put it together, and play the music. I think of the rehearsal saga this past week, culminating in the battle for the gym.

  A flash of guilt. The whole fiasco is my fault. If I hadn’t been so pushy at the basketball practice, would Mr. Gebohm have wanted this revenge?

  A flash of fear. Essa’s right: he really does hate me. That’s awful.

  A flash of itchiness. I want to scratch my nose. I can’t think about that. I haven’t time to think about that. But I am itchy.

  These thoughts zoom by. The mind moves faster than a striking rattlesnake. Time doesn’t. Time is a bigger snake altogether, a sleepy anaconda, coiling lazily around me. Has a second passed? A single second? No, not yet. Time is odd stuff.

  I think of Bernie and Grandma sitting in the darkness. Nice of them to give up their dreidel game to come.

  Miss Gonsalves knows the overture by heart – she doesn’t need to see the notes. How long has she been playing in the dark? Has she reached the next note yet? There it is. I hear it, the twelfth beat of the overture to Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker, as arranged for piano.

  I picture myself running downstairs to confront Mr. Gebohm. I sneak out the door at the back of the stage and run like the wind and fall down the basement stairs. I crack my head open, and lie there in a pool of blood. No one finds me until Mr. Gebohm turns the lights back on. I suffer a horrible concussion, and have to go to hospital for weeks and weeks. Mr. Gebohm visits me, and steals my grapes.

  I think about him down in the Electrical Room, gripping the power switch with his meaty hands, his eyes flashing behind his little glasses. And I find myself thinking of the man who works in the basement. Mr. March is calm, generous, good – all things that Mr. Gebohm is not.

  Another note from the piano. The audience is quiet. Not a cough, not a whisper, not a scrape as a chair is pushed back.

  I think about Bernie’s dreidel game. What did Grandma say? A great miracle happened here. And I wish … well, it’s no good wishing. I have to act. Jiri’s flashlight is in my hands.

  The atmosphere in the gym is hot and sweaty. The little red dots on top of the video cameras are still. They make me think of lights on a Christmas tree. We always put our tree in the living room. Dad lifts one of us up to put the star at the top of the tree. Last year, Bernie jumped out of Dad’s arms and knocked the tree over.

  I think about Grandma, lending me her Frank Sinatra record. I think she likes me. As much as she can like anyone.

  Zillah’s artifact from the 1950s is going to be a hair dryer that you sit under. It comes in a suitcase and it’s made of plastic and it takes half an hour to dry your hair. Half an hour! We had a good laugh over that at recess today. Actually, I had a good laugh. Zillah smiled.

  Someone coughs. I hear it in slow motion, like a thunderclap rolling across the desert, reverberating around canyon walls before dying quietly away in the distance. It reminds me of the way my dad would cough, last week.

  I think about the mice in our house. None in the mousetraps. I wonder if they’re gone? I wonder what we should do about it? I want to get rid of them, but I don’t want to use mousetraps, or poison.

  And on the subject of poison, what am I going to do about Patti? We’ve had a lot of fun together; we’ve laughed and held hands and gone to each other’s birthday parties and done all our shared projects together … and it turns out that she really doesn’t like me. Maybe she never did. Funny, huh? I can feel the prickle of tears at the corners of my eyes.

  I come to the conclusion – funny that, after thinking about Patti for days, I should reach the conclusion now, in this busy second of time – that she can’t be a real friend. Real friends don’t talk badly about each other. They don’t lie to each other, or involve each other in their own lies. Which means, I guess, that Brad isn’t a real friend either. Brazil nuts, indeed!

  Time to act. I’m gripping Jiri’s flashlight tightly. I point it at the stage.

  And then, just like that, the lights come back on. My odyssey of thoughts – of Grandma and Dad, of Patti and Brad, of Christmas and Chanukah, of Miss Gonsalves and Mr. Gebohm, of mice and nutcrackers – has taken one second. About the length of time it would take to blow out a match.

  I scratch my nose vigorously.

  The lights are on, and time starts acting up again. It doesn’t move slowly. Now it dashes forward like a jackrabbit. My mind, meanwhile, has turned into a tortoise, unable to catch up.

  I scratch my nose some more. I stare at the lights. So bright. So surprising. Something is different – and wrong. What is it? Must think ….

  “Hey, Jane!” whispers Patti. She’s beside me, dancing with impatience. “The lights! Turn them off!”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Oops. The houselights are on. I flipped the switch when the power went down. Now all of the power is back, and the gym is bright. I slam down the house-lights, and flick back to the reds and greens. Patti stomps into position.

  In a very steady voice, Michael calls to the wings:

  “Fritz and Maria, come and view

  The genius of your god-papa.

  No one else could bring for you

  A Christmas gift so odd. Ha-ha!”

  All right, so I’m not Shakespeare. But Michael does a good job delivering the lines so that they rhyme, and the audience laughs. They actually laugh.

  What a feeling! A roomful of people like what I wrote.

  It’s going to work out. I know it. I know it. Suddenly I’m ten feet tall. I’m totally in control. Patti and Justin are out now. The audience is still laughing. The show goes on. I run around backstage on silent printless toe, herding the rest of the cast into position. I anticipate all the scene changes, flicking the lights in perfect time. I don’t need my clipboard. I can see the whole play at once, from any angle, like one of those 3D computer models. I can manipulate it all with a flick of my hand. I can fly.

  The audience keeps laughing. I can make out Grandma’s amused cackle from backstage. Once heard, never forgotten.

  The big transformation scene goes well – a full-sized nutcracker appearing as if by magic from under the table when I change white lights for reds. The audience applauds.

  Brad does a good job marching about the stage, but I notice he swings his arms much higher than in rehearsal, hiding his face from the TV camera.

  Patti, on the other hand, spends a lot of time at the front of the stage. She wants the TV camera to find her. When she comes off, I tell her to move more upstage.

  “Why?” she pouts.

  “When you talk from downstage, you turn your back to the audience. Don’t you want them to see your face? Now, get ready. You’re on in … four seconds.”

  She shuts her mouth, and does what she’s told.

  The phone is still off the hook. I can hear a confused gabble of noise from the receiver. I hold it to my ear.

  It’s Mr. Gebohm. He’s … well, talking crazy talk.

  “I guess they’ve all left now, eh, Peeler? Your show is ruined! My revenge complete. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Hysterical laughter. I put down the phone.

  The battle between the toys and the mice is raging. Brad swings mightily with his new sword in both hands – and one of the Mouse King’s heads falls. It’s hanging by a thread – right in front of Essa’s eyeholes. The audience claps, covering Essa’s scream for help.

  She stands there in the middle of the melee. The scene should last a bit longer, b
ut it won’t now. Essa’s afraid to move. Brad looks for me offstage. I catch his eye, and make the cut gesture, finger across my throat. Then I kill the lights for a second. The action stops, and when the lights come back up, the Mouse King is lying on the stage with the Nutcracker’s sword through the hole where the head was glued.

  Brilliant improvisation. Brad has acting in his blood, all right.

  The change of backdrop goes without a hitch, and the happy couple – Fritz and Maria – are now ready to reign in Candyland. Up the yellows, down the blues. The cast makes an aisle, and kneels. Brad and Patti, arm in arm, walk down the aisle toward a large figure in a striped robe and turban. The Herald of Candyland raises a hand in greeting.

  Jiri is facing stage left, to me. I can see his eyes flicker once, twice, and I know – I know – that he has forgotten his lines. He clears his throat and begins: “Welcome, er, welcome royalty.”

  And stops. Yup. Wrong line. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. So much has happened in the last few minutes that I’m past caring about little things, such as Jiri forgetting his lines. It’s been a great show. I’m proud of myself, proud of us all. No matter what happens now, I’ve had a wonderful time. I give Jiri the thumbs-up. He closes his eyes, and in a clear bell-like voice, recites a verse I never wrote – a brilliant brand-new ending made up on the spot:

  “Welcome, welcome, royalty

  From every girl and boy-alty

  Who lives in Candyland!

  You will command our loyalty

  Our jollity, our joy-alty,

  Forever after you will see

  That living here is grand!”

  A giant smile splits Jiri’s face across the middle. He bows deeply. The music ends with a triumphant dah duh dah duh dah. And the crowd erupts like a kicked beehive.

  Minutes later they’re all still buzzing. We’ve taken our bows. (Even me – they called me out for a special one.) Lance has packed up his lights and camera and gone back to the studio. We’re starting to file off backstage. I find myself beside Justin. I congratulate him on a fine show, and thank him again for his support before.

  He ducks his head. I used to think he was shy; now I realize he doesn’t want to give much away. “I guess Mr. Gebohm was bluffing after all,” he says. “He never did shut off the power, did he?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  The principal is thanking the parents for coming, wishing everyone a happy holiday season. Suddenly, dramatically, the doors to the gymnasium are thrown open.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me, please! Mr. Gordon. Mr. GORDON!”

  It’s Mr. March. “I found the cause of the power outage, sir,” he says.

  Dead silence. Then, into the microphone – the working microphone – Gordon says, “What are you talking about? What power outage?”

  “I think you’d better come to the basement, sir. Something has happened.”

  The principal tells the audience to stay seated and stay calm, but he might as well have told the rain to stay in the sky. Mr. March leads a crowd of staff, students, and parents down the stairs.

  “There, you see.” The caretaker points to the basement floor. It’s light gray and very clean, except for a set of definite black marks. They form a trail, leading down the basement corridor.

  “I don’t understand,” says Mr. Gordon.

  “Someone was down here, wearing horrible boots with marking soles. I saw the marks in the flashlight, and I knew.”

  “Flashlight?” says Gordon.

  “The trail goes right to the Electrical Room. Now, I swept the floor myself this afternoon, and there were no marks then. So I knew that a stranger had been down here. And I figured that the stranger was responsible for the power failure. I thought it might be a student – I’ve seen these marks on the halls upstairs. So I went right into the Electrical Room, and –”

  “Wait. What power failure?”

  Mr. March stares around. “The power failure tonight. Just now. The power failure we’ve had for the last half an hour. That’s why I was carrying a flashlight.”

  Gordon Gordon looks upset. “What are you talking about? There’s no power failure.”

  “Well, not now, sir. Of course not. I turned the power back on. But he had the main switches pulled down. The whole school was blacked out.”

  It’s hard for Mr. March to believe that we don’t know what he’s talking about. But the faces crowding the basement hallway show the same surprise. We all agree. There was no power failure. Not in the gym, anyway. Mr. March shakes his head.

  “Well, that is strange,” he says finally. “I was in the dark down here. I followed the marks, and there he was. He had a flashlight too. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He leads us down the twisting hallway. The door to the Electrical Room is open. I worm my way to the front. The place is a lot messier than it was this morning. Boxes have been thrown around, and there’s litter all over the floor. We crowd around the open doorway. Mr. March goes in. He finds a flashlight among the mess, and holds it up. “There!” he says. “See?” He tries to turn it on. It doesn’t work. “Must have got broken in the scuffle,” he says.

  “Scuffle?” says Gordon. “Who did you fight?”

  “Whom,” says a voice from the middle of the crowd. Teachers. Gordon blushes.

  “Whom, then,” he says. “And where is he now?”

  I try to picture the fight. Total darkness, except for flashlights zapping their beams of light all around. Just like a Star Wars movie. Mr. March doesn’t look much like Anakin Skywalker, but beneath the bald head and chubby body beats a heart every bit as pure. I notice that the telephone is off the hook.

  “I put him next door,” says Mr. March.

  “What’s that noise?” asks someone’s dad – a really tall thin guy, with long arms like a spider. “Sounds a bit like … singing.”

  “Stand back.” Mr. March pulls a big ring of keys from his belt, and opens the door marked COAL CELL.

  A strange figure is standing on the table in the middle of the room. A ginger-haired figure, with broken glasses and a ripped T-shirt, and wild staring eyes. He holds his arms over his head, making a big letter O. He laughs when he sees us all, and continues singing a song. It’s the teapot song, only it isn’t – not the way he sings it:

  “I’m a basketball; I’m short and round.

  Here is the basket, here is the ground.

  When I hit the backboard, I rebound,

  No, No, Do The Drill Again!”

  “Coach?” says a familiar kid – a tall kid standing next to the spider-guy. “Coach, is that you?” Of course, it’s Gill, the captain of the basketball team.

  “I’m a little jump shot, falling true,

  Right through the hoop and score it two.

  Clang! I miss, and the crowd goes boo.

  No, No, Do The Drill Again!”

  He sees me then, and turns to point right at me. I can feel his craziness like a suffocating blanket.

  “Ha! You!” says Mr. Gebohm. “I Did It! I Stopped Your Show, Peeler! I Did It! No Nutcracker For You. Hahahahahahahaha!!”

  I stare at him and try to feel triumph. I try to feel anger. I can’t do it. All I feel is sorry. I swallow. I want to cry. I want to run away.

  I stumble backwards into someone’s arms.

  “There, there, honey.” She clasps me tight and spins me around so that she is between me and Mr. Gebohm.

  “Mom!” I close my eyes against tears. “Where did you come from?”

  Her suit is mussed from the crowd of people. Her hair is mussed too. She smells like a goodnight kiss from when I was little. “I was here all along,” she says.

  Mr. Gebohm pirouettes on the top of the table, and begins his teapot song again. Gill’s dad pulls him away from the door. Gill protests. “But that’s Coach Gebohm!”

  “Stay back. You too, Flip,” Gill’s dad says to a small skinny boy behind him. The small boy doesn’t move. “Flipper, I mean it!”

  Flipper must be
Gill’s brother. Would you believe it? His parents did name them both after parts of a fish.

  “Oh, dear,” says Mr. Gordon. “What will we do?”

  “Phone the police,” says one voice.

  “Phone the hospital,” says another voice.

  I get a last look at the room where Mr. March and I had tea this morning. The radio is on the floor. Our cups are on the counter. The menorah has two candles in it. Mr. March closes and locks the door. Mr. Gebohm is still singing.

  Upstairs again and time to go home. The crowd is breaking up. I’m holding Mom’s hand. Dad is yawning, almost asleep on his feet. Bernie is asleep in Grandma’s arms.

  A bulky man moves smartly toward me. His head is large and round, kind of like his stomach. He’s dressed like a salesman, but he’s not selling. His eyes are warm and brown, and his smile is sincere. The hand he holds out to me is the size of a shovel.

  “You’re Bill’s sister, aren’t you?”

  I smile politely. “Bill’s sister” is not the way I think of myself.

  “I want to congratulate you on a great show. You should be proud of yourself.” Before I can thank him he turns to my parents. “Your daughter is very talented,” he says. Before she can thank him he calls over his shoulder. “Come on, David!”

  Oh, that’s who he is. I’ve never met David’s dad before. Of course, Bill is with David.

  Grandma has Bernie tucked into his stroller. She’s frowning at a NO SMOKING sign on the wall.

  Mr. Bergmann and Mom are chatting about the boys. “He has the makings of a real scholar,” he says. “You should see him and my David studying the Bar Mitzvah text together.”

  “Oh, yes?” says Mom.

  “Bedtime!” says Mr. Bergmann. “It’s after 9:00 already.”

  “Aw, Daddy. It’s just 8:30 – look.” David points to a clock overhead. It says 8:30 all right. So does the clock by the front doors of the school.

  “My watch says 9:00,” says Mr. Bergmann.