The question was, how far down did Jack have to go to get there? The stairs just kept leading him deeper and deeper; he wasn’t counting, but he knew he’d already gone down lots more than it should have taken to get from one basement to another. There were so many, he needed a break after a while and stopped to sit down for a moment. He even had a lick of the ice cream, which wasn’t melting as fast in the cold.
Continuing onward, Jack wondered when it would end. Had the twins led him into some kind of bizarre supernatural trap? What if he spent all eternity just walking down those steps, trying to get somewhere that didn’t exist?
When he took a second break, though, he heard something...some kind of sounds in the distance. Was it just his imagination, or was he hearing faint voices wafting up from down below?
As Jack resumed his descent, he moved slower than before, listening intently. Just as the flickering light kept brightening the further down he went, so did the sounds get louder.
A few more steps, and he could tell for sure: they were voices, all right. He didn’t know what they were saying, but he could tell they were human voices.
Heart pounding, Jack continued to creep toward them. He realized his long trip down was almost over, though he still had no idea if that would be a good thing. Whatever Bub was mixed up in, it was unusual, to say the least. If Jack’s ominous descent down that dim, dank stairway was any indication, it might be dangerous, as well.
As Jack got closer, the voices got louder, until he could finally distinguish between them. There were three: an old man’s voice, high and gravelly; a woman’s, deeper and throatier; and a younger man’s, deeper and louder than the rest.
“What do you want us to say?” asked the woman. “Times are changing.”
“New times, new terms,” said the old man. “You understand.”
“It’s nothing personal,” said the younger man. “Just business.”
Suddenly, a fourth voice spoke. “It’s personal, all right.” This voice, Jack knew by heart. “It’s nothing but personal.”
Bub. It was Bub. The twins had not steered Jack wrong, after all.
But what were Bub and the others talking about? Jack had to get closer to find out.
“It’s a negotiation, Ben,” said a fifth voice, that of another old man. “Same as it is every year.”
“You’re not negotiating,” said Bub. “You’re doing the opposite. You’re not giving me a leg to stand on.”
“Did you think you could keep doing this forever?” asked the woman. “Postponing the inevitable one year at a time?”
“Yes,” said Bub. “Now tell me what I need to do to make this deal. Tell me what you want from me to make it worth your while.”
“Honestly?” The first old man, the one with the high-pitched voice, cackled. “You’re wasting your breath. We want nothing from you anymore.
“This town is doomed to die, and there’s nothing you can do to save it.”
*****
Finally, Jack reached the end of the shaft. As he walked off the bottom step onto a floor of dusty cobblestones, the old man’s last words echoed in his mind.
This town is doomed to die, and there’s nothing you can do to save it.
Jack wondered what it meant. What had he stumbled into here?
And how exactly was Bub involved? What had the woman meant when she’d said he’d been “postponing the inevitable, one year at a time?”
No doubt about it, Jack needed to get closer. He needed to hear more, to understand what was happening.
Taking care not to make a sound, Jack tiptoed toward the voices. He saw an entryway in the gray stone wall ahead, a gap through which the flickering light was flowing, and he headed straight for it.
There was a curved rim along the base of the gap, a crescent-shaped lip with a large stone in the middle. Breathing fast, Jack stepped over it, watching carefully to make sure he didn’t trip and fall.
But when he got both feet on the other side and looked up, he almost fell over anyway. He felt instantly dizzy and light-headed when he took in the scene around him; it was a miracle he managed to stay upright.
Because somehow, everything and everyone but him was upside-down.
Jack stood at the edge of a large chamber hewn of the same gray block as the stairway. The voices that had drawn him there were coming from the middle of that chamber, and the people they belonged to were upside-down, seated or standing on the ceiling. The circular table and chairs they occupied were upside-down, too.
So were the blazing torches and the framed paintings and photos on the walls. So was the statue of the big red dog across the room--Morley’s dog, a legendary canine from the 1889 flood.
Everything had been flipped...or, maybe, it was all perfectly normal. Looking back at the entrance he’d come through, Jack suddenly thought of an explanation for the curved lip along the bottom. What if that was the top of an archway instead of some kind of inexplicable low ledge?
But what Jack was thinking couldn’t be true, could it? Wasn’t it impossible to defy the law of gravity like that?
Apparently not. As Jack stood there, trying to adjust to the off-kilter scene, a stream of ice cream melted from his cone...and ran straight up. It dribbled past his head and kept on going, running toward what seemed to be the ceiling from his point of view.
Except it was the floor. And Jack was the only occupant of the room who was truly upside-down.
*****
Jack hastily licked at the ice cream cone to keep any more from falling. Somehow, doing that made him feel less dizzy and light-headed, as if something in the ice cream was a cure for vertigo.
Meanwhile, the group at the table up above (down below?) kept talking. Luckily, the room was an echo chamber; the people were in the middle of the room, at least thirty feet away, but their voices carried so well that they sounded like they were right next to him.
“There must be something you want,” said Bub. “There always is.” He was standing in the open well in the middle of the circular table. His jacket was gone; his bright white button-down shirt took on a reddish glow in the torchlight.
“Not this time,” said the old man with the high-pitched, gravelly voice. Now that Jack had a clear view of him, he could see he was the old-timer Bub had waved at in the Bedford Street Newsstand, the one in the pale blue polyester leisure suit.
Jack recognized two others at the table, also: the old lady in red whom Bub had spoken to on Main Street and the old man in the houndstooth sport coat and brown-and-red plaid pants whom Bub had hugged in front of Glosser’s.
“Events have been set in motion,” said the lady in red. “Events that have been too long delayed already.”
“The death of Johnstown, Rachel?” Bub shook his head angrily. “That can never be delayed too long.”
“Now, now.” The old man in houndstooth fiddled nervously with his green Alpine hat on the table in front of him. “It will only be temporary, Ben.”
Suddenly, the younger man spoke, the one with the deepest, loudest voice. “Damn right!” When he jumped to his feet, Jack could see he was tall and broad-shouldered, rippling with muscles like a body-builder. “You can’t keep Johnstown down! It’ll be back, baby, bigger and better than ever!”
“You tell ‘im, Steel Toe!” The man in the powder blue leisure suit clapped his hands.
“Which is, of course, the whole point, isn’t it?” said the man in houndstooth.
“The cycle of death and rebirth,” said Rachel. “There can be no true progress without it.”
“At a cost of how many lives?” asked Bub.
“A drop in the bucket, Benny.” Powder blue leisure suit leaned back in his chair and hoisted his feet on the table. “Less than a drop. A drip.”
“Those people out there are your charges.” Bub gestured up at the ceiling, which was also Jack’s floor. “Isn’t that what you’ve told me?”
“I’m Mr. Flood!” Powder blue leisure suit pumped his gnarled fists in the air. “My only cha
rges are the storm clouds and lightning bolts!”
“No, it’s true,” said houndstooth. “We’re like parents to them...and as such, we know what is best for them.”
“Which is death?” Bub threw his arms open wide. “For how many, Joe? Hundreds? Thousands?”
Houndstooth--Joe--shrugged and looked away. “I can’t say.”
“Whatever it takes,” snapped the muscle man.
“Whatever the flood waters can carry.” Mr. Flood’s feet jiggled around in their white buck shoes as if the idea tickled him.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Above them, Jack watched in amazement, trying to sort out what he’d heard.
Who were these people? Were they actually talking about flooding Johnstown? Could they do it?
And how had Bub come to try to talk them out of it? Was this really what he did every Christmas Eve?
Jack shivered. There he was, in a scenario worthy of the Six Million Dollar Man, and he just wanted to get out of it. He just wanted to get back to his boring, crappy life again and forget about life-or-death deals in sinister hidden lairs.
He was starting to think he would’ve been better off not knowing Bub’s secret after all.
*****
Rachel was the one who finally broke the silence. “You need to accept reality, Ben. The covenants are yesterday’s news.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Bub turned in her direction. “We’ve negotiated them every year since I was, what...twenty-five? And my father did the same before me.”
“You had to bring him up, didn’t you?” Mr. Flood swung his legs off the table and lunged halfway out of his chair. “That sweet-talking son of a gun!” He stood all the way up and wriggled his hands in front of his chest effeminately. “’Ohh, that terrible flood in 1889!’” he said in a falsetto, mocking voice. “’Johnstown can’t stand another disaster like that! Please, can’t we make a bargain to keep this town safe?’”
“It was a hard bargain,” said Bub. “You’ve only ever agreed to a year at a time.”
“Poor baby!” shouted Mr. Flood. “Do you have any clue how lucky you were to get even that?”
“What about ‘36?” said Bub.
“Ah, ‘36.” A broad grin stretched across Mr. Flood’s cadaverous face. “A good year. A very good year.”
“So that’s what this is?” said Bub. “1936 all over again? Tear up the covenant, flood the city, get your jollies?”
“Why the hell not?” Mr. Flood slammed his palms down on the table. “You’ve been holding this town back for too long, Benny! How do you expect this place to grow up if we keep babying it?”
Bub leaned in and locked eyes with him. “You don’t need to kill thousands of people for this town to grow up.”
“You’re spoiled!” Mr. Flood sneered. “You’ve been getting what you want for too long. Well, the gravy train stops here, my old not-friend.”
Bub leaned closer. He had an expression of fury on his face that Jack had seen only a handful of times in his life. “You twisted, miserable...”
“Hey!” Steel Toe jumped up and threw down a fist between Bub and Mr. Flood. “Back off, Ben! I don’t care if you’re a union man, I’ll smack you down if you lay a hand on him!”
For a moment, Bub stayed right where he was, glaring at Mr. Flood. “You don’t want progress. You don’t want this town to grow up.” He leaned a little closer then, making Steel Toe tense up. “You might have fooled the others, but you haven’t fooled me.”
“Says the biggest fool in the room.” Mr. Flood howled at his joke and threw himself down in his chair.
“That’s enough!” shouted Joe. “There will be no further conflict here.” He picked up his green Alpine hat and plunked it on his head. “This matter is settled.”
“You must accept what has been ordained.” Rachel looked around the table grimly with her misaligned eyes. “The next great flood will strike Johnstown next year, in July of 1976.”
“Just in time for America’s Bicentennial.” Mr. Flood let out a little whoop. “Talk about fireworks!”
“Consider yourself fortunate, Ben,” said Joe. “You’ve been given enough warning to move your loved ones elsewhere.”
Bub backed away from Mr. Flood and slumped. “Please.” He held out his hands to Joe and Rachel. “Please, no. All those people...”
“Will be a tragic loss,” said Rachel. “And none of us takes joy in that.”
Mr. Flood cleared his throat loudly.
Rachel ignored him. “But it doesn’t change the fact of what is coming. We all must accept and look beyond it to the new and stronger Johnstown that will rise up in the wake of this disaster.”
“Till the next one.” Mr. Flood snickered.
“No, wait,” said Bub. “There must be something we can do. There must be something I can give you.”
Just then, at that exact instant, a blob of Rocky Road ice cream hit the floor at the edge of the room with an echoing splat.
*****
Jack had forgotten about the ice cream. He’d been too caught up in the conversation to remember to keep licking it.
The melting had slowed in the cold underground chamber but never stopped completely. Eventually, the Rocky Road had turned to mush and dropped right out of the cone.
So now, his secret surveillance was at an end. All eyes in the room were locked on him.
“Jack, no!” shouted Bub.
“Again with the drama?” Mr. Flood scowled like a rotting peach. “Would someone please get that brat out of here?”
“Jack, run!” Bub waved frantically, trying to shoo him from the room. “As fast as you can!”
“No need to be inhospitable,” said Joe. “This is your grandson?”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked Rachel.
Bub wouldn’t take his eyes off Jack. He jerked his head, signaling him once more to leave.
But Jack was frozen where he stood. He knew he should do what Bub told him and run--he wanted to get away--but he felt pinned down by the pressure of all those eyes upon him.
“Well?” said Rachel.
“This is Jack,” said Bub. “Let him go. He isn’t a part of this.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Rachel. “How long have you been standing there, Jack?”
Still gaping at Jack, Bub drew his thumb and index finger across his lips as if he were pulling a zipper across them. The message was clear.
Jack kept his mouth shut.
“How much have you heard?” asked Joe.
Bub shook his head. Jack got the clear impression it wouldn’t be good for him to say anything.
So why did he feel such a powerful compulsion to speak? Why did he have to fight so hard to keep himself from answering the question?
“Shy child.” Rachel smiled. “Perhaps we should finish the introductions first. Ben, will you do the honors?”
Bub flicked his eyes hard to the side, another signal. But when Jack didn’t run, he sighed and spoke. “Jack, this is Rachel Adams.”
“I’m kind of a local legend,” said Rachel. “You’ve heard of Rachel Hill?”
Jack nodded. Of course he knew about Rachel Adams, everyone did. She was a settler...in the 1700s.
Killed by Indians.
“This is Joseph Johns,” said Bub, gesturing at the man they’d been calling Joe.
“Yes, the Joseph Johns.” Joe laughed. “Founder of Johnstown. Late founder, as far as most people know.”
Jack swallowed hard. He’d guessed there was magic at work here, some kind of supernatural forces...but dead people?
“This is Steel Toe.” Bub gestured at the man with the superhero build.
“Spirit of the steel mills,” said Steel Toe, grinning and waving. “Any grandson of a steelworker is okay in my book.”
“And this...” Bub gestured at Mr. Flood.
“Is your worst nightmare!” Mr. Flood lunged up and hissed loudly, baring his teeth.
“We’re all local legends, Jack,”
said Rachel. “We have an influence around here, and we use it for the greater good of Johnstown.”
“Your grandfather here has been a...consultant of ours for some time now,” said Joe.
“More of an advocate,” said Rachel, “for certain local interests.”
“Until he done got fired,” said Mr. Flood.
“There are men like him all over the world,” said Rachel. “Pleading their case with people like us. Keeping it all from falling apart for one more year.”
“So, Jack,” said Joe. “Is there anything you’d like to ask us?”
Bub’s eyes widened, and he shook his head once.
Jack remained silent at first. He knew he shouldn’t say anything that might get him in any deeper than he already was.
But then, suddenly, he wanted to talk. As scared as he was, a mob of questions pressed to be let out. This might be his only chance to get answers.
Shaking and sweating and breathing fast, Jack opened his mouth and spoke. “Can you really do it? Flood Johnstown, I mean?”
“Can we do it?” Mr. Flood smacked the table with both hands. “How’d you like a lungful of water, you disrespectful guttersnipe?”
“Hey!” Bub whirled around to glare at Flood.
“Enough!” snapped Joe. “Both of you!”
“The answer to your question is yes, Jack,” said Rachel. “We can indeed make such a thing happen.”
Jack thought it over for a moment...and another question came to mind. This time, he directed it at Bub. “What did you give them?”
Bub frowned, looking puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Every year, when you made the deal,” said Jack. “The one to hold off the flood. You said they wanted something to make it worth their while.”
Bub started to say something, but the others cut him off.
“He gave us his youth,” said Joe. “And his energy.”
“He gave us his dreams,” said Rachel. “His dreams to be anything other than a shop steward in a steel mill in the town where he was born.”
“He stayed here.” Joe tapped the table with a bony finger. “He put Johnstown first.”
Christmas at Glosser's Page 3