by J. D. Douwes
“I’m sorry. We can only release him to his parents.”
I clear my throat. “Come on. He just stole cookies. That’s not that big of a deal. You can let him go. His mom doesn’t need to know about it. She’s busy caroling.”
“He lit my skirt on fire!” The lady spits out the words, her face smeared in eyeliner, her left rubber ear hanging on by a thread of goo. It kinda looks like that artist guy’s self-portrait.
I tilt my head and nod. “Oh yeah, he did that to me too.”
“It caught the tent on fire.” The man’s face is almost purple.
I pull in a cold breath through my teeth, grimacing. “Sorry.” How is one child so evil?
“He tied my leg to my chair with a shoelace,” someone else says.
Fred stops hollering long enough to smile in satisfaction, then goes back to it. Got to admit, this kid has spunk.
“Why are you hanging around this booth? Why not another one?” I ask him. He’s barely dressed for the weather, and he’s not even shaking. Maybe he’s a demon. I’ve met an elf and Santa tonight; why is it so far-fetched that this kid is actually a demon?
“No one else would let me hang around.”
“And you can’t hang around here. You need to be with your mom.” I turn to the man. “Let me take him off your hands. I promise to take him back to his mom.”
The guy looks between the two ladies behind the tables and me. They nod at him in encouragement. They definitely have had enough of the kid. “Okay. But if there are any more problems with him, we’re going to call the cops.”
“Fair.” I hold up my hands in a peace offering. “And the kolaches are mine. I’m going to grab the container now before we head back.”
The woman with the artist’s ear hurries to close up the dollar store container and holds it out to me, a pitying look on her face. Not a single cookie is missing. “No one knew what kolaches were.”
Seriously? “Um, they’re the best cookies in the world.” I grab the container from her and drag the kid away by the ear down the street.
“Ow, let go of me.”
“Not after how you’ve been acting.”
“This is child abuse.”
“Ha. I could have had you thrown in juvie for setting my skirt on fire.”
We’re awkward as we walk down the middle of the street, passing by groups of people singing Christmas carols. Some are dancing in complicated formations, but most are standing still as they deliver their perfectly modulated notes, practically vibrating from the below-freezing temperature. People stand in front of them with clipboards, smiling as they nod and take notes. I’m trying as hard as I can not to let pangs of jealously take over. Instead, I’m using it to give me the strength to tow this little juvenile delinquent back to his mother.
I can see our group, with Harry-the-ex in the middle, maybe five hundred feet away. It looks like they’re cleaning up their stuff. That's when someone behind us starts screaming like a whole litter of dead baby squirrels just fell on their bare feet.
****
I look around, but I know what I’m going to see.
Harry––er––nice Krampus clip-clops down the street like a mustang on crack, shoving people aside, snowflakes parting for him. In his wake, people struggle to stand and shake off the collision. We lock eyes, and Santa’s words float back to me. Go find the real Krampus. I’ve never seen him this happy before. I turn around to our group and see the real Harry.
“Woah!” Harry’s voice is muffled from the mask. “There are two of me.” It’s like he can read my thoughts. I’m glad he can’t, though, because the closer nice Krampus gets, his muscles rippling, his smell preceding him, the weaker I get.
More people scream and run away from the giant furry creature.
“Oh great,” June mutters. “Two more than we need.”
Cindy elbows her and hisses. “June, we can hear you.”
June giggles. “Just kidding. You know I don’t mean it.”
Cindy shoots her a wide-eyed grimace which June returns with a head shake for emphasis.
Meanwhile, the crowd cowers at the giant harry man standing before us, phones held to document this situation. Personally, after the day I’ve had, I think I’m ready to go home with him and let him ravage me.
“Where is the child?” he roars. There’s that accent, the word ‘where’ coming out as ‘vair.’ The fact he might be Krampus makes his accent even sexier.
Oh, that’s right. I look down at the red-headed monster.
“Which child are you looking for.” Cindy fiddles with a curl. Is she flirting with my Krampus now, too? The bitch already has that idiot Harry. Why does she need this one too?
“Him.” Krampus points to the kid I’m holding by the ear.
Krampus’s arms are long and muscular, the kind every girl, and a few guys too, want wrapped around them. But his face is more authentic-looking than the mask, and his fingernails are claw-like, way more realistic than Harry’s costume. It’s obvious now that Santa and the homeless guy were right: this Krampus is the real deal. I’m giddy with excitement.
“Me?” Fred uses my lack of attention to disengage from my grip on his ear.
“What do you want with my son?” Dina is almost purring. She pushes her pouty lips out and leans in, taking a deep breath, clearly taken by the sexy beast like the rest of us.
“The child is on the Naughty List.” Krampus points at the kid.
Fred crinkles his nose as if it’s painful to think. “Huh.”
“Excuse me.” I push Dina aside, linking arms with favorite Krampus. “You should probably tell her where you’re taking the juvenile delinquent.” I mean, I could go on for ages about what I read in books, but this is the real deal.
“Juvenile delinquent?” Dina’s face goes red. “Did you just call my kid a juvenile delinquent?”
I guess I said that out loud.
“C’mon Dina, let’s face it. You let him run wild.” Marion crosses her arms.
“He’s a free-range kid. It’s a parenting style. You guys don’t have kids yet. What do you know?”
“Excuse me. I’ve raised two kids, and neither of them have been arrested—or set anything on fire.” That’s Cindy the wench.
“Free-range…like chickens?” Harry asks. “You’re raising your kid like fucking chickens?”
“I may not be a parent yet,” I say. “But I can promise you if my future kid acts anything like little Freddy here, I might just…” I look from face to face of the people in my group, finishing with Krampus. He squints at me, slowly nodding. “Send him away.”
“Yeah, send him away to military school,” Harry says.
There’s a time when Harry’s advice was welcome, even wanted. That time has passed. “Just shut up, Harry.”
Dina snarls and leaps at me, a primal scream tearing from her mouth. “You don’t know anything about anything.”
Krampus puts his paw out, holding her away from me.
Dina’s uttering garbled words, and her feet are sliding against the iced-over pavement, head pressed against Krampus’s paw. Finally, she backs up with a grunt, swiping her knotted hair out of her eyes.
“You’re a shitty ghost hunter; you suck at picking men, and oh my God,” she screams, a short, breathy sound. “Who the hell did your makeup?”
After that, she spews all kinds of unintelligible things, some more interesting than others. My favorite: “Let’s not forget your costume. You look like a harlot who has been murdered for her bad choice in men.”
Someone snorts, and I think Marion outright laughs before saying, “So much for being friends with your fellow ghost hunters.”
June reaches out and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to her. You’re a great ghost hunter.”
Cindy bobs her head from left to right, curls bouncing. “Well, at least she’s not shitty.”
June twists her mouth and nods, considering her words. “Well, Dina’s not wrong about the men part.”
“Dina, she’s right about Fred. He’s out of control,” Cindy, the cheating man-stealing bitch says.
“He’s definitely not on Santa’s Nice List.” Harry lights a cigarette.
“Correct,” Krampus says.
“You from Indonesia or something?” Harry says. I hit him reflexively, and he rephrases his question. “I mean, like, you don’t talk like us. You have an accent. What’s up?”
This has crossed my mind. I just hadn’t spoken the words out loud. Everyone nods despite themselves.
“Yeah, where are you from?” Dina asks through pouty lips.
Krampus pauses. “Down below.”
“Australia? Rad!”
June squints. “That doesn’t sound like an Australian accent.”
“Am I the only one here wondering how we ended up with two Krampuses?” Marion asks.
Another silence falls on our group. Harry’s hand shoots up, but either no one sees it or, more likely, no one wants to hear what he has to say. And then everyone is talking all at once.
“I did put out a call to the group to see if anyone wanted to be Krampus.”
“Didn’t June ask if anyone had a Krampus costume because hers is thrashed?”
“You guys can’t honestly believe we’re the only one who had this idea,” Harry says.
“That’s true.”
“Yeah.”
Once everyone seems to have spoken their mind, Harry speaks up. “Why don’t we just ask him. It’s not like he can’t hear us.”
The group grows quiet after Harry’s unexpectedly wise words. Soon, everyone nods and turns to where Krampus was standing at my side. But he’s gone.
“Where’d he go?” Marion cranes her neck to see around the milling crowd.
The first thing that crosses my mind is to look for Fred. Sure enough, he’s no longer standing next to his mom.
“Fred’s gone too,” I point out.
And we’re back where we were when we got here, times two: no Krampus and now, no Fred.
Chapter 9
June and I bat away snowflakes the size of quarters as we scramble to clean up the last of everyone’s stuff as fast as we can. Everyone else took off to find the kid. Music plays over speakers down the street where the sing-off for the finalists is going on. A shout comes from the opposite direction, stopping us in our tracks.
“Fred! I found Fred!” It’s Dina. She’s a street away at the cookie booth. “He’s right here!”
Marion is with her, a thunderous look on her face.
I grab my box of cookies and head over, watching the scene unfold. Krampus holds Fred by the ankle, the kid flailing in the air upside down. Fred has bright smudges of red on his cheeks and what looks like chocolate smeared all around his mouth. Damn it. Why does he keep going back to the cookie booth?
Dina stands in between her dangling child and Krampus, trying to push Krampus away from Fred. It’s comical, really. Does she realize if she pushes too hard, the kid will fall on his head? I open my mouth to say something but then change my mind. The kid could use a knock or two.
At first, Dina pleads to us in a hysterical voice to help her. I’m having trouble understanding what she’s saying, her voice too shrill. Something about Krampus trying to stuff her child into his satchel, just like in the German folklore. From the looks of it, it’s not working.
The kid kicks and swings his free arms and one leg in every direction like a cat getting tossed into a bath. He’s screaming and yelling, his words barely recognizable over Dina’s howling pleas.
What we can hear is pure Fred gold. “I hate you. Don’t touch me! He’s trying to kidnap me! Let go of me!”
A siren blips; red and blue lights reflect off the windows and snow covering the ground. “Police! Put the child down,” a voice on a loudspeaker says.
Fred stops flailing, a slow smile spreading across his face.
Krampus freezes, his eyes wide, ears tilted back. There’s a pause where both mother and child go silent, and then the speaker starts again.
“Put the child down and get down on the ground.” There’s a rustling, plasticky sound as the female cop from earlier pulls her gun out of its holster.
Fred kicks once, twice. Krampus’s ears go flat, and he slowly lowers the kid to the ground.
Everyone in the cookie booth is preoccupied with the scene in front of them, mouths hanging open.
The kid takes off at a trot, but no one seems to care. A second cop gets out of his car, gun drawn. “Keep your hands up and lay down on your stomach.”
This is really happening. What a fucking day this has been.
No one steps in to help this poor man on his knees, the snow whirling all around us. Not Harry, which I would never have expected. Not June or any of the rest that came with us tonight. Well, probably because, you know, it’s the police. Also, partly because the snow is mesmerizing, freezing us into place in more ways than one.
“The handcuffs don’t fit around his wrists,” the male cop says to the officer with the blonde ponytail standing about two paces behind him.
“Here, use these.” She hands him some zip ties.
“Thanks.” Cop number one takes them and holds Krampus’s wrists together. “You are under arrest for child endangerment and disturbing the peace.”
As if.
“Okay, okay, I know he was man-handling a kid, but that wasn’t just any kid.”
The cop stops writing and looks up at me. “We have a zero-tolerance policy for child abuse here in Seattle.”
I can’t believe I’m witnessing what may be the love of my life getting arrested. What can I do to get him out of this?
Someone chokes on a laugh behind me, but I ignore them and keep pressing on. “Yeah, here’s the thing. He wasn’t abusing the kid. It was self-defense.”
“Self-defense? How badly could a kid hurt a seven-foot man?”
“Look, sir, I know it sounds like I’m making it up. But that kid set my skirt on fire.”
“Me too,” the woman with the missing ear says from the cookie booth behind me. “And it caught our tent on fire.”
“He bit me,” a random guy says. I don’t know when Fred decided to chew on them, but at least the rando is speaking out. My own group is staying silent.
The second cop walks up to us, her hands on her hips, a notepad under one hand. “We’ll make sure to share this information with the detective.” She nods her chin once.
“But wait.” My stomach is full of dancing feet. I’m running out of options here.
“I’m sorry, Miss, we need to get moving.”
I scan the crowd to see if anyone can help. I’m not picky. But even though that might be the elf I’d seen earlier, over there up against the store, no one will meet my gaze. Cowards.
“Then take me too.” Tears burn my eyes as I hold out my wrists for them to cuff. Let’s face it, my life sucks pretty bad, and a warm bed and a free meal sound like just what Santa ordered.
The cop shakes his head, jots something down on a piece of paper, and hands it to me. “This is where we’re taking him for questioning. You can come get him in a few hours unless someone presses charges.”
The crowd dissipates as I stand there crying, my box of cookies my only comfort. The good news is that I still have seventeen cookies and the spare change from the burrito shop. Oh yeah, and a burrito that’s stuffed in my coat pocket. The bad news is that my keys were in the bag the douchebag stole.
“June, can you give us a ride home?” Dina pulls her coat tight around her shoulders. “It’s getting late, and I need to get Fred home.” Fred’s back at her side, his chin held high.
June sighs and looks at me. “Are you going to be okay?” She looks in her purse for keys.
I could tell her I have no way home, that everything I came with got stolen after she kicked me out of the caroling group. But I’m tired of leaning on everyone el
se to make my life easier. I mean, look where it’s gotten me.
“I’m fine.” I give her a half hug. “See you later.”
We say our goodbyes, and I wander down the street, one hand shoved in my pocket, the other clutching the cookies.
Can’t a girl catch a break?
Chapter 10
There’s this thing that happens when it snows. No matter how noisy a place is, the world seems to put its headphones on, muting everything. That’s how it feels right now, as I trod aimlessly through the narrow swath of sidewalk visible through the snow.
The homeless guy from earlier is bundled inside a flimsy-looking sleeping bag, laying on cardboard in one of the doorways I pass. He’s sporting a new red and white hat, with a matching scarf wrapped around his neck and gloves on his hands. “Hey, did you find Krampus?” he calls out.
I stop and look at him. “Yup. Found and lost him in the space of maybe ten minutes.”
“Did you get what you needed?”
I feel so lost right now, so depleted that laying down in the snow sounds good. “Not exactly.”
“What happened?”
“Not only did Krampus get arrested and is probably in jail right now.” I cup a hand to my mouth and blow warm breath on it. “But my so-called friends left me here alone with no way home.”
“People suck. Don’t worry about Krampus. He’ll find a way to make things right.”
I make a scoffing noise. “Right. Krampus is going to save the day.”
He smiles, sitting up. “You’ll see. What’s in that box?” He nods to my security cookies.
“Apricot Kolaches. My oma’s recipe. Want one?” I pop the box open.
He scootches over and pats an open space on the cardboard next to him. “Have a seat.” He holds his hand out, accepting a cookie.
Soon we’re both crunching on the buttery goodness, the apricots adding just the right amount of tartness to the sweet dough.
“This is the best cookie I’ve ever had.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Thank you. You can have as many as you want.”
We spend the next few minutes chomping on cookies, but his stomach is still growling.
“I have a burrito too, if you want it.” I nod to the plastic bag dangling from my pocket.