“I give up!” I lamented, more loudly than was needed. “There’s clearly no story that won’t leave him cheated. To help those in need, I must pilfer and pinch, till my son thinks his father’s a rotten old...”
Wait. An idea. An awful idea. A wonderful, wonderful, awful idea.
I opened my mouth to invoke one last ghost. But before I could speak, the son came up—or at least, his voice did, from the bedroom next door.
“Papa? I need you to tell me a stowy!”
I ignored his pleas. He’d settle down, and besides, this was all for his benefit. To the darkness, I spoke: “Dr. Geisel? Hello? Dr. Theodor Geisel? It’s one of your most avid writer-disciples. Should I call you Theo? Or—no, silly goose—it’s clear you’d prefer to be called Dr.—”
“PAPA!”
“Keep counting sheep!”
“I need a Cwistmas stowy!”
“In a minute!”
Something was stirring in the umbral silence. I dearly hoped my ghost was on his way. And yet, a minute passed, and then another, and I realized I couldn’t afford to wait for this spook to take the scenic route. If I didn’t assuage the boy soon with some sort of story, he’d burst out of his bedroom. And if the spirit arrived then, there’d be a lot of awkward explaining to do. Not least of which was why I kept insisting that Santa Claus wasn’t real, then went off and had lengthy chats with ghosts.
Where was he? I racked my brain, trying to recall what I’d
done in the past to summon spectres. Sickeningly, I realized they never came when called—only when it was convenient for them, and inconvenient for me. And usually when they had some sort of bone to pick—if that expression isn’t disrespectful to the dead.
But maybe that’s the ticket, I thought. Dr. Geisel wasn’t going to come when called, but maybe—perhaps—he would visit if galled. Thinking quickly, I did what I knew would get under the skin of any self-respecting author—even those with no skin left.
“Well, I’ll be Grinched if that Grinching grouch hasn’t gone and Grinched me in the lurch. He’s Grinchier than his creation. I would not Grinch him in a box. I would not Grinch him with a fox. I would not—”
“What in the name of the Lorax?” came a surprisingly gruff voice.
“Why the peace of the innocent do you disturb?
Don’t you know the word ‘Grinch’ isn’t meant as a verb?”
“Dr. Geisel!” I cried in relief. “And/or Seuss!”
“Both and either!” he boomed. “Now prepare your caboose.
For grammatical slights of this sort are, I find,
Swiftly fixed with a boot to one’s errant behind.”
“Mea culpa. But wait. First, I need your direction.
And then I’ll accept my gluteal correction.
Instruct me, Sir Seuss, how I might cancel Christmas
Without my son thinking his father malic...mas?”
And here, as the ghost frowned a frown barely visible,
I feared he’d prejudged my intentions as risible,
So I rushed to explain: “When the Syrians come,
They’ll have nothing—no cake—not so much as a crumb.
And I’d give all we have to help strangers in need,
If some story could help stem a toddler’s greed.”
Now the stately pseudonymous author was nodding.
(I strained to refrain prematurely applauding.)
“I taste your dilemma—it’s downright delicious—
To bring up a four-year-old non-avaricious.
But why not just read from the volume you pinched
When you summoned me here?
Why not read him The Grinch?
“‘Maybe Christmas—’”And here his own volume he quoted
“‘Doesn’t come from a store’”—fresh as if he’d just wrote it.
“A classic,” I said, “but it makes the Grinch me,
To have stolen the presents, the feast, and the tree.
I was hoping for something more flattering. Please—
Do you know any stories about refugees?”
Then the ghost up and laughed, like the problem was done.
“You’re forgetting my roots. I’m American, son.
My grandparents were immigrants—German, in truth.
And I heard all their harrowing tales in my youth.
Of the needs of the needy, their flights out of fear
To a place where all refugees have cause to cheer.
Oh, such tales I can tell you. Such places we’ll go!”
(And the phantom here practically started to glow.)
“We’ll regale your young son with some yarns of largesse,
And true liberal benevolence, nobleness—yes,
Even martyrdom! He’ll be stuffed full of such grace,
He’ll surrender his toys with a smile on his face!”
“That sounds great—” I began, but the Doc was obliv’us,
Consumed by his cause like the uber-religious.
“It’s what I believe in! It’s all I have touted!
No evacuee should be outed or routed.
But greeted with love, be they Muslim or Jew.
We should all ask ourselves, ‘What Would Dr. Seuss Do?’
As my stories reveal, I’ve respect for all chaps—
I’ll receive them with love...well, except for the Japs.”
“Wait, what?”
So caught up I’d become in his jingoistic rhythms, I’d nearly bobbed my head in agreement with even that offensive rhyme. The whole time, I thought Dr. Geisel had been spoon-feeding me green eggs and ham, but it now felt as though I’d swallowed a gut full of oobleck.
“What on earth,” I sputtered, “could the writer of Yertle the Turtle possibly have against the Japanese?”
Seuss insouciantly shrugged. “It’s not P.C., I know,
But if we want to win, then those Japs have to go.
For if not, with their hatchets our heads will be cleft.
We can get palsy-walsy with those who are left.”
I still stood aghast. “Did you just compose a racist manifesto in anapestic tetrameter? I refuse to believe that the most beloved children’s author this side of Lewis Carroll was a xenophobe.”
“Look it up,” chuckled Seuss. “And then, while you’re online,
Look up Carroll as well—you won’t like what you find.
Now, let’s visit this boy of yours, spin him a fable.
I’ll shy from that subject as much as I’m able.”
“Thank you, but no,” I said, in a deliberately arrhythmic phrasing designed to indicate that his galloping verses were no longer welcome here.
“Suit yourself. But good luck with the lad Christmas Day,
When you’ve nothing to give him, and nothing to say.”
With that, the bigoted bugbear dissolved—or so I assume. I didn’t bother to look, but instead propelled myself out of my chair and across the hall towards my son’s room. The boy had been calling for me all this time, claiming to be scared and demanding stories, and I realized, with all the whiplash of the truly self-absorbed, that I was traumatizing him even now, as I sought out recourse for his future traumas. Perhaps the ghost of O. Henry was nearby after all.
The room felt Spartan in the dark, as if the gifts from all three yuletides past had been purloined. I sat on the side of his bed and murmured reassurances.
“I need a stowy,” he insisted, the pint-sized mind-reader.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “A Christmas story. Lie down, dude. I’ll do my best.”
It was long, long ago, in the East—near the Middle
Where heat gets so hot that your heart starts to sizzle
Though it might well have been near the end of December
But probably not—well, but who can remember?
The Galilee ex-pats were all rearranging
Because of a census—it’s not worth explaining
The point is, one couple had brought extra luggage
A womb full of baby that made the mom sluggish
But her fiancé helped in transporting the laddie
(A modern relationship—more than one daddy)
To Bethlehem, where from the signs they concluded
No vacancy—save for one—livestock included.
They weren’t refugees, though their lives were as cruel-la
With camels for midwives, a dog for a doula
But somehow, they managed. Push, breathe. The old song.
Yet another of God’s many sons came along.
And then, something with shepherds? An angel? No, spurious
They probably heard Mary’s screams and got curious.
Then there’s that star—but that’s Matthew, not Luke
And was likely just some astrological fluke
This is not going well. Commentary all ruins it.
Sorry your dad’s such a skeptical humanist.
Plus I’m not sure how this helps with my mission
To put you, my son, in a gen’rous condition
I’m mostly just wasting my own energy
Since the folks in the story were not refugees...
Or wait. What happened next? From the manger to Egypt
They fled, to escape from a child-killing regent
So that’s it! That’s the link. That’s the single criterion
That Jesus and Mary and Joseph were Syrian
So, that’s what we do: offer stars to the starless
Hope to the hopeless, light out of darkness
For the spirit of Christmas means helping the ones
Who don’t even have mangers to bring out their sons.
Here, I paused, my breath held, waiting to see if a four-year-old’s reaction was anywhere near the outburst of generosity I’d hoped for. I wanted it to be his choice—to hear him declare that he’d forego Christmas, as if he had invented altruism on the spot. And I wanted to be able to say, “Suck it, Seuss, I didn’t need your help.”
When at last he spoke, the boy’s response was not exactly as I’d hoped. “Which one was Jesus?”
“Oh. Uh, right. He was the son. The baby.”
“What did he say?”
“Uh, well...he was a baby. So he probably said, ‘Wah.’”
“And then what happened?”
“Then, he grew up and said some inscrutable, but generally nice things. And then he died.”
“Do you think he wiked supuh hewoes?”
“I...don’t think that made it to the Gospels.”
“Who do you think was his favowite supuh hewo?”
This did not mark the end of his line of questioning—the questions never end, really—but I’ll spare you the rest, because this was when I figured out what mattered. I’d been looking for the story—be it a ghost story, or a Holy Ghost story—that would form some connection with my four-year-old—and, by extension, everyone, since we’re all pretty much just four-year-olds inside. And here I was, crafting a fable in the name of peace and goodwill to all humans...when all the four-year-old wanted to know was, who was that baby? What was he like? Does he like the same things as me?
I didn’t learn my lesson from Dr. Geisel, or from the authors of the Gospels. I almost learned it from Sir Terry Pratchett, but I got the spelling wrong: Once upon a time, a son came up. Or a daughter, take your pick. Every son or daughter is a story. Change the story, change the world.
Merry Christmas.
Author Notes
More than its predecessors, this story draws heavily from current events, so a bit of context might be helpful. The Syrian Refugee Crisis began in 2011, when the nation’s civil war erupted, inspired in part by the Arab Spring uprisings throughout Africa and the Middle East, but exacerbated by racism and fundamentalism. Climate change also played a major role, in the form of a devastating drought that provoked widespread migration, urbanization, and unemployment. By 2015 (when I wrote my story), more than four million Syrians had fled the country—the largest exodus since World War II, perhaps the largest in human history.
In November 2015, Canada’s newly-elected Liberal government announced a large-scale refugee resettlement plan. Ambitious and controversial, the plan relied upon ordinary Canadians to step up and help their new neighbours. The ethical dilemma faced by this story’s narrator is a hyperbolized version of many a Canadian’s quintessential Christmas quandary that year: what price philanthropy?
As of August 2016, nearly 30,000 Syrian refugees have been given new homes in Canada. To find out how to volunteer or donate, visit: http://www.cic.gc.ca/english/refugees.
Hark the Harried Angels Sing
Todd Pettigrew
I had been anticipating a Christmas that would finally be a time of peace on that little part of the Earth that fate has destined for me. I have moved since last Christmas, you see, and part of me was hoping that I had left behind the spirits that have haunted me in recent years just as surely as I had left my old bicycle in my former basement.
But it was not to be. My new abode on the North Side is even more haunted than my last. This past spring, came the spectre of a cat lady who had lived in our home long before, and who returned one rainy night. And then came back the very next day (we thought she was a goner but...). The worst part is that she didn’t say “boo” or anything ghostly; she just went around the house going “psss psss psss.”
Then there was the angry hamadryad who came out of a tree this summer to curse my girlfriend and me for carving our names into its bark. This sappy spirit was so maddening, it nearly deprived me of my resin.
And these awful events pale next to the autumnal story I was planning on telling you: the harrowing account of The Creaking Leeches of Leitches Creek.
But last night came a visitation more astonishing than any of these.
It was late. So late that I was left alone as my son had long been abed, and my beloved—who has what we academics call a real job—was also sawing logs. The house was quiet, then, but my mind was not. I smelled vaguely of soot and smoke from repeated efforts to get the fire to burn properly and thus fend off the frightful oil bills that Cape Bretoners know too well. I was also fretting over my Christmas gift list, for the engagement ring I had ordered had still not arrived, and my mother had just texted to let me know that she was sending money to buy my little boy a present. This was nice of her, and would be nice for him, but not so nice for me as it meant another trip to the mall. The cheque, I worried, would not cover half the cost of a remote control helicopter. And, as always, the cats were prowling, mewing, tearing the gift wrap off the presents under the tree, smashing ornaments, and wondering why I wasn’t more concerned with their feeding.
I was just finishing my nightly ritual of tending to the needs of those feline fiends when, from outside, came a sound. A sound, that more than any other, simply means Christmas. Carolling.
Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o’er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains!
Such a wonder it was to hear old-fashioned carollers that I did not think at first how odd it should be that they were about so late in the evening. Nor that they were risking their lives by doing so on busy Keltic Drive. I did take note that the harmonies of the singers seemed somehow incomplete.
I did not have time to ponder any of this, for before I knew it, the carollers outside came inside. Spirits of the nether regions, I knew immediately, for they did not bother to knock or even use the door, but blew in through the closed front windows like a bitter wind off Sydney Harbour. Whereupon they finished their song.
In excelis Deeeee—ooo!
They waited for me to applaud. Artists of the next world —like the artists of this one—are constantly in need of validation. I obliged with vigorous clapping.
Once I finished my ovation, I wasn’t quite sure what to say and none of the spectral singers piped up. The awkward silence gave me a chance to take a closer look at this poten
tially diabolical choir.
There were six of them altogether, two of whom had once been men in life and four females. Like all the spirits I’ve encountered, they were wispy in their outlines and nearly transparent. I could see no consistency in their apparel, either in temporal or geographic origin, which led me to believe that they had been thrown together after death, perhaps long after in some cases.
Finally, one of the carollers, a tall dark-haired woman with an aristocratic bearing, and an English accent, spoke. “Did you enjoy our song?”
“Oh, very much,” I replied.
“You didn’t think it sounded a little incomplete,” she prodded, as though she had read my earlier thoughts.
“Not at all,” I lied, for my general approach is not to anger ghosts. So far no spectre has ever worked any dark magic upon me, turning me into an ape, or stealing my eyeballs or whatnot, but I imagined there might always be a first time, and why provoke protoplasm?
“Well, you should have found it so,” she continued, turning to stroll about the room. “Anyone who isn’t entirely tone deaf could hear that we are missing an entire section.”
“De tenor section,” added one of the male ghosts in a low voice. And I should have known right there that this night was going to get stranger before it got normaller.
“Oh don’t annoy ze poor man,” said yet another ghost, a lithe female spirit with sharply hewn facial features. “If vee are to ask for his help, we want him on our side, don’t vee?”
“On your side?” I said. “For what?”
“Vee need your help, darlingk,” said the lithe one.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I have always found it a little strange that these ghosts always need the help of me and a lot of people I know. They are the ones who travel through time, and walk through walls and do all manner of sorcery, and yet somehow there is always some crucial detail that only an ordinary mortal can resolve.
Well, I don’t make the rules.
“Of course,” I said, “I will do whatever I can to help you—do whatever it is you need. Move on? Is that it?”
“Da,” said the lithe one, who I was pretty sure was Russian. “Dat is exactly vat vee need! I told you he vaz clever. He’ll be ze perfect addition.”
Christmas Stalkings Page 9