The Christmas Company

by Alys Murray

  “What are we waiting for?” Kate asked.

  “I’m really not supposed to break character, but—”

  “You there, boy!”

  System overload. Kate’s processing power extinguished itself within one second of hearing that familiar, booming voice fill the square. Like staring at a box of puzzle pieces, she understood the picture in front of her in fragmented snippets. She knew that line. It was Dickens. No one knew A Christmas Carol better than she; it only took three words for her to identify his speech. And when Kate followed the conversation up and up and up the wall of the building she stood in front of, she was greeted by the unfathomable puzzle piece.

  Clark Woodward. Leaning out of Scrooge’s window. Wearing the Ebenezer Scrooge costume. Screaming Scrooge’s Christmas morning lines.

  Rats. Somehow the cut of the Victorian era costumes made him even more attractive. Great. Just great.

  “What’s the day today?”

  Nope. Susan couldn’t be right. This had to be a dream. Nothing else could explain it. Screw Sherlock Holmes logic. Not only was Clark wearing the Scrooge costume, but he somehow got at least one person in town to trust him enough to play along with…whatever this charade was?

  No. Wrong again. If this was her dream, Clark would get the lines absolutely right instead of paraphrasing them. This was definitely happening, but why?

  “Uh… Christmas Day, sir? What’re you, crazy?”

  Ah, Susan caught the paraphrasing bug, too. As the Assistant of Operations, Kate always stayed on book and gave the performers line notes at the end of each night, ensuring vigilance and protection for the Dickens text. This morning, protecting a long-dead author seemed everyone’s last priority.

  Kate knew everything there was to know about this scene. Pick any random scene in A Christmas Carol, she could have recited the dialogue, at least, entirely by heart while visualizing its exact place in their version of Victorian London. Here, after waking up very much alive, Scrooge renews his lease on life and decides to live every day as if it’s Christmas, beginning by employing an errand boy to fetch him the biggest turkey in London.

  What a crock.

  Caught between her desire to continually roll her eyes every time they spoke and her rapture at watching the most wooden, stoic man in the world wildly shout about turkeys with a face-splitting grin on his face, Kate leaned against the nearest lamp post for support.

  His smile, rare and pure, weakened her knees. Her last thoughts before falling asleep last night were, I’m so glad I got Clark Woodward out of my system, but the longer he smiled and the longer she stared at it like a snake charmer’s victim, the more untrue that statement became. He hurt her. He hated her. But he was not out of her system.

  Dickens’s dialogue—or this interpretation of it—flew past her like a familiar song, allowing her to just drink him in. A dangerous prospect. If this was a dream, she’d dream something stupid like falling into his arms, and if this was real, she’d endanger her heart. And then probably stupidly fall into his arms.

  Unable to speak during the performance, a hurricane swirled inside her. Remnants of her feelings for him yesterday swirled with her anger at not being able to fight them off well enough.

  At the end of their scene, Susan took the oversized bag of gold coins and rushed off, leaving Scrooge and Belle—Clark, who had somehow made his way down to street level, and Kate—very much alone, but that didn’t break his concentration.

  “I must go see the charitable gentleman. And Fred and his wife. Oh, thank you, Spirits!”

  Apparently, these were cues of their own as out of nowhere, Doctor Joe Bennett appeared, dressed as the charitable gentleman Scrooge denies a donation earlier in the book. In real life, Joe played this role every year as a bit of a charitable scheme in and of itself. As the Chief Physician of the county’s charity hospital, the festival always donated a little something to the cause. But when Clark approached him and shook his hand, he did not pull out one of the phony-baloney bank notes used during the regular festival. Clark instead handed the man a very real-looking check, and the man’s shock wasn’t the well-rehearsed expression he used every year during this big moment in the narrative.

  “Hey, man…”

  The line was most definitely, Lord bless me! Yet another clue the check in Clark’s hand was real.

  “And not a penny less. I owe you many, many back-payments, and this is just the beginning.”

  Doctor Bennett rooted himself to the spot, jaw nearly scraping the floor, while Clark-as-Scrooge hummed to himself and scooped up several brightly wrapped presents on his way down the slowly filling street towards Fred’s house. Familiar faces of the town started to mill about in their costumes, just as they would any other Christmas morning. As if this all were very normal indeed. Without the slightest clue what else to do (she thought she might need to stay and give the doctor a dose of oxygen to combat the symptoms of his shock, or at least stick around long enough to see if the check really was real and how much it was made out for, but ultimately decided against it because she didn’t want to get stuck taking care of a fussy doctor type), Kate followed them.

  The scene in Fred’s house always pleased crowds, and this morning was no exception. Kate giggled as Fred’s wife fainted at the sight of Scrooge and Scrooge scrambled to help her—a comedic diversion not written into the original text, but added at a much later date by Miss Carolyn in order to beef up the character when Kate played it at sixteen—and followed along as Scrooge proceeded to collect people, imploring them to bring along foodstuffs and presents, treating them all with the charm and guile of a newly risen king. Such generosity, such goodness was an unnatural fit for Clark, but perhaps that was why the cautious parts of her hated how much she wanted to believe it.

  In spite of her newfound hatred for this bogus holiday, the naive glass shards of her heart longed for him to be the real-life Ebenezer Scrooge. She wanted his smiles and his warmth to be real.

  But it wasn’t. And when she examined things more closely as Clark picked up small children and spun them around or joined in carols, Kate realized she didn’t care for this at all. The spectacle was just that: a spectacle. Fake. Phony.

  He had an angle. All of this was part of some plot. To humiliate her or to make fun of her or to stomp on her one more time… She didn’t know. But he was working a fix and she wouldn’t fall into its trap. With that, she folded her arms across her chest and resolved to give off the most unsympathetic, hateful, grumpy vibes she could manage.

  Basically, she channeled him from one day ago.

  “Can you show me the way to Bob Cratchit’s house?”

  All at once, he was there, directly in front of her, asking for directions to Bob Cratchit’s house. Oh, yes. He was real. And so, so unfairly handsome. She’d never seen his eyes catch the light like this or his smile relax into an effortless assurance of his goodwill.

  Kate urged herself not to give in. And she didn’t. Something was going on here, and she could indulge it for the sake of her festival family, but she didn’t have to invest herself in it. Blindly, Kate nodded and took the arm he offered her. Soon, she found herself leading a parade of Victorian-dressed characters carrying presents and goose, pies and wreaths like some kind of out-of-place drum major. Behind her, they sang in unison, a feature of their penultimate scene. They did it every year. This was the ending of A Christmas Carol. Clark, somehow and for reasons passing understanding, brought the end of the festival into his home and let it take life there.

  The doors to the Cratchit House stood closed, and, against her will, a familiar rush of joy fluttered in Kate’s stomach. Whether or not Clark knew it, this was her favorite part of the entire story. The beauty of the tale and the reversal of fortunes for the Cratchits made the entire journey worth it. In the novella, the confrontation between Bob and Scrooge happened at the office, but for the sake of bringing Tiny Tim
back for one final “God Bless Us, Every One,” they transposed the encounter to Bob Cratchit’s house instead.

  As Scrooge always did—Kate would know, she’d trained six different Scrooges—he waved away the crowd, they feigned hiding, and he settled an angry scowl upon his brow before knocking upon Cratchit’s door. Boom! Boom! Boom! Goosebumps raised the hairs on her arms.

  She just hoped she wouldn’t break and cry. She always cried at this scene.

  The Cratchit family generally consisted of a real-life husband and wife and whatever children could sit still the longest and memorize the most dialogue, but when the Cratchits appeared today, Mr. and Mrs. Isaacs were not standing there in their costumes, ready for their close-up. Kate’s breath hitched.

  There, framed by the holly-lined doorway, stood Michael and Emily, dressed up in the poor clothes of the clerk and his wife, while the usual suspects of children cowered behind them at the mean ol’ Uncle Scrooge. The last time Emily got in front of a crowd, she picked up the lid of a piano and vomited into it, so her appearance here caught Kate off guard.

  If she had a heart any longer, it would have warmed and stretched with love for her friend’s courageous appearance, made all the more amazing by her genuine acting chops.

  “Bob Cratchit!” Clark-as-Scrooge boomed. “You did not come in to work today.”

  Michael cowered, his knees shaking in a mockery of knocking together.

  “But it’s Christmas.”

  “I never gave you the day off.”

  “You did, sir.” To his credit, Michael appropriately stammered and stuttered over the words forcing them out between his teeth with all the joy of poisoning himself. He even wrung his hands. Kate couldn’t have directed this scene any better. The children in the back did their part, too, huddling together as their mother grew in anger. “You just said to be in earlier tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m going to throw the book at you, you lazy layabout!” Scrooge shouted, shaking his walking stick for emphasis. Kate would have directed against that particular choice, but hamming it up seemed to be Clark’s style of the day, a noted change from the man who wouldn’t even smile at a little boy yesterday after he begged him to do so.

  “Lazy layabout!” Emily charged forward, her thick curls shaking under her bonnet. She shoved up her sleeves as if to instigate a fight. Kate almost laughed. Almost. “I’ll have you know—”

  “I’m going to give you everything I’ve got!”

  “Please don’t! I’ll come in now! I can—”

  Scrooge cut him off.

  “I’m going to raise your salary.”

  “Pardon?” Emily and Michael said at once, a unified explosion of shock.

  “I’m going to raise your salary and take care of you and your family for the rest of my days. And,” Clark waved his hands, calling the crowd from the shadows, filling the room with rich aromas and colors the likes of which contrasted deeply with the Cratchits’ costume design, as was Kate’s plan when she helped pick those outfits. The sight of the swarm of well-wishers sent Kate’s temperature skyrocketing. Her stomach turned. “We will discuss the entire thing over the most beautiful Christmas dinner ever brought forth in the whole of Christendom!”

  A cheer. Little Tiny Tim leapt into Scrooge’s arms and he lifted him high upon his shoulders.

  “Mr. Scrooge!”

  The room filled, leaving Kate distinctly apart. A viewer of this spectacle. The object of their collective stare as much as they were an object of hers.

  She wanted to vomit.

  What on earth could have possessed them to all come here and be a part of this? Maybe it was Miss Carolyn. Surely Clark didn’t do this all by himself. Miss Carolyn must have threatened to throat punch him if he didn’t comply. They were trying to fix her Christmas cheer, surely. Or bring her back into the fold after a tough night of disillusionment and Clark was a part of that. They all bought into the dream, a dream she no longer knew how to be an active participant in.

  Next in the story came the “Scrooge was better than his word” speech. Another surefire “Kate always cries at this part so make sure someone has Kleenex handy” moment.

  It felt like Christmas. It looked like Christmas.

  And she couldn’t stomach it. She didn’t know what Clark was doing in the middle of all of this. She didn’t know what his game was. She didn’t know what he wanted from her or why he seemed intent on hurting her through the one thing she used to love most in this world.

  All Kate knew was that she needed to get out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Clark spent half of his morning memorizing this Dickensian text, only for the woman he memorized it for to storm out of the house before he could even get halfway through his final speech.

  The door of the Cratchit house slammed behind her, silencing the small living room as fifty heads turned to him in hushed anticipation. Paralysis set in, even as he clung to little Bradley, who waited patiently on his shoulder for his final cue. For a moment, the room could have passed for a ride at one of those high-priced theme parks, where the guests floated through fantastical scenes with broken animatronic characters who could only blink and jerk their heads. The heat of the room’s bated breath left beads of sweat on Clark’s forehead, trickling down his forehead as his only indication of the passing of time. He couldn’t wrench himself away from the closed door; the place where Kate once stood now tortured him endlessly. The absence of her ripped at him; a punch in the gut would have been less painful and robbed him of less breath.

  After too long a silence for the little boy’s taste, Bradley clonked the top of Clark’s head with his cane, a new brand of pain almost bold enough to shake him from his stupor.

  “Hey.” Clark blinked. Another clonk. Bradley addressed him in a stage whisper through clenched teeth, a manner of confidentiality he probably mimicked from a million Saturday morning cartoons. “Hey, Mr. Clark. I think they’re waiting for you to say something.”

  Michael caught Clark’s eye first, a small miracle. After staying up to read his present from Kate, he tracked the young man down. A frantic phonebook search later and he had both Emily and Michael in the living room of Michael’s cabin, where he told them the entire story. Being the sort of guy who never spilled his guts, Clark struggled, but eventually explained everything.

  They didn’t get on board with his plan, however, until he told them the entire truth. I think I’m falling in love with her and I don’t want to lose my one chance because I was too blind to see that some people are good people. Halfway through the Dickens book, Clark started to understand why he’d been so happy to assume the worst of Kate, even when everything she said and did instructed him to believe the best.

  He couldn’t believe what a jerk he’d been.

  Once Emily and Michael got on board, they went to work greasing up Miss Carolyn who did not care for him, expressing frequent and blatant desires to punch him in the throat. In the end, she only agreed to the entire scheme because Emily convinced her it was the only way to save Kate from her disillusionment…

  Well, that and Clark allowed her one free punch to his stomach. The old woman had surprising strength for her age; no doubt a bruise started forming almost immediately. The rest fell together at Miss Carolyn’s instructions. She yanked children out of bed and hustled parents into costumes. They organized a feast and reset everything in the town square.

  And by the time the clock struck 9 that morning, everything seemed poised to work. Clark would win the girl, save the town, and give them all the Christmas they deserved.

  Only…it didn’t work. Kate stormed out before he could even tell her the good news. Before she even had time to hear his apology. Or fall in love with him again.

  “All right, everyone.” Clark cleared his throat, a strangled sound as his trachea contracted and tightened. “I’m going to go—uh, to go investigate.”
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br />   Depositing Bradley—who gave him an unsubtle wink and thumbs up once he landed safely on the ground—Clark bolted. He didn’t know how to lose her like he’d lost her yesterday.

  The streets and buildings around him blurred as he picked up speed (no easy feat in the Ebenezer Scrooge costume, which rarely saw this much physical activity), and he blew past every door and obstacle on his way. Even if she was halfway to Argentina by now, he was determined to find her.

  Determination went unrealized when he skidded to a halt in front of the gazebo in the dead center of the town square, where he found Kate, facing away from him, sitting in a puddle of skirts on a set of wooden steps. She flinched as his footfall hit the wood a few paces behind her.

  “I don’t have a car and these heels are killing me. That’s the only reason I’m still here.”

  It was then he realized she hadn’t been shaking with noiseless sobs, but fooling with the difficult laces of the Victorian heeled boots on her feet. From directly behind her, he couldn’t tell the difference, but once he stepped to the side, he saw the fight firsthand and the determined way her teeth dug into her bottom lip. In the cold, her skin both paled and reddened at the same time, the high contrast giving her an otherworldly glow amid the thousands of lights strung up across the square from the buildings on either side of them. Clark didn’t want to think about the electricity bill they’d rung up over the last few days.

  “Can I sit down with you?” he asked, pointing to the sliver of space between the end of her billowing skirt and the side railing of the gazebo’s steps.

  “Why?”

  Good question. A smarter man might have gotten down on his knees and begged forgiveness. Right? Clark didn’t watch many movies, so his vocabulary of romantically tinged apologies was severely limited.

  “I was hoping to talk to you,” he said. A cringe bunched his shoulders together just beneath his neck. He’d never done anything like this; this limb upon which he was reaching out bowed under the weight of his own insecurity.