Boo Who

by Rene Gutteridge

  Not going to be a problem.

  Outside she heard a car door shut. Oliver! She quickly zipped the dress back into its case and hid it in her closet. She tossed her curls around on her head and made sure she had some lip gloss on before running to greet the man she loved. Peeking through the peephole, she could see him gathering his things out of his car.

  She stared down at the small diamond ring on her finger. It was gorgeous. And she knew it had been a lot of money for Oliver. After only two weeks of dating, he’d asked her to marry him. They found out on one of only seven dates before the engagement, that both their parents had dated only two weeks before getting engaged. Exactly two weeks from the day that Oliver had professed his love for her at Thanksgiving dinner, he asked her to marry him. Her parents had been married thirty-four years. His, forty-one. All deceased now. They knew they had history on their side.

  Right before Oliver reached for the doorbell, she opened the door and greeted him with a big, fat kiss on the lips. He stumbled backward but managed to hold on to her shoulders and return the kiss with enthusiasm.

  “Hello, darlin’,” he said in that low, sexy voice she knew he reserved for only her and a few select auto customers.

  “How was work?” she asked. She knew she would never grow tired of asking the man of her dreams that question.

  Inside, he explained it was Wolfe’s first day. “He was on time, but I hope he’s the right man for the job.”

  “You don’t think he is?”

  “Well, I’m a little worried about his work ethic.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugged, munching on the dregs of a bag of Lay’s chips sitting open on the counter. She had meant to throw that in the trash when she got home, but it must’ve slipped her mind.

  “Oh, you know. He was a writer. I’m not sure they understand eight-to-five. I just don’t know if he has the ability to work hard.”

  She leaned on the counter, eying the bag of chips but trying to keep her concentration on Oliver. “Honey, I think the man knows how to work hard. He was a best-selling novelist.”

  “I know. But can a man who lives in a fantasy world every day really learn to dig his heels in and push himself? I mean, this is hard work. It takes a lot of concentration, a lot of endurance. And my goodness, you have to be able to handle rejection. What does Wolfe know of those things? Plus—and this is going to be a hard lesson for him to learn—you can’t just work when inspiration hits you. Whenever a customer comes in, you have to be at your very best, inspiration or not.”

  She patted him on the arm. “He has a good teacher.” She winked.

  Oliver grinned at her. “Well, I think he’s going to be a good student. He seems willing to learn. Anyway, enough about me. How was your day?”

  Her skin tingled with fear and anticipation. “I did some wedding shopping today.”

  “Me too! And boy, did I find the deal of the century.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. She couldn’t imagine his being better than hers. “Really?”

  “Yeah. You know how when we planned our budget for the wedding we’d both agreed we wanted a limo to take us from the wedding back to our house, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Guess what I found?” he continued after she couldn’t answer. “A horse-drawn carriage!” he shouted with a joy usually reserved for fourth-quarter touchdowns. She grew excited too. This was going to be perfect for her situation: He would tell her how he couldn’t resist a horse-drawn carriage, and though it cost a little more, it would be totally worth it.

  She couldn’t contain her enthusiastic grin, which melted as he announced, “And I saved us a hundred bucks!”

  “What?”

  “Can you believe it?” His features radiated with pride. “My dear Melb, we are going to have the most beautiful wedding any budget has ever seen.” He took her hand. “I’m telling you, this wedding is going to be wonderful. I know you won’t be disappointed.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “So? What’s your big news? What’d you buy for the wedding?”

  She smiled weakly. “It’s a surprise.”

  He laughed. “Okay. I love surprises.” Then he said, “And hey, you have been practicing spelling what will soon be your new last name, right?”

  She nodded, figuring now was not the time to “surprise” him again and tell him she’d not yet been able to spell Stepaphanolopolis without the index cards.

  She grabbed a new bag of chips.

  Martin Blarty studied his longtime friend and knew that something was terribly wrong. Mayor Wullisworth’s face was drawn downward, his lips in a perfect, upside-down half circle. But what frightened Martin the most was the untouched glass of bourbon on the table next to the mayor’s chair. Most people drowned their sorrows in alcohol. But for the mayor, alcohol was a sign he was celebrating the joys of life. He never, ever drank when he was depressed.

  Martin, on the other hand, had finished off his glass.

  “Sir, I think you’re overreacting a bit.”

  The mayor’s dull eyes lit with anger directed at Martin. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Haven’t you looked at the numbers, Martin? Don’t you realize what dire straits we are in?”

  “I know. But I don’t think you’re to blame, and resigning as mayor would only hurt this town, not help it. We’re in trouble, there’s no doubt about that. But there’s got to be another way.”

  The mayor rose, circling his wingback chair and standing before the raging fire that crackled and hollered up through the chimney. “I’ve seen this town go through ups and downs through the years, Martin. But this time is different. We’re lost. We don’t even know who we are anymore. Once we were a small town with a silly name. Then we became a small town with a famous resident. Then we became a famous town. And now …”

  From behind him, Martin could see the mayor take out his handkerchief and wipe his eyes. He noticed how thin he had become, his pants hanging off him like a young boy in his brother’s hand-me-downs.

  “I can’t sleep at night,” the mayor said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Martin hugged his longtime friend. The mayor patted him affectionately, but then retired to his bedroom, asking Martin to show himself to the door. Listening to the bedroom door close, Martin shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to come up with a solution.

  Mayor Wullisworth was depressed, and Martin wasn’t sure how to give him hope. He stood alone in the mayor’s study, thinking he might finish off his friend’s untouched bourbon, but decided against it. He needed to think clearly. Instead he stood solemnly, gazing at all the history books that lined the shelves of the study, his mind filing through options of how to solve this massive problem. How do you save a town on the brink of bankruptcy? If ever there was a hopeless situation, this was it.

  And then something hit him. One word.

  “History!” Martin cried. That was it! He would find out the town’s history, see how it began, go back to the roots. Surely there was something there that could help him find this town’s future.

  The doorbell rang, and he left the study. No movement came from the hallway leading to the mayor’s bedroom, and he knew the mayor wasn’t expecting company. He went to the front door and decided to answer it so the mayor wouldn’t be disturbed.

  “Hello, Marty.”

  His chest constricted. Missy Peeple.

  “Is the mayor home?”

  “You have no business here, Miss Peeple,” Martin said. “After the Thanksgiving Scandal, I think you of all people should know that.”

  He was about to shut the door when she said, “I know how to save this town.”

  Martin swallowed. He studied her wrinkled face, smiling and scowling at the same time. This woman was a foe, he knew that. But he also knew she would stop at nothing to save the town. Her fierce determination was what everyone feared the most about her.

  “I’m sorry.” He slammed the door shut. Then he heard the strangest thing. An owl. Ho
oting. He listened, and then the sound faded into the night.

  CHAPTER 5

  REVEREND PECK TRIED to keep a warm smile steady on his face as he stood outside his church, shaking hands with the ten people who had showed up for the special Christmas Eve service. Even while he stood there, he could hear a town full of carolers, their vocal cords straining to climb the pear tree of all Christmas songs. What in the world were they doing singing about partridges on the Eve of Christ’s birth? He’d read somewhere this particular song had a secret Christian meaning behind it, but nobody he knew could tell him what that secret was. The reverend shook his head as they moved to a new rendition of “Jingle Bells” sung to the tune of “O Holy Night.”

  His stomach turned.

  Where was everybody? Didn’t they understand what Christmas meant? Why weren’t they at church?

  Wolfe and Ainsley strolled out of the church, holding hands and laughing. When they saw the reverend, he could tell they sensed something was wrong. He didn’t even try to hide it behind a smile.

  “Are you okay?” Wolfe asked.

  He shook his head. “I am losing this town,” he said. “There was a change at Thanksgiving. The whole town. You remember. And now, look,” he said, pointing down the street to the singers. “They’d rather be out singing about a one-horse open sleigh than listening to one of my sermons.”

  “Reverend,” Ainsley said, taking his hand, “come to our house tonight. Have Christmas Eve dinner with us. Please. I insist.”

  “Thank you my dear,” he said, “but I think I’d rather be alone.”

  Ainsley and Wolfe exchanged worried glances, but the reverend tried to smile. “I’m fine. I just need to figure some things out. Please, go on. And thanks … thanks for coming.”

  They both hugged him warmly and then went on their way. Reverend Peck lingered a few seconds longer, trying to understand what God wanted him to do. He went inside, hoping to find the offering basket half-full. Instead, there was a twenty. At least someone had given. He took it and knew that he at least had enough money to eat for the week. That was one less thing on his mind.

  He decided to walk the streets of his town, hoping the good Lord would speak to him, give him some insight into how to help these people. He walked the gravel hill that led him into Main Street. Lights hung from every store window. And though the streets weren’t crowded, people milled about here and there.

  He could still hear the carolers.

  Then he noticed something peculiar. In front of The Mansion, his favorite restaurant, a noisy crowd stood. As he approached, he noticed whole families standing around, giggling, conversing, and carrying on. The women wore their favorite Christmas sweaters. The men smoked their pipes and told tall tales. Something about the entire scene warmed his heart and disturbed him all at the same time.

  After several minutes of observing this, he decided to find out what all the commotion was about. Why the big crowd?

  He approached the Jamesons, a young, bright family. He’d met the father, who sold tires, and the mother, who stayed at home with their children, a few weeks back when Wolfe had been lost in the snow. Mr. Jameson had come to volunteer his time.

  “Hi there,” Reverend Peck said, offering a hand to Mr. Jameson, who immediately recognized him.

  “Hello, Reverend!” he said. His wife smiled and shook his hand too as they exchanged pleasantries.

  “What’s all this about?” The reverend gestured toward the crowd.

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Chef Bob is offering a special Christmas Eve dinner to the first hundred people who arrive. It’s some fancy ham dish. Everyone rushed here to try to get a spot. Cost twenty bucks a plate!”

  “A fancy ham dish.”

  Mr. Jameson laughed. “Yeah! And I don’t even like ham! But I figured it had to be something special if he was only serving a hundred people.” He shrugged. “So I figured I’d bring the family down to see if we can get in. It’s looking iffy. We arrived late, I guess.”

  “Late?”

  “Yeah. There’s been people camped out here since lunch so they could get in! We’ve just been here since around five.”

  “Honey, look,” his wife said. “Carolers! Isn’t that wonderful?” The family turned to admire a dozen cheery faces bobbing their heads along to “Frosty the Snowman.”

  The reverend said to Mr. Jameson, “You know, I had a Christmas Eve service tonight.”

  The man’s face registered surprise and guilt. “Oh. No. I hadn’t heard.” He cleared his throat. “We would have o’course been there if we’d known. Right, honey?”

  “Honey” was still gleefully swaying to the carolers and had tuned the men out.

  “Yes, well, maybe next year.” He shook Mr. Jameson’s hand and headed home.

  A fancy ham dish beat out the message of baby Jesus. How could he compete with fancy ham? What was fancy ham, anyway? Part of him thought he might hang around the restaurant and see if he could get in. But sorrow drew him into the isolation of his home.

  As he arrived at the parsonage, his breath freezing in front of him with each labored step he took, he stopped.

  “Whoo.”

  The reverend looked around. Had someone spoken to him? “Hello? Is someone out there?”

  “Whoo. Whoo.”

  He looked up and almost laughed. An owl! He’d never seen an owl in these parts. It was huge! The Great Horned Owl cocked his head and regarded him.

  “Whoo. Whoo.”

  “Who gives a rip about church, you say?” He unlocked his door and went inside. He didn’t have fancy ham, but he thought he had a can of Spam in the cupboard.

  Dr. Hass had watched from a distance, across the street, as the sheriff’s deputies declared his home foreclosed. Standing in the Los Angeles monsoon, he had cringed as they chained the front driveway gate and stuck it with a bright orange sign announcing that very fact.

  He had stood there soaking wet, despite his three hundred dollar, plaid-lined raincoat.

  All he possessed consisted of two suitcases full of clothes, a trunk crammed with sentimental items, a box full of books, and about five thousand dollars in cash. Oh, and the raincoat.

  What had his life come to? A puddle of an existence. As the two deputies had driven away, he’d gazed at what was once a magnificent Bel Air mansion, complete with a pool, eight bedrooms, four stories of glory, and plenty of envy power.

  And that was just his home base. He’d also gained an amazing reputation, carefully cultivated over the years, which was now worthless. People he’d spent years socializing with pretended they did not know him. They’d once trusted him … never liked him … but trusted him. Now they scorned him.

  With thunder tumbling across the sky and a downpour reminding him that if hope was about to raise its head not to bother, Dr. Hass had felt low but not defeated. Because on the day he discovered he would soon be homeless, he’d just finished reading Who Moved My Cheese? for the eighth time. Some people’s heroes were presidents or athletes or soldiers. But he had four heroes, and their names were Sniff, Scurry, Hem, and Haw. Two mice. Two littlepeople. Haw’s motto was taped to the top of his mirror, just above his receding hairline: “You can believe that a change will harm you and resist it. Or you can believe that finding New Cheese will help you, and embrace the change. It all depends on what you choose to believe.”

  Well, this was his Big Cheese Moment. It hadn’t looked like Cheese, standing on the sidewalk about to drown in a downpour. But this was Cheese. A big wedge of sharp cheddar.

  He smiled to himself, then caught the driver of the taxi in which he now sat giving him a funny look.

  “You getting out here?”

  “In a moment,” he said, remembering a quote from his Anger Management Daily Calendar of Quotes: A temper tantrum makes you look like a spoiled three-year-old. A month or so ago, he might’ve grabbed the cabby by his toupee and slapped him clear across the street. But today he held up
a polite index finger. He’d come a long way. And he intended to go even further.

  As he was packing one last suitcase two nights ago, he’d realized he had a passion. Not just a love. Not just a talent. But a passion. And what had made him famous and charismatic all these years would now make him even more successful and well known.

  He had discovered a cure for his mother (quite by accident), and now he would conquer the cure for others. He’d be written about in medical journals for years. All he had to do was prove his theory.

  Dr. Hass looked down at the paper he was holding with the full-page ad that he knew was getting ready to change his life.

  “Skary, Indiana. Wonder how this place got its name?” he mused aloud, looking out the window at the house in which he was soon to reside.

  “No idea. Minutes are ticking by here, buddy.”

  He handed over a large wad of cash and got out. The cabby helped him unload everything from the trunk, but only to the sidewalk outside the house. “Have a nice Christmas,” he muttered just before zipping away in his cab.

  The doctor was not into the festive spirit of the season, but his heart danced with the idea of a new beginning and a new town. New opportunities. Running from those out to get you always did provide for new opportunities.

  “Home sweet home. Skary, Indiana.” And then, with amusement, he noticed that the yellow color of his house and the angle at which the roof pointed upward looked amazingly like a big wedge of cheese.

  Ainsley settled into Wolfe’s arms. A bright and feisty fire crackled in front of them. “Is this music too cheesy?” She laughed. The Mannheim Steamroller CD she’d just put in was her favorite Christmas CD.

  He smiled. “Well, I have to admit I haven’t listened to Mannheim Steamroller at Christmas since I was in an elevator at Bloomingdale’s.”

  “Cute,” she said, punching him in the arm. She nestled into his chest. “This just brings back good memories for me.”

  He stroked her hair. “As long as we don’t have to play them at our wedding.”