Pet for Christmas (Holiday Family Story)

by Ayala, Rachelle

  Pre-dawn prayer was next, even though the sun had already risen. The motley group of men removed their headscarves and spread them on the ground. They bowed west, probably facing Mecca, and went through their chants.

  Arman stayed at his father’s side, but the boy was silent. Could it be he wasn’t a Muslim? Was that why he served Tyler while the others gathered in the courtyard for prayer? Where was his British mother who’d taught him English?

  Tyler’s stomach rumbled while he closed his eyes and pictured Kelly’s face, the way her pretty eyes changed shade from dusky green to light brown. He missed the sweetness of her lips and the sunlight highlighting her tawny hair, now longer than when he’d first met her. Then there was Bree, the epitome of a darling child. He wondered how many times the tooth fairy had visited and whether she’d made her trip to the mall to see Santa.

  While the grown men chanted with their faces down on the ground, Arman watched Tyler, his hand on a gun. Somehow, someway, Tyler had to get through to the boy. First question. Were they Taliban? Secondly, was his father behind the explosion at the center? And thirdly, had Arman been sent back with the rope to betray him?

  Tyler opened his mouth and formed words, hoping the kid could lip read. Are you my friend?

  Arman’s lips thinned and he swallowed hard, but his eyes did not dart away. He’d been told to watch Tyler, lest he make a move to escape.

  I want to help you. Tyler moved his lips.

  The boy huffed dismissively.

  Great. He understood him.

  Can you help me? Tyler tried another tack.

  The boy’s head shook slightly.

  Do you want to help me?

  This time no movement. Just a quick blink.

  I need your help. You’re my friend. Tyler mouthed the words slowly and smiled.

  Arman bit his lip and shot a glance at his father, who was fortunately still chanting and alternatively sitting up before bending down again.

  I won’t hurt you. Tyler reassured. If you let me go, maybe you can come to visit me someday.

  His eyebrows lowered, the boy shook his head and sliced his finger across his throat. Some gestures were universal.

  What do you want? Maybe I can help. Tyler wasn’t about to give up. He’d been cooperative, hoping the men would get careless, because face it, he was outgunned and in a land where he had no maps and knowledge of the language.

  Arman turned away from him, breaking eye contact. The prayers ended, and the men brushed themselves off as they collected their headscarves and stood.

  Miraculously, a young man appeared at the doorway, as if he’d been waiting there, with a basket and a pot of tea. Strange. Wasn’t this man supposed to be praying? Or was praying only reserved for the guys with the guns?

  He spread out the usual breakfast, loaves of naan, a few pieces of dried fruit, and poured green tea for everyone, including Tyler.

  With the arrival of food, the captors relaxed visibly and chattered with each other. There were grunts of laughter and animated gestures, as if they agreed to disagree, but were good-natured about it.

  Tyler, of course, had to wait for Stork to feed him and hold the cooled teacup in front of his lips. The amazing thing was that even though he was their prisoner, they fed him well and were solicitous enough to make sure he had enough to drink during the hikes.

  Maybe now that they’d been together for several days, Tyler could get them to put down their guard. He sat cross-legged, his arms still behind his back and waited, his eyes following the conversation while forcing himself to look pleasant. He caught Arman glancing at him, and each time, he smiled.

  When it was time for Tyler to eat, Jailer stuck the muzzle of the AK-47 against Tyler’s back as Stork fed tea and naan to him. Can-Opener cleaned his gun three feet from them, and Arman’s father appeared to be instructing his son. The boy nodded and grunted in assent.

  “Thank you,” Tyler said after Stork finished. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

  Stork’s eyebrows rose, and he pointed at himself and shook his head, while moving his mouth, as if to say, I don’t speak English.

  “It’s okay if you don’t speak English. I can still thank you.”

  The muzzle of the gun poked him as Jailer said something in a harsh voice. Tyler swallowed, but figured he wouldn’t discharge his rifle inside the tiny hut.

  To Tyler’s surprise, Stork answered with smoothing down hand gestures conveying, Calm down.

  Good. Humanize yourself. This was one of the tactics taught to survive captivity. Now that he knew the hierarchy and the way the band worked together, he could begin his PSYOP techniques to free himself. He couldn’t count on anyone but himself. At this point, he wasn’t even sure if Dylan or the US government knew of his disappearance. For all they knew, he was dead in the explosion.

  A thorn caught on his heart and ripped it. Kelly could be believing that he was dead. She could be losing hope. He hadn’t seen any of the men use a cell phone. In fact, they hadn’t been in a house with electricity. What was their plan?

  Apparently, hike all day, commandeer dinner from a village, and sleep all night under a leaky roof.

  Jailer grabbed Tyler’s arm and urged him to his feet.

  “Thanks.” Tyler nodded. “Are we headed anywhere in particular?”

  Can-Opener pointed his AK-47 at Tyler and growled for him to shut up, but Arman’s father held his hand up, then spoke to Arman.

  “My father says no one understands you,” Arman said.

  “True,” Tyler replied. “But I want to appreciate how they’ve treated me with kindness. Can you give my thanks to them?”

  Arman’s forehead creased, and he translated.

  His father waved his hand and said, in translation, “We are not bad people. You see that. We are treating you well, no?”

  “Yes, you are. I can see you’re all men of honor.” Tyler had studied Pashtun culture beforehand. “I believe you have a good reason for taking me on this trip?”

  Again, Arman translated.

  His father grimaced and sighed. “You are right. We are men of honor. My son talks a lot about you, but we cannot tell you the reason.”

  “I respect that,” Tyler said. “I only ask because I want to go home. I have a little girl and a little boy waiting for me.”

  After Arman conveyed the message, his father shook his head harder and yelled sharply.

  “Enough,” Arman translated. “You’re bothering my father with such talk. We all have people waiting for us.”

  Tyler bowed his head and nodded as a gesture of respect to Arman’s father. The man blew through his teeth and commanded everyone to pack their bedding and be ready to go.

  Tyler caught Arman’s eye and said, “I’ve got a cricket bat I want to give to you.”

  For the first time since Tyler’s capture, Arman smiled.

  “I’ve been feeding your dog,” he whispered as he rolled up his sleeping bag. “He’s following behind us, out of sight of the men.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ~ Kelly ~

  “Mama, oh look, they have the train just like last time.” Bree trots at my side as we weave our way through the mall housing a two-story tall Christmas tree under a tiered dome that looks like either an opera house or a multi-layered wedding cake. “And there’s Santa on his throne.”

  There’s also a long line, but I can’t help but let Bree’s cheerfulness drive away some of the gnawing inside my heart. Bree’s gone through a lot in her young life, and I want to give her happy holiday memories to the best of my abilities.

  The shops are all decked out for Christmas, trimmed with tinsel and garlands. A row of stores have changed their window displays from high-end handbags and fashion finds into that with old fashioned, small-town Christmas themes. Snow globes, ornaments, family pictures in holiday frames, and stuffed animals surround a model railroad with enough artificial snow to make the biggest Grinch nostalgic for a Christmas on Main Street fifty years ago.

&nb
sp; “Aren’t they pretty?” Bree points to the ballerinas dressed as snow princesses doing performances to the Nutcracker theme. “I want to learn how to dance like that and look pretty.”

  “Is that what you want to do most? We only have time to take you to one activity outside of school.”

  “I might want to do gymnastics and ride horses. Oh, I know. I want to ice skate.”

  Bree wishes she could do everything, and so far, because of my time in jail for insider trading, our move across the country last year, and me working as a janitor before landing this job to investigate insider trading, I haven’t had the time to sign her up for anything. I’m being derelict. She’ll never make Olympics or world class in a sport she didn’t start at age three. With the baby coming and my full time job, I worry whether I can even make time for one activity.

  “How about piano lessons?” I pat her back. “Nana wants to teach you.”

  She scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “I want to jump and dance.”

  “Okay, why don’t you watch them and we’ll look into it after Christmas?” Dance might not be too bad, except the costumes are expensive, but my financial situation is better, although not anywhere near where it was when I was an investment banker.

  I blow out a breath and check my cell phone. Why hasn’t that person from Afghanistan called me? I need them to connect so that the authorities can get a bead on them.

  I text again. Please let me know if Tyler is all right. This is Kelly. Tell him I love him and miss him. Tell him Bree wishes he were here.

  The line winds its way slowly around the winter wonderland playground filled with elves, princesses, and other characters who wave and take pictures with the kids. The courtyard is decorated with strings of colorful lights and surrounded by fake snow while Santa’s tall, padded throne sits under a canopy in front of a sleigh packed with presents.

  “There’s Santa!” Bree squeals. “He waved at me.”

  It’s the same man as last year. I almost blurt it out. Even though we enjoy looking at Christmas through Bree’s eyes, I have friends who insist lying to her about Santa Claus is not healthy. Some day, she won’t be bouncing up and down in line for a visit with Santa. I better capture and enjoy each special moment.

  We’re next in line, and she tugs at my sleeve. “Should I whisper in Santa’s ear? Is it like a wish where if you tell someone, it won’t come true?”

  “Whatever you think best. I don’t think it matters.” After all, last year, she practically announced to the entire mall that she wanted a father for Christmas.

  The toddler boy currently on Santa’s lap is talking at the top of his lungs, listing off all of his wants: a firetruck, a baseball glove, and a puppy.

  I glance at Bree when the boy describes the exact puppy he wants, but she doesn’t bat an eye. Instead, she’s counting on her fingers and speaking to herself silently.

  The boy grabs Santa’s beard just as the picture taking elf snaps his picture.

  “Ho, ho, ho.” Santa lifts the boy off his lap. Right before it’s Bree’s turn, he pushes on his beard, trying to get it to stick again.

  Hopefully Bree isn’t going to kiss that icky polyester beard like she did last year. It’s a collector of germy hands and slobbering snail trail noses. Yuck.

  This year, I have a brand new iPhone, so I simply bring up the camera app and put it in video mode.

  “Hello, little missy, what’s your name?” Santa asks.

  “I’m Bree Kennedy.” She turns toward me and smiles. “That’s my mother, Kelly. Last year you gave me a father for Christmas.”

  “I did? Oh, ho, ho, ho. Well then, you must be a really happy girl.” Santa winks at me.

  “I’m not.” Bree cups her hand and whispers in his ear. I can’t make out what she says, but Santa’s mouth rounds into a circle and his eyebrows droop. He shifts in his seat, probably uneasy with whatever Bree is telling him.

  A plume of anger swells inside of me. Could Bree be asking for her real father? How ungrateful can she be? But then guilt swamps me. How can I blame a little girl for wanting a father? It’s my fault she’s hurting.

  Santa’s expression looks grim when she finishes. He pats her hand and says, “I’m not sure I can arrange that. Even Santas have limits.”

  “But not God.” Bree bobs her head. “Should I also ask God?”

  “Of course. Now you want to smile for the camera?”

  “Not yet.” Bree hugs him. “My little brother’s inside my mother and he doesn’t have a phone in there so he can’t call you.”

  “Ho, ho, ho, what would he like?” Santa’s back to his jolly mood, now that he’s back to toy granting mode.

  “He wants a puppy. He says he’ll share the puppy with me and let me play with it, too. We went to Black Friday at the pound and there’s a cute Labradoodle. It’s fluffy and furry and black with a pink tongue.”

  “That’s the one your baby brother wants?” Santa smiles and winks at me again.

  “Yes, and I get to take care of it until he comes out of my mother.” Bree beams at me, all sweet and innocent.

  “Okay, picture time,” Santa says, moving her along.

  The picture taking elf behind the camera snaps a few shots and Bree turns and high fives Santa.

  “I know you can do it,” Bree says as she jumps off Santa’s knee. “This Christmas is going to be even better than the last.”

  I turn off the video app as she comes toward me. Fat chance she’s going to tell me what she whispered in Santa’s ear. Maybe I’ll come back during his break and ask him. I’m sure parents do that all the time.

  “Can I leave my business card?” I ask the elf and gesture with my eyes at Bree. I lower my voice. “I couldn’t hear what she asked.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to remind him. He gets a lot of requests.” He makes a description of Bree on the back of the card.

  “I’ll bet he does. When’s his break?”

  “We’re usually not busy before school lets out. It’s only babies and such.” When Bree turns to tug my hand, he adds, “Be sure to buy a ticket for the Holiday Express and pick up your pictures.”

  “Will do. Thanks.” I turn toward Bree. “Come on, let’s go on the train ride. Next year, it’ll be both you and your brother.”

  “Yay! And we can bring his puppy, too.” She claps her hands.

  Clever, clever kid. I have to hand it to her. Rather than throw a tantrum like she would have done last year, she has decided to use a different tactic. Even though I’m upset at her for secretly asking Santa for her real father, I’m proud of her composure and ability to think through things and present a case.

  After the train ride, I pick up the pictures and follow Bree as she drags me up the multiple layers of gold-trimmed spiral escalators the mall is known for. Each escalator is curved as one ascends in a circular fashion, walking around an entire level past each store to get to the next section. It’s either shopping heaven or the nine circles of hell.

  Bree doesn’t care. She loves to go all the way to the top, each level smaller than the last, then head right back down around and around. Her blond curls bouncing, she holds my hand and chatters about her teacher, her schoolmates, and all the things she’ll do with her baby brother and his dog.

  No mention of Tyler. I’m going to have to fix that. But how?

  ~ Tyler ~

  Tyler blew out his breath as his captors stopped at the top of a ridge and discussed their plans. His arms and shoulder joints were turning numb, and it had been difficult to scale the rocky trail without the use of his hands for balance.

  At one point, the path was so steep and narrow, clinging against a sheer rock wall with a drop off into a deep ravine, Tyler had to hug his face along the rock wall to keep himself steady.

  The sun was high overhead and beat down on him. Thankfully, Arman had secured a dirty headscarf over his head and another one around his face. Funny thing, here in Afghanistan, both men and women went around with their faces covered, al
though for very different reasons. The men did not want to be recognized, and the women weren’t allowed to be seen.

  Tyler had been instructed to lower his face and close his eyes whenever they passed others on the trail. It wasn’t as if these random goatherds or villagers would intervene to help him, so Tyler complied. The known evil was better than the unknown.

  An argument seemed to be brewing, so Tyler maneuvered himself to sit on a rock to rest. Arman approached with an opened canteen and held it for Tyler as he drank.

  “Thanks, I needed water,” Tyler said. For some reason, he sweated more than the other men who were probably acclimatized to the land. Half of them didn’t bother carrying water, preferring to lug ammunition, so they used Tyler as the water mule with canteens bouncing against his sides. The tepid water tasted good, despite the sooty smell of the canteen. Tyler licked his lips to spread the coolness around. “What are they arguing about?”

  Arman shrugged. His eyes darted from his father and then to the terraced valley below them. A set of buildings, larger than any he’d seen so far, was nestled under a grove of trees behind a rock wall.

  Tyler looked back at the direction they had come. “Have you seen the puppy?”

  “Not after the trail got steeper. I saw bloody tracks this morning. I don’t think he could keep up.”

  A rock pressed over Tyler’s heart. He’d been hoping to bring the puppy home. The little dog had been his hope, a piece of love in this cruel, heartless land. If only he could go back and look for him. Where were these men taking him anyway?

  He stood and walked down toward the edge of the cliff to scan the trail below. A glint of light flashed, and he hit the ground, rolling to let his shoulder absorb the impact.

  Pow, pow, pow. A volley of gunshots splattered the earth and rocks behind him.

  “Arman, get behind me,” Tyler yelled.

  “No, I have to get my gun.” The boy ran toward his AK-47 propped against a boulder.

  Arman’s father dragged him back and shoved him into a crevice near Tyler. Meanwhile, Stork, Can-Opener, and the Jailer returned fire.

  Could these be men sent to rescue him? Shouldn’t Tyler do something to signal them? But he’d only get caught in the crossfire. Most likely, the shooters were another band of ruffians out in this lawless mountain.