Claus: The Trilogy

by Tony Bertauski

  He should probably take his bucket and leave just in case someone gets any funny ideas. There are some shady characters at Walmart. He doesn’t want to lose the gold, but he has to act cool. Maybe hang around another ten minutes and then grab a cab.

  And hope the cabby can make change.

  People exit the megastore with armloads of stuff.

  “Merry holiday, everybody! Happy Christmas, great New Year, silent night. Silent night, everyone! Silent night!”

  He says it to everyone, no matter how tall, skinny, short, or fat. They all get his blessing. Each time, the words pass through his lips a little louder and a little more joyously. There’s no stopping the spirit of Christmas.

  He spreads his arms. “Siiiiilent night.”

  Several people turn at the sound of his lovely song. Jack heard it on the radio, but he likes his version better. It’s simpler, gets to the point. He’s not sure what the point is, but nonetheless he sings with joy.

  “Siiiiilent night. Siiiiilent night.”

  “Don’t you know the words?” A small kid is in front of him.

  “What?”

  “That’s not how the song goes.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it ain’t.”

  “The song goes how I sing it. So there.”

  “Because you don’t know the words.”

  Jack chuckles. He looks around, ringing the bell. An old lady passes them but doesn’t appear to belong to this little smart mouth. Jack waits until no one is looking. He’s got a gold coin. An A+.

  He’s got a little wiggle room.

  He leans forward, eye to eye. “Why don’t you shut your mouth, you little booger-eater.”

  “You shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  “You’re going on the naughty list,” Jack says. “Guarantee it.”

  “Whatever, loser.”

  “Hope you like poop in your sock.”

  The kid laughs. Jack screwed something up. Santa puts something in bad boys’ socks, but it’s not poop. It should be.

  “Come on, Bo.” A large lady passes them. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re dumb.” The little stinker races after her.

  Jack almost throws the bell, considers the special one-finger wave, but then the lady holds out her hand and drops a fistful of gold into Bo’s cupped hands. He peels off a cover and eats it.

  A gold wrapper hits the ground.

  The last tone fades from the bell hanging at Jack’s side. He picks up the tin wrapper that’s shiny gold on one side and smeared with mud on the other. He dabs it with his finger and puts it to his nose. It smells sugary. He licks it.

  Chocolate.

  The concrete starts to sway. Jack is losing his balance. There’s another kid peeling a coin and popping it in his mouth. And the guy next to him is doing the same thing.

  There are gold coins everywhere!

  Jack goes to his bucket and tries to pry the lid off. He jams his finger through the slot and gets it stuck. He shakes the bucket and the pennies clang. People stop what they’re doing as cuss words stream out of the short Santa that’s punching the side of his donation pot.

  He looks over his shoulder.

  They look away, pretending they don’t see him. Jack thinks about stomping the bucket flat—he’s got the feet to do that—when he spies the guilty party.

  I knew it!

  Piled on the table next to the fishbowl is a mountain of gold coins. People are signing a piece of paper with a picture of a horse and grabbing the coins for free. They peel them and eat them!

  Darkness fills Jack.

  He’s left with emptiness, left with a chasm of need and dashed hope. He’s deep on the naughty list now. His heart shrinks to a cold clod of ice.

  It’s their fault. They gave out the gold coins. They made me call the kid a booger-eater.

  The bell clangs on the ground.

  Jack is going to flip that table, dash all their stuff in the parking lot, and stomp it with his fat, hairy feet until it resembles garbage from a compactor. If he’s going to be on the naughty list, he may as well make it worth it.

  Jack can’t explain what happens next.

  It’s like the spirit of Christmas returns when a truck pulls up. Its mufflers are loud and obnoxious, but Jack suddenly feels warm and bubbly again. It’s like he loves the world, and the world loves him back.

  He feels like breaking out in song.

  A boy is driving. A girl gets out of the passenger side. She skips around the front bumper, her rosy, round face beaming with a smile. Jack’s foot slides toward her like she possesses gravity. He leans back so the force doesn’t pull him through the crowd. It would be embarrassing if he landed on top of her and, right now, he just wants to bathe in the sweet sensation.

  “What are you doing here?” one of the girls at the table says.

  “I want to help,” the chubby-cheeked, tractor-beam girl says.

  “You need to be getting ready.” The girl at the table waves at the boy in the truck. “We’re doing just fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A man and his family get between Jack and the girls. Jack shoves the kid out of the way and starts walking toward the table. The father confronts him, but he doesn’t hear anything. The sweet vibrations fill his head. A tunnel wraps around his vision. The girls hug, smile, and laugh. Jack feels all giggly, too.

  They look at him. He must’ve laughed out loud.

  And then the girl of his dreams gets back in the truck.

  “Have fun,” the girls at the table shout.

  They all wave to each other. Jack waves, too. He watches them drive away, the mufflers momentarily drowning out conversations.

  And the resonating feeling fades. That beautiful Christmas spirit drives off in a four-wheel-drive truck and Jack feels colder.

  Emptier.

  Once again, his chest hardens.

  And he wants to destroy that stupid horse table with the dumb coins. Jack picks up the bell and inspects a chip on the rim. He resists the urge to hammer the red pot with it, or shatter the dumb fishbowl. He wants that feeling back.

  The Christmas spirit.

  He waits for a gap in the crowd before wandering over to the table, while one of the girls tells someone about volunteer opportunities and disabled children and blah, blah, blah. Jack walks his fingers across the table and swipes a coin. It’s soft and pliable.

  “Hi,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, I’m awesome.”

  “I thought something was wrong with your donation can.”

  “Yeah, it malfunctioned. I fixed it.”

  “Good.” She looks around, but no one is coming near them. Jack is staring. “Are you interested in signing up?” she asks.

  “Oh, yeah. For sure.”

  She slides over a clipboard. “Just write your name with your phone number and email.”

  “Okay. I will.” Jack picks it up and scribbles on the line. “Hey, by the way, I was just talking to… ummmm.”

  He whacks his head.

  “What’s the girl’s name, the one that was in the cool truck with the kid?”

  “Sura?”

  Jack snaps his fingers. “That’s it. I was talking to Sura about doing this, um, thing with the horses and stuff, you know, earlier… when you weren’t looking. Anyway, she wanted some information about my bell and bucket.”

  Stupid. Jack shakes his head.

  “Anyway, is she coming back?” Jack asks.

  “Not today.”

  “Where she’d go?”

  “The Blackwater High Christmas dance.”

  “That’s right, she told me that.” He pretends to fill out the form, not paying any attention to what he’s writing. “Well, that’s too bad. She was really, really, really interested in the bell, wanted to know where she could get one just like it. Maybe I can give this one to her since it’s broke. Where does she live and wh
at’s her phone number and, um, email?”

  “I don’t know.” The girl frowns.

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “Can you just give me the clipboard back?”

  “I’m almost done. Just tell me where she lives.”

  “Is everything all right?” The other girl stands up.

  “He won’t give me the clipboard.”

  “Yes. I will.” Jack laughs, but people are staring. Something snaps. He looks down at the pencil clenched in his fist, now in two pieces.

  Both girls hold out their hands.

  “I don’t like your attitude, missy.” Jack drops the clipboard. “No one sign up!” he announces. “They’re mean over here. They’ll just be mean to you if you sign up.”

  The girls roll their eyes. One of them goes into the store, probably to tell on him. Jack goes back to ringing the bell. He’d walk off and leave all his crap if he had any idea where or what Blackwater High meant.

  He’ll find out when he’s back at the shelter.

  -------------------------

  Another shirt lands on a growing pile. Several empty hangers swing in the closet. Sura digs into the blouses, things she’s never worn, clothes she’s never seen. For her, it’s always been T-shirts and jeans.

  But she’s never been to a dance. What do people wear?

  Sura drops on the chair, stares at the large mirror, and pouts into her hands. A picture of her mom is wedged into the frame.

  It’s too much pressure. Why don’t they just build a fire and hang out with the horses? Why’d she even ask him to this stupid dance? It’s not like she’s friends with any of those people.

  Because she wants to show him off, that’s why. To come to the dance hanging on his arm, watch the girls drool.

  Sura remembers sitting in that chair, staring into the same mirror when it was her mom’s mirror. She remembers the time she found her makeup box and started playing with it, afraid she’d be in trouble. She tried to draw lines around her eyes and brush her cheeks.

  Her mom had come inside the room just as Sura was twisting the lipstick. Her mom smiled, the corners of her mouth poking her chubby cheeks. She came back with a chair and sat next to her, rubbing the blush off her cheeks with a damp washcloth.

  You remember something, her mom had said. Your value is not here.

  She tickled Sura’s face.

  Who you are is here. She tapped her chest. It’s not who you look like—it’s who you are. You are unique. Do you understand?

  Sura had closed her eyes. Yes, Momma.

  She opens her eyes and sees her reflection. She brushes her cheeks, like her mom taught her. She paints her lips pink. She digs through the drawers until she finds wire earrings with dangling beads, something she made for her mom when she was ten years old. They fit through her earlobes and brush against her jaws.

  The back door opens and closes, rattling the walls. “You ready?” Joe calls.

  “Just a second!”

  Sura ties her hair back and finds exactly what to wear.

  Joe is at the dinner table, shuffling through a mess of old photos. He looks up when the boots clop on the hardwood. Without a word, his expression tells her exactly what she wants to hear.

  Her cowboy boots have polished tips and the beaded belt matches the earrings. The loose-fitting top with the India collar exposes the leather necklace and pendant containing a small photo.

  Joe stands. “Belle dame!”

  “Merci.” She curtsies.

  His applause thunders throughout the house. He whistles, loudly. Sura feels her face heat up but doesn’t hide.

  “Um… Je vais manger le chat,” she says.

  “You’re going to eat the cat?”

  “No, I said I’ll feed the cat.”

  “You said eat.”

  Sura pulls the cat food from the kitchen cabinet, a smile chiseled into her cherub cheeks. Crenshaw comes out of hiding, rubbing against her leg. She hears the chickens squabbling. It’s too dark to see the coop. Better not be a possum.

  “You fed the chickens, right?” Sura asks.

  “You ate the cat; I ate the chickens.”

  Sura washes her hands and grabs a water bottle, thinking she’ll check the coop on the way out, just in case something dug under the fence.

  “I like this picture.”

  “Which one?” she asks.

  He holds up a grainy three-by-five photo. She didn’t mean to leave that mess out. She happened to see the box in the bottom of her closet, thought it was in the attic. Sura takes the photo, struggling to make sense out of it. It was taken downtown near the water.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “In here.” He holds up a manila envelope. “I was just being nosy. Was I not supposed to look?”

  “No, no. Mom printed all her digital photos. I was just…”

  She trails off.

  Sura liked having the photos out. It reminded her of what they did and where they went. But this photo, this one was developed from film and not printed at home. Its edges are thick and the corners sharp. Two people are standing on the pier. The younger girl looks about five.

  “That’s not me.”

  “It’s your mom. I told you she looked just like you.”

  But Sura’s not looking at the young girl. She’s looking at the older woman. She never met her grandmother. She passed away before Sura was born. Her mom didn’t talk much about her and Sura can’t remember ever seeing any photos of her.

  She looks exactly like Mom.

  “Come on.” Joe takes her hand. “Let’s go dance.”

  Sura lets him lead her away from the table. She puts the photo on the refrigerator, a strange sense of déjà vu swirling in her head, that feeling that says, “Wake up! Look around!”

  Wake up, her mom would say. Don’t sleep through the truth.

  Joe opens the back door. The chickens are quiet. “You coming?”

  Sura turns on the outdoor lights and locks the door. She feels closer to normal once she’s outside. Joe opens the passenger door like a chauffeur. While he jogs around the front, she hears the chickens squabble again and sees a bright color flash behind the coop.

  It’s yellow.

  -------------------------

  The Arctic horizon is sharp.

  The North Star sparkles white, red, and green while the Northern Lights dance around it with bands of similar colors. Mr. Frost remembers sights like this from the time he was born. The colors remind an elven he’s home.

  A light breeze ruffles his hair, the faint smell of the ocean on the wind; perhaps a polar bear with a fresh kill is nearby, staining the pristine snow as it fills its belly—a world so beautiful and so cruel.

  He eyes a hole in the ice, water sloshing against the edges. The root begins fluttering beneath his skin with a steady beat. Freeda is calling. Her presence is not allowed in the wishing room unless he allows it.

  The wishing room was forbidden for many, many years, but his nervous breakdowns were not an act. Mr. Frost was breaking under the pressure of her demands. The wishing room brought his sanity back. That’s the only reason she allowed it.

  Jack can’t come back if I’m broken.

  Yes, Freeda.

  The helpers report that Sura has found a photograph of her grandmother.

  How?

  Sesi had evidently stashed a box of photos in the closet. Apparently, she taped an envelope of old photos beneath the lid.

  How’d she handle it?

  There didn’t seem to be a problem, but it’s too soon for her to know her truth. Her ego isn’t stable enough to handle it. I don’t really care if she loses her mind, but I know you feel differently.

  Mr. Frost scoops a handful of snow and molds it into a sphere, trimming the imperfections with the edge of his bare hand. He knows his body is wearing the coolsuit to keep him insulated from the warmth. The wishing room makes him believe he’s comfortable in the Arctic, but if he wasn’t wearing the coolsuit, his body would overhe
at. He wouldn’t last long.

  Confiscate the photograph, he thinks.

  What good would that do, since she’s already seen it? Why not replace it with an altered version?

  That would be easier, but it would throw her too far off the path of self-discovery. Deception can be far more damaging.

  No. Have it removed.

  She’ll be suspicious, sir.

  Curiosity is good.

  Mr. Frost lets the snowball roll off his fingertips, careful not to let his thoughts roam freely now that he let Freeda in. It plunks in the water. Perhaps he’ll plunge into the icy depths like he did as a youth.

  He longs to feel the icy embrace of home.

  Instruct the helpers to stop following Sura and Joe, he thinks.

  Why?

  I don’t want to risk her seeing them, Freeda. She’s been pushed to the limits. One more shove, and she could come unglued.

  I disagree, sir. We need to watch them now more than ever.

  Mr. Frost kneels. He pushes snow into a mound, molding two stout legs and a round belly. He sits back before finishing the rest of the snowman, pretending to consider her reply.

  Okay, he relents.

  Mr. Frost severs the connection.

  He needs to be compliant. Freeda may be artificially intelligent, but her programming has evolved into a complex mind. Allowing her a victory curbs her suspicions.

  And Mr. Frost needs to know what the kids are doing.

  He finishes sculpting a snowman with a stout head and thick arms. It looks more intimidating than loving, but that is a misconception. A snowman of this sort is protective.

  But there are no snowmen in Mr. Frost’s life.

  -------------------------

  “I didn’t say I wanted to go to the dance—”

  “Yeah, you did,” Willie interrupts.

  “No, I didn’t.” Jack chooses his words carefully. “I said I wanted to see the dance.”

  “And I said no.”

  The men at the next table laugh.

  “Shut up.” Jack spreads the map on the table, flattening the wrinkles with the edge of his hand. “Look, Willie. There’s been a misunderstanding, let me start over. High schools have dances. It’s normal. It’s fun.”

  “Uh-huh. And where’d you hear this?”