Claus: The Trilogy

by Tony Bertauski

  “Just some crazy kids at Walmart. I like fun, you like fun. I’m just curious, where I might seeeee a dance?”

  Willie starts organizing chairs around tables, prepping for dinner. “The answer’s still no.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “I’ll give you fifty, Jack. Blackwater High is in the country. It’s late. You take the bus out there and you’ll be stranded. Worse, you’ll get arrested.”

  “That’s only four.”

  “Look, why do you want to go, anyway, Jack? It’s creepy, man. Trust me, a homeless dude like you showing up at a high school dance is going to end badly.”

  “Well, um.” Jack hesitates, wondering how much he should say. “You know how I don’t remember stuff? It’s just, I think I saw someone I know today.”

  “And that someone is going to the dance?” Willie stops wiping down a table and looks up incredulously.

  “Yep.”

  “Still no. Go watch TV; I’m sure you can see a Christmas dance on the Disney Channel. You won’t get arrested doing that, I promise.”

  Jack growls.

  Willie shouts for someone to help move tables. One of the cooks calls him into the kitchen. Jack slumps into a chair and studies the map again. Nothing’s labeled. If it just showed high schools, he could figure it out. Buses went all over the place.

  It’s not fair, really. Willie doesn’t know what that resonating feeling is like. When he saw that girl, something rang inside him, and not like that stupid bell. This was warm and right, vibrating right down to the bone.

  It felt like home.

  “Hey, garbage man.” Pickett sits across from him. “You want to go to Blackwater?”

  “Yeah, duh.”

  “I’ll show you, you furry little freak.”

  Jack studies his face and waits for the insult. Pickett nods all serious-like. Jack slowly slides the map across the table. Pickett points to the nearest bus line and explains.

  Jack listens.

  He never would’ve guessed Pickett would help.

  -------------------------

  The parking lot is half empty.

  Sura can hear the music. Everyone is inside, dancing to it, except for the rednecks sitting on the tailgates of several fat-tire, jacked-up trucks. The door panels are decorated with mud.

  They turn their heads, watching Joe’s truck idle across the parking lot, the mufflers some kind of mating call. He parks near the front doors.

  “Stay here.” He climbs out.

  Sura thinks, No problem. In fact, she’d be fine if she stayed in the truck all night, but her door opens and Joe holds up his hand.

  “Ma dame.”

  She doesn’t budge. Joe waits patiently, hand out. The rednecks start laughing, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s not safe out here, either.

  Ms. Wesley opens the doors as they approach. The music assaults them. “Why, Sura. What a pleasure to see you.” She adjusts her glasses. “And who is this you’ve brought to our wonderful school?”

  “I’m Joe.” He shakes her hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  She asks where he’s from, how old he is, what school he attends; the sort of questions a mother asks. Finally, she says over the sounds of Blake Shelton singing about snow, “And did you know your little sweetheart here decorated the entire hall?”

  “Not the entire thing.” Sura hangs her head.

  “She’s being modest, Joe.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Joe says. “No, seriously. We have dances and they don’t look anything like this.”

  She blushes for two reasons. One, he’s serious. She loves that. But, two, he’s never been to a dance unless he was lying.

  “I’ve never been to a dance,” he whispers in her ear.

  She smiles.

  “Nice shirt.” A tripod of populars walk past and give Joe a double take and a flirty wave, the kind where the fingers do the waving.

  She thinks about dragging him back into the parking lot because this is all a big mistake. She doesn’t belong here; she’d rather be snuggled up on the couch. Joe pulls her inside the gym, where they’re doused with chest-thumping percussion. Red and green lights spin off a shiny globe. Most everyone is tucked into the dark corners, forming iron-clad cliques that would take a battering ram to break apart.

  The chaperones are near the DJ’s table, drinking from red cups and having more fun than the students. The center of the gym is empty.

  Sura feels glued to the floor. Joe waits patiently. He hooks his finger around her pinky. She tries to be strong, thinks about how she should act. What now? Go into a corner? Lean against the wall? Make fun of someone’s shirt? All she can think about is sitting at home, eating popcorn with Crenshaw.

  The music stops.

  “Can we go?” Sura mutters.

  She turns for the door, but Joe hangs on like an anchor. The first chords of “Blue Christmas” strum through the speakers. Not the Elvis one, this one by Bright Eyes. A version she likes.

  He walks backwards, pulling her with him.

  She protests.

  He’s going toward the center where everyone will see her. One step, then two. She could pull away, break his grip, and run for cover—it’s not too late—but then he smiles that smile, the one that’s hardly on the lips but all in the eyes.

  She falls in step.

  He pulls her close.

  Sura closes her eyes, cheek against his neck. The edge of his chin rests against her head. His hands are soft and warm. She feels herself merging into him, lost in a surreal cascade of goodness, where their energies mix like they did in the wishing room.

  Two pieces become one.

  The song falls over them, wraps around them, and protects them from prying eyes. She sways with his sway, moves with his moves. Their feet step gently, side to side, while he whispers the song to her.

  When it ends and there’s silence, the spell around them remains. She forgets all about her empty home and all the weird things in her life. All the strangeness, hurt, and confusion fall away.

  There’s clapping. It’s the teachers. They applaud their dance. Joe curtsies and, to her surprise, Sura does too.

  “We can go now,” he says.

  “Maybe just a little longer.”

  He smiles the smile.

  -------------------------

  Jack caught the last bus.

  It’s dark when he steps off, but he can read the signs pointing to Blackwater High School. He walks down the sidewalk, whistling. But then the sidewalk turns into grass and the buildings turn into trees. He almost steps on day-old roadkill. What looks like an armadillo has its guts steamrolled into maggot food.

  His knees begin to ache. His feet begin to hurt. Joints stiffen.

  It’s darker in the country. No streetlights to keep him warm. It’s not as bad as it used to be—in fact, the hair is falling off in shaggy clumps—but he still needs a little light just to keep the edge off.

  He’s shivering.

  There’s hardly room for him to walk, and the cars race down the road, whooshing inches away sometimes, honking as they pass. He marches into the trees when he gets so tired he can hardly walk, so cold he can’t feel his big toes. He pulls out his flashlight to shine on his face long enough to stop the chattering.

  Something is in the woods.

  Jack swings the flashlight to scare it off. He doesn’t want to be eaten by a bear. He walks some more, each time a shorter distance before having to get more light. Each time, hearing bears.

  At some point, he’s so cold and tired that he figures he’s going to die. He’s in the middle of nowhere. The batteries aren’t going to last all night. He’ll be a block of ice before the sun comes up. Even the thought of seeing the girl doesn’t fill him with hope. Not anymore.

  He’s empty.

  And, for the first time he can remember, he doesn’t care.

  Jack lies down in a soft bed of leaves to let the cold claim him. The shivering turns violent, but t
hen tapers off. He feels numb all over.

  Probably not good.

  Still, he doesn’t care.

  He closes his eyes and dreams of a cold, white land that’s flat as far as he can see. Even when he hears the bears come for him, he doesn’t open his eyes. He won’t stop them from gnawing on his legs. Jack is so numb he won’t feel it. He’s eaten many o’ fish while they were still alive; he probably deserves it.

  But then something vibrates, deeply.

  Sura!

  He opens his eyes. Too tired and stiff to sit up, he turns his head. It’s dark, but she’s not there. He felt that vibration, felt the goodness.

  Twigs snap.

  Jack looks closer to the ground and sees several lumps around him. It’s difficult to see the details, but he sees they’re fat little men wearing itty-bitty hats. Bite-sized people.

  Jack can’t move, can’t feel his hand on the flashlight or his thumb on the switch. One of the tiny men shuffles through the detritus, turns the flashlight on, and points it at Jack’s face.

  He closes his eyes, seeing one big spot for several minutes as warmth ebbs back into his body.

  “Getup,” one of them says, the language fast and slurred.

  Jack understands; he just can’t do it.

  “Comeonyoucandoit. Getup.”

  Jack grunts. No go.

  They push him into a sitting position. They get leverage on his rump, heaving him upright. Jack teeters, but they hold him steady.

  “Youneedtogetontheroad.”

  Jack shakes his head, still seeing an orange glow where the flashlight hit his eyes. They want him on the road where the roadkill is. He’d rather freeze than become maggot food.

  “Gonow. Getontheroad.”

  They poke and prod, guiding him out of the trees. Jack protests but finds himself standing on a yellow dash painted over black asphalt, surrounded by a posse of very, very, very short little dudes with cute red, orange, and yellow hats.

  The flashlight is still aimed at him.

  And then a puzzle piece goes click.

  “Helpers,” he mutters. “You’re the helpers.”

  He doesn’t know how he remembers, just that there are hundreds of them. He’s seen them before. They know him. And he knows them.

  They feel like the girl.

  The light goes off.

  Jack’s alone on the road when the headlights come around the bend: bright, intense, and loud as an angry beast. He’s too tired to get out of the way. It’s probably better to end it this way. He’s seen polar bears eat; they take too long.

  As the lights get brighter, he feels warmer.

  -------------------------

  The night is dark without a moon.

  The truck sits alone near the curb. A few cars remain beneath the streetlights, while teachers close up. Joe opens the door for Sura. She scoots into the center, watching him go around the front, thinking about how differently the evening started.

  How wonderful it ended.

  She pulls the sprig of mistletoe from behind her ear and twirls it between her finger and thumb. Joe slides into the driver’s seat and starts the truck. She collects a kiss, exhausted.

  Content.

  The tree-lined country road is curvy and dark; the headlights beam down the dashed line. Sura rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes, and sways with the turns. The vents exhale warm air and pull her into a heavy, hypnotic state, seconds from sleeping.

  “What the…?” The truck slows.

  Momentum heaves her forward. The truck jerks to a stop. The headlights engulf something dirty, ragged, and hairy.

  “What is that?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  It’s a misshapen man. The pants are too big, the bottoms piled over his feet. Leaves and twigs are stuck to the sleeves. His face is blotchy with patches of whiskers. The halogen light casts a strange color on him, turning his skin bluish and the hair kind of green.

  Joe puts the truck in park.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Stay here.” His eyes lock on the weird little man.

  “You’re not going out there.”

  “It’s all right; just let me talk to him.”

  “In the middle of the road?”

  Joe pats her knee and opens the door. She doesn’t let go of his arm until he gently touches her hand. He locks the door behind him.

  The little man’s arms are straight at his sides. They don’t say anything at first, and then Joe asks something. The little man answers. There’s a short conversation. Joe looks up and down the road, pointing toward town.

  The little man nods.

  Joe looks around again. He looks back at the truck. Sura feels her stomach drop like a trapdoor just opened. He comes around to the passenger side. Sura opens the door.

  “Can you get in the backseat?” he asks.

  “Why?”

  “This guy…” Joe looks at him. “He’s got some weird skin condition, something’s really wrong with him, and he’s lost. He needs a ride to the shelter. And we need to get out of the road.”

  Sura looks at the misshapen figure standing in the headlights’ glare. “You sure?” she asks.

  “We can’t leave him.”

  He’s right. Despite her fear, she agrees. The little man needs help.

  “I want him up front,” Joe says, “to keep an eye on him. I’d feel better if you were in back.”

  She slides out stiffly.

  The little man shuffles out of the light, hiking his pants up beneath his enormous gut. He’s about as tall as a third grader with a man-sized beer gut. She catches a whiff of fish. Joe helps him up. Sura covers her nose and mouth.

  Dead fish.

  He starts climbing into the backseat. “Whoa, no,” Joe says. “You can get in front.”

  “I thought…” The little man points at Sura. “There’s so much room back there.”

  “She’s in back; you’re in front.”

  “But I like backseats.”

  “You want a ride?”

  The little man’s bottom lip pouts like a kid who just got his sucker taken away. He climbs into the front, mumbling.

  Joe guns the truck, the tailpipes rattling behind them. Sura looks out the window and catches sight of a swamp fox or feral pig in the trees. It looks like it’s following.

  “Sweet truck,” the little man says.

  -------------------------

  Jack spreads his hands in front of the vents. Warm, dry air blows between his fingers, ruffling the fuzz on his knuckles. The girl gags.

  He closes his eyes, wallowing in the Christmas spirit. He knew it would be in the truck. It’s coming from the boy, too. He felt it when he came out to talk with him, felt it swirl inside him. But Joe doesn’t have half the Christmas spirit as the girl.

  Not even close.

  “What’s your name?” Jack turns and looks back.

  She cringes behind Joe’s seat and mutters.

  “What?” Jack says. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Sura.”

  “I’m Jack.”

  He holds out his hand, but she won’t take it. His eyelids droop as the loving sensations course through him like a fountain of goodness. He just wants to hug her, squeeze her, and put her in his pocket, so he can feel like this forever and ever.

  “What’re you doing all the way out here?” Joe asks.

  “Fishing.”

  “This late?”

  “That’s when they bite.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Where’s your pole and tackle?” Joe asks.

  “Where’s your pole and tackle?” Jack snips.

  “What?”

  “What?” Jack starts humming, opening his mouth in front of the vent to inhale the warm air. He’s tempted to take off his shirt, maybe rub some of this Christmas spirit under his arms. He sings his song, the silent night one, and wonders if Sura can hear it. She’d probably like
it.

  “Siiiiiilent night,” he croons, over and over and over, waggling his eyebrows at the shrinking girl—

  “Can you not do that?” Joe says.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’m just happy… from fishing.” Jack rubs his hands and hums along to the radio. He just lied. Those are naughty list points.

  “Hey, I just want to thank you for taking me to the shelter. It’s a long ways downtown and you probably don’t live down there, you know, with the truck and all.”

  And those are good points.

  “So what’s your deal?” Jack asks.

  Joe shakes his head. “What?”

  “You know, where you live, work, and go to school… in case we become friends or something. I had a phone, but I lost it when it got ran over by a thing…”

  More naughty points. He can’t stop.

  Joe flicks a glance in the rearview. Jack studies the chubby-cheeked teenager leaning back in the shadows, the dashboard lights turning her complexion orange. He wants to climb back there but feels like Joe will throw him out the window.

  Jack slides a few inches towards the middle. “Sorry, seatbelt is binding my junk. So, where’d you say you live?”

  “Not downtown,” Joe says.

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “Only one I got.”

  Jack adjusts his seatbelt and grunts. He’d like to argue that point a little further and remind Joe that lying will put him on the naughty list, but seeing as Jack is three fibs in the hole, he’ll skip it.

  “Go to school, do you?”

  “High school,” Joe says.

  “And our dads are cops,” Sura adds.

  Jack turns, slowly. The girl’s nodding, arms folded. He’s really wishing he didn’t start this lie-parade. Now everyone’s doing it. He doesn’t want to see her on the naughty list, might dampen the spirit.

  Joe merges onto the interstate and turns up the music. The heater isn’t doing Jack as much good as it was earlier. His guts are frigid and he’s doing everything he can not to shiver. He needs light.

  The truck is plenty dark and, fortunately, the occasional streetlight keeps him from chattering. He scratches the back of his hand and wipes the fuzz from his pants.

  Jack turns the horrible music down.