Up ahead, I see the sign for Bethlehem Park. It’s not much of a park, really, just a play area for children and an outdoor space for celebrations, picnics, jogs, and dog-walks.
“Hey, I think the Ceremony of Lights is tonight.” Reason points toward the fir trees surrounding the park.
“I think you’re right.” I peer through the droopy branches. Groups of people drift down the walking paths toward the Christmas tree at the center of the park. Every year, this gigantic tree becomes the centerpiece of the Ceremony of Lights, an official event that kicks off the Christmas Season.
“Shall we?” He sounds so dapper for a man who looks like he could conquer the Vikings.
“Of course.” I sound equally prim.
He glances at me, and I wonder if he thinks I’m making fun of him. But then he smiles, and we enter through the side entrance of the park and pick our way around all the outliers who’ve spread blankets in the grass to make it a romantic evening.
He points toward an empty bench near a spruce tree. It’s far enough away from the family festivities at the tree, but not too close to the romantics.
Relieved, I nod.
We sit side by side on the bench. The cool wood and even colder iron sends shivers through my warm clothing. I pull my scarf tighter.
The youth choir sings “O Come all Ye Faithful” a cappella.
“So, now you’re home.” He keeps his eyes on the choir. Their voices echo with the airy complexity of a waterfall, while his sounds husky and solid as the earth. The combined effect haunts me. The hair on my arms prickles inside my sleeves.
“I don’t really have a home now. She left last Christmas.” I close my eyes, blocking out everything except his voice and the music. A tear trickles down my cheek. The crisp air cools the path it makes as it slides down my skin.
The song comes to a hush then transitions into “Silent Night.”
His voice comes again. “Did your parents ever bring you here when you were little?”
With my eyes closed, I become ten years old again, sitting on this bench between my mother and my father. My father’s warm palm covered my left hand, and my Mother’s covered my right. I smile. “Yes, they did—every year until I turned ten. My dad died on his way to pick me up from school. It snowed that day, and my mom didn’t want me to walk. She still brought me here after that, but it was never the same. I blamed her, I guess.”
“I lost my parents too, when I was sixteen.”
I open my eyes and turn to him. His are closed, like he’s been doing the same thing as me: listening and feeling. He inhales a deep breath and slowly opens his eyes again. He looks ahead as he continues, “I love Christmas, the magic—everything about it. I mean it’s all about a miracle...and people need to believe in miracles.”
Suddenly the tree explodes with brilliant white light—all at once. A hush moves through the crowd and, for a moment, everything falls perfectly silent.
I study Reason, the way the light falls so peacefully on his face, almost as though it comes from inside him too. I forget about the crowd until applause rises like a high tide around us.
He catches me watching him, but his expression doesn’t change. Light glitters and pools in his dark eyes the way campfire dances on the surface of a deep lake at night.
“Home doesn’t leave.” He looks certain.
“But the magic does.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s like the happy part of interesting stories. It’s there when you look for it. Here’s the miracle of the fire story: Your school loaned you a lucky stenography machine and you had a friend so nice she even shared her underwear.”
My eyes fly open. “I did not borrow her underwear. I bought my own. Sheesh. And I finished school early because of my determination. You know, hard work…not luck.”
He starts laughing, and I can’t help but smile too. His joke has completely disarmed me.
But his smile soon fades and a concerned furrow returns to his brow.
“What’s wrong?” I sit up a little straighter.
“You’re shivering.” He takes off his coat and covers my shoulders. “Come on let’s get you home.”
I blink at him. I don’t know what astounds me more, that he really sees me or that he’s willing to freeze for my sake. Either way, I can’t help but walk a little closer to him.
Chapter 8
“ERIN, THIS IS MOON AND GYPSY Lawless.” Reason sweeps his hand in a flourish. “And their children—” He stops with his finger pointing at the tallest girl and bites his lip.
“Star.” Gypsy fills in and proceeds to announce their names, one by one. “And Halo and Nirvana and Ash and Lyric and Justin.”
The children stare at me with varying degrees of interest. They seem to be lined up by order of age. The smallest, Justin, looks to be about four years old. I can’t help but wonder about his name. Did they run out of ideas by the time he came along? Or maybe they just lost the muse by then.
The oldest girl, Star, has ruby streaks in her hair and regards me with a bored expression. Her smoky-eye technique—a continuous waxy circle of black—disturbs me.
“Moon and Gypsy own the gun store downtown, on Moorhead and Franklin.” Reason locks eyes with me and grins.
So that explains Moon’s black swat-style fatigues.
“Nice to meet you.” I smile politely.
“Same to you.” Moon and Star speak in unison.
“Erin, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll just take a quick look around.” Reason nods at me.
“Sure.” I retreat to my chair. My book lies open, face down on the table. I grab it and sit back, trying to act disinterested.
The Lawless family follows Reason to the kitchen. They crowd through the door after him all at once, kids bumping and pushing back against each other. A muffled round of bickering ensues. Moon silences it with a gruff, “Knock it off.”
I search the page, looking for where I left off last night, after I got back from our walk. As soon as I find my place, I hear: “They can hardly fit through the door, Moon. We’ll just have to knock out the wall there—make it a great room.”
Then I hear Reason, “Yes! A great room would give you an eat-in kitchen that flows through to the living space.” I hear two slaps on the wall. I look and see his back in the kitchen door. He smacks the wall a third time. “Good news. I don’t think it’s load-bearing. You could demolish it completely in less than a day.”
I shift in my chair and force my eyes back to the book.
“It’s a shame the cabinets are so tacky. I’d hoped for more updates than this. New cabinets are just too expensive.”
The words on the page suddenly run together. I restart the sentence again.
“Think low budget.” Reason again. “I’ve seen people do amazing things by working with what you have. It wouldn’t take a lot to refinish or paint them.”
“Hmm.” Gypsy sounds unsure.
Moon sides with Reason. “He’s right, Gyp. It’s just cosmetic. I can always rip them out and get some something better. Salvaged would be good—something vintage. We can burn these at the summer camp.”
I see my mother, in my mind, kneeling in the kitchen floor, washing the cabinet doors with Murphy’s Oil Soap.
“Gross, what is that? Looks like something chewed it. You don’t think they have rats, do you? I don’t do rats.”
I mentally count the number of chinks I know are on the side of the broom closet. My father made them with his pocket knife to mark my growth.
“No, Star. Those are knife marks, not teeth marks.”
I steal a glance at Klaus in the corner. He lies on his back on the floor, legs up. His ears move like he’s listening too. Reason leads everyone through the backdoor for a peek at the yard.
I pull my feet into the chair and tuck them beneath me. I never sit like this. It’s a recliner, but I’m not thinking straight. My thoughts spin everywhere. I occasionally manage to turn a page like I’m actually reading. In my mind, I see this
house, the backdrop for my childhood and my parents, savagely torn apart and hauled off piece by piece in wheelbarrows.
The muscles in my neck begin to ache.
The herd of footsteps returns, moving through the living room. Jackets rustle and people whisper. I suddenly feel like a ghost, trying to carry on as usual despite the new occupants. My eyes lock on one word, out of all the many others on the page: debauchery. My vision tunnels as I stare at the black letters. The rest of the page grows whiter. Figures of people hover around me, speaking in whispers.
“Christ, look at the fireplace. Three people could fit in it, side by side. What an eyesore. Are those wagon wheels? How hard would it be to replace the mantle?”
“Yeah, that’s a security risk. We’d have to concrete it in.”
No way. My father built that. I used to worry Santa couldn’t get in with no fireplace. He made it big to keep Santa from getting stuck—I worried for his safety—and he used oversized sled rails for the mantle. He said he got them off Santa’s old sleigh.
“The wallpaper has to go too. That’s going to be a lot of work.”
The group moves down the hall toward the bedrooms. I lift my eyes to Klaus. He’s now turned upright on his belly, definitely not sleeping. He watches me.
Doors open and close. Someone drags something across the floor, probably the boxes in the Christmas room. One of the youngest children squeals with delight. They must be looking at the life size angel in the closet. This last sound should make me smile, but it doesn’t. I feel violated, like my mother’s memory has been sent to auction. No one knows this house like I do.
Moon and Gypsy appear without their children. Reason follows close behind them.
“It’s not quite big enough but maybe it could work.” Gypsy speaks in a whisper.
“Kids!” Moon thunders. The kids trickle back in, one by one, giggling.
“Knock it off,” Moon grunts.
I plaster my eyes to the book and the word “mistake.”
“Well, why don’t we step outside and talk.” Reason ushers everyone out onto the porch. I look up just in time to see him give me a big thumbs-up before he closes the door.
I hear footsteps move to the rockers while others pound down the steps. The floorboards begin creaking in an out of sync rhythm as the rocking chairs rock. Farther away, the kids pick teams for a game of tag in the front yard. I try to block out the voices drifting through the window behind my head.
“Her price is too high.” Gypsy and Moon speak in unison again.
Reason responds in such a low, deep voice, it sounds like it's on some other frequency level. I can’t make out his words at all.
“It needs too much work just to get it livable.” This time it’s Gypsy.
I glance around the room. It’s totally livable. It’s cozy and—
“It’s gloomy. Even the landscaping needs to be torn out and started fresh.”
My father picked out those shrubs with my mother when they—
“Yeah, the shrubs suck. Look, we’ll offer her fifty thousand less. It’ll take that much just to get the place livable,” Moon says.
Reason says something again. I strain to listen. I hope he puts them in their place. I’m not going to give my mother’s house away. No, sir. Especially not to people who thinks it sucks.
I jump to my feet and pace the floor. The muscles in my neck hurt when I turn my head. I head to the kitchen for some ibuprofen. I don’t want to hear any more negotiations. I can’t take it.
As soon as I walk into the kitchen, I stop. Every cabinet door stands open. Seriously? I slam each one closed, hoping those arrogant Lawless people hear it. Then, something in the dining area catches my attention. I turn to look. My breath catches in my throat. My mother’s ceramic cow has been moved from the center of the table. Now, it sits precariously on the edge. The slightest shudder could send it crashing to the floor. They brought the cow into this? I rescue it with a cautious touch and return it to the center where it belongs. With fists on my hips, I survey the room for other disturbances. Then something occurs to me.
The Christmas room. I race through the house.
Sure enough, the door is ajar. I step in, my breath coming in shorts huffs. I try to relax, but my head starts to pound. Everything looks in order…except the closet door. It’s been left open and the boxes they moved haven’t been put back. I lift my gaze…and gasp. A life size zombie peers at me through hanging clothes. It’s the angel, but she’s hardly recognizable. A denim shirt encircles her head, its sleeves tied into a turban. Worse, the “o” of her singing mouth gleams with a greasy layer of black lipstick. She looks as if she’s kissed a pot of hot tar.
I stomp across the room and snatch away the turban. It’s one of my father’s old shirts, I think, because it’s way too big to be my mother’s. Instinctively, I use it to wipe the lipstick from the angel’s mouth, resulting in a gruesome black smear. It sickens me. I glance down at the soiled fabric as tears begin to burn my eyes. I’ll never get the stain out. What was I thinking?
I turn and stumble out of the room. I can hardly see anything as I drift down the hall. Shock thickens my thoughts. But I try to stay focused: I need stain remover. And some all-purpose cleaning spray. By the time I reach the kitchen, I know I have to choose which to save first: the angel or the shirt. I decide on the shirt. It just seems more immediate.
Like a blind drunkard, I feel along the laundry room shelf in the dark, searching for stain stick. But my arm presses too hard against the bleach bottle. It tips and comes crashing down on top of the washing machine where it bounces off the edge and plummets to the floor. An ugly dent now mars the washer’s lid.
Pungent fumes begin to fill the air. I flip on the light. It’s the bleach…leaking out through a crack in the plastic bottle. It pools all around me. Hot tears stream down my cheeks as I grab a folded towel and throw it on the puddle.
My gaze drifts to the shelf where, like a miracle, a tube of stain stick has rolled to the edge. I grab it and smear it on the shirt, not stopping until the stick is nothing but a plastic nub. On my way through the kitchen, I toss the bleach bottle in the trash and grab the spray cleaner and paper towels.
Reason bursts through the front door, just as I reach the hallway.
“Good News,” he announces.
I brush past him without acknowledgment and head for the Christmas room. My head pounds, my neck aches, and I care only about cleaning the desecrated angel. The Lawless’ can stick their offer right—
“What—” Reason follows me. “Oh.”
I tear off a paper towel, spray it, and begin dabbing at the angel’s mouth. Black lipstick has filled the web of tiny crackles in the surface of the enamel. Wiping won’t cut it. I spray the cleaner directly on her mouth. Maybe it’ll seep in. I hear movement behind me as I wait for it to dissolve.
When I wipe again, the paper towel drags and clings. I peel it off. Small bits of wet paper fuzz remain stuck to her. The cleaner has not only stripped the shine from her mouth, but the black webs are still there too.
“She has whiskers,” my voice cracks as I speak.
I feel his presence just behind me. “I’m sorry. I should’ve watched the kids better. I’m sorry, Er.”
He says it like “air.” My chest tightens.
I turn and move past him. I need my chair, my mother’s chair.
Reason has taken the angel outside and loaded her in his truck because he’s promised to fix her. Now, he sits on the sofa across from me, trying to explain the terms of the offer.
“It came in at sixty thousand below your asking price. But they’ve made the offer official. It’s signed. If you accept, we’ll move forward with the inspections and closing.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You can counter, maybe come down a little and see what they say. I don’t know how much wiggle room you’ve got to play with or how bad you want to sell it.”
“I have the entire price. The house is paid for.”
>
“I see. Well, it’s your call. It’s a question of how fast you want to sell it. Right now, you have a very real possibility of closing by Christmas.” He stares at the floor as he speaks.
The moment presses me. I could accept, sign, and seal the deal. I could leave. I imagine myself stepping off the plane in New York…but then I just stand there, not knowing where to go or what to do even in a daydream.
The idea of going back feels just as bizarre as a hairless cat puking in the Christmas room, or black lipstick on my mother’s angel. I’m not sure, but maybe there’s also an element of pointlessness about it. I try to weigh it. I have my career and old life in New York on one hand, and a house full of depressing keepsakes on the other—things I obviously care a lot about.
“I want to counter,” I hear myself say. “I want to counter...with a price increase of $10,000.”
His head snaps up. He looks at me with a question stamped on his face.
“Yes, I said increase.”
“Increase,” he repeats.
“Right.”
“I’ll get right on it.” He seems clouded with thoughts as he gets to his feet and sees himself to the door.
But my head hurts so bad I don’t care. I’m not even sure I know what I’ve just done—because now that I’m alone, panic begins to flutter in my stomach. What if they accept? I resist the sudden urge to call Reason and cancel everything. Instead, I make myself a stone. But it doesn’t calm the troubled waters in my heart, where I find myself praying the Lawless’ won’t buy my mother’s house.
Chapter 9
I WALK INTO the Mistletoe Salon on Main, and for a second, I’m blind. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim track lighting. A copper wall separates the small waiting area from the rest of the salon. Water cascades over it and disappears inside a floor drain, camouflaged by plants and pebbles. The sound of moving water combines with the scent of aromatic oils, creating a calming ambiance. I survey it like an impartial spectator. Nope. I’m just not feeling it.
The Santa Society Page 5
