Xmas Spirit

by Tonya Hurley

  Eric, DJ, and Mike were moping around. It hardly felt like Christmas at all.

  “What’s the matter, dude?” DJ asked. “Why so emo?”

  “Sorry, man. I’m just feeling it,” Eric said.

  “Feeling what? The Big Fade or Charlotte?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Don’t fret!” Mike screeched in his best heavy metal howl. “She’ll be back.”

  “I don’t know, Mike.”

  “Don’t know if she’ll come back or if you care?”

  “Both.”

  “Now I know you’re lyin’,” DJ said. “It’s written all over your face.”

  “She skipped out, not me. I’m not the one walking around here making her feel like I’d rather be somewhere else.”

  “You know how Charlotte is, man,” Mike wailed. “That’s just talk. She loves you, bro.”

  “And you love her,” DJ chimed in. “Don’t front.”

  “No more Electric Eric’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” Mike sang, trying to lighten the mood. “Okay?”

  “What is she doing there, and who is she doing it with?” Eric asked them, but neither could answer.

  The Wendys were the last customers at Curl Up ’N’ Dye beauty parlor. It wasn’t just because the beautician was closing early for Christmas. They planned it that way. To protect their salon session from prying eyes—hackers, they called them—who might try to bootleg their latest style incarnation.

  “I’m leaving you girls the keys,” the stylist said. “Make sure to lock up.”

  “It’s almost time,” Wendy T. advised. “What are you wearing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Wendy A. replied. “I’ve never been to a Christmas-party-slash-funeral. I was thinking maybe a candy-cane-striped shroud?”

  “Platforms?”

  “Black high-heeled elf shoes!” Wendy A. said, reaching into her bag and producing the goods. “Peep toes, no less!”

  “Let’s see the fashion haters try to knock those off by midnight,” Wendy T. waxed arrogantly, offering her sister from a different mister her fist for a quick knuckle-blaster.

  As the smiles on their surgically enhanced faces gradually returned to their natural pouty state, The Wendys did something they rarely do. They reflected.

  “You know, I’m really beginning to have second thoughts about this.”

  “Consider the alternative, Wendy. Petula will not be denied. Besides, Damen is on his way over to pick us up.”

  “Well, thank God for that stalker girl. She’s going first.”

  The Wendys ducked into the bathroom and changed clothes, and then stepped back out into the salon for some last-minute primping in the wall of mirrors.

  “I’m ready to melt some snow,” Wendy A. said, checking herself out. “Hot.”

  “This outfit is guaranteed to wake the dead!” Wendy T. said, busting some cleavage out between the buttons of her jacket.

  Self-compliments flew, fast and furious, followed by a competitive pose-down, fueling a chain reaction of self-aggrandizement by the two mirror stars.

  “You better watch out. You better not try. You have no clout, I’m telling you why. The Wendys are coming to town!” they sang.

  A blaring horn outside broke up their self-love-in.

  “It’s Damen,” Wendy T. said, grabbing her fur coat.

  “Love it,” Wendy A. commented. “Fake?”

  “No, it’s baby seal.”

  “So jealous,” Wendy A. sniffed.

  The Wendys hobbled carefully out to Damen’s car and hopped in.

  The guilty look on Damen’s face was instantly worrisome to them.

  “Listen, there is something I have to tell you.”

  The Wendys’ expression froze into a simultaneous frown, as if they’d both gotten shots from a bad batch of Botox.

  “You didn’t.”

  “Unfortunately, I did. I told Petula,” Damen admitted. “She squeezed it out of me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not all she squeezed out of you!”

  “Stop the car!” Wendy Thomas shouted. “Do you have your passport in your bag, Wendy? We need to head for the border.”

  “What’s the use? She’ll use all her powers and resources to track us down. There’s no place to hide!”

  “Calm down,” Damen ordered. “She was cool about it. Almost appreciated it, in fact.”

  The Wendys’ relief was immediate. They cautiously settled back in their seats.

  “I just felt every one of my seven lower chakras relax,” Wendy T. admitted.

  “That was a close one,” Wendy A. said. “I don’t speak a word of Canadian.”

  “Ditto,” Wendy T. concurred. “Besides, I’d make a terrible illegal immigrant.”

  Damen sped through town toward the convention center, fantasizing a sudden earthquake or mudslide or avalanche during the demonstration.

  It was getting late. Christmas was literally being ushered in. Charlotte sat staring at the beautiful gift box she’d laid on her bedroom desk. She wasn’t able to fill it with a gift yet, but she would be soon. She knew Scarlet was right, that The Wendys were users, but for some reason she found herself caring less and less. They might be using her, but at least she was getting paid. It was more than she’d ever gotten before. Up till now, all the abuse she’d taken was gratis.

  She shut her eyes tight, like a person hanging from the edge of a cliff trying her hardest not to look down, as she felt the last of her former self sliding away.

  “Charlotte Usher,” a tuneful voice serenaded her. She heard mournful melody of a piccolo in the distance accompanying the small voice.

  “Not here.”

  “Calling Charlotte Usher.”

  She opened her eyes and there, standing in front of her window, was a shadow. Long flowing hair against the moonlight gave the appearance of a thin, beautiful Christmas tree.

  “What now?” Charlotte asked.

  “It’s me, Pam.”

  As she walked closer to Charlotte, it was apparent that this was no tree. It was a pale girl with long red curly hair. She was wearing a deep emerald chiffon gown with gold glittery stars as a headband around her gorgeous mane.

  “Who?” Charlotte asked, dumbfounded.

  “Pam. Your best friend. Don’t you know me?”

  The look of fear and trembling on Charlotte’s face told Pam all she needed to know.

  “Are you a ghost?”

  “Yes, and so are you.”

  “I’m not!” Charlotte protested. “I’m alive. Flesh and blood. Human.”

  “But you shouldn’t be,” Pam said. “It’s not your time.”

  “That’s an awful thing to say.”

  “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “To save you. To save all of us.”

  “Well, I don’t need to be rescued. I think I made that clear to your two friends.”

  “Our friends.”

  Pam noticed the gift box on the desk behind her.

  “Who is that for?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “The way you used to tell it, you didn’t have any friends when you were alive.”

  “Well, now I have lots of them, and they just happen to be the coolest kids in school.”

  “So you’ve hung out with them? Been to their homes? Met their parents?”

  “Sort of—well, no, but . . .”

  “But nothing,” Pam said sharply. “And where did you get money for a gift anyway?”

  “I didn’t. Yet. But I was just leaving. I’m splitting the fee from this amazing modeling job with Damen and The Wendys.”

  Pam didn’t need to hear the details to know that Charlotte had been duped into something. These people wouldn’t have given her the time of day.

  “You just can’t get past it, can you?” Pam asked ruefully. “Still can’t tell who your real friends are? What’s really important in life?”

  “You just said the magic word. Life. Lif
e is important. While there is life, there is hope. You don’t know what the future will bring.”

  “Is that so?” Pam said ominously as she transported them both through time and space. “Let me show you.”

  “What can you show me?” Charlotte said.

  “The future,” Pam said, her voice echoing as the mournful sound of her piccolo underscored their departure.

  Charlotte found herself in a place she didn’t recognize, but with people she did. Sort of.

  “Damen!” a shrill voice cried. “Get in here.”

  A tall man, midthirties, with tired eyes, exhaled deeply and got up from the desk with the CAMPAIGN MANAGER nameplate in the front room of Kensington election headquarters. He walked slowly passed the KENSINGTON FOR SENATE placards leaning on the wall to the door and closed it behind him.

  “That can’t be Damen,” Charlotte said uncertainly. “What happened to him?”

  “She did,” Pam explained, pointing at the helmet-coiffed blonde waiting for him in the next room. “You didn’t.”

  Damen stepped into the perfectly decorated back office with a small group of trusted advisers. It was the spitting image of the smoke-filled rooms of political yore where inside deals were cut among a privileged few. Except this one was fragrance-filled. And pink.

  “What’s up?” Damen asked somewhat indifferently.

  Petula was flanked by The Wendys, her chief fund-raising consultant and chief pollster, dressed identically, with conservatively upswept hairdos fixed in the back by number-two pencils, sporting librarian glasses, belly-button-baring, sleeveless pinstriped vests, micro-miniskirts, and high heels. Damen wasn’t sure if he was at a campaign meeting or in a strip-club dressing room.

  “What’s up?” Petula mocked. “Oh, nothing. Nothing except the future of this country!”

  “The country?” Charlotte said, confused but impressed nevertheless.

  Damen had been living through these anxiety attacks ever since Petula had announced her candidacy and with the pressures of the election getting closer, he had much less patience for it.

  “Stop exaggerating,” Damen said. “The primary is only a week away, and we’re ten points up in the polls.”

  “Not for long,” Petula moaned. “We need your help.”

  The grim faces on the terrible trio told Damen this was not just the typical case of Petula paranoia.

  “The newspapers just called,” Wendy A. said nervously.

  “They’ve gotten a tip that our opponent’s donor database has been hacked,” Wendy Thomas added.

  “That’s criminal!” Damen said. “Did you check our firewalls for a security breach too?”

  There was complete silence.

  “The hackers were traced back to this office,” Petula advised sheepishly.

  “It’s Wendygate!” Petula wailed, collapsing in a heap.

  Both Wendys hung their heads in shame.

  “You didn’t,” Damen said, flabbergasted.

  “I can’t go to jail.” Petula wept. “I’m too important.”

  “Well, someone’s going,” Damen said, eyeing The Wendys. “For three to five years.”

  “We can’t go.” Wendy Anderson shrugged. “I’ve got three rejuvenation procedures in the next six months that can’t be rescheduled.”

  “You know what it’s like getting a doctor appointment these days,” Wendy T. fretted.

  Things were becoming clearer to him. Petula sidled up seductively.

  “Just like old times, huh?” Pam observed.

  “Damen, sweetheart, somebody needs to take the fall.”

  “It’s not going to be me!” Damen said.

  “Yes, it is.” Wendy A. shrugged apologetically. “See, we used your computer.”

  Damen’s face drooped.

  “You set me up.”

  “Out of love,” Petula cooed sweetly.

  “For who?” Damen said, disgusted.

  “Who else? Me.”

  “We’ve even designed a special set of VOTE PETULA handcuffs for you,” Wendy Thomas said, proudly handing him the restraints emblazoned with the slogan and a smiley-face icon. “I knew you’d appreciate us taking advantage of all the media scrutiny that is sure to come our way.”

  “You’re welcome,” Wendy A. said.

  Damen just glared, too numb even to register anger or disappointment.

  “You know how important this whole public service thing is to me,” Petula rationalized. “I’ve put off having a family and everything. I need deniability.”

  “So this is why you asked me to freeze my sperm last week?”

  “Listen, once I’m elected to Senate, I will immediately announce my presidential bid,” Petula explained. “You will definitely be out of prison in plenty of time to still be my First Lady.”

  “The sympathy vote will be a huge fund-raising tool,” Wendy A. advised.

  “Single mom, wife of a convicted felon, presidential candidate,” Wendy T. theorized. “It’s so meta. The press won’t be able to resist.”

  “What about me? My reputation? My life?”

  “The public is very forgiving,” Wendy A. added.

  “Besides, redemption stories poll really well,” Wendy T. confirmed. “We checked.”

  “President?” Charlotte whispered.

  “It’s the Petulapocalypse,” Pam said, and winced.

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Pam warned, spiriting Charlotte away again as tiny gold stars fell around them, enveloping them.

  Charlotte looked behind her and found herself on the edge of a craggy cliff, looking out at an endless sea. Pam called her attention to a lone house, set into the side of a hill, without a neighbor in view. A single light, the star atop a Christmas tree, was visible in a darkened room through the panoramic windows.

  “Peaceful,” Charlotte observed.

  “And desolate,” Pam added.

  Charlotte and Pam came in for a closer look as sheets of noise emanating from the house shredded the serenity. Scarlet, seated on a long, black, carved-wood eighteenth-century couch, strummed away at her electric guitar, improvising a mournful noise-pop rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  Pam just shook her head no.

  “I knew it,” Charlotte said, admiring the girl and her surroundings. “She made it! Look at this place!”

  “Yes,” Pam said. “Look at it.”

  Apart from some music awards that lined the shelves and platinum albums hung on the walls, there was nothing. No personal photographs of friends or family, no phone ringing, no Christmas cards scattered around, no gifts beneath the tree. Just Scarlet and her guitar on the couch.

  “From now on our troubles will be miles away.”

  Scarlet sang, and Charlotte joined in. Pam’s piccolo accompanied them.

  “Another lonely Christmas,” Scarlet said, reaching for a nearly empty wineglass standing on the coffee table in front of her, raising it in a toast, and bringing it to her lips.

  “Depressing,” Pam said.

  “I don’t get it,” Charlotte said. “She’s got everything. Beauty. Talent. Fame. Money.”

  “Everything but friends. Everything but love,” Pam replied. “Those were the things you brought her.”

  “Did I?”

  Pam was silent.

  “I’m tired,” Charlotte said. “Can I go home now?”

  “We have just one more stop.”

  The glimmering Pacific coast sunset gave way to the chilly New England night.

  “The cemetery? Why here?” Charlotte wondered aloud. “What about my future?”

  “This is your future,” Pam said, “At least it should be.”

  Charlotte walked by headstone after headstone, the grim trek sparking a memory.

  “Did you know that Scarlet raised money and had the most beautiful monument made for me?” Charlotte said. “It was right over—”

  “Not anymore,” Pam
interrupted.

  The space where her beautiful bust once stood was empty. Charlotte resisted the thoughts flooding her brain.

  “It was my future. I’m not dead.”

  “True, but they are,” Pam said.

  The wind blew furiously and the fallen leaves took flight, branches from the trees began to tremble.

  Charlotte gasped as headstones from row after row of Dead Ed kids grew to the height of the trees and surrounded her. JERRY. SALLY. MIKE. DJ. VIOLET. KIM. SUZY. MARY. COCO. RITA. BIANCA. GARY. PRUE. VIRGINIA . . . and finally, ERIC. All their names and dates of birth and death were carved deeply into the cold gray snow-covered marble slabs.

  “Remember them?”

  Charlotte didn’t answer.

  “Well, they remember you, Charlotte,” Pam continued.

  She conjured a vision of Dead Ed for Charlotte as the headstones transformed into figures of her classmates, seated, grim-faced, and suffering their personal torments, classroom full, all except for a single seat at the back.

  “Why are they crying?”

  “There is no hope for them. No one to ease the pain of a shortened life.”

  “What are they waiting for?” Charlotte asked.

  “For someone to fill the seat. To make their deaths more bearable. To help them cross over.”

  Pam could clearly see that Charlotte was moved.

  “Things don’t have to end up this way. For Damen, for Scarlet, for them. There is still time to change. The choice is yours.”

  Pam was hoping she’d gotten through, but Charlotte was still clinging stubbornly to life.

  “What about their choice? Why is all this up to me? Why do I have to sacrifice my life to help them?”

  “You made a decision for them.”

  “I made a wish for myself.”

  “In the end, we are all tied together, Charlotte. You need to move on with your death!”

  “Well then, as the preacher says, till death do us part,” Charlotte griped. “I guess this is where we go our separate ways.”

  Pam was out of visions and ideas. All she had left was an emotional plea.