3 The Housewife Assassin's Killer Christmas Tips

by Josie Brown

  Abu makes a face. I know why. He got Ryan to sign off on his cupcake truck, but a daytime shift takes him out of commission for all the prime-time sugar fixes.

  I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to. “Ryan, what about me?”

  He shrugs. “Just sit tight for now. I’m sure something will come up.”

  He’s right. It always does.

  In our line of work, that’s not necessarily a good thing.

  Last night was Jack’s seventh on the night shift.

  The bad news: we’ve put off decorating our Christmas tree until this assignment is over.

  The really bad news: Of the fifty-six cargo hulls listed as containing toys inspected by Jack and Abu, none have carried the Libyan arsenal.

  Everyone at Acme is getting antsy.

  The only thing good that has come out of this assignment is that Jack and I get to loll around in bed all day. Half the time Jack is sleeping while I putter around the house. But when he wakes up, the fun begins. Afternoon delight may be its only bennie, but that’s a happy outcome.

  Until, like now, it’s time to pick Trisha up from school.

  As I leap out of bed, the sheet goes with me. It’s obvious to both of us that Jack is not done with me. He looks over at me with that slow, sly grin of his. “What’s the rush? Come back to bed.”

  “I can’t. Kindergarten lets out in forty-five minutes.” I smile down at him. “That barely leaves me time for a shower, and certainly no time for what you’ve got in mind.”

  “I can be quick.”

  I can’t help but snicker. “What’s the fun in that?”

  He shrugs. I’ve got him there.

  I rummage through the sheet for my panties. “And by the way, Hayley will drop Jeff off after basketball practice. I’m taking Trisha to the mall after school.”

  “Which one this time?”

  “The Grove. The Santa there has won awards for his authenticity—”

  “Donna, enough already! Get it through that thick, albeit pretty, skull of yours. She’s quit believing.”

  “Well, she’s too young to quit anything, let alone Santa. What’s next, ballet? Will she be giving up pink tutus? Do you see where this is leading?” Yes, I’m hyperventilating now.

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “Why can’t you let it go?”

  “Because she’s not even six yet! And because life is too short! And because. . . well, just because—”

  By now I’m sobbing too hard to continue.

  He shushes me pulls me down into the bed and cradles me in his arms. “And because she’s the last of your children who might still believe.”

  I can’t speak, but I can nod. Yes, of course he’s right. She’s my baby. When she no longer buys into the myth, I’ll have to accept that her innocence is gone too.

  I’ve seen what takes its place. Doubt. Distrust. Fear.

  I never want my children to be afraid of anything.

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the right guy in a red suit and beard will convince her that this is a magical time of year. So okay, take off with her. And don’t worry about Mary. She and I already have plans to hang out together.”

  I know he’s just saying this to make me feel better. Well, it’s working. To show my appreciation, I stroke his two o’clock shadow. “Lately, you two have been thick as thieves. What’s this surprise you’re plotting?”

  “We’ve got the perfect plan to offset Trevor’s infatuation with you. Give us another week, and it’ll be a thing of the past.”

  “The sooner the better. Nothing I say convinces her I’m not trying to hone in on her boyfriend.”

  “I think she’s finally coming to that conclusion.” His smile promises some silly secret. “Trust me.”

  “I always do.” I follow this declaration with a laugh, but even to me, it sounds as hollow as a ghost.

  Valentina is the apparition who stands between us.

  I jump up out of bed and head for the shower, where I’ll wash off the dampness of our lust, and the pain of my lingering doubts about him. Had I known about his relationship with Valentina from the beginning, would I still feel this way?

  At this point, I’ll never know. Once burned, twice shy.

  He may want to blame Carl’s betrayal for my reticence, but the truth of the matter is that Jack should have laid all his cards on the table, once he told me he loved me.

  You can’t love two men at once. I know, because I’ve tried.

  I hope Jack feels the same about two women. I don’t believe in thruples.

  My fifth stop at a toy store comes up empty for everyone’s toy of the season: the elusive Furby. I wish the store owners would put a big sign outside their windows warning all the frantic parents who walk in that their quest is for naught. Ha, fat chance! In desperation, they grab at a second or third choice, and brace themselves for the disappointed looks on their children’s faces.

  Not me. I’ll never stop until I get my man.

  That fuzzy little troublemaker.

  The toy store is in a strip mall next to a salvage shop and a locksmith. Sitting in the salvage store window is a beautiful tiny heart-shaped jewel box.

  It give me an idea . . .

  When I enter the store, a tiny bell tinkles over the door. The sales clerk barely looks up from the magazine she’s reading, the latest Vanity Fair. I give her a wave. “Would you mind if I had a look at this jewel box in the window?”

  “Help yourself,” she murmurs back. Apparently, the lifestyles of the rich and famous are too enthralling, and the box’s five-dollar price tag too puny to merit her attention.

  As I’d hoped, the box is opened by a tiny gold key. I turn it, and the lid pops open. A tinny rendition of “When I Fall in Love” fills the story.

  “I’ll take it,” I say.

  She doesn’t even look up as I lay a five-dollar bill on the counter and leave with my newfound treasure.

  The Grove Shopping Mall, adjacent to the Los Angeles Farmer’s Market, has bronze angels, a dancing fountain, roving carolers in 19th Century costumes, a historic trolley, and a life-size gingerbread house where Santa lives with two short elves and seven happy reindeer.

  “Look, Trisha! There’s Santa . . . again.”

  She gives a disinterested shrug. “I think he’s following us, Mommy. It’s spooky. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Oh, honey, you don’t mean that. He’s just trying to make sure every child has something special under the tree.”

  “Well, if you were his wife, wouldn’t you tell him to start with his own kids?”

  She’s got me there.

  But I’m just as stubborn as she is, and I’m not giving up. “I know you didn’t have a chance to tell him what you want. Why don’t we jump in line?”

  She gives a weary sigh, but indulges me anyway. That gives me all the hope I need. She really wants to believe! I know she does!

  The line snakes halfway down the track for the most realistic-looking Santa money can buy. In a town which is short on authenticity, he is a sight to behold. He truly looks seventy, and is short but stout. His smile is constant, as is the laugh emanating deep from within his broad chest and round belly. His blood red velvet suit is flocked in white fur then specked with gold glitter. His black patent-leather belt indents his girth just enough to make the illusion complete.

  I notice Trisha scrutinizing Santa’s every move: the seriousness in which he listens to each child’s toy list, his heartfelt answers, and his warm hugs. By the time we’re just two children away from Trisha’s turn, the doubt in her eyes has been replaced by hope.

  Finally, the little girl in front of us takes her turn. She climbs onto Santa’s lap and starts reciting a wish list that would fill several sleighs. At first he was nodding or chuckling, or pretending to write down what she says, but then he slips into in a stupor. As she rambles on and on, he just stares at her, as if in shock.

  Eventually she notices his glazed stare, too. “Santa!” the little girl shouts
in his ear. Then she pinches his cheek, much harder than he pinched hers when she sat down “Hey, there, old man! Are you listening?”

  Apparently not. His head tilts forward onto his chest, as if he’s fallen asleep.

  He has, sort of.

  Permanently.

  The girl gives a blood-curdling scream. “He’s dead! Santa is dead!”

  When she hops out of his lap, he falls face first onto the Astroturf in front of his throne.

  Shock and awe floods the faces of everyone standing in line. Then suddenly, kids are crying and screaming. Moms are hugging their children to their chests as they stagger away, mortified.

  One of the elves is giving Santa mouth-to-mouth while the other yanks a cell phone out of his pocket. I presume he’s calling 911 or at least the mall’s security detail. Soon we here the whine of a siren, even over the shrieks of the children.

  I try to nudge Trisha away, but she won’t budge. She’s too fascinated by this turn of events.

  Finally, she looks up at me and says, “Well, Mommy, I guess that settles it. No more Santa. Can we get a Jamba Juice please?”

  Frankly, I need something a bit stiffer, but I don’t think Jamba serves chilled vodka martinis with a twist.

  Santa’s demise has made the six o’clock news.

  Let me rephrase that. The death of Santa is being covered twenty four seven, by every news outlet in the world.

  NBC’s Brian Williams tries to keep a solemn face while reporting the news out of Los Angeles. PBS NewsHour’s way of dealing with it is to have three historians pontificate on the legend and lore of Kris Kringle. CNN is in a panic. I see it on Wolf Blitzer’s face. All the money it’s spent on its brand new 3-D digitized Santa Tracker will have to be reconfigured into something that can be used for simulating hurricanes or supersizing political polls.

  Conveniently forgetting that Santa was never in the Bible, Fox News boldly declares the jolly old elf was successfully killed off by “Liberal Hollywood run amok.”

  Mary and Jeff are having a field day with all the hoopla, finding it simply uproarious that Santa expired virtually at our feet. “Well, there goes any leverage parents have for making their kids behave before Christmas,” Mary laughs.

  “I never really believed in him,” Jeff insists through a mouthful of mac and cheese.

  I’m waving at him to keep it down. Trisha is in the great room watching the end of her Brave video, but she’ll be running in here for dinner any moment now.

  Hearing him, Mary almost chokes on her food. “You’re such a little liar! You cried when I told you Santa didn’t exist!”

  “Mary! It was you who told him? But—but you told me it was Cheever!”

  Mary’s eyes open large when she realizes I’ve learned one more of her little secrets.

  Jeff is laughing so hard, he rolls on the floor.

  “Okay, let’s go. It’s bedtime for both of you!”

  They freeze then shout in unison, “But it’s only seven-thirty!”

  “I don’t care if it’s five o’clock. Go upstairs. No television, computers, cell phones or video games. Do homework or read a book. Now, move it!”

  They glare at each other and shove each other all the way up the stairs.

  “So, Mary and Jeff don’t believe in Santa?”

  I turn to find Trisha staring at me.

  “Oh! . . . You mean, Mary and Jeff? They were just teasing.”

  She jerks away as I try to stroke her head. “No they weren’t! They’re just like Janie! They don’t believe!”

  She runs around me and up the stairs. I hear her bedroom door slam shut behind her.

  I’ve finally got a few minutes to myself.

  But for once, I don’t want to be alone.

  I wish Jack were here. At times, he knows how to handle these kids a lot better than I do.

  What I really mean to say is he knows how to handle me.

  There’s nothing sadder than an unadorned Christmas tree. I’d wanted Jack to be here to decorate it with us, but now that he’s working evenings and now that my children aren’t talking to me, I guess that’s not going to happen.

  I have no reason to be downstairs, so I head back up to my bedroom.

  The scent of Jack is still between our sheets, but that doesn’t keep me from crying.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! Now!” Trisha’s frantic whisper echoes in my ear.

  I pry an eye open before she shakes my arm off. “Okay, Trisha, I’m up. What is it?”

  “Santa’s downstairs.”

  “Um… what again?”

  “Santa is here, Mommy! With our presents!”

  Okay, now she has my attention.

  It must be a burglar. If so, I need Trisha to stay out of the way. “Honey, if that’s Santa, then he mustn’t see you or he’ll consider you naughty.”

  “But he’s already seen me. He told me I was bee-you-tee-ful. And tall for my age.” Her dimples light up her face at the very thought that she now knows Santa personally.

  “He did?” Oh my God! He could have taken my little girl!

  Don’t panic. Try not to panic.

  “Why don’t you go back to bed?” I say this casually, as if it’s no biggy that a strange fat man is standing in my living room.

  Trisha’s faces crumples at the thought. “But, Mommy, we didn’t leave out his milk and cookies! We haven’t even decorated the tree!”

  “I’ll take care of it, right now. Just hop back into bed, okay?”

  She nods slowly and trods off. But after every fourth step, she looks back to see if I’m still behind her.

  You bet I am.

  Me and my trusty Glock.

  I wait until her door is closed before inching my way down the stairs. Seven slow, silent steps later, I’m standing behind the man himself: red suit, white whiskers, black boots, and that ubiquitous cotton-tailed hat.

  But he’s tall and muscular, but still thin enough to feel my gun on his spine.

  He raises his hands slowly. “Well, ho ho ho to you, too.”

  Even before he turns around or shifts the beard out from under his nose, I’ve recognized his voice.

  Carl.

  You can knock me over with a feather.

  That would be a waste of his time. Instead, he slaps the gun out of my hand and twists my arm against my back, forcing me into an uncompromising position.

  Breast to chest and mouth to mouth.

  The harder I fight, the tighter his lips press against mine.

  Until I bite down on his lower one.

  He yelps then pushes me away, fast and hard. “Damn it, Donna! What did you do that for?”

  “Seeing you doesn’t exactly put me in the holiday spirit. How did you get by Lassie and Rin Tin Tin? And what the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Dog biscuits. Come on already, they’re a couple of big pussies.” He shrugs. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m dropping off gifts for my kids.”

  I look around. There are three new packages under our unadorned tree, with large floppy red ribbons. iPad Minis for both Mary and Jeff, and a Voodoo Purple Furby for Trisha.

  Forget sugarplums. The thoughts that dance through my head are all the hours I’ll save by not standing in lines or shoving aside other moms for the last coveted Furby, let alone being outbid for one on eBay.

  But no. I’m not letting Carl’s gifts be his Trojan horse into my heart.

  I shake my head. “You can’t do this, Carl. Have you forgotten that you’re wanted as an international terrorist who’s aiming to blow up a plane on US soil in a few days?”

  “Honey, get real. You know how those things go. We threaten, your government buckles to our demands, yada yada. So, a MANPAD or two slipped out of their forty million dollar safety net. Boo hoo hoo. I’ll cry for them. Not. We’re only asking for a couple of million to fudgetabout it. They’ll pay up before Christmas, and all’s well that ends well. You know, peace on Earth, good will toward men, not to mention the airline industry
.”

  “No, Carl!” The words stick in my throat, but just for a moment, before they come out in a flood of pain and heartache. “You disappeared for five years. You can’t just come waltzing in here, drop off a few gifts, and inch your way back into their lives. That’s not going to happen!”

  “You’re such a Grinch! Come on, have a heart.” The look in his eyes stops me cold.

  It’s one I’ve never seen before. It’s as if the corneas have been hollowed out, and replaced by . . .

  By what? Shame? Sadness?

  No, it’s loneliness.

  “Please, Donna. I’m . . . begging you.” His plea is barely above a whisper.

  The last time Carl spent Christmas with our children, I was pregnant with Trisha, Mary was six, and Jeff was barely four. They woke us at the crack of dawn because they couldn’t wait to open their presents.

  Yes, they believed in Santa then.

  And I believed wholeheartedly in my husband.

  I watched with joy as he unwrapped his new video camera and recorded each squeal of delight. My own gasp of excitement came when I opened the tiny jewel box holding the heart-shaped pendant I wear around my neck now. It was a gift from Carl. On one side of the heart is a tiny picture of him. The other holds a photo of the children.

  I now know why he never let me record him, too. When he vanished, every picture of him disappeared as well.

  Every picture, except for the one in the pendant I wear around my neck.

  This Christmas, it will be Jack, not Carl, sitting beside me as I revel in my children’s happiness.

  On that day, Carl’s loneliness will throb within him, like a never-healed wound.

  An injury that was self-inflicted. We both know that.

  And we’ll both carry the scars of his actions until our dying days.

  Carl has never begged me for anything. Until now.

  I wave toward the tree. “Okay, the gifts can stay. But the children don’t know you, let alone know about you, so don’t even presume you’ll here when they open them.”

  He shrugs. “You never know what tomorrow holds.”