by Keohane, Dan
Anyway, “Tanner’s Bomb” isn’t the original name. When I first concocted the idea for this story, then-wife Janet and I were on a five hour bus trip to New York City with Kevin and Connie McCarthy. Our own bus was overbooked, so they put us in with a church group from town, and we had to sit separately. I guess even the ecclesiastical nature of the passengers had no sway in letting me sit with my wife - still, they had Bingo, so that was something.
With nothing to keep me company but my own imagination and an older woman who slept for most of the ride, I decided to come up with a bizarre title and see if I could conjure a story to go with it. At that moment a Christmas tree truck drove by (those flatbed tractor-trailers rigged up every holiday season to carry trees to various gas stations and mall parking lots). So, I had the first part of the title: “As the Christmas Tree Truck Drives By...” but I needed something to go with it. Since I was in a sour mood, I decided on “Spit”.
Over the next five hours, between spurts of Bingo, I wrote in my head the story “As the Christmas Tree Truck Drives By, Spit.” Of course, before I decided to market it, I changed the name to the much simpler: “Tanner’s Bomb”. It has since become, in my mind, a must-read classic for every holiday season.
Tanner’s Bomb
“I’m so sorry. I just wanted to help. So many dead....”
“It’s OK. Have some more apple cider. Relax.” Detective McGovern guided the arm holding the styrofoam cup up until the man took a drink of his own accord. Max Tanner winced, then took another sip. The smell of smoke drifting off his leather jacket overpowered the spicy tang in the air of the greenhouse. He looked at the detective.
“Did you go see? Did someone go see?”
“Yes. Some of the residents were sent to Pelham Medical Center for treatment. Some sort of a catatonic shock. We’ll see what the doctors have to say. DSS is sending a crew to look after all the children. But no bodies. Mister Tanner, did you hear me? They found no bodies.”
Max stared into the steam rising from his cup. “No bodies.” He took a sip. “No, I suppose there wouldn’t be.”
A uniformed officer with a day’s stubble staining his face said, “All right, that’s enough. Let’s just take this guy to -”
The detective raised his hand. “Maybe you should tell us exactly what happened, Mister Tanner. From the beginning.” He looked at his watch. “Just keep to the highlights. It IS Christmas Eve….”
Max thought about that. Christmas Eve. Had someone told Pam and the boys? Daddy wouldn’t be coming home. Daddy was a murderer. An overwhelming sadness gripped him, both for himself and the people of that damned town. He looked at the large Christmas tree standing unlit by the door.
“Promise you’ll leave that tree unplugged?”
The detective nodded. “Yes, we promise. Tell us what happened.”
Max told them. “It started when I had to go to the bathroom…”
* * *
Max joined Bing Crosby in an off-key rendition of “Chestnuts Roasting...” as the eighteen wheeler lumbered along the two-lane highway. Massive pines stood along both sides of the road, in silent respect to their fallen comrades. Laying in state on the flat-bed, one hundred and fifty scotch pine and spruce crowded between makeshift railings. Soon to be Christmas trees, on their way to Pelham and a hundred and fifty cozy homes. One of them belonged to the Tanner family. As a weak but acceptable incentive for this last-minute delivery, Max had his choice of the best tree of the run. All he had to do was drop off the one hundred forty-nine others at Henson’s “Tree Farm,” then ten minutes later he’d be home. Not a bad deal all around. From under the passenger seat poked the oversized Wal-Mart bag with three sets of tree lights.
Max sang and glanced at the map. He should have hit Holy Refuge by now. The red circle surrounding the village’s borders made it easy to spot. As did the words “Stay Away!” with an arrow pointing to said circle. Normally Max followed Bart’s scattered map notes, but not tonight. He was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and really had to find a bathroom. The town, seemingly dropped in the middle of the northern Massachusetts Berkshires, was the only option aside from ruining his pants or squatting in the woods somewhere. The latter was never an option in his mind.
A robed figure suddenly appeared over the rise, leaning awkwardly on a walking stick. Max downshifted and rolled down the window. Frigid air blasted into the cab. He never got a chance to ask for directions. As the truck rolled within yelling distance, the white-haired man raised both the gnarled walking stick and the hood of his robe over his head. He signed himself clumsily and disappeared into the late-afternoon shadows of the forest.
The truck drifted by the spot where Max thought he’d seen a man having a seizure. Nobody there.
“Loony bastard.” He shut off the radio. A group of teenage boys ran into the woods just ahead of him. Long hoods flew from their heads as they faded into the trees.
Great, Max thought. I’m driving into a cult. The headlights limited his vision in the increasing gloom. He downshifted again, looked for an entrance to somewhere, anywhere.
There it was. A dirt road; too small for the rig, but it’d be worth a look-see. The gears hissed and barked. The truck rolled to a stop at the path’s entrance.
“Holy Refuge, I presume,” Max whispered. Houses at the top of the hill huddled close, clustered in deepening circles around a dimly lighted common. He couldn’t see much more from this vantage point. A crowd of monk-like townspeople, ropes dangling at their waists, ran toward him.
Max rolled up his window.
As they approached, the group slowed. Hoods concealed most of their faces. One figure moved cautiously forward. Various unrecognizable gestures accompanied each step. Max began to wonder if this was a deaf-person cult. He pressed the emergency break and opened the door. A little.
“You can’t stop here,” the man within the robe said. He was clearly distressed, diverting his eyes from the cab. Max felt braver. He opened the door the rest of the way and stepped down. He bent to look into the cowl.
“Hi, there. My name’s Max Tanner. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
The man didn’t look at him. “Hello, Max. I’m David. Please, I saw the sign on your door. You drive for Callebri Brothers?”
“Yea, that’s right. Listen, all I need is to use -”
“We have an agreement with the owner. Bartholomew Callebri. You aren’t suppose to be here.”
“Oh, really,” Max said, then remembered the red circle. “Well, no, I guess I’m not.” The cramps sent him a painful reminder. “ Listen. Do you have a bathroom?” Four robed men emerged from the woods next to the trailer. They hunkered down on the roadside; began drawing pictures in the dirt. One of them lowered his hood. Gray hair stuck out like a clown’s wig. He was old, wrung-out and twisted like the walking staffs they carried. The clown-haired man, eyes closed, raised his face to the truck. He opened two fingers scissor-like to his lips, then hacked a wad of spit towards the trailer. It landed on a wooden rail, dripped onto a pine branch.
“What the hell...?” The crowd gasped. Hands emerged from drooping sleeves, pressed against unseen ears. The man called David took a half step forward, eyes still cast down.
“Please, sir. Max, is it? You shouldn’t use such language.”
“That… old person just spit on my truck.” As he spoke, he saw in his peripheral vision another of the four rise and begin a rapid series of bat-bat-bats with his staff against one of the tires.
David spoke quickly.“Please, Max. Please understand. We mean neither you, nor your vehicle, any harm. We’re a peaceful people. It’s just that - “
Max was not there. He stood in front of the old man, wrenching away the staff and tossing it into the woods. The monk turned and ran after it. By the time David reached him, Max was kicking at the drawings along the road.
“They promised us no one would come. We send them money every month. They promised us you would not carry... those....” he gestured towards the hori
zontal trees “...things near our town.”
Max paced back and forth. “They’re just Christmas trees!”
Gasps and shrieks and covered ear locations. Max turned to the crowd and shouted, “What’s your problem? Christmas Trees!” Shrieks and gasps. “Christmas Trees!” This was getting fun.
David grabbed his arm with surprising force. “Please, we strive to be a spiritual people. We recognize the holiness in everything around us. The sky, snow, and most especially the trees are precious gifts from God.” The grip seemed to tighten for a moment on Max’s arm. “What you are delivering to so many unfortunate souls is an abomination to all that we have been taught to be sacred. These fallen symbols of heaven will become the idols of Satan, representing with brilliant and horrifying clarity the path the world has taken.”
His hand dropped, as if the words fell too heavily upon him to keep the grip on the driver. He continued, “Evil has triumphed over the world, is slowly working its way towards our town, our homes...” His face, one of painful sadness. “...our last refuge in God’s embrace.”
Max swallowed. He looked at the tired man in front of him. David was probably younger than him but showed lines of fatigue Max wouldn’t likely see in himself until middle age. He looked back at the truck, idling patiently behind him. Then, slowly, he smiled.
“But, these are just Christmas trees.”
Shrieks and wails. David’s face reddened within his cowl. “Get out of here, sir. Now. We have a deal with your superiors. God forgive my impatience, but you simply do not understand.”
Max turned and hopped into the cab. He grabbed the keys and killed the engine. The background rumble of the diesel cut out. The group stood in stunned silence.
“Listen,” he said, jumping back down. “If you think... stop hitting my truck!” The monk had re-emerged from the woods and resumed his punishment against a tire. Beside him, one of the kneelers spat on the trailer.
“That’s it!” Max said. “I’m going to the bathroom. Your bathroom! When I come back, if any part of my rig is damaged, you’ll meet my ‘superiors’ face-to-face. Or at least their lawyers.” More shrieks.
“You cannot -”
“I can. The sooner you show me to the potty the sooner I’ll leave.” Max pushed past him. The crowd shuffled aside like a human Red Sea. Max sensed the anger of the leader behind him, but he was gambling violence wasn’t in the rule books. Halfway up the dirt path, he heard David shout, “Nathan! Show that man where to go then bring him directly back here. Do not speak to him. Quickly now.”
By the time Max reached the common he’d been joined by a teenage boy, dressed in his own dark robes. Neither spoke.
The common glowed with lanterns. Small yellow flames danced in glass cages. Similar light drifted from the clusters of single-story houses. No electricity, Max mused.
Like the ghost of Christmas Future, the boy pointed to a narrow structure on the far side of the common. An outhouse, no doubt.
* * *
The detective raised his hands. “Listen,” he said. “This is all well and fine, but until the doctors tell us what happened to those people I don’t see how - “
“There were others,” Max whispered, still looking into his cup of cider.
McGovern looked at his watch then leaned forward in the chair. “If there are others, then why can’t we find them? You brought us in here saying people were dead. Unless you’re able to tell us how that happened, I think we should call it a night. We’d like to be with our families.”
Max shuddered involuntarily. “If you’ll just let me finish.”
A chilly gust of wind swept through the room. A women in a skirted business suit, a badge dangling from her waist, closed the door and glanced icily at Max. She covered her mouth to whisper into the detective’s ear. Slowly, McGovern’s face went pale, then hardened. When the woman finished she straightened, obviously waiting for direction. McGovern looked up at her and said softly, “They were burned?”
The styrofoam cup disappeared within Max’s hands. Cool cider poured over his fingers. The woman looked at the truck diver with obvious contempt.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “At least a half-dozen they’re guessing. The bone fragments were sent to Amherst for analysis.”
The detective said nothing for a minute. He simply stared between his legs at the floor. When he looked up, Max knew things would get nasty very quickly. “Mister Tanner, I mentioned when we first arrived that you should call a lawyer. I strongly recommend that now. The charges against you have been upgraded to suspicion of murder. Do you understand me? Mister Tanner?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. How could I know?”
McGovern looked behind the prisoner. “John, did you read him his rights?” John nodded. “Mister Tanner, would you like to have officer Jamison repeat your rights? Let me remind you that everything you say is being considered a confession.”
Max waved away the warning. “I understand my rights. I didn’t know people would die.”
The detective stared at him in silence for a moment, then checked the tape recorder. “Finish your story, please. If at any time you wish to discontinue this confession and contact a lawyer please understand you may do so.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.” Suddenly Max realized he would never be with Pam again. Never play baseball with the boys. He began to cry. The others in the room stared dispassionately at him, waiting for the story to resume.
* * *
If anything was evil in the world, Max decided, it would be outhouses. Once outside, fresh clean air swept over him like a lover. His spirits were decidedly up. The silent teenager stood a few paces away, glancing nervously across the common. Max followed his gaze. From their vantage, the truck and townsfolk were out of sight.
“Nathan, is it?”
The boy nodded.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Yes,” Nathan said.
“It’s OK. I won’t tell them you talked to me.” The boy tried in vain to suppress a smile. Max pressed the advantage. “That guy. David. He’s the boss?”
“Well, I guess. He’s my Dad. People rely on him a lot when the world gets too close.”
“Too close. Hmm.” They were all nuts. Max was officially five minutes behind schedule now. It was Christmas Eve, and these people were hiding in their hoods like kids in a thunderstorm. This time of year, bringing Christmas to New England from the cab of his truck, Max almost felt like Santa Claus… though he decided not to share that image with young Nathan.
“Do you believe all that stuff your Dad was saying, about Christmas trees?” Max noticed the boy didn’t shriek at the words. In fact, he didn’t even wince.
“My father believes it.” He kicked at a rock that was frozen into the ground. “Maybe not as much as Grandfather, but the elders are a very spiritual people.” Max wanted to interrupt and ask why religious fanatics insisted on calling old people “elders,” but held his tongue.
“Grandfather….” Nathan continued. “He believes in the teachings. In fact, he was the primary drafter of the new edition of the Book of God’s Laws.” He looked up, an almost-smile forming under the cowl. When Max didn’t offer the expression of awe the boy apparently expected, he looked back at the tops of his shoes. “I don’t know. I suppose you get out of your faith what you want to. The elders are very wise. They wouldn’t believe in all of this if it wasn’t true.” The implied “would they?” hung in the air between them.
“Well,” Max said, trying not to sound overly condescending. “I’m sure it’s true to them.” As he spoke, his gaze fell on a twisted Maple, standing alone in the center of the common. An uncomfortable idea began to glow in his head. “What about you?” he said. “The other kids your age?”
Nathan shrugged his shoulders, began to say something then stopped. He raised his head, letting his gaze linger on the path leading back towards the road. He said, “We have to get back now. You shouldn’t be here.”
The idea wa
s a forest fire in Max’s mind. Oh hell, he thought. Maybe it’ll be fun. The only question was how to get some juice. The idea brightened further. If you need power, get a battery.
“Listen, Nathan. Do you people have a car? You know, drive?” He made a steering gesture with his hands.
“I know what a car is, sir. We may be religious, but we’re not stupid.”
“Right. Sorry. Then there’s a car around here?”
“We have an old Chevy out back. Once a month someone gets special dispensation to go to Pelham for supplies. It’s never a happy time. But they won’t let children go.” He paused. “Why?”
“I was just thinking. It’s so nice here, I might just stay for a day or two.”
Nathan stepped back, then turned away. He looked as if he were deciding whether to run screaming for help. Still looking across the common, he said, “You can’t stay here. They won’t let you. Please, you’ve caused enough trouble. Leave us alone.”
Max smiled. “Tell you what. We’ll make a deal. You give me something, a gift maybe, and I’ll leave. I’ll even make it look like you forced me out.”
Nathan looked back at him. “What kind of gift?”
“Go get the battery out of that car and bring it here. That’s it. My Chrysler at home is dead. You give me your battery to take home with me, and I’ll be gone faster than your townspeople can scream.”
“That’s stealing.”
“Not if you give it to me. That’s my offer.”
After a moment’s thought, “I’m not supposed to leave you.”
“Take it or leave it.”
