Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set)

by Tony Bertauski

  “Claus.”

  “Santa Claus, right. That’s what I thought.” They walk half a city block, Willie trying to figure out how to explain something every kid knows from the age of zero.

  “All right,” he says, “I’m going to lay this down real simple. For starters, Santa—”

  “You mean Claus.”

  “Listen, don’t interrupt. Santa is Claus; it’s like his first and last name. He’s a big fat guy with a white beard and all that.”

  “How’d he get up there?”

  “I don’t know.” Willie drags out the words. “He’s magic, all right? Just listen to what I got to say, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. So Santa Claus is this fat man that wears a corny red suit and uses flying reindeer to bring presents to all the good boys and girls.”

  Willie keeps on talking, but Jack’s getting dizzy. He’d taken care of that little daydream about flying reindeer, and now here’s Willie, an hour later, talking about flying reindeer and Claus all in one sentence.

  Oh, man.

  The world goes a little swishy and Jack falls off the curb. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head. Maybe he’s not crazy. Maybe those are memories.

  “Why?” Jack says.

  Willie stops talking. “Why what?”

  “Why would Claus bring presents?”

  “Because the kids are good. It’s like a reward.”

  “Who pays for the presents?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah. I really want to know.”

  Willie scratches his head, muttering to himself. He looks down at Jack, deciding how to break the news. “Well,” he says, slowly, “ummm, he’s got helpers that make the presents.”

  “Helpers?”

  “Elves, yeah.”

  “You mean elven?” A chill rushes through him.

  “Elven, elves… what’s the difference?”

  “And they just make presents for free.” Jack waves his hands. “Just gives them away. Nobody has to do anything or work for anything; they just have to be good.”

  “Hey, you asked. That’s how it works.”

  Jack scratches his scraggly beard. A few loose hairs stick to his lips. He spits them out and says, “How’s he know they’re good?”

  “The helpers keep track.”

  “The elven?”

  “Yeah, the elves.”

  “Elven.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Same thing, Jack.”

  It’s not the same thing, but Jack’s piecing it together in his head. There are elven, flying reindeer, the North Pole, and Claus. But the giving away presents thing? Seems like they’d need something to watch every kid in the world to make that work.

  “What if they’re not good?” Jack asks.

  “They get a lump of coal in their stocking.”

  “What stocking?”

  “Yeah, we hang…” Willie sighs. “We put things that look like socks near the fireplace and Santa puts presents in them.”

  “He puts all the presents in a sock?”

  “No, just some. He puts most of them under the tree.”

  “Tree?”

  “Yeah, a Christmas tree.”

  “There’s a tree inside the house?”

  “Yeah, we bring a tree in the house and decorate it with shiny things, like the one at the shelter.”

  Jack always thought it was strange there was a tree inside the shelter but figured that was just a warmblood thing. It doesn’t make it any less weird.

  They wait for traffic before crossing the street. The sidewalk is much less crowded. Jack walks with Willie, two steps to his one.

  “Let me get this straight,” Jack says. “You’re saying Claus puts on a coat—”

  “Suit. He wears a red suit with a red hat.”

  Jack remembers a red coat, not a suit. And he’s not a warmblood with a white beard, not how Jack remembers it. He’s an elven—

  He’s an elven?

  It’s so confusing. Jack seems to remember an elven that he knew—he knew him really well, like all his life—named Claus that wore a red coat. But then he also remembers some guy, a warmblood, named Santa something… Nicholas Santa, that’s it. Nicholas Santa was a warmblood that was twice as tall as Jack, but there was Claus who was the same size, and one of them had flying reindeer… that… he thinks—

  “Whatever,” Jack says, slapping his sides. “Claus with his red suit flies a sled with reindeer down from the North Pole to deliver presents to warmbl… I mean, boys and girls, because they’re good.”

  “In a nutshell.”

  “And you’re saying he’ll come to the shelter.”

  Willie starts to answer. Jack is watching, waiting for it.

  “Yeah,” Willie says. “Yeah, he’ll come to the shelter. Why, you want presents?”

  “I know this is going to sound weird.” Jack rubs his face, his skin feeling warm. “I think I know him.”

  “Who?”

  That’s a mistake. Jack didn’t mean to say that out loud.

  Willie’s eyes bug out, but then he laughs. He laughs so loud that people across the street look at them. Willie laughs for half a block, out of breath, clapping his hands. Jack feels good; he made him laugh.

  “Course you do,” Willie finally says. “Of course you know Santa, but listen, he ain’t coming to the shelter unless you’re good, man. You understand? I ain’t joking; you got to be cool. Can’t be getting up in people’s faces and nosing in their business. You understand? You start getting Pickett and the others all fired up and Santa Claus will pass you by. No trouble, Jack. Don’t cause no trouble and be good.”

  Jack will be good. He’ll get out of Pickett’s face and stay out of everyone’s business. He asks when Claus is coming.

  “December 25,” Willie says. “He’ll be here before you know it.”

  Jack lags behind and counts the days on his fingers, calculating how many minutes he’ll have to wait. He doesn’t care about presents.

  He just wants to meet Claus.

  In fourteen days, he’ll find out if flying reindeer are really memories or if he’s just nuts. If the reindeer and the North Pole are memories, then Claus will have answers. Maybe even give Jack a ride home.

  Maybe he’ll even remember Claus.

  J A C K

  December 10

  Wednesday

  What if the gate doesn’t open?

  Sura hadn’t thought of that before she made the trip out. It hadn’t occurred to her that Mr. Frost wouldn’t want her coming out to the plantation when she wasn’t working.

  She planned on going home after volunteering at the stables. Her clothes still smelled like horse. The only thing waiting for her at home was more chores and that’s why she made a last second turn for the plantation.

  Actually, it wasn’t the chores.

  Maybe Joe is at the plantation.

  The odds are long, she knows that. He only helps Jonah when he gets too busy. But the odds that Joe will be at her house are zero.

  She rolls up to the gate, the black bars smothered in firethorn berries and a fresh layer of pine boughs. Maybe that’s another reason she came out to the plantation: it feels more like home than her house. She feels like she belongs out here.

  She looks into the trees, waiting for the invisible retinal scanner to recognize her. The underbrush quakes with groundhogs or squirrels, but they always do that when she pulls up.

  A crack splits the F as the gate opens.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  Something in the trees whispers, “You’re welcome.”

  I imagined that, she thinks, speeding through the magnolia grove.

  Once she’s out of the shadows, she slows down to enjoy the view: the natural slope of the hills and the easy breeze coming off the water. She pretends she’s coming home from work, that the house belongs to her and her husband.

  Joe.

  It’s possible that Mr. Frost dies one day (she hopes he does
n’t, but everyone dies and this is just pretend) and bequeaths the house and property to her and Joe because they fall in love out here and get married in the garden and have three girls (Sunni, Hallie, and Riley) that she homeschools while boarding horses on the back property.

  The odds are long—impossible, perhaps. But Mr. Frost has to die sometime, and he doesn’t have any family, so why not dream?

  Sura drives around the house, through the tower’s shadow, smiling while she imagines their bedroom—

  She slams the brakes.

  Hands hit the front of her car. Branches spill purple beautyberries across the hood. Joe looks up.

  She didn’t see him coming out of the garden with a bundle of sticks. She’s lucky she didn’t run him over. Sura throws the door open. “Are you okay?”

  “I am now.”

  “I didn’t hit you, did I? I was just thinking about…” She blushes. Now he knows what I was thinking! “I didn’t hit you, right?”

  “No, it’s my fault. You were driving two miles an hour.” The smile, again.

  Sura feels her face heat up a few degrees. She tries to think of something to say. “Are you okay?”

  He laughs. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I just thought I’d come out to walk around if that was all right. There’s so much to see and I never have time while I’m working, so I was hoping…”

  Again, she has the sense he’s reading her thoughts. He knows why she really came out.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks to change the subject and hopefully restore her complexion to a normal color.

  “Mr. Frost has like a thousand things to do at Christmas. You’ll see.”

  “Have you been working out here long?”

  “Ever since I could pick up a stick.”

  There’s a scuffle in the garden, gravel grinding under branches. An argument breaks out, but nothing Sura can understand. It’s all gibberish.

  “You have help?”

  Joe puts his finger to his lips. “What happens in the garden, stays in the garden.”

  “It’s a secret?”

  “It’s a secret garden, isn’t it?”

  She giggles. He smiles.

  “Joe?” a voice booms.

  Sura pulls the open door in front of her like a shield. A blocky man fills the leafy arbor that leads to the sunken garden, the wide-brim hat barely squeezing through.

  “Joe, what are you—?” Jonah holds a pair of green-handled shears to his chest, his dark eyes peering beneath the brim as if he’s seeing a ghost. He doesn’t look kindly at Sura. Not annoyed, more like it hurts to see her.

  Something flashes off the black glass of the tower even though the sun is setting in the west. When she looks back, Jonah is gone and Joe is gathering branches off the hood. His hands are full. Sura rushes around to help. Jonah seemed to sour Joe’s mood and Sura can’t think of anything to say. She puts the last couple of sticks in his arms and still can’t come up with anything.

  “See you later, huh?” he says.

  He pauses, but she can’t answer. Sura’s tongue is locked to the roof of her mouth. He starts for the garden. Not a word of English can slip past her lips. Not a grunt or a sigh or a “Hey, you!” or a whistle—

  “Chevaux,” she erupts, breaking the hold. “J’ai chevaux chez moi.”

  He halts. Turns.

  “I have horses at my house,” she says, picking at her sleeve. “Would you like to see them sometime?”

  He looks through the arbor for Jonah. “How do you know…?”

  “My mom speaks French.” Sura shakes her head. “Spoke, I mean. I only know bits and pieces and I can’t really have a conversation, but if someone is talking about horses, then—”

  “JOE!”

  “Oh, oh.” She puts out her hand. “I’m sorry; I don’t want to get you in trouble. I’ll just… I’m going to go now…”

  Sura jumps in the car, her face sweltering with embarrassment. She tries to start it, but it makes an awful grinding noise because it’s already running. She pushes her hair back, takes a deep breath, and tries to remember how to drive—

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Joe knocks on the passenger window. He points down. She doesn’t get it. He twirls his hand and then she understands, rolling the window down.

  “Hi,” she says. “Sorry, I just…”

  “Que faites-vous demain?”

  “What am I doing…?” She trails off, trying to translate. “Tomorrow?”

  He smiles.

  She watches him go through the arbor. Her face is on fire. This time she doesn’t mind. What are you doing tomorrow?

  -------------------------

  Mr. Frost stands in the tower, toes against the glass wall. All around him is darkness, Max sitting dutifully by his side.

  It’s their second meeting.

  He didn’t witness their first one, preoccupied with the lab, Jack, and other matters. He anticipated the second meeting would be soon and did not want to miss it.

  Love begins—my favorite part.

  He senses her cold fear when she nearly hits him, her relief that he’s all right. And then their eyes meet and sweetness weakens her knees. Joe warms like she is the sun gazing upon him. They’re two pieces that fit perfectly together. Two pieces that make each other whole.

  Mr. Frost senses their emotions, can almost taste their vivid colors with his mind’s palate. Sura is the promising yellow of daybreak. Joe is the sultry red of a sunset. And when they meet, when their energies collide, their colors mix to become something entirely different.

  The brightness of a star.

  They become more than what they are alone.

  He closes his eyes, indulging in the human experience as it unfolds and infuses him with the preciousness of life. Without joy, he would wither like a fallen leaf. Even after she drives off, sweetness lingers in his chest.

  Mr. Frost digs a few pellets from the silver box that’s pressed against his belly. Max is waiting.

  J A C K

  December 11

  Thursday

  A car honks.

  Jack drops a plastic bag and yelps. A passenger looks out the back window, laughing. About twenty things come to mind, including the one-finger gesture he learned in chow line, the one you give someone when they cut. He does nothing.

  He’s always watching.

  Jack decides that flying reindeer are real because Willie said they’re real and he wouldn’t lie to him. And he knows Claus is real, he just knows it. He figures his best chance is to talk to him on Christmas.

  So Jack has to be good.

  Claus knows when you’re good or bad, and he’s making a list, and he’s checking it twice. Those people in the car… bad. Jack has to be on the good list. To get on the good list, you have to do good things, and he’ll be the first to admit that hasn’t done very much good. Actually, he’s not sure what it means to be good, but he heard someone say that bad people litter. He didn’t call them “bad” people; he called them something else while giving the one-finger gesture.

  Jack figured that meant bad.

  The sidewalk is dotted with stuffed, white bags that lead back to the shelter. He drags the last one on the concrete, picking up the little things he missed, things like cigarette butts.

  He must’ve picked up twenty billion of them between the shelter and the interstate, all different colors, some bent, some with lipstick. All of them tobacco-stain brown. Willie says butts will put you on the naughty list.

  Butts. Jack giggles.

  He looks up at the sky.

  Is he watching right now? Does he see what everyone is doing all at the same time? Does he know what I’m thinking, like, right now? Does he see what’s in my heart?

  Pickett says Jack’s heart is the size of a rat turd. He said it at breakfast, said he could tell just by looking at him that his heart was solid ice and his brains were in his feet. Everyone laughed, but Jack didn’t get it. His feet are huge so that means hi
s brain is huge. Who’s the idiot now?

  Besides, who cares about the size of the heart?

  Claus.

  Maybe that’s what matters, the size of it. The bigger the heart, the higher up the good list you get. Or does it matter what’s in his heart? Because, honestly, when Pickett said the thing about brains in his feet, Jack had some pretty dark stuff in his heart.

  Did Claus hear it?

  Jack just wants answers. Claus will give him what he wants if he’s good enough. “Righteous,” Willie told him. “Just be righteous, man.”

  Another word for good.

  A can tinkles on the sidewalk, followed by another one. The bag rips and there’s a path of butts, aluminum cans, and dirty diapers strewn out behind him. He’s making a bigger mess than when he started and he’s out of bags.

  Jack looks up.

  He starts putting the garbage in his pockets.

  -------------------------

  The horse licks the sides of the pail.

  Sura snatches the bucket. Gerty stamps the ground, tossing her head. She wasn’t done licking. Not only that, Sura usually brushes her down while she eats.

  Not today.

  When Sura got to the plantation earlier that day, Joe wasn’t there. Jonah was fixing a loose hinge on the barn. He stopped turning the wrench and eyed her from across the road.

  May didn’t ask her what was wrong. In fact, she packed freshly baked biscuits in a checkered cloth and told Sura to go home. May winked and that little chocolate chip mole danced on her cheek.

  Sura rushes to the tack room to clean up. Her round cheeks are flush. Pumpkin face, the kids called her in grade school. Your dad was a pumpkin and your mom was a squash.

  Sura washes her hands, rubs her neck, and hopes the soap masks the smell of chores. She stops outside the back door and breathes into her cupped hand. Breath good, not great.

  She takes another breath. Then another. And another.

  Opens the door.

  Her favorite Beetles song is playing. She can’t remember the last time she came home to music. Even before her mom died, Sura was always the one to turn on the radio. Crenshaw parades out of the bedroom, her tail straight up. She rubs against Sura’s leg, purring.